The Lady with the Dog and Other StoriesChekhov, Anton Pavlovich
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The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904 -- Translations into English; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with
the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her
coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her
thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew,
touched him.
"Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here
last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin,
longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used
to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron....
What time does!"
"Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell
me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:
"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man,
you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart
is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think
of us as your people. We have a right to that."
"I do, Tanya."
"On your word of honour?"
"Yes, on my word of honour."
"You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your
photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me
that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a
clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for
yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because
he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let
him."
Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the
distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees
began to stand out in the air.
"It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too."
She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only
uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the
garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards,
half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded
stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I
never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very
nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety.
I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or
simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the
house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the
furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it."
She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea
came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond
of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall
in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought
touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and
hummed softly:
"'Onyegin, I won't conceal it;
I madly love Tatiana....'"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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