Read the book Ionych by Anton Chekhov: online reading

Text of the book “Ionych”

Ionych

I

When in the provincial town of S., visitors complained about the boredom and monotony of life, the local residents, as if making excuses, said that, on the contrary, S. is very good, that S. has a library, a theater, a club, there are balls, that, finally, there are smart, interesting, pleasant families with whom you can make acquaintances.
And they pointed to the Turkin family as the most educated and talented. This family lived on the main street, near the governor, in their own house. Turkin himself, Ivan Petrovich, a plump, handsome brunette with sideburns, staged amateur performances for charitable purposes, himself played old generals and at the same time coughed very funny. He knew a lot of jokes, charades, sayings, he loved to joke and joke, and he always had such an expression that it was impossible to understand whether he was joking or speaking seriously. His wife, Vera Iosifovna, a thin, pretty lady in a pince-nez, wrote stories and novels and willingly read them aloud to her guests. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, played the piano. In a word, each member of the family had some kind of talent. The Turkins received guests cordially and showed them their talents cheerfully, with heartfelt simplicity. Their large stone house was spacious and cool in summer, half of the windows looked out onto an old shady garden, where nightingales sang in the spring; when guests were sitting in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen, the smell of fried onions in the yard - and this every time foreshadowed a rich and tasty dinner.

And Doctor Startsev, Dmitry Ionych, when he had just been appointed zemstvo doctor and settled in Dyalizh, nine miles from S., was also told that he, as an intelligent person, needed to get to know the Turkins. One winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovich on the street; we talked about the weather, about the theater, about cholera, and an invitation followed. In the spring, on a holiday - it was the Ascension - after receiving the sick, Startsev went to the city to have a little fun and, by the way, buy himself something. He walked slowly (he didn’t have his own horses yet) and sang all the time:

When I had not yet drunk tears from the cup of existence...

In the city he had lunch, walked in the garden, then somehow Ivan Petrovich’s invitation came to his mind, and he decided to go to the Turkins, to see what kind of people they were.

“Hello, please,” said Ivan Petrovich, meeting him on the porch. – I am very, very glad to see such a pleasant guest. Come on, I'll introduce you to my missus. “I tell him, Verochka,” he continued, introducing the doctor to his wife, “I tell him that he has no Roman right to sit in his hospital, he must give his leisure time to society. Isn't it true, darling?

“Sit here,” Vera Iosifovna said, seating the guest next to her. -You can look after me. My husband is jealous, this is Othello, but we will try to behave in such a way that he will not notice anything.

“Oh, you chick, you spoiled girl...” Ivan Petrovich muttered tenderly and kissed her on the forehead. “You are very welcome,” he turned again to the guest, “my missus wrote a great novel and today she will read it aloud.”

“Zhanchik,” Vera Iosifovna said to her husband, “dites que l’on nous donne du thе.”[1]1

Tell them to give us some tea
(French)
.

[Close]

Startseva was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, an eighteen-year-old girl, very similar to her mother, just as thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her waist was thin and delicate; and virgin, already developed breasts, beautiful, healthy, spoke of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, sweets and very tasty cookies that melted in the mouth. As evening approached, little by little, the guests arrived, and Ivan Petrovich turned his laughing eyes to each of them and said:

- Hello please.

Then everyone sat in the living room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. She began like this: “The frost was getting stronger...” The windows were wide open, one could hear the clatter of knives in the kitchen and the smell of fried onions could be heard... It was peaceful in the soft, deep armchairs, the lights were blinking so tenderly in the twilight of the living room; and now, on a summer evening, when voices, laughter and lilacs were sipped from the street, it was difficult to understand how the frost grew stronger and how the setting sun illuminated the snowy plain and the traveler walking alone along the road with its cold rays; Vera Iosifovna read about how the young, beautiful countess set up schools, hospitals, libraries in her village and how she fell in love with a wandering artist - she read about what never happens in life, and yet it was pleasant, comfortable, to listen, and such good, peaceful thoughts kept coming into my head – I didn’t want to get up.

