The Princess Page #4

"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.

								

been in hot water over you. The Father Superior is a busy, learned man;
he hasn't a free moment, and you keep sending for him to come to your
rooms. Not a trace of respect for age or for rank! If at least you were
a bountiful giver to the monastery, one wouldn't resent it so much, but
all this time the monks have not received a hundred roubles from you!"

Whenever people worried the princess, misunderstood her, or mortified
her, and when she did not know what to say or do, she usually began to
cry. And on this occasion, too, she ended by hiding her face in her
hands and crying aloud in a thin treble like a child. The doctor
suddenly stopped and looked at her. His face darkened and grew stern.

"Forgive me, Princess," he said in a hollow voice. "I've given way to a
malicious feeling and forgotten myself. It was not right."

And coughing in an embarrassed way, he walked away quickly, without
remembering to put his hat on.

Stars were already twinkling in the sky. The moon must have been rising
on the further side of the monastery, for the sky was clear, soft, and
transparent. Bats were flitting noiselessly along the white monastery
wall.

The clock slowly struck three quarters, probably a quarter to nine. The
princess got up and walked slowly to the gate. She felt wounded and was
crying, and she felt that the trees and the stars and even the bats were
pitying her, and that the clock struck musically only to express its
sympathy with her. She cried and thought how nice it would be to go into
a monastery for the rest of her life. On still summer evenings she would
walk alone through the avenues, insulted, injured, misunderstood by
people, and only God and the starry heavens would see the martyr's
tears. The evening service was still going on in the church. The
princess stopped and listened to the singing; how beautiful the singing
sounded in the still darkness! How sweet to weep and suffer to the sound
of that singing!

Going into her rooms, she looked at her tear-stained face in the glass
and powdered it, then she sat down to supper. The monks knew that she
liked pickled sturgeon, little mushrooms, Malaga and plain honey-cakes
that left a taste of cypress in the mouth, and every time she came they
gave her all these dishes. As she ate the mushrooms and drank the
Malaga, the princess dreamed of how she would be finally ruined and
deserted--how all her stewards, bailiffs, clerks, and maid-servants for
whom she had done so much, would be false to her, and begin to say rude
things; how people all the world over would set upon her, speak ill of
her, jeer at her. She would renounce her title, would renounce society
and luxury, and would go into a convent without one word of reproach to
any one; she would pray for her enemies--and then they would all
understand her and come to beg her forgiveness, but by that time it
would be too late. . . .

After supper she knelt down in the corner before the ikon and read two
chapters of the Gospel. Then her maid made her bed and she got into it.
Stretching herself under the white quilt, she heaved a sweet, deep sigh,
as one sighs after crying, closed her eyes, and began to fall asleep.

In the morning she waked up and glanced at her watch. It was half-past
nine. On the carpet near the bed was a bright, narrow streak of sunlight
from a ray which came in at the window and dimly lighted up the room.
Flies were buzzing behind the black curtain at the window. "It's early,"
thought the princess, and she closed her eyes.

Stretching and lying snug in her bed, she recalled her meeting yesterday
with the doctor and all the thoughts with which she had gone to sleep
the night before: she remembered she was unhappy. Then she thought of
her husband living in Petersburg, her stewards, doctors, neighbours, the
officials of her acquaintance . . . a long procession of familiar
masculine faces passed before her imagination. She smiled and thought,
if only these people could see into her heart and understand her, they
would all be at her feet.

At a quarter past eleven she called her maid.

"Help me to dress, Dasha," she said languidly. "But go first and tell
them to get out the horses. I must set off for Klavdia Nikolaevna's."

Going out to get into the carriage, she blinked at the glaring daylight
and laughed with pleasure: it was a wonderfully fine day! As she scanned
from her half-closed eyes the monks who had gathered round the steps to
see her off, she nodded graciously and said:

"Good-bye, my friends! Till the day after tomorrow."

It was an agreeable surprise to her that the doctor was with the monks
by the steps. His face was pale and severe.

"Princess," he said with a guilty smile, taking off his hat, "I've been
waiting here a long time to see you. Forgive me, for God's sake. . . . I
was carried away yesterday by an evil, vindictive feeling and I talked .
. . nonsense. In short, I beg your pardon."

The princess smiled graciously, and held out her hand for him to kiss.
He kissed it, turning red.

Trying to look like a bird, the princess fluttered into the carriage and
nodded in all directions. There was a gay, warm, serene feeling in her
heart, and she felt herself that her smile was particularly soft and
friendly. As the carriage rolled towards the gates, and afterwards along
the dusty road past huts and gardens, past long trains of waggons and
strings of pilgrims on their way to the monastery, she still screwed up
her eyes and smiled softly. She was thinking there was no higher bliss
than to bring warmth, light, and joy wherever one went, to forgive
injuries, to smile graciously on one's enemies. The peasants she passed
bowed to her, the carriage rustled softly, clouds of dust rose from
under the wheels and floated over the golden rye, and it seemed to the
princess that her body was swaying not on carriage cushions but on
clouds, and that she herself was like a light, transparent little cloud.
. . .

"How happy I am!" she murmured, shutting her eyes. "How happy I am!"
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