The Teacher of Literature Page #7

"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.

								


The winter was mild, with wet snow and no frost; on Epiphany Eve, for
instance, the wind howled all night as though it were autumn, and water
trickled off the roofs; and in the morning, at the ceremony of the
blessing of the water, the police allowed no one to go on the river,
because they said the ice was swelling up and looked dark. But in spite
of bad weather Nikitin's life was as happy as in summer. And, indeed, he
acquired another source of pleasure; he learned to play vint. Only one
thing troubled him, moved him to anger, and seemed to prevent him from
being perfectly happy: the cats and dogs which formed part of his wife's
dowry. The rooms, especially in the morning, always smelt like a
menagerie, and nothing could destroy the odour; the cats frequently
fought with the dogs. The spiteful beast Mushka was fed a dozen times a
day; she still refused to recognize Nikitin and growled at him: "Rrr . .
. nga-nga-nga!"

One night in Lent he was returning home from the club where he had been
playing cards. It was dark, raining, and muddy. Nikitin had an
unpleasant feeling at the bottom of his heart and could not account for
it. He did not know whether it was because he had lost twelve roubles at
cards, or whether because one of the players, when they were settling
up, had said that of course Nikitin had pots of money, with obvious
reference to his wife's portion. He did not regret the twelve roubles,
and there was nothing offensive in what had been said; but, still, there
was the unpleasant feeling. He did not even feel a desire to go home.

"Foo, how horrid!" he said, standing still at a lamp-post.

It occurred to him that he did not regret the twelve roubles because he
got them for nothing. If he had been a working man he would have known
the value of every farthing, and would not have been so careless whether
he lost or won. And his good-fortune had all, he reflected, come to him
by chance, for nothing, and really was as superfluous for him as
medicine for the healthy. If, like the vast majority of people, he had
been harassed by anxiety for his daily bread, had been struggling for
existence, if his back and chest had ached from work, then supper, a
warm snug home, and domestic happiness, would have been the necessity,
the compensation, the crown of his life; as it was, all this had a
strange, indefinite significance for him.

"Foo, how horrid!" he repeated, knowing perfectly well that these
reflections were in themselves a bad sign.

When he got home Masha was in bed: she was breathing evenly and smiling,
and was evidently sleeping with great enjoyment. Near her the white cat
lay curled up, purring. While Nikitin lit the candle and lighted his
cigarette, Masha woke up and greedily drank a glass of water.

"I ate too many sweets," she said, and laughed. "Have you been home?"
she asked after a pause.

"No."

Nikitin knew already that Captain Polyansky, on whom Varya had been
building great hopes of late, was being transferred to one of the
western provinces, and was already making his farewell visits in the
town, and so it was depressing at his father-in-law's.

"Varya looked in this evening," said Masha, sitting up. "She did not say
anything, but one could see from her face how wretched she is, poor
darling! I can't bear Polyansky. He is fat and bloated, and when he
walks or dances his cheeks shake. . . . He is not a man I would choose.
But, still, I did think he was a decent person."

"I think he is a decent person now," said Nikitin.

"Then why has he treated Varya so badly?"

"Why badly?" asked Nikitin, beginning to feel irritation against the
white cat, who was stretching and arching its back. "As far as I know,
he has made no proposal and has given her no promises."

"Then why was he so often at the house? If he didn't mean to marry her,
he oughtn't to have come."

Nikitin put out the candle and got into bed. But he felt disinclined to
lie down and to sleep. He felt as though his head were immense and empty
as a barn, and that new, peculiar thoughts were wandering about in it
like tall shadows. He thought that, apart from the soft light of the
ikon lamp, that beamed upon their quiet domestic happiness, that apart
from this little world in which he and this cat lived so peacefully and
happily, there was another world. . . . And he had a passionate,
poignant longing to be in that other world, to work himself at some
factory or big workshop, to address big audiences, to write, to publish,
to raise a stir, to exhaust himself, to suffer. . . . He wanted
something that would engross him till he forgot himself, ceased to care
for the personal happiness which yielded him only sensations so
monotonous. And suddenly there rose vividly before his imagination the
figure of Shebaldin with his clean-shaven face, saying to him with
horror: "You haven't even read Lessing! You are quite behind the times!
How you have gone to seed!"

Masha woke up and again drank some water. He glanced at her neck, at her
plump shoulders and throat, and remembered the word the brigadier-
general had used in church--"rose."

"Rose," he muttered, and laughed.

His laugh was answered by a sleepy growl from Mushka under the bed: "Rrr
. . . nga-nga-nga . . . !"

A heavy anger sank like a cold weight on his heart, and he felt tempted
to say something rude to Masha, and even to jump up and hit her; his
heart began throbbing.

"So then," he asked, restraining himself, "since I went to your house, I
was bound in duty to marry you?"

"Of course. You know that very well."

"That's nice." And a minute later he repeated: "That's nice."

To relieve the throbbing of his heart, and to avoid saying too much,
Nikitin went to his study and lay down on the sofa, without a pillow;
then he lay on the floor on the carpet.

"What nonsense it is!" he said to reassure himself. "You are a teacher,
you are working in the noblest of callings. . . . What need have you of
any other world? What rubbish!"

But almost immediately he told himself with conviction that he was not a
real teacher, but simply a government employé, as commonplace and
mediocre as the Czech who taught Greek. He had never had a vocation for
teaching, he knew nothing of the theory of teaching, and never had been
interested in the subject; he did not know how to treat children; he did
not understand the significance of what he taught, and perhaps did not
teach the right things. Poor Ippolit Ippolititch had been frankly
stupid, and all the boys, as well as his colleagues, knew what he was
and what to expect from him; but he, Nikitin, like the Czech, knew how
to conceal his stupidity and cleverly deceived every one by pretending
that, thank God, his teaching was a success. These new ideas frightened
Nikitin; he rejected them, called them stupid, and believed that all
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