The Lady with the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904

Man in a Case

Two men who had come back very late from a hunting expedition had to spend the night in a barn belonging to Prokofy, the village elder, at the edge of Mironositskoye. They were Ivan Ivanych, the vet, and Burkin, the schoolteacher. The vet had a rather strange double-barrelled surname – Chimsha-Gimalaysky – that did not suit him at all, and everyone simply called him Ivan Ivanych. He lived on a stud farm near the town and had come on the expedition just to get some fresh air, while Burkin, the teacher, regularly stayed every summer with a local count and his family, and knew the area very well.

They were still awake. Ivan Ivanych, who was tall and thin, with a long moustache, was sitting outside the door, smoking his pipe in the full light of the moon. Burkin was lying on the hay inside, invisible in the dark.

They were telling each other different stories and happened to remark on the fact that Mavra, the village elder’s wife, a healthy, intelligent woman, had never left her native village in her life, had never seen a town or a railway, had been sitting over her stove for the past ten years and would only venture out into the street at night.

‘And what’s so strange about that!’ Burkin said. ‘There’s so many of these solitary types around, like hermit crabs or snails, they are, always seeking safety in their shells. Perhaps it’s an example of atavism, a return to the times when our ancestors weren’t social animals and lived alone in their dens. Or perhaps it’s simply one of the many oddities of human nature – who knows? I’m not a scientist and that kind of thing’s not really my province. I only want to say that people like Mavra are not unusual. And you don’t have to look far for them – take a certain Belikov, for example, who died two months ago in my home town. He taught Greek at the same high school. Of course, you must have heard of him. His great claim to fame was going around in galoshes, carrying an umbrella even when it was terribly warm, and he invariably wore a thick, padded overcoat. He kept this umbrella in a holder and his watch in a grey chamois leather pouch. And the penknife he used for sharpening pencils had its own little case. His face seemed to have its own cover as well, as he always kept it hidden inside his upturned collar. He wore dark glasses, a jersey, stuffed his ears with cottonwool and always had the top up when he rode in a cab. Briefly, this man had a compulsive, persistent longing for self-encapsulation, to create a protective cocoon to isolate himself from all external influences. The real world irritated and frightened him and kept him in a constant state of nerves. Perhaps, by forever praising the past and what never even happened, he was trying to justify this timidity and horror of reality. The ancient languages he taught were essentially those galoshes and umbrella in another guise, a refuge from everyday existence.

‘“Oh, Greek is so melodious, so beautiful,” he would say, savouring his words. And as if to prove his point he would screw his eyes up, raise one finger and pronounce the word: Anthropos.

‘Belikov tried to bury his thoughts inside a rigid case. Only official regulations and newspaper articles, in which something or other was prohibited, had any meaning for him. For him, only rules forbidding students to be out in the streets after nine in the evening or an article outlawing sexual intercourse were unambiguous and authoritative: the thing was prohibited – and that was that! But whenever anything was allowed and authorized, there was something dubious, vague and equivocal lurking in it. When a dramatic society or a reading-room, or a tea-shop in town, was granted a licence, he would shake his head and softly say, “That’s all very well, of course, but there could be trouble!”

‘The least infringement, deviation, violation of the rules reduced him to despair, although you may well ask what business was it of his anyway? If a fellow-teacher was late for prayers, or if news of some schoolboy mischief reached his ears, or if he spotted a schoolmistress out late at night with an officer, he would get very heated and say over and over again, “There could be trouble.” At staff meetings he really got us down with his extreme caution, his suspiciousness and his positively encapsulated notions about current wretched standards of behaviour in boys’ and girls’ schools, about the terrible racket students made in class and once again he would say, “Oh dear, what if the authorities got to hear? Oh, there could be trouble! Now, what if we expelled that Petrov in the second form and Yegorov in the fourth?” Well then, what with all his moaning and whining, what with those dark glasses and that pale little face (you know, it was just like a ferret’s), he terrorized us so much that we had to give in. Petrov and Yegorov were given bad conduct marks, put in detention and finally were both expelled. He had the strange habit of visiting us in our digs. He would call in on some teacher and sit down without saying a word, as though he were trying to spy something out. After an hour or two he would get up and go. He called it “maintaining good relations with my colleagues”. These silent sessions were clearly very painful for him and he made them only because he felt it was his duty to his fellow-teachers. All of us were scared of him, even the Head. It was quite incredible really, since we teachers were an intelligent, highly respectable lot, brought up on Turgenev and Shchedrin.¹ And yet that miserable specimen, with that eternal umbrella and galoshes, kept the whole school under his thumb for fifteen whole years! And not only the school, but the whole town! Our ladies gave up their Saturday amateur theatricals in case he found out about them. And the clergy were too frightened to eat meat or play cards when he was around. Thanks to people like Belikov, the people in this town have lived in fear of everything for the last ten or fifteen years. They are frightened of talking out loud, sending letters, making friends, reading books, helping the poor or teaching anyone to read and write…’