“Not bad…” Ivan Petrovich said quietly.

And one of the guests, listening and carrying his thoughts somewhere very, very far away, said barely audible:

- Yes indeed…

An hour passed, then another. In the city garden next door, an orchestra played and a choir of singers sang. When Vera Iosifovna closed her notebook, they were silent for about five minutes and listened to “Luchinushka,” which the choir sang, and this song conveyed what was not in the novel and what happens in life.

– Do you publish your works in magazines? – Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna.

“No,” she answered, “I don’t publish anywhere.” I’ll write it and hide it in my closet. Why print? – she explained. - After all, we have the means.

And for some reason everyone sighed.

“Now, Kotik, play something,” Ivan Petrovich said to his daughter.

They lifted the lid of the piano and revealed the sheet music that was already lying at the ready. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and hit the keys with both hands; and then immediately struck again with all her might, and again, and again; her shoulders and chest were shaking, she stubbornly hit everything in one place, and it seemed that she would not stop until she hammered the key inside the piano. The living room was filled with thunder; everything rattled: the floor, the ceiling, and the furniture... Ekaterina Ivanovna played a difficult passage, interesting precisely because of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured to himself how stones were falling from a high mountain, falling and falling, and he wanted so that they would stop falling out as soon as possible, and at the same time, Ekaterina Ivanovna, pink with tension, strong, energetic, with a curl of hair falling on her forehead, really liked him. After the winter spent in Dyalizh, among the sick and the peasants, sitting in the living room, looking at this young, graceful and, probably, pure creature and listening to these noisy, annoying, but still cultural sounds - it was so pleasant, so new...

“Well, Kotik, today you played like never before,” said Ivan Petrovich with tears in his eyes when his daughter finished and stood up. - Die, Denis, you can’t write better.

Everyone surrounded her, congratulated her, were amazed, assured her that they had not heard such music for a long time, and she listened in silence, smiling slightly, and triumph was written all over her figure.

- Wonderful! perfect!

- Wonderful! - Startsev said, succumbing to the general enthusiasm. – Where did you study music? - he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. - At the conservatory?

– No, I’m just getting ready to go to the conservatory, but for now I studied here, with Madame Zavlovskaya.

-Have you completed your course at the local gymnasium?

- Oh no! - Vera Iosifovna answered for her. – We invited teachers to our homes, but in the gymnasium or institute, you must admit, there could be bad influences; While a girl is growing up, she should be under the influence of her mother alone.

“Still, I’ll go to the conservatory,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna.

- No, Kitty loves his mother. The cat will not upset mom and dad.

- No, I’ll go! I'll go! - said Ekaterina Ivanovna, jokingly and capriciously, and stamped her foot.

And at dinner Ivan Petrovich showed his talents. He, laughing with only his eyes, told jokes, made jokes, proposed funny problems and solved them himself, and all the time spoke in his extraordinary language, developed by long exercises in wit and, obviously, which had long become a habit: Bolshinsky, not bad , I made a face, thank you...

But that was not all. When the guests, well-fed and satisfied, crowded in the hallway, sorting out their coats and canes, the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called here, Pava, a boy of about fourteen, with a cropped hair, and full cheeks, was fussing around them.

- Come on, Pava, picture it! - Ivan Petrovich told him.

Pava struck a pose, raised his hand and said in a tragic tone:

- Die, unfortunate one!

And everyone started laughing.

“Interesting,” Startsev thought, going out into the street. He went to a restaurant and drank beer, then went on foot to his home in Dyalizh. He walked and sang all the way:

Your voice is for me, both gentle and languid...

Having walked nine miles and then gone to bed, he did not feel the slightest fatigue, but on the contrary, it seemed to him that he would gladly walk another twenty miles.

“Not bad...” he remembered, falling asleep, and laughed.

II

Startsev kept going to see the Turkins, but there was a lot of work at the hospital, and he could not find a free hour. More than a year passed in this way in toil and solitude; but then a letter was brought from the city in a blue envelope...

