Three Years

"Three Years" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores the complexities of love, marriage, and personal growth over time. The narrative follows the life of a young couple, focusing on their evolving relationship as they navigate their feelings, societal expectations, and the passage of time. Through nuanced character development and Chekhov's signature blend of humor and poignancy, the story illuminates the subtle changes that occur in intimacy and connection, ultimately reflecting on the nature of happiness and fulfillment in life.

								
I

IT was dark, and already lights had begun to gleam here and there in the
houses, and a pale moon was rising behind the barracks at the end of the
street. Laptev was sitting on a bench by the gate waiting for the end of
the evening service at the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. He was
reckoning that Yulia Sergeyevna would pass by on her way from the
service, and then he would speak to her, and perhaps spend the whole
evening with her.

He had been sitting there for an hour and a half already, and all that
time his imagination had been busy picturing his Moscow rooms, his
Moscow friends, his man Pyotr, and his writing-table. He gazed half
wonderingly at the dark, motionless trees, and it seemed strange to him
that he was living now, not in his summer villa at Sokolniki, but in a
provincial town in a house by which a great herd of cattle was driven
every morning and evening, accompanied by terrible clouds of dust and
the blowing of a horn. He thought of long conversations in which he had
taken part quite lately in Moscow--conversations in which it had been
maintained that one could live without love, that passionate love was an
obsession, that finally there is no such love, but only a physical
attraction between the sexes--and so on, in the same style; he
remembered them and thought mournfully that if he were asked now what
love was, he could not have found an answer.

The service was over, the people began to appear. Laptev strained his
eyes gazing at the dark figures. The bishop had been driven by in his
carriage, the bells had stopped ringing, and the red and green lights in
the belfry were one after another extinguished-- there had been an
illumination, as it was dedication day--but the people were still coming
out, lingering, talking, and standing under the windows. But at last
Laptev heard a familiar voice, his heart began beating violently, and he
was overcome with despair on seeing that Yulia Sergeyevna was not alone,
but walking with two ladies.

"It's awful, awful!" he whispered, feeling jealous. "It's awful!"

At the corner of the lane, she stopped to say good-bye to the ladies,
and while doing so glanced at Laptev.

"I was coming to see you," he said. "I'm coming for a chat with your
father. Is he at home?"

"Most likely," she answered. "It's early for him to have gone to the
club."

There were gardens all along the lane, and a row of lime-trees growing
by the fence cast a broad patch of shadow in the moonlight, so that the
gate and the fences were completely plunged in darkness on one side,
from which came the sounds of women whispering, smothered laughter, and
someone playing softly on a balalaika. There was a fragrance of lime-
flowers and of hay. This fragrance and the murmur of the unseen whispers
worked upon Laptev. He was all at once overwhelmed with a passionate
longing to throw his arms round his companion, to shower kisses on her
face, her hands, her shoulders, to burst into sobs, to fall at her feet
and to tell her how long he had been waiting for her. A faint scarcely
perceptible scent of incense hung about her; and that scent reminded him
of the time when he, too, believed in God and used to go to evening
service, and when he used to dream so much of pure romantic love. And it
seemed to him that, because this girl did not love him, all possibility
of the happiness he had dreamed of then was lost to him forever.

She began speaking sympathetically of the illness of his sister, Nina
Fyodorovna. Two months before his sister had undergone an operation for
cancer, and now every one was expecting a return of the disease.

"I went to see her this morning," said Yulia Sergeyevna, "and it seemed
to me that during the last week she has, not exactly grown thin, but
has, as it were, faded."

"Yes, yes," Laptev agreed. "There's no return of the symptoms, but every
day I notice she grows weaker and weaker, and is wasting before my eyes.
I don't understand what's the matter with her."

"Oh dear! And how strong she used to be, plump and rosy!" said Yulia
Sergeyevna after a moment's silence. "Every one here used to call her
the Moscow lady. How she used to laugh! On holidays she used to dress up
like a peasant girl, and it suited her so well."

Doctor Sergey Borisovitch was at home; he was a stout, red-faced man,
wearing a long coat that reached below his knees, and looking as though
he had short legs. He was pacing up and down his study, with his hands
in his pockets, and humming to himself in an undertone, "Ru-ru-ru-ru."
His grey whiskers looked unkempt, and his hair was unbrushed, as though
he had just got out of bed. And his study with pillows on the sofa, with
stacks of papers in the corners, and with a dirty invalid poodle lying
under the table, produced the same impression of unkemptness and
untidiness as himself.

"M. Laptev wants to see you," his daughter said to him, going into his
study.

"Ru-ru-ru-ru," he hummed louder than ever, and turning into the drawing-
room, gave his hand to Laptev, and asked: "What good news have you to
tell me?"

It was dark in the drawing-room. Laptev, still standing with his hat in
his hand, began apologising for disturbing him; he asked what was to be
done to make his sister sleep at night, and why she was growing so thin;
and he was embarrassed by the thought that he had asked those very
questions at his visit that morning.

"Tell me," he said, "wouldn't it be as well to send for some specialist
on internal diseases from Moscow? What do you think of it?"

The doctor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and made a vague gesture with
his hands.

It was evident that he was offended. He was a very huffy man, prone to
take offence, and always ready to suspect that people did not believe in
him, that he was not recognised or properly respected, that his patients
exploited him, and that his colleagues showed him ill-will. He was
always jeering at himself, saying that fools like him were only made for
the public to ride rough-shod over them.

Yulia Sergeyevna lighted the lamp. She was tired out with the service,
and that was evident from her pale, exhausted face, and her weary step.
She wanted to rest. She sat down on the sofa, put her hands on her lap,
and sank into thought. Laptev knew that he was ugly, and now he felt as
though he were conscious of his ugliness all over his body. He was
short, thin, with ruddy cheeks, and his hair had grown so thin that his
head felt cold. In his expression there was none of that refined
simplicity which makes even rough, ugly faces attractive; in the society
of women, he was awkward, over-talkative, affected. And now he almost
despised himself for it. He must talk that Yulia Sergeyevna might not be
bored in his company. But what about? About his sister's illness again?

And he began to talk about medicine, saying what is usually said. He

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