Ivan Ivanych wanted to say something and coughed, but first he lit his pipe, peered up at the moon and said in a slow deliberate voice, ‘Yes, those intelligent, decent people had read their Shchedrin and Turgenev, their Henry Buckles² and so on…, but still they gave in and put up with it. That’s exactly my point.’

Burkin continued, ‘Belikov and I lived in the same house and on the same floor. His room was right opposite mine and we saw a lot of each other. I knew his private life intimately. At home it was the same story: dressing-gown, night-cap, shutters, bolts, and a whole series of various prohibitions and restrictions – and all those “There could be trouble”s. Fasting was bad for you and as he couldn’t touch meat on days forbidden by the church – or people might say Belikov didn’t observe fasts – he would eat perch cooked in animal fat, food that couldn’t be faulted, being neither one thing nor the other. He didn’t have any female servants for fear people might “think the wrong thing”, but he had a male cook, Afanasy, an old, drunken sixty-year-old half-wit, who had once been a batman in the army and who could knock up a meal of sorts. This Afanasy was in the habit of standing at the door with arms folded, always muttering the same old thing with a profound sigh, “There’s been an awful lot of that about lately!”

‘Belikov’s bedroom was small, like a box in fact, and the bed was a four-poster. He would pull the blankets right up over his head when he got into it. The room was hot and stuffy, the wind would rattle the bolted doors and make the stove hum. Menacing sighs would drift in from the kitchen. He was terrified under those blankets, afraid of the trouble there could be, afraid that Afanasy might cut his throat, afraid of burglars. Then all night long he would have nightmares and, when we left for school together in the morning, he would look pale and depressed. Obviously the thought of that crowded school for which he was heading terrified him, deeply repelled his whole being – even walking next to me was an ordeal for this lone wolf. “The students are terribly noisy in class,” he would tell me, as if seeking an excuse for his low spirits. “It’s simply shocking.”

‘And this teacher of Greek, this man in his case, nearly got married once, believe it or not.’

Ivan Ivanych took a quick look into the barn and said, ‘You must be joking!’

‘Oh, yes, he nearly got married, strange as it may seem. A new history and geography master was appointed, a Ukrainian called Mikhail Savvich Kovalenko. He came here with his sister Barbara. He was young, tall, dark-skinned and had enormous hands. From his face you could tell he had a deep bass voice, the kind that really seems to come booming straight out of a barrel. The sister wasn’t what you might call young, though – about thirty, I’d say – and like her brother she was tall, with the same figure, dark eyebrows and red cheeks – in short, not the spinsterish type but a real beauty, always bright and jolly, singing Ukrainian songs and roaring with laughter. The least thing sent her into fits of loud laughter. I remember now, the first time we really got to know the Kovalenkos was at the Head’s name-day party. Among all those stiff, intensely boring pedagogues (they only went to parties because they had to) we suddenly saw this new Aphrodite rising from the foam. She walked hands on hips, laughing, singing, dancing. She sang “Breezes of the South Are Softly Blowing”³ with great feeling and followed one song with another, enchanting all of us – even Belikov. “Ukrainian is like classical Greek in its softness and agreeable sonority,” he said with a sugary smile as he sat down next to her.

‘She was flattered and she gave him a stirring lecture about life on her farm down in Gadyach⁴ where Mama lived, where they grew such marvellous pears and melons and pubkins: Ukrainians like calling pumpkins “pubkins”, that’s the way they talk there. And they made borsch with sweet little red beets, “Oh, so delicious – frightfully tasty!”

‘We listened, and listened, and suddenly the same thought dawned on all present. “They’d make a very nice couple,” the Head’s wife told me quietly.

‘For some reason this reminded us that our Belikov wasn’t married and we wondered why we hadn’t thought of it before, why we had completely overlooked this most important part of his life. What did he think of women, how would he answer this vital question? We hadn’t been at all interested before – perhaps we couldn’t bring ourselves to believe that this man who could wear galoshes in all kinds of weather, who slept in a four-poster, could be capable of loving.

‘“He’s well over forty and she’s thirty,” the Head’s wife went on. “I think she’d accept him.”