Vera Iosifovna had long suffered from migraines, but recently, when Kotik was frightened every day that she would go to the conservatory, the attacks began to recur more and more often. All the city doctors visited the Turkins; Finally it was the zemstvo's turn. Vera Iosifovna wrote him a touching letter, in which she asked him to come and ease her suffering. Startsev arrived and after that he began to visit the Turkins often, very often... He actually helped Vera Iosifovna a little, and she already told all the guests that he was an extraordinary, amazing doctor. But he went to the Turkins not for the sake of her migraine...

Holiday. Ekaterina Ivanovna finished her long, tedious exercises on the piano. Then they sat for a long time in the dining room and drank tea, and Ivan Petrovich told something funny. But here comes the call; I had to go to the hall to meet some guest; Startsev took advantage of the moment of confusion and said to Ekaterina Ivanovna in a whisper, greatly worried:

“For God’s sake, I beg you, don’t torment me, let’s go to the garden!”

She shrugged her shoulders, as if perplexed and not understanding what he needed from her, but she got up and walked.

“You play the piano for three, four hours,” he said, following her, “then you sit with your mother, and there is no way to talk to you.” Give me at least a quarter of an hour, I beg you.

Autumn was approaching, and in the old garden it was quiet, sad, and dark leaves lay on the alleys. It was already getting dark early.

“I haven’t seen you for a whole week,” Startsev continued, “and if you only knew what suffering this is!” Let's sit down. Listen to me.

Both had a favorite place in the garden: a bench under an old wide maple tree. And now they sat down on this bench.

-What do you want? – Ekaterina Ivanovna asked dryly, in a businesslike tone.

“I haven’t seen you for a whole week, I haven’t heard from you for so long.” I crave, I crave your voice. Speak.

She delighted him with her freshness, the naive expression of her eyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress sat on her, he saw something unusually sweet, touching in its simplicity and naive grace. And at the same time, despite this naivety, she seemed to him very smart and developed beyond her years. With her he could talk about literature, about art, about anything, he could complain to her about life, about people, although during a serious conversation, it happened that she would suddenly start laughing inappropriately or run into the house. She, like almost all S. girls, read a lot (in general, in S. they read very little, and in the local library they said that if it weren’t for the girls and young Jews, then at least close the library); Startsev liked this endlessly; he excitedly asked her every time what she had read about in recent days, and, fascinated, listened when she talked.

– What did you read this week while we didn’t see each other? – he asked now. - Speak, please.

– I read Pisemsky.

- What exactly?

“A thousand souls,” answered Kitty. - And what a funny name Pisemsky was: Alexey Feofilaktych!

-Where are you going? - Startsev was horrified when she suddenly got up and walked towards the house. - I need to talk to you, I need to explain myself... Stay with me for at least five minutes! I conjure you!

She stopped, as if wanting to say something, then awkwardly thrust a note into his hand and ran into the house and sat down at the piano again.

“Today, at eleven o’clock in the evening,” Startsev read, “be at the cemetery near the Demetti monument.”

“Well, this isn’t smart at all,” he thought, coming to his senses. -What does this have to do with the cemetery? For what?"

It was clear: Kitty was fooling around. Who would really seriously think of making a date at night, far outside the city, in a cemetery, when it can easily be arranged on the street, in a city garden? And is it fitting for him, a zemstvo doctor, an intelligent, respectable man, to sigh, receive notes, wander around cemeteries, do stupid things that even schoolchildren now laugh at? Where will this novel lead? What will your comrades say when they find out? This is what Startsev thought as he wandered around the tables in the club, and at half past ten he suddenly took off and went to the cemetery.

He already had his own pair of horses and a coachman Panteleimon in a velvet vest. The moon was shining. It was quiet, warm, but warm like autumn. In the suburbs, near the slaughterhouses, dogs were howling. Startsev left the horses on the edge of the city, in one of the alleys, and he himself went to the cemetery on foot. “Everyone has their own oddities,” he thought. - The cat is also strange, and - who knows? “Perhaps she’s not joking, she’ll come,” and he gave himself up to this weak, empty hope, and it intoxicated him.

