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

while this old man would stay here forever, and would always be walking and walking. And how many times in his life he would come across such battered, unkempt old men, not “men of any worth,” in whose souls fifteen kopecks, glasses of vodka, and a profound belief that you can’t get on in this life by dishonesty, were equally firmly rooted.

Then he grew tired of listening, and told the old man to bring him some hay for his bed, There was an iron bedstead with a pillow and a quilt in the traveler’s room, and it could be fetched in; but the dead man had been lying by it for nearly three days (and perhaps sitting on it just before his death), and it would be disagreeable to sleep upon it now.⁠ ⁠…

“It’s only half-past seven,” thought Lyzhin, glancing at his watch. “How awful it is!”

He was not sleepy, but having nothing to do to pass away the time, he lay down and covered himself with a rug. Loshadin went in and out several times, clearing away the tea-things; smacking his lips and sighing, he kept tramping round the table; at last he took his little lamp and went out, and, looking at his long, gray-headed, bent figure from behind, Lyzhin thought:

“Just like a magician in an opera.”

It was dark. The moon must have been behind the clouds, as the windows and the snow on the window-frames could be seen distinctly.

“Oo-oo-oo!” sang the storm, “Oo-oo-oo-oo!”

“Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!” wailed a woman in the loft, or it sounded like it. “Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!”

“B-booh!” something outside banged against the wall. “Trah!”

The examining magistrate listened: there was no woman up there, it was the wind howling. It was rather cold, and he put his fur coat over his rug. As he got warm he thought how remote all this⁠—the storm, and the hut, and the old man, and the dead body lying in the next room⁠—how remote it all was from the life he desired for himself, and how alien it all was to him, how petty, how uninteresting. If this man had killed himself in Moscow or somewhere in the neighborhood, and he had had to hold an inquest on him there, it would have been interesting, important, and perhaps he might even have been afraid to sleep in the next room to the corpse. Here, nearly a thousand miles from Moscow, all this was seen somehow in a different light; it was not life, they were not human beings, but something only existing “according to the regulation,” as Loshadin said; it would leave not the faintest trace in the memory, and would be forgotten as soon as he, Lyzhin, drove away from Syrnya. The fatherland, the real Russia, was Moscow, Petersburg; but here he was in the provinces, the colonies. When one dreamed of playing a leading part, of becoming a popular figure, of being, for instance, examining magistrate in particularly important cases or prosecutor in a circuit court, of being a society lion, one always thought of Moscow. To live, one must be in Moscow; here one cared for nothing, one grew easily resigned to one’s insignificant position, and only expected one thing of life⁠—to get away quickly, quickly. And Lyzhin mentally moved about the Moscow streets, went into the familiar houses, met his kindred, his comrades, and there was a sweet pang at his heart at the thought that he was only twenty-six, and that if in five or ten years he could break away from here and get to Moscow, even then it would not be too late and he would still have a whole life before him. And as he sank into unconsciousness, as his thoughts began to be confused, he imagined the long corridor of the court at Moscow, himself delivering a speech, his sisters, the orchestra which for some reason kept droning: “Oo-oo-oo-oo! Oo-oooo-oo!”

“Booh! Trah!” sounded again. “Booh!”

And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to the bookkeeper in the little office of the Rural Board, a thin, pale gentleman with black hair and dark eyes walked in; he had a disagreeable look in his eyes such as one sees in people who have slept too long after dinner, and it spoilt his delicate, intelligent profile; and the high boots he was wearing did not suit him, but looked clumsy. The bookkeeper had introduced him: “This is our insurance agent.”

“So that was Lesnitsky,⁠ ⁠… this same man,” Lyzhin reflected now.

He recalled Lesnitsky’s soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemed to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like Lesnitsky’s.

All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold.

“Who’s there?” he asked in alarm.

“The conshtable!”

“What do you want here?”

“I have come to ask, your honor⁠—you said this evening that you did not want the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told me to go to him. Shouldn’t I go?”

“That’s enough, you bother me,” said Lyzhin with vexation, and he covered himself up again.

“He may be angry.⁠ ⁠… I’ll go, your honor. I hope you will be comfortable,” and Loshadin went out.

In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The witnesses must have returned.

“We’ll let those poor beggars get away early tomorrow,⁠ ⁠…” thought the examining magistrate; “we’ll begin the inquest as soon as it is daylight.”

He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were steps again, not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was the slam of a door, voices, the scratching of a match.⁠ ⁠…

“Are you asleep? Are you asleep?” Dr. Startchenko was asking him hurriedly and angrily as he struck one match after another; he was covered with snow, and brought a chill air in with him. “Are you asleep? Get up! Let us go to Von Taunitz’s. He has sent his own horses for you. Come along. There, at any rate, you will have supper, and sleep like a human being. You see I have come for you myself. The horses are splendid, we shall get