‘Oh, the stupid, trivial things boredom makes us provincials do! And all because we can never get anything right. For example, why this sudden impulse to marry off our dear Belikov – surely not the ideal husband! The Head’s wife, the inspector’s wife and all the mistresses who taught at the high school suddenly brightened up, looked prettier even, as if they had discovered a purpose in life. The Head’s wife took a box at the theatre and who do we see sitting next to her but a radiant, happy Barbara, holding some kind of fan, with Belikov at her side, so small and hunched up you’d have thought he’d been dragged from his house with a pair of tongs. If I gave a party, the ladies would absolutely insist on my inviting both Belikov and Barbara. Briefly, the wheels had been set in motion. It turned out that Barbara wasn’t against marriage. Living with her brother wasn’t very cheerful and apparently they’d argue and squabble for days on end. Just picture the scene for yourself: Kovalenko, that lanky, healthy boor walking down the street in his embroidered shirt, a tuft of hair falling onto his forehead from under his cap. In one hand a bundle of books, in the other a thick knobbly stick. Then his sister following close behind, loaded with books as well.

‘“But Mikhail, you haven’t read it!” she says in a loud, argumentative voice. “I’m telling you, I swear it’s the truth, you’ve never read it!”

‘“And I’m telling you that I have!” Kovalenko thunders back, banging his stick on the pavement.

‘“Goodness gracious, Mikhail dear, don’t lose your temper. It’s only a matter of principle we’re arguing about!”

‘“But I’m telling you I have read it!” Kovalenko shouts, even louder.

‘And when they had visitors they’d be at each other’s throats again. She must have been fed up with that kind of life and wanted her own little place – and then of course there was her age. She couldn’t pick or choose any more, so anyone would do, even a Greek teacher. In fact most of the young ladies here aren’t too choosy, as long as they find a husband. Anyway, Barbara began to show a decided liking for Belikov.

‘And what about Belikov? He’d behave just the same at Kovalenko’s as he did with us. He would go and sit down and say nothing, while Barbara would sing “Breezes of the South” for him or gaze at him thoughtfully with her dark eyes, or suddenly break into loud peals of laughter.

‘In love affairs and above all in marriage a little persuasion plays a large part. Everyone, his colleagues and their wives, tried to persuade Belikov to get married – there was nothing else for him to live for. We all congratulated him and tried to look serious, and came out with such banal remarks as “marriage is a serious step”. Barbara was good-looking and interesting. What’s more, the daughter of a privy councillor, with a farm in the Ukraine. But most important, she was the first woman ever to treat Belikov with any warmth or affection. This turned his head and he made up his mind that he really should get married.’

‘Now that would have been the best time to relieve him of his galoshes and umbrella,’ Ivan Ivanych muttered.

‘But can you imagine, that proved impossible,’ Burkin said. ‘He put Barbara’s portrait on his desk and kept coming to see me and chatting about her, about family life, about marriage being a serious step. He often visited the Kovalenkos, but he did not change his way of life one jot. In fact, it was the reverse, and his decision to get married had a rather morbid effect on him. He grew thin and pale and seemed to withdraw even further into his shell.

‘“I like Barbara,” he told me, with a weak, wry little smile, “and I know that everyone should get married… but hm… it’s all been so sudden… I must think about it…”

‘“Why?” I asked. “Just go ahead, that’s all there is to it.”

‘“No, marriage is a serious step, one has carefully to consider the impending duties and responsibilities – you never know – in case there’s trouble. I’m so worried I can’t sleep at all. And to be honest, I’m scared. She and her brother have peculiar ideas, they have a strange way of talking, you know, and they’re a bit too smart. You can get married and before long find yourself mixed up in something – you never know.”

‘So he didn’t propose, but kept putting it off, much to the annoyance of the Head’s wife and all the ladies. He continually weighed up the “impending duties and responsibilities” and at the same time went for a walk with Barbara nearly every day, perhaps because he thought he should do that in his position, and kept calling on me to discuss family life. Most likely he would have proposed in the long run and we would have had another of those unnecessary, stupid marriages – thousands of them are made every day, the fruit of boredom and having nothing to do – if a kolossalische Skandal hadn’t suddenly erupted. Here I must say that Barbara’s brother had taken a violent dislike to Belikov from the start, he just couldn’t stand him.

‘“I just don’t understand,” he told us, shrugging his shoulders, “how you can stomach that ugly little sneak. Really, gentlemen, how can you live in this place! The air is foul, stifling. Call yourselves pedagogues, teachers? You’re lousy bureaucrats and this isn’t a temple of learning, it’s more like a police station and it has the sour stink of a sentrybox. No, my friends, I’m hanging on just a bit longer, then it’s off to the farm to catch crayfish and teach the peasants. Yes, I’ll be gone while you’ll be here with your Judas, blast his guts!”

‘Or he’d laugh out loud until the tears flowed – first in that deep bass, then in a thin squeaky tone. “Why does he hang around my room, what’s he after? He just sits and gapes,” he’d say, helplessly spreading his hands out.

‘He even thought up a nickname for Belikov – Mr Creepy-Crawly.⁵ Naturally we didn’t tell him his sister intended marrying this Mr Creepy-Crawly. Once, when the Head’s wife hinted how nice it would be if his sister settled down with such a reliable, universally respected person as Belikov, he frowned and growled, “That’s nothing to do with me. She can marry a viper if she wants. I don’t go poking my nose into other people’s business.”

‘Now listen to what happened next. Some practical joker drew a caricature of Belikov walking in his galoshes, his umbrella open, the bottoms of his trousers rolled up, and Barbara on his arm. Underneath was the caption The Lovesick Anthropos. It caught him to a tee, amazing. The artist must have worked many a long night, as all the teachers at the boys’ and girls’ high schools, as well as lecturers at the theological college and local civil servants – they all got a copy. So did Belikov, and it had the most depressing effect on him.

‘Next Sunday, the first of May, we left the house together. All the teachers and their pupils had arranged to meet first at the school and then go out of town for a walk in the woods. Off we went, with Belikov looking green and gloomier than a storm cloud.

‘“What wicked, evil people there are!” he said, his lips trembling. I really felt sorry for him. Then, as we were on our way, Kovalenko suddenly came bowling along on a bicycle, followed by his sister, also on one – she was flushed and looked worn out, but still cheerful and happy.

‘“We’re going on ahead!” she shouted. “What wonderful weather, oh, frightfully wonderful!”

‘And they both disappeared from view. Belikov changed colour from green to white and he looked stunned. He stopped, looked at me and asked, “Would you mind telling me what’s going on? Are my eyes deceiving me? Do you think it’s proper for high school teachers, for ladies, to ride bicycles?”

‘“What’s improper?” I said. “Let them cycle to their hearts’ content!”

‘“What are you saying!” he shouted, amazed at my indifference. “What do you mean?” He was so shocked he wouldn’t go any further and turned back home.

‘All next day he kept nervously rubbing his hands together and quivering, and from his face we could see he wasn’t well. He stayed away from school – for the first time in his life. And he didn’t eat any lunch. Towards evening he put some warmer clothes on, although it was a perfect summer’s day, and he plodded off to the Kovalenkos. Barbara had gone out, only her brother was home.

‘“Please take a seat,” Kovalenko muttered coldly. He was scowling and looked sleepy – he’d just been taking a nap after his meal and was in a terrible mood.

‘After sitting for ten minutes without a word, Belikov began: “I’ve come to get something off my chest. I’m deeply upset. Some comedian has produced a cartoon in which myself and another person – close to both of us – are made to look silly. I consider it my duty to assure you that in no way am I involved, that I have never given grounds for such ridicule. On the contrary I have invariably conducted myself as a person of the highest integrity.”

‘Kovalenko boiled up inside, and said nothing. Belikov waited and then continued in a soft, sad voice, “And there’s something else. I’ve been teaching for a long time, you’re only just beginning, and I consider it my duty, as a senior colleague, to give you some words of warning. You ride a bicycle: that’s a pastime which is utterly improper for a tutor of young people.”

‘“How so?” Kovalenko asked in his deep voice.

‘“Do I need to make it any clearer, Mikhail Savvich, don’t you get my meaning? If teachers start riding bicycles, what are we to expect from the pupils? That they’ll take to walking on their heads, I dare say! There’s nothing in the school rules that states it’s allowed, so that means you can’t. I was horrified yesterday! When I saw your sister, my eyes went dim. A woman or young girl on a bicycle – that’s shocking!”

‘“What exactly do you want?”

‘“Only one thing, Mikhail Savvich. To warn you. You’re a young man, with your future before you and you should watch your behaviour very carefully. You don’t obey the rules, oh, no! You wear an embroidered shirt, you’re always carrying books in the street, and now there’s the bicycle. The Head will get to hear all about your sister and yourself cycling, then the governors… That’s not very nice, is it?”

‘“If my sister and I go cycling that’s no one else’s business,” Kovalenko said, turning purple. “And if anyone starts poking his nose into my private and personal affairs I’ll tell him to go to hell!”

‘Belikov turned white and got up. “If you take that tone with me I must conclude this conversation. And I beg you never to use such expressions about the authorities in my presence. You should have some respect for authority.”

‘“Did I say anything nasty about them?” Kovalenko said, looking at him angrily. “Now, please leave me alone. I’m an honest man and I don’t want to talk to the likes of you. I hate sneaks.”

‘Belikov fidgeted nervously and hastily put his coat on. Horror was written all over his face. This was the first time anyone had been so rude to him.

‘“You’re entitled to say what you like,” he said, going out onto the landing. “But I must warn you: it’s possible someone has overheard us and in case our conversation is misinterpreted and in case there’s trouble, I shall be obliged to report the contents to the Head… the main points anyway. That is my duty.”

‘“Report it? Go ahead and report it then!”

‘Kovalenko grabbed him by the collar from behind and pushed him. Belikov slid down the stairs, his galoshes thudding as he fell. The stairs were steep and high, but he safely reached the bottom, got up and felt his nose to see if his glasses were intact. But just as he was sliding down, in had come Barbara, with two young ladies. They stood at the bottom and watched him: this was the end. He would rather have broken his neck or both legs than become such a laughing-stock, I do believe. Now it would be all over town, and the Head and the governors would get to hear… oh, now there would be trouble – there’d be a new cartoon and he would finish up having to resign…

‘Barbara recognized him when he was on his feet, and when she saw his ridiculous expression, his crumpled coat, his galoshes, she didn’t understand what had happened – she thought he had fallen down the stairs accidentally – she couldn’t stop herself breaking into fits of loud laughter that could be heard all over the house.

‘And these echoing peals of laughter marked the end of everything: of the courtship and Belikov’s earthly existence. He couldn’t hear what Barbara was saying, he saw nothing. As soon as he got home he removed her portrait from the table. Then he lay down, never to rise again.

‘Three days later Afanasy came and asked me if we should send for the doctor, as “something was wrong with the master”. I went to see Belikov. He was lying in his curtained bed, with a blanket over him and he didn’t speak. He just replied “yes” or “no” to any question, saying nothing else. While he lay there, Afanasy (looking gloomy, frowning and sighing deeply) fussed round him, reeking of vodka.

‘A month later Belikov died. All of us went to the funeral – that is, everyone from the two schools and the theological college. Then, as he lay in his coffin, his face looked gentle and pleasant – even cheerful – just as if he were rejoicing that at last he had found a container from which he would never emerge. Yes, he had achieved his ideal! The weather had turned wet and miserable – in his honour it seemed – and we all wore galoshes and carried umbrellas. Barbara was with us and she burst into tears when the coffin was lowered. I’ve noticed that Ukrainian women can only cry or laugh, there’s no happy medium.

‘I must confess burying a man like Belikov was a great pleasure. On the way back from the cemetery we all assumed modest, pious expressions, no one wanted to betray the pleasure he felt. It was the same feeling we had long, long ago when our parents went out and we would run round the garden for an hour or so, revelling in perfect freedom. Freedom, oh freedom! Doesn’t the slightest hint, the faintest hope of its possibility lend wings to the soul?

‘We were all in an excellent mood when we returned from the cemetery. However, hardly a week passed and we were in the same old rut again. Life was just as harsh, tiring and senseless, not exactly prohibited by the school rules, but not really allowed either. Things didn’t improve. Belikov was indeed dead and buried, but how many of these encapsulated men are still left, and how many are yet to come!’

‘Yes, that’s just my point!’ Ivan Ivanych said, lighting his pipe.

The teacher came out of the barn. He was short, plump, completely bald, with a black beard that nearly reached his waist. He had two dogs with him.

‘Just look at that moon!’ he said, looking up.

It was already midnight. To his right, the whole village could be clearly seen, with the long road stretching into the distance for about three miles. Everything was buried in a deep, peaceful slumber. Not a sound or movement anywhere and it was hard to believe that nature could be so silent. When you see a broad village street on a moonlit night, its huts, hayricks and sleeping willows, your heart is filled with tranquillity and finds sanctuary from its toil, worries and sorrows in this calm and in the shadows of night. It becomes gentle, sad and beautiful, and it seems that the very stars are looking down on it with love and tenderness, that all evil has vanished from the world and that happiness is everywhere. To the left, at the edge of the village, the open fields began; they could be seen stretching into the distance, right up to the horizon, and over all that vast moonlit expanse there was neither movement nor sound.

‘Yes, that’s just my point,’ Ivan Ivanych repeated