The Princess Page #2

"The Princess" by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov is a poignant short story that explores themes of love, social class, and the complexity of human relationships. The narrative revolves around a beautiful but spoiled princess who grapples with issues of loneliness and societal expectations. As she encounters a man from a lower social class, their interactions reveal the contradictions between desire and duty, ultimately leading to reflections on personal freedom and the constraints imposed by society. Chekhov masterfully combines humor and tragedy, offering a rich commentary on the human condition.

								

every Saturday."

"Well, how are you?" said the princess, sighing. "I hear that you have
lost your wife. What a calamity!"

"Yes, Princess, for me it is a great calamity."

"There's nothing for it! We must bear our troubles with resignation. Not
one hair of a man's head is lost without the Divine Will."

"Yes, Princess."

To the princess's friendly, gentle smile and her sighs the doctor
responded coldly and dryly: "Yes, Princess." And the expression of his
face was cold and dry.

"What else can I say to him?" she wondered.

"How long it is since we met!" she said. "Five years! How much water has
flowed under the bridge, how many changes in that time; it quite
frightens one to think of it! You know, I am married. . . . I am not a
countess now, but a princess. And by now I am separated from my husband
too."

"Yes, I heard so."

"God has sent me many trials. No doubt you have heard, too, that I am
almost ruined. My Dubovki, Sofyino, and Kiryakovo have all been sold for
my unhappy husband's debts. And I have only Baranovo and Mihaltsevo
left. It's terrible to look back: how many changes and misfortunes of
all kinds, how many mistakes!"

"Yes, Princess, many mistakes."

The princess was a little disconcerted. She knew her mistakes; they were
all of such a private character that no one but she could think or speak
of them. She could not resist asking:

"What mistakes are you thinking about?"

"You referred to them, so you know them . . ." answered the doctor, and
he smiled. "Why talk about them!"

"No; tell me, doctor. I shall be very grateful to you. And please don't
stand on ceremony with me. I love to hear the truth."

"I am not your judge, Princess."

"Not my judge! What a tone you take! You must know something about me.
Tell me!"

"If you really wish it, very well. Only I regret to say I'm not clever
at talking, and people can't always understand me."

The doctor thought a moment and began:

"A lot of mistakes; but the most important of them, in my opinion, was
the general spirit that prevailed on all your estates. You see, I don't
know how to express myself. I mean chiefly the lack of love, the
aversion for people that was felt in absolutely everything. Your whole
system of life was built upon that aversion. Aversion for the human
voice, for faces, for heads, steps . . . in fact, for everything that
makes up a human being. At all the doors and on the stairs there stand
sleek, rude, and lazy grooms in livery to prevent badly dressed persons
from entering the house; in the hall there are chairs with high backs so
that the footmen waiting there, during balls and receptions, may not
soil the walls with their heads; in every room there are thick carpets
that no human step may be heard; every one who comes in is infallibly
warned to speak as softly and as little as possible, and to say nothing
that might have a disagreeable effect on the nerves or the imagination.
And in your room you don't shake hands with any one or ask him to sit
down-- just as you didn't shake hands with me or ask me to sit down. . .
."

"By all means, if you like," said the princess, smiling and holding out
her hand. "Really, to be cross about such trifles. . . ."

"But I am not cross," laughed the doctor, but at once he flushed, took
off his hat, and waving it about, began hotly: "To be candid, I've long
wanted an opportunity to tell you all I think. . . . That is, I want to
tell you that you look upon the mass of mankind from the Napoleonic
standpoint as food for the cannon. But Napoleon had at least some idea;
you have nothing except aversion."

"I have an aversion for people?" smiled the princess, shrugging her
shoulders in astonishment. "I have!"

"Yes, you! You want facts? By all means. In Mihaltsevo three former
cooks of yours, who have gone blind in your kitchens from the heat of
the stove, are living upon charity. All the health and strength and good
looks that is found on your hundreds of thousands of acres is taken by
you and your parasites for your grooms, your footmen, and your coachmen.
All these two-legged cattle are trained to be flunkeys, overeat
themselves, grow coarse, lose the 'image and likeness,' in fact. . . .
Young doctors, agricultural experts, teachers, intellectual workers
generally--think of it!--are torn away from their honest work and forced
for a crust of bread to take part in all sorts of mummeries which make
every decent man feel ashamed! Some young men cannot be in your service
for three years without becoming hypocrites, toadies, sneaks. . . . Is
that a good thing? Your Polish superintendents, those abject spies, all
those Kazimers and Kaetans, go hunting about on your hundreds of
thousands of acres from morning to night, and to please you try to get
three skins off one ox. Excuse me, I speak disconnectedly, but that
doesn't matter. You don't look upon the simple people as human beings.
And even the princes, counts, and bishops who used to come and see you,
you looked upon simply as decorative figures, not as living beings. But
the worst of all, the thing that most revolts me, is having a fortune of
over a million and doing nothing for other people, nothing!"

The princess sat amazed, aghast, offended, not knowing what to say or
how to behave. She had never before been spoken to in such a tone. The
doctor's unpleasant, angry voice and his clumsy, faltering phrases made
a harsh clattering noise in her ears and her head. Then she began to
feel as though the gesticulating doctor was hitting her on the head with
his hat.

"It's not true!" she articulated softly, in an imploring voice. "I've
done a great deal of good for other people; you know it yourself!"

"Nonsense!" cried the doctor. "Can you possibly go on thinking of your
philanthropic work as something genuine and useful, and not a mere
mummery? It was a farce from beginning to end; it was playing at loving
your neighbour, the most open farce which even children and stupid
peasant women saw through! Take for instance your-- what was it
called?--house for homeless old women without relations, of which you
made me something like a head doctor, and of which you were the
patroness. Mercy on us! What a charming institution it was! A house was
built with parquet floors and a weathercock on the roof; a dozen old
women were collected from the villages and made to sleep under blankets
and sheets of Dutch linen, and given toffee to eat."

The doctor gave a malignant chuckle into his hat, and went on speaking
rapidly and stammering:

"It was a farce! The attendants kept the sheets and the blankets under
lock and key, for fear the old women should soil them--'Let the old
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