Short Fiction Anton Chekhov (thriller novels to read TXT) 📖

mournful smile. “My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you have already fathomed my heart.”

“Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!”

“Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age⁠—of his environment⁠—vous comprenez?⁠—I do not blame my poor father. He drank, gambled, took bribes. My mother⁠—but why say more? Poverty, the struggle for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance⁠—ah, do not force me to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature. I looked for happiness⁠—and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!”

“Exquisite creature!” murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the bracelet. “It’s not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?”

“Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every⁠—why affect modesty?⁠—every nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then⁠—and then⁠—there crossed my path⁠—an old general⁠—very well off. Understand me, Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I could do nothing else. I restored the family fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces⁠—though I will be fair to him⁠—he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments⁠—terrible moments⁠—but I was kept up by the thought that from day to day the old man might die, that then I would begin to live as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore⁠—be happy. There is such a man, Voldemar, indeed there is!”

The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a lachrymose expression. She goes on:

“But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a bird of the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn’t it, Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let it in⁠—but⁠—Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me to give myself to the man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to uphold his ideals, to be happy⁠—to find rest⁠—but⁠—how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched! Again there is an obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!⁠—if only you knew what anguish!”

“But what⁠—what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?”

“Another old general, very well off⁠—”

The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his fist his thought⁠—heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology. The engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.

A Classical Student

Before setting off for his examination in Greek, Vanya kissed all the holy images. His stomach felt as though it were upside down; there was a chill at his heart, while the heart itself throbbed and stood still with terror before the unknown. What would he get that day? A three or a two? Six times he went to his mother for her blessing, and, as he went out, asked his aunt to pray for him. On the way to school he gave a beggar two kopecks, in the hope that those two kopecks would atone for his ignorance, and that, please God, he would not get the numerals with those awful forties and eighties.

He came back from the high school late, between four and five. He came in, and noiselessly lay down on his bed. His thin face was pale. There were dark rings round his red eyes.

“Well, how did you get on? How were you marked?” asked his mother, going to his bedside.

Vanya blinked, twisted his mouth, and burst into tears. His mother turned pale, let her mouth fall open, and clasped her hands. The breeches she was mending dropped out of her hands.

“What are you crying for? You’ve failed, then?” she asked.

“I am plucked.⁠ ⁠… I got a two.”

“I knew it would be so! I had a presentiment of it,” said his mother. “Merciful God! How is it you have not passed? What is the reason of it? What subject have you failed in?”

“In Greek.⁠ ⁠… Mother, I⁠ ⁠… They asked me the future of phero, and I⁠ ⁠… instead of saying oisomai said opsomai. Then⁠ ⁠… then there isn’t an accent, if the last syllable is long, and I⁠ ⁠… I got flustered.⁠ ⁠… I forgot that the alpha was long in it.⁠ ⁠… I went and put in the accent. Then Artaxerxov told me to give the list of the enclitic particles.⁠ ⁠… I did, and I accidentally mixed in a pronoun⁠ ⁠… and made a mistake⁠ ⁠… and so he gave me a two.⁠ ⁠… I am a miserable person.⁠ ⁠… I was working all night⁠ ⁠… I’ve been getting up at four o’clock all this week.⁠ ⁠…”

“No, it’s not you but I who am miserable, you wretched boy! It’s I that am miserable! You’ve worn me to a threadpaper, you Herod, you torment, you bane of my life! I pay for you, you good-for-nothing rubbish; I’ve bent my back toiling for you, I’m worried to death, and, I may say, I am unhappy, and what do