He walked across the field for half a mile. The cemetery was marked in the distance by a dark stripe, like a forest or a large garden. A fence of white stone and a gate appeared... In the moonlight, one could read on the gate: “The hour is coming...” Startsev entered the gate, and the first thing he saw were white crosses and monuments on both sides of the wide alley and black shadows from them and from poplars; and all around you could see white and black in the distance, and sleepy trees bent their branches over the white. It seemed that it was brighter here than in the field; maple leaves, like paws, stood out sharply on the yellow sand of the alleys and on the slabs, and the inscriptions on the monuments were clear. At first, Startsev was struck by what he was now seeing for the first time in his life and what he would probably never see again: a world unlike anything else - a world where the moonlight was so good and soft, as if his cradle was here. where there is no life, no and no, but in every dark poplar, in every grave the presence of a secret is felt, promising a quiet, beautiful, eternal life. The slabs and wilted flowers, along with the autumn scent of leaves, exude forgiveness, sadness and peace.

There is silence all around; the stars looked down from the sky in deep humility, and Startsev’s steps rang out so sharply and inappropriately. And only when the clock began to strike in the church and he imagined himself dead, buried here forever, it seemed to him that someone was looking at him, and for a minute he thought that this was not peace and silence, but the dull melancholy of nothingness, suppressed despair...

Monument to Demetti in the form of a chapel, with an angel at the top; Once upon a time there was an Italian opera in S., one of the singers died, she was buried and this monument was erected. No one in the city remembered her anymore, but the lamp above the entrance reflected the moonlight and seemed to be burning.

There was no one. And who would come here at midnight? But Startsev waited, and as if the moonlight was fueling passion in him, he waited passionately and pictured kisses and hugs in his imagination. He sat near the monument for half an hour, then walked along the side alleys, hat in hand, waiting and thinking about how many women and girls were buried here, in these graves, who were beautiful, charming, who loved, who burned with passion at night, surrendering to affection. How, in essence, Mother Nature plays bad jokes on man, how offensive it is to realize this! Startsev thought so, and at the same time he wanted to shout that he wanted it, that he was waiting for love at any cost; in front of him were no longer pieces of marble, but beautiful bodies; he saw forms that were bashfully hiding in the shade of trees, he felt warmth, and this languor became painful...

And it was as if a curtain had fallen, the moon went under the clouds, and suddenly everything around became dark. Startsev barely found the gate—it was already dark, like an autumn night—then he wandered around for an hour and a half, looking for the lane where he had left his horses.

“I’m tired, I can barely stand on my feet,” he said to Panteleimon.

And, sitting down with pleasure in the carriage, he thought: “Oh, I shouldn’t gain weight!”

III

The next day in the evening he went to the Turkins to propose. But this turned out to be inconvenient, since Ekaterina Ivanovna was being combed by a hairdresser in her room. She was going to a club for a dance party.

I had to sit in the dining room for a long time again and drink tea. Ivan Petrovich, seeing that the guest was thoughtful and bored, took notes from his vest pocket and read a funny letter from the German manager about how all the denials on the estate had gone bad and shyness had collapsed.

“And they must give a lot of dowry,” thought Startsev, listening absentmindedly.

After a sleepless night, he was in a state of stupor, as if he had been drugged with something sweet and soporific; my soul was foggy, but joyful, warm, and at the same time in my head some cold, heavy piece reasoned:

“Stop before it’s too late! Is she a match for you? She is spoiled, capricious, sleeps until two o’clock, and you are a sexton’s son, a zemstvo doctor...”

"Well? - he thought. - Let it go".

“Besides, if you marry her,” the piece continued, “her relatives will force you to quit your zemstvo service and live in the city.”

"Well? - he thought. - In the city it’s like that in the city. They’ll give you a dowry, we’ll set things up..."

Finally, Ekaterina Ivanovna came in in a ball gown, low neckline, pretty, clean, and Startsev fell in love and was so delighted that he could not utter a single word, but just looked at her and laughed.

She began to say goodbye, and he - there was no need for him to stay here - stood up, saying that it was time for him to go home: the sick were waiting.

“There’s nothing to do,” said Ivan Petrovich, “go, by the way, you’ll give Kitty a ride to the club.”

It was pouring rain outside, it was very dark, and only by Panteleimon’s hoarse cough could one guess where the horses were. They lifted the top of the stroller.

“I’m walking on the carpet, you’re walking while you’re lying,” said Ivan Petrovich, putting his daughter in the stroller, “he’s walking while he’s lying... Touch!” Goodbye please! Go.

“And I was at the cemetery yesterday,” Startsev began. - How ungenerous and merciless of you...

-Have you been to the cemetery?

– Yes, I was there and waited for you until almost two o’clock.

I suffered...

– And suffer if you don’t understand jokes.

Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased that she had played such a cunning joke on her lover and that she was loved so much, laughed and suddenly screamed in fright, because at that very time the horses turned sharply into the club gates and the carriage tilted. Startsev hugged Ekaterina Ivanovna around the waist; She, frightened, pressed herself against him, and he could not resist and passionately kissed her on the lips, on the chin and hugged her tighter.

“That’s enough,” she said dryly.

And a moment later she was no longer in the carriage, and a policeman near the illuminated entrance of the club shouted in a disgusting voice at Panteleimon:

-What happened, crow? Drive on!

Startsev went home, but soon returned. Dressed in someone else's tailcoat and a stiff white tie, which somehow kept bristling and wanted to slide off his collar, he sat at midnight in the club in the living room and said to Ekaterina Ivanovna with enthusiasm:

- Oh, how little those who have never loved know! It seems to me that no one has yet described love correctly, and it is hardly possible to describe this tender, joyful, painful feeling, and whoever has experienced it at least once will not convey it in words. Why prefaces, descriptions? Why unnecessary eloquence? My love is limitless... Please, I beg you,” Startsev finally said, “be my wife!”

“Dmitry Ionych,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna with a very serious expression, having thought. “Dmitry Ionych, I am very grateful to you for the honor, I respect you, but...” she stood up and continued standing, “but, excuse me, I cannot be your wife.” Let's talk seriously. Dmitry Ionych, you know, most of all in life I love art, I madly love, adore music, I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist, I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to continue living in this city, to continue this empty, useless life, which has become unbearable for me. To become a wife - oh no, sorry! A person should strive for a higher, brilliant goal, and family life would bind me forever. Dmitry Ionych (she smiled a little, because, having said “Dmitry Ionych,” she remembered “Alexey Feofilaktych”), Dmitry Ionych, you are a kind, noble, intelligent person, you are the best ... - tears welled up in her eyes, - I I sympathize with you with all my heart, but... but you will understand...

And, in order not to cry, she turned away and left the living room.

Startsev’s heart stopped beating restlessly. Coming out of the club onto the street, he first of all tore off his stiff tie and sighed deeply. He was a little ashamed, and his pride was offended - he did not expect a refusal - and he could not believe that all his dreams, yearnings and hopes had led him to such a stupid end, as if in a small play at an amateur performance. And he felt sorry for his feeling, for this love of his, so sorry that it seemed he would have burst into tears or would have hit Panteleimon’s broad back with all his might with his umbrella.

For three days things were falling out of his hands, he did not eat or sleep, but when rumors reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone to Moscow to enter the conservatory, he calmed down and began to live as before.

Then, sometimes remembering how he wandered through the cemetery or how he drove throughout the city and looked for a tailcoat, he lazily stretched and said:

- How much trouble, however!

I

When in the provincial town of S., visitors complained about the boredom and monotony of life, the local residents, as if making excuses, said that, on the contrary, S. is very good, that S. has a library, a theater, a club, there are balls, that, finally, there are smart, interesting, pleasant families with whom you can make acquaintances.
And they pointed to the Turkin family as the most educated and talented. This family lived on the main street, near the governor, in their own house. Turkin himself, Ivan Petrovich, a plump, handsome brunette with sideburns, staged amateur performances for charitable purposes, himself played old generals and at the same time coughed very funny. He knew a lot of jokes, charades, sayings, he loved to joke and joke, and he always had such an expression that it was impossible to understand whether he was joking or speaking seriously. His wife, Vera Iosifovna, a thin, pretty lady in a pince-nez, wrote stories and novels and willingly read them aloud to her guests. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, played the piano. In a word, each member of the family had some kind of talent. The Turkins received guests cordially and showed them their talents cheerfully, with heartfelt simplicity. Their large stone house was spacious and cool in summer, half of the windows looked out onto the old shady garden, where nightingales sang in the spring; When guests were sitting in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen, there was a smell of fried onions in the yard - and this every time foreshadowed a rich and tasty dinner.

When I had not yet drunk tears from the cup of existence...

In the city he had lunch, walked in the garden, then somehow Ivan Petrovich’s invitation came to his mind, and he decided to go to the Turkins, to see what kind of people they were.

“Hello, please,” said Ivan Petrovich, meeting him on the porch. “I’m very, very glad to see such a pleasant guest.” Come on, I'll introduce you to my missus. “I tell him, Verochka,” he continued, introducing the doctor to his wife, “I tell him that he has no Roman right to sit in his hospital, he must give his leisure time to society. Isn't it true, darling?

“Sit here,” Vera Iosifovna said, seating the guest next to her. - You can look after me. My husband is jealous, this is Othello, but we will try to behave in such a way that he will not notice anything.

“Zhanchik,” Vera Iosifovna said to her husband, “dites que lon nous donne du thé[1].

Startseva was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, an eighteen-year-old girl, very similar to her mother, just as thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her waist was thin and delicate; and virgin, already developed breasts, beautiful, healthy, spoke of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, sweets and very tasty cookies that melted in the mouth. As evening approached, little by little the guests arrived, and Ivan Petrovich turned his laughing eyes to each of them and said:

- Hello please.

Then everyone sat in the living room, with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. She began like this: “The frost was getting stronger...” The windows were wide open, one could hear the clatter of knives in the kitchen, and the smell of fried onions could be heard... It was peaceful in the soft, deep armchairs, the lights flickered so tenderly in the twilight of the living room; and now, on a summer evening, when voices, laughter and lilacs were sipped from the street, it was difficult to understand how the frost grew stronger and how the setting sun illuminated the snowy plain and the traveler walking alone along the road with its cold rays; Vera Iosifovna read about how the young, beautiful countess set up schools, hospitals, libraries in her village and how she fell in love with a traveling artist - she read about things that never happen in life, and yet it was pleasant, comfortable to listen to, and such good, peaceful thoughts kept coming into my head—I didn’t want to get up.

“Not bad…” Ivan Petrovich said quietly.

And one of the guests, listening and carrying his thoughts somewhere very, very far away, said barely audible:

- Yes indeed…

— Do you publish your works in magazines? - Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna.

“No,” she answered, “I don’t publish anywhere.” I’ll write it and hide it in my closet. Why print? - she explained. - After all, we have the means.

And for some reason everyone sighed.

“Now, Kotik, play something,” Ivan Petrovich said to his daughter.

“Well, Kotik, today you played like never before,” said Ivan Petrovich with tears in his eyes when his daughter finished and stood up. - Die, Denis, you can’t write better.

- Wonderful! perfect!

“Wonderful!” said Startsev, succumbing to the general enthusiasm. — Where did you study music? - he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. - At the conservatory?

- No, I’m just getting ready to go to the conservatory, but for now I studied here, with Madame Zavlovskaya.

—Have you completed your course at the local gymnasium?

- Oh no! - Vera Iosifovna answered for her. — We invited teachers to our homes, but in the gymnasium or institute, you must admit, there could be bad influences; While a girl is growing up, she should be under the influence of her mother alone.