Too Early! Page #2

"Too Early!" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of love, social obligation, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative revolves around a young couple who are on the cusp of a romantic relationship but are confronted by the constraints of social expectations and personal hesitations. Chekhov masterfully captures the nuances of feeling and the bittersweet nature of timing, highlighting how misunderstandings and societal pressures can affect the course of love. The story is characterized by Chekhov's trademark wit and keen psychological insights, making it a poignant reflection on the human condition.

								

though with an effort, stammering.

After standing still for a little they walk out of the village, without
saying a word to each other, and look towards the dark streak of the
forest. The whole sky above the forest is studded with moving black
spots, the rooks flying home to roost. The snow, lying white here and
there on the dark brown plough-land, is lightly flecked with gold by the
sun.

"This time last year I went stand-shooting in Zhivki," says Slyunka,
after a long silence. "I brought back three snipe."

Again there follows a silence. Both stand a long time and look towards
the forest, and then lazily move and walk along the muddy road from the
village.

"It's most likely the snipe haven't come yet," says Slyunka, "but may be
they are here."

"Kostka says they are not here yet."

"Maybe they are not, who can tell; one year is not like another. But
what mud!"

"But we ought to stand."

"To be sure we ought--why not?"

"We can stand and watch; it wouldn't be amiss to go to the forest and
have a look. If they are there we will tell Kostka, or maybe get a gun
ourselves and come to-morrow. What a misfortune, God forgive me. It was
the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to the pothouse! I am more
sorry than I can tell you, Ignashka."

Conversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest. The sun has set and
left behind it a red streak like the glow of a fire, scattered here and
there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of those clouds:
their edges are red, but they themselves are one minute grey, at the
next lilac, at the next ashen.

In the forest, among the thick branches of fir-trees and under the birch
bushes, it is dark, and only the outermost twigs on the side of the sun,
with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly in the air.
There is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves. It is still;
nothing stirs. From the distance comes the subsiding caw of the rooks.

"We ought to be standing in Zhivki now," whispers Slyunka, looking with
awe at Ryabov; "there's good stand-shooting there."

Ryabov too looks with awe at Slyunka, with unblinking eyes and open
mouth.

"A lovely time," Slyunka says in a trembling whisper. "The Lord is
sending a fine spring . . . and I should think the snipe are here by
now. . . . Why not? The days are warm now. . . . The cranes were flying
in the morning, lots and lots of them."

Slyunka and Ryabov, splashing cautiously through the melting snow and
sticking in the mud, walk two hundred paces along the edge of the forest
and there halt. Their faces wear a look of alarm and expectation of
something terrible and extraordinary. They stand like posts, do not
speak nor stir, and their hands gradually fall into an attitude as
though they were holding a gun at the cock. . . .

A big shadow creeps from the left and envelops the earth. The dusk of
evening comes on. If one looks to the right, through the bushes and tree
trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the after-glow. It is still
and damp. . . .

"There's no sound of them," whispers Slyunka, shrugging with the cold
and sniffing with his chilly nose.

But frightened by his own whisper, he holds his finger up at some one,
opens his eyes wide, and purses up his lips. There is a sound of a light
snapping. The sportsmen look at each other significantly, and tell each
other with their eyes that it is nothing. It is the snapping of a dry
twig or a bit of bark. The shadows of evening keep growing and growing,
the patches of crimson gradually grow dim, and the dampness becomes
unpleasant.

The sportsmen remain standing a long time, but they see and hear
nothing. Every instant they expect to see a delicate leaf float through
the air, to hear a hurried call like the husky cough of a child, and the
flutter of wings.

"No, not a sound," Slyunka says aloud, dropping his hands and beginning
to blink. "So they have not come yet."

"It's early!"

"You are right there."

The sportsmen cannot see each other's faces, it is getting rapidly dark.

"We must wait another five days," says Slyunka, as he comes out from
behind a bush with Ryabov. "It's too early!"

They go homewards, and are silent all the way.
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