The Witch, and Other StoriesChekhov, Anton Pavlovich
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The Witch, and Other Stories
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904 -- Translations into English; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
“Here we are in the harbour,” said Pavel Ivanitch, smiling ironically.
“Only another month and we shall be in Russia. Well, worthy gentlemen
and warriors! I shall arrive at Odessa and from there go straight to
Harkov. In Harkov I have a friend, a literary man. I shall go to him and
say, ‘Come, old man, put aside your horrid subjects, ladies’ amours and
the beauties of nature, and show up human depravity.’”
For a minute he pondered, then said:
“Gusev, do you know how I took them in?”
“Took in whom, Pavel Ivanitch?”
“Why, these fellows.... You know that on this steamer there is only a
first-class and a third-class, and they only allow peasants--that is the
rift-raft--to go in the third. If you have got on a reefer jacket and
have the faintest resemblance to a gentleman or a bourgeois you must go
first-class, if you please. You must fork out five hundred roubles if
you die for it. Why, I ask, have you made such a rule? Do you want to
raise the prestige of educated Russians thereby? Not a bit of it. We
don’t let you go third-class simply because a decent person can’t go
third-class; it is very horrible and disgusting. Yes, indeed. I am very
grateful for such solicitude for decent people’s welfare. But in any
case, whether it is nasty there or nice, five hundred roubles I haven’t
got. I haven’t pilfered government money. I haven’t exploited the
natives, I haven’t trafficked in contraband, I have flogged no one to
death, so judge whether I have the right to travel first-class and even
less to reckon myself of the educated class? But you won’t catch them
with logic.... One has to resort to deception. I put on a workman’s coat
and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the agents:
‘Give us a little ticket, your honour,’ said I....”
“Why, what class do you belong to?” asked a sailor.
“Clerical. My father was an honest priest, he always told the great ones
of the world the truth to their faces; and he had a great deal to put up
with in consequence.”
Pavel Ivanitch was exhausted with talking and gasped for breath, but
still went on:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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