The Chorus Girl and Other StoriesChekhov, Anton Pavlovich
General
The Chorus Girl and Other Stories
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904 -- Translations into English; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
I worked on the railway-line. It rained without stopping all August;
it was damp and cold; they had not carried the corn in the fields,
and on big farms where the wheat had been cut by machines it lay
not in sheaves but in heaps, and I remember how those luckless heaps
of wheat turned blacker every day and the grain was sprouting in
them. It was hard to work; the pouring rain spoiled everything we
managed to do. We were not allowed to live or to sleep in the railway
buildings, and we took refuge in the damp and filthy mud huts in
which the navvies had lived during the summer, and I could not sleep
at night for the cold and the woodlice crawling on my face and
hands. And when we worked near the bridges the navvies used to come
in the evenings in a gang, simply in order to beat the painters--
it was a form of sport to them. They used to beat us, to steal our
brushes. And to annoy us and rouse us to fight they used to spoil
our work; they would, for instance, smear over the signal boxes
with green paint. To complete our troubles, Radish took to paying
us very irregularly. All the painting work on the line was given
out to a contractor; he gave it out to another; and this subcontractor
gave it to Radish after subtracting twenty per cent. for himself.
The job was not a profitable one in itself, and the rain made it
worse; time was wasted; we could not work while Radish was obliged
to pay the fellows by the day. The hungry painters almost came to
beating him, called him a cheat, a blood-sucker, a Judas, while he,
poor fellow, sighed, lifted up his hand to Heaven in despair, and
was continually going to Madame Tcheprakov for money.
VII
Autumn came on, rainy, dark, and muddy. The season of unemployment
set in, and I used to sit at home out of work for three days at a
stretch, or did various little jobs, not in the painting line. For
instance, I wheeled earth, earning about fourpence a day by it. Dr.
Blagovo had gone away to Petersburg. My sister had given up coming
to see me. Radish was laid up at home ill, expecting death from day
to day.
And my mood was autumnal too. Perhaps because, having become a
workman, I saw our town life only from the seamy side, it was my
lot almost every day to make discoveries which reduced me almost
to despair. Those of my fellow-citizens, about whom I had no opinion
before, or who had externally appeared perfectly decent, turned out
now to be base, cruel people, capable of any dirty action. We common
people were deceived, cheated, and kept waiting for hours together
in the cold entry or the kitchen; we were insulted and treated with
the utmost rudeness. In the autumn I papered the reading-room and
two other rooms at the club; I was paid a penny three-farthings the
piece, but had to sign a receipt at the rate of twopence halfpenny,
and when I refused to do so, a gentleman of benevolent appearance
in gold-rimmed spectacles, who must have been one of the club
committee, said to me:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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