The Princess Page #3

"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.

								

devil's pepper-pots sleep on the floor.' The old women did not dare to
sit down on the beds, to put on their jackets, to walk over the polished
floors. Everything was kept for show and hidden away from the old women
as though they were thieves, and the old women were clothed and fed on
the sly by other people's charity, and prayed to God night and day to be
released from their prison and from the canting exhortations of the
sleek rascals to whose care you committed them. And what did the
managers do? It was simply charming! About twice a week there would be
thirty-five thousand messages to say that the princess--that is, you--were
coming to the home next day. That meant that next day I had to abandon
my patients, dress up and be on parade. Very good; I arrive. The old
women, in everything clean and new, are already drawn up in a row,
waiting. Near them struts the old garrison rat--the superintendent with
his mawkish, sneaking smile. The old women yawn and exchange glances,
but are afraid to complain. We wait. The junior steward gallops up. Half
an hour later the senior steward; then the superintendent of the
accounts' office, then another, and then another of them . . . they keep
arriving endlessly. They all have mysterious, solemn faces. We wait and
wait, shift from one leg to another, look at the clock--all this in
monumental silence because we all hate each other like poison. One hour
passes, then a second, and then at last the carriage is seen in the
distance, and . . . and . . ."

The doctor went off into a shrill laugh and brought out in a shrill
voice:

"You get out of the carriage, and the old hags, at the word of command
from the old garrison rat, begin chanting: 'The Glory of our Lord in
Zion the tongue of man cannot express. . .' A pretty scene, wasn't it?"

The doctor went off into a bass chuckle, and waved his hand as though to
signify that he could not utter another word for laughing. He laughed
heavily, harshly, with clenched teeth, as ill-natured people laugh; and
from his voice, from his face, from his glittering, rather insolent eyes
it could be seen that he had a profound contempt for the princess, for
the home, and for the old women. There was nothing amusing or laughable
in all that he described so clumsily and coarsely, but he laughed with
satisfaction, even with delight.

"And the school?" he went on, panting from laughter. "Do you remember
how you wanted to teach peasant children yourself? You must have taught
them very well, for very soon the children all ran away, so that they
had to be thrashed and bribed to come and be taught. And you remember
how you wanted to feed with your own hands the infants whose mothers
were working in the fields. You went about the village crying because
the infants were not at your disposal, as the mothers would take them to
the fields with them. Then the village foreman ordered the mothers by
turns to leave their infants behind for your entertainment. A strange
thing! They all ran away from your benevolence like mice from a cat! And
why was it? It's very simple. Not because our people are ignorant and
ungrateful, as you always explained it to yourself, but because in all
your fads, if you'll excuse the word, there wasn't a ha'p'orth of love
and kindness! There was nothing but the desire to amuse yourself with
living puppets, nothing else. . . . A person who does not feel the
difference between a human being and a lap-dog ought not to go in for
philanthropy. I assure you, there's a great difference between human
beings and lap-dogs!"

The princess's heart was beating dreadfully; there was a thudding in her
ears, and she still felt as though the doctor were beating her on the
head with his hat. The doctor talked quickly, excitedly, and uncouthly,
stammering and gesticulating unnecessarily. All she grasped was that she
was spoken to by a coarse, ill-bred, spiteful, and ungrateful man; but
what he wanted of her and what he was talking about, she could not
understand.

"Go away!" she said in a tearful voice, putting up her hands to protect
her head from the doctor's hat; "go away!"

"And how you treat your servants!" the doctor went on, indignantly. "You
treat them as the lowest scoundrels, and don't look upon them as human
beings. For example, allow me to ask, why did you dismiss me? For ten
years I worked for your father and afterwards for you, honestly, without
vacations or holidays. I gained the love of all for more than seventy
miles round, and suddenly one fine day I am informed that I am no longer
wanted. What for? I've no idea to this day. I, a doctor of medicine, a
gentleman by birth, a student of the Moscow University, father of a
family--am such a petty, insignificant insect that you can kick me out
without explaining the reason! Why stand on ceremony with me! I heard
afterwards that my wife went without my knowledge three times to
intercede with you for me--you wouldn't receive her. I am told she cried
in your hall. And I shall never forgive her for it, never!"

The doctor paused and clenched his teeth, making an intense effort to
think of something more to say, very unpleasant and vindictive. He
thought of something, and his cold, frowning face suddenly brightened.

"Take your attitude to this monastery!" he said with avidity. "You've
never spared any one, and the holier the place, the more chance of its
suffering from your loving-kindness and angelic sweetness. Why do you
come here? What do you want with the monks here, allow me to ask you?
What is Hecuba to you or you to Hecuba? It's another farce, another
amusement for you, another sacrilege against human dignity, and nothing
more. Why, you don't believe in the monks' God; you've a God of your own
in your heart, whom you've evolved for yourself at spiritualist
séances. You look with condescension upon the ritual of the Church; you
don't go to mass or vespers; you sleep till midday. . . . Why do you
come here? . . . You come with a God of your own into a monastery you
have nothing to do with, and you imagine that the monks look upon it as
a very great honour. To be sure they do! You'd better ask, by the way,
what your visits cost the monastery. You were graciously pleased to
arrive here this evening, and a messenger from your estate arrived on
horseback the day before yesterday to warn them of your coming. They
were the whole day yesterday getting the rooms ready and expecting you.
This morning your advance-guard arrived--an insolent maid, who keeps
running across the courtyard, rustling her skirts, pestering them with
questions, giving orders. . . . I can't endure it! The monks have been
on the lookout all day, for if you were not met with due ceremony, there
would be trouble! You'd complain to the bishop! 'The monks don't like
me, your holiness; I don't know what I've done to displease them. It's
true I'm a great sinner, but I'm so unhappy!' Already one monastery has
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