The Wife, and Other StoriesChekhov, Anton Pavlovich
General
The Wife, and Other Stories
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904 -- Translations into English; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
She opened the drawer in the table and began flinging the papers out
of it on the table at random, poking me in the chest with her elbow
and brushing my face with her hair; as she did so, copper coins kept
dropping upon my knees and on the floor.
“Take everything!” she said in a husky voice.
When she had thrown out the papers she walked away from me, and putting
both hands to her head, she flung herself on the couch. I picked up the
money, put it back in the drawer, and locked it up that the servants
might not be led into dishonesty; then I gathered up all the papers and
went off with them. As I passed my wife I stopped and, looking at her
back and shaking shoulders, I said:
“What a baby you are, Natalie! Fie, fie! Listen, Natalie: when you
realize how serious and responsible a business it is you will be the
first to thank me. I assure you you will.”
In my own room I set to work without haste. The exercise books were not
bound, the pages were not numbered. The entries were put in all sorts
of handwritings; evidently any one who liked had a hand in managing the
books. In the record of the subscriptions in kind there was no note of
their money value. But, excuse me, I thought, the rye which is now worth
one rouble fifteen kopecks may be worth two roubles fifteen kopecks in
two months’ time! Was that the way to do things? Then, “Given to A. M.
Sobol 32 roubles.” When was it given? For what purpose was it given?
Where was the receipt? There was nothing to show, and no making anything
of it. In case of legal proceedings, these papers would only obscure the
case.
“How naive she is!” I thought with surprise. “What a child!”
I felt both vexed and amused.
V
My wife had already collected eight thousand; with my five it would be
thirteen thousand. For a start that was very good. The business which
had so worried and interested me was at last in my hands; I was doing
what the others would not and could not do; I was doing my duty,
organizing the relief fund in a practical and business-like way.
Everything seemed to be going in accordance with my desires and
intentions; but why did my feeling of uneasiness persist? I spent four
hours over my wife’s papers, making out their meaning and correcting her
mistakes, but instead of feeling soothed, I felt as though some one were
standing behind me and rubbing my back with a rough hand. What was it
I wanted? The organization of the relief fund had come into trustworthy
hands, the hungry would be fed--what more was wanted?
The four hours of this light work for some reason exhausted me, so that
I could not sit bending over the table nor write. From below I heard
from time to time a smothered moan; it was my wife sobbing. Alexey,
invariably meek, sleepy, and sanctimonious, kept coming up to the table
to see to the candles, and looked at me somewhat strangely.
“Yes, I must go away,” I decided at last, feeling utterly exhausted.
“As far as possible from these agreeable impressions! I will set off
tomorrow.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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