The Teacher of Literature Page #3

"The Teacher of Literature I" is a collection of short stories and essays by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, showcasing his keen insights into human nature and society. The work reflects Chekhov's signature style, characterized by subtle humor, deep empathy, and a focus on the complexities of everyday life. The stories often explore themes of education, personal struggles, and the social dynamics of Russian life in the late 19th century, inviting readers to consider the broader implications of literature and the human experience. Chekhov's nuanced characters and vivid settings create a rich tapestry that highlights both the beauty and the challenges of existence.

								

share your opinion. We are of one mind, and it would be a great pleasure
to me to talk to you. Have you read Lessing on the dramatic art of
Hamburg?"

"No, I haven't."

Shebaldin was horrified, and waved his hands as though he had burnt his
fingers, and saying nothing more, staggered back from Nikitin.
Shebaldin's appearance, his question, and his surprise, struck Nikitin
as funny, but he thought none the less:

"It really is awkward. I am a teacher of literature, and to this day
I've not read Lessing. I must read him."

Before supper the whole company, old and young, sat down to play "fate."
They took two packs of cards: one pack was dealt round to the company,
the other was laid on the table face downwards.

"The one who has this card in his hand," old Shelestov began solemnly,
lifting the top card of the second pack, "is fated to go into the
nursery and kiss nurse."

The pleasure of kissing the nurse fell to the lot of Shebaldin. They all
crowded round him, took him to the nursery, and laughing and clapping
their hands, made him kiss the nurse. There was a great uproar and
shouting.

"Not so ardently!" cried Shelestov with tears of laughter. "Not so
ardently!"

It was Nikitin's "fate" to hear the confessions of all. He sat on a
chair in the middle of the drawing-room. A shawl was brought and put
over his head. The first who came to confess to him was Varya.

"I know your sins," Nikitin began, looking in the darkness at her stern
profile. "Tell me, madam, how do you explain your walking with Polyansky
every day? Oh, it's not for nothing she walks with an hussar!"

"That's poor," said Varya, and walked away.

Then under the shawl he saw the shine of big motionless eyes, caught the
lines of a dear profile in the dark, together with a familiar, precious
fragrance which reminded Nikitin of Masha's room.

"Marie Godefroi," he said, and did not know his own voice, it was so
soft and tender, "what are your sins?"

Masha screwed up her eyes and put out the tip of her tongue at him, then
she laughed and went away. And a minute later she was standing in the
middle of the room, clapping her hands and crying:

"Supper, supper, supper!"

And they all streamed into the dining-room. At supper Varya had another
argument, and this time with her father. Polyansky ate stolidly, drank
red wine, and described to Nikitin how once in a winter campaign he had
stood all night up to his knees in a bog; the enemy was so near that
they were not allowed to speak or smoke, the night was cold and dark, a
piercing wind was blowing. Nikitin listened and stole side-glances at
Masha. She was gazing at him immovably, without blinking, as though she
was pondering something or was lost in a reverie. . . . It was pleasure
and agony to him both at once.

"Why does she look at me like that?" was the question that fretted him.
"It's awkward. People may notice it. Oh, how young, how naïve she is!"

The party broke up at midnight. When Nikitin went out at the gate, a
window opened on the first-floor, and Masha showed herself at it.

"Sergey Vassilitch!" she called.

"What is it?"

"I tell you what . . ." said Masha, evidently thinking of something to
say. "I tell you what. . . Polyansky said he would come in a day or two
with his camera and take us all. We must meet here."

"Very well."

Masha vanished, the window was slammed, and some one immediately began
playing the piano in the house.

"Well, it is a house!" thought Nikitin while he crossed the street. "A
house in which there is no moaning except from Egyptian pigeons, and
they only do it because they have no other means of expressing their
joy!"

But the Shelestovs were not the only festive household. Nikitin had not
gone two hundred paces before he heard the strains of a piano from
another house. A little further he met a peasant playing the balalaika
at the gate. In the gardens the band struck up a potpourri of Russian
songs.

Nikitin lived nearly half a mile from the Shelestoys' in a flat of eight
rooms at the rent of three hundred roubles a year, which he shared with
his colleague Ippolit Ippolititch, a teacher of geography and history.
When Nikitin went in this Ippolit Ippolititch, a snub-nosed, middle-aged
man with a reddish beard, with a coarse, good-natured, unintellectual
face like a workman's, was sitting at the table correcting his pupils'
maps. He considered that the most important and necessary part of the
study of geography was the drawing of maps, and of the study of history
the learning of dates: he would sit for nights together correcting in
blue pencil the maps drawn by the boys and girls he taught, or making
chronological tables.

"What a lovely day it has been!" said Nikitin, going in to him. "I
wonder at you--how can you sit indoors?"

Ippolit Ippolititch was not a talkative person; he either remained
silent or talked of things which everybody knew already. Now what he
answered was:

"Yes, very fine weather. It's May now; we soon shall have real summer.
And summer's a very different thing from winter. In the winter you have
to heat the stoves, but in summer you can keep warm without. In summer
you have your window open at night and still are warm, and in winter you
are cold even with the double frames in."

Nikitin had not sat at the table for more than one minute before he was
bored.

"Good-night!" he said, getting up and yawning. "I wanted to tell you
something romantic concerning myself, but you are--geography! If one
talks to you of love, you will ask one at once, 'What was the date of
the Battle of Kalka?' Confound you, with your battles and your capes in
Siberia!"

"What are you cross about?"

"Why, it is vexatious!"

And vexed that he had not spoken to Masha, and that he had no one to
talk to of his love, he went to his study and lay down upon the sofa. It
was dark and still in the study. Lying gazing into the darkness, Nikitin
for some reason began thinking how in two or three years he would go to
Petersburg, how Masha would see him off at the station and would cry; in
Petersburg he would get a long letter from her in which she would
entreat him to come home as quickly as possible. And he would write to
her. . . . He would begin his letter like that: "My dear little rat!"

"Yes, my dear little rat!" he said, and he laughed.

He was lying in an uncomfortable position. He put his arms under his
head and put his left leg over the back of the sofa. He felt more
comfortable. Meanwhile a pale light was more and more perceptible at the
windows, sleepy cocks crowed in the yard. Nikitin went on thinking how
he would come back from Petersburg, how Masha would meet him at the
station, and with a shriek of delight would fling herself on his neck;
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