The Tales of Chekhov, vol 9 | Page 5

but he only laughed, and apparently did not
mind, and wanted no better life. He was kind, soft, naive, and he did
not understand this coarse life, just as at the examination he did not
know the prayers. He subscribed nothing to the schools but globes, and
genuinely regarded himself as a useful person and a prominent worker
in the cause of popular education. And what use were his globes here?
"Hold on, Vassilyevna!" said Semyon.
The cart lurched violently and was on the point of upsetting; something
heavy rolled on to Marya Vassilyevna's feet -- it was her parcel of
purchases. There was a steep ascent uphill through the clay; here in the
winding ditches rivulets were gurgling. The water seemed to have
gnawed away the road; and how could one get along here! The horses
breathed hard. Hanov got out of his carriage and walked at the side of
the road in his long overcoat. He was hot.
"What a road!" he said, and laughed again. "It would soon smash up
one's carriage."
"Nobody obliges you to drive about in such weather," said Semyon
surlily. "You should stay at home."
"I am dull at home, grandfather. I don't like staying at home."
Beside old Semyon he looked graceful and vigorous, but yet in his
walk there was something just perceptible which betrayed in him a
being already touched by decay, weak, and on the road to ruin. And all
at once there was a whiff of spirits in the wood. Marya Vassilyevna
was filled with dread and pity for this man going to his ruin for no
visible cause or reason, and it came into her mind that if she had been
his wife or sister she would have devoted her wh ole life to saving him
from ruin. His wife! Life was so ordered that here he was living in his
great house alone, and she was living in a God-forsaken village alone,
and yet for some reason the mere thought that he and she might be
close to one another and equals seemed impossible and absurd. In
reality, life was arranged and human relations were complicated so

utterly beyond all understanding that when one thought about it one felt
uncanny and one's heart sank.
"And it is beyond all understanding," she thought, "why God gives
beauty, this graciousness, and sad, sweet eyes to weak, unlucky, useless
people -- why they are so charming."
"Here we must turn off to the right," said Hanov, getting into his
carriage. "Good-by! I wish you all things good!"
And again she thought of her pupils, of the examination, of the
watchman, of the School Council; and when the wind brought the
sound of the retreating carriage these thoughts were mingled with
others. She longed to think of beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness
which would never be. . . .
His wife? It was cold in the morning, there was no one to heat the stove,
the watchman disappeared; the children came in as soon as it was light,
bringing in snow and mud and making a noise: it was all so
inconvenient, so comfortless. Her abode consisted of one little room
and the kitchen close by. Her head ached every day after her work, and
after dinner she had heart-burn. She had to collect money from the
school-children for wood and for the watchman, and to give it to the
school guardian, and then to entreat him -- that overfed, insolent
peasant -- for God's sake to send her wood. And at night she dreamed
of examinations, peasants, snowdrifts. And this life was making her
grow old and coarse, making her ugly, angular, and awkward, as
though she were made of lead. She was always afraid, and she would
get up from her seat and not venture to sit down in the presence of a
member of the Zemstvo or the school guardian. And she used formal,
deferential expressions when she spoke of any one of them. And no one
thought her attractive, and life was passing drearily, without affection,
without friendly sympathy, without interesting acquaintances. How
awful it would have been in her position if she had fallen in love!
"Hold on, Vassilyevna!"
Again a sharp ascent uphill. . . .
She had become a schoolmistress from necessity, without feeling any
vocation for it; and she had never thought of a vocation, of serving the
cause of enlightenment; and it always seemed to her that what was
most important in her work was not the children, nor enlightenment,
but the examinations. And what time had she for thinking of vocation,

of serving the cause of enlightenment? Teachers, badly paid doctors,
and their assistants, with their terribly hard work, have not even the
comfort of thinking that they are serving