The Teacher of Literature Page #8

"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.

								

this was due to his nerves, that he would laugh at himself.

And he did, in fact, by the morning laugh at himself and call himself an
old woman; but it was clear to him that his peace of mind was lost,
perhaps, for ever, and that in that little two-story house happiness was
henceforth impossible for him. He realized that the illusion had
evaporated, and that a new life of unrest and clear sight was beginning
which was incompatible with peace and personal happiness.

Next day, which was Sunday, he was at the school chapel, and there met
his colleagues and the director. It seemed to him that they were
entirely preoccupied with concealing their ignorance and discontent with
life, and he, too, to conceal his uneasiness, smiled affably and talked
of trivialities. Then he went to the station and saw the mail train come
in and go out, and it was agreeable to him to be alone and not to have
to talk to any one.

At home he found Varya and his father-in-law, who had come to dinner.
Varya's eyes were red with crying, and she complained of a headache,
while Shelestov ate a great deal, saying that young men nowadays were
unreliable, and that there was very little gentlemanly feeling among
them.

"It's loutishness!" he said. "I shall tell him so to his face: 'It's
loutishness, sir,' I shall say."

Nikitin smiled affably and helped Masha to look after their guests, but
after dinner he went to his study and shut the door.

The March sun was shining brightly in at the windows and shedding its
warm rays on the table. It was only the twentieth of the month, but
already the cabmen were driving with wheels, and the starlings were
noisy in the garden. It was just the weather in which Masha would come
in, put one arm round his neck, tell him the horses were saddled or the
chaise was at the door, and ask him what she should put on to keep warm.
Spring was beginning as exquisitely as last spring, and it promised the
same joys. . . . But Nikitin was thinking that it would be nice to take
a holiday and go to Moscow, and stay at his old lodgings there. In the
next room they were drinking coffee and talking of Captain Polyansky,
while he tried not to listen and wrote in his diary: "Where am I, my
God? I am surrounded by vulgarity and vulgarity. Wearisome,
insignificant people, pots of sour cream, jugs of milk, cockroaches,
stupid women. . . . There is nothing more terrible, mortifying, and
distressing than vulgarity. I must escape from here, I must escape
today, or I shall go out of my mind!"
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