The Chorus Girl and Other StoriesChekhov, Anton Pavlovich
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The Chorus Girl and Other Stories
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904 -- Translations into English; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
"Well," sighed my father, taking off his spectacles, and laying
them on the table. "What thou sowest that shalt thou reap. What
thou sowest," he repeated, getting up from the table, "that shalt
thou reap. I ask you to remember how you came to me two years ago,
and on this very spot I begged you, I besought you to give up your
errors; I reminded you of your duty, of your honour, of what you
owed to your forefathers whose traditions we ought to preserve as
sacred. Did you obey me? You scorned my counsels, and obstinately
persisted in clinging to your false ideals; worse still you drew
your sister into the path of error with you, and led her to lose
her moral principles and sense of shame. Now you are both in a bad
way. Well, as thou sowest, so shalt thou reap!"
As he said this he walked up and down the room. He probably imagined
that I had come to him to confess my wrong doings, and he probably
expected that I should begin begging him to forgive my sister and
me. I was cold, I was shivering as though I were in a fever, and
spoke with difficulty in a husky voice.
"And I beg you, too, to remember," I said, "on this very spot I
besought you to understand me, to reflect, to decide with me how
and for what we should live, and in answer you began talking about
our forefathers, about my grandfather who wrote poems. One tells
you now that your only daughter is hopelessly ill, and you go on
again about your forefathers, your traditions. . . . And such
frivolity in your old age, when death is close at hand, and you
haven't more than five or ten years left!"
"What have you come here for?" my father asked sternly, evidently
offended at my reproaching him for his frivolity.
"I don't know. I love you, I am unutterably sorry that we are so
far apart--so you see I have come. I love you still, but my sister
has broken with you completely. She does not forgive you, and will
never forgive you now. Your very name arouses her aversion for the
past, for life."
"And who is to blame for it?" cried my father. "It's your fault,
you scoundrel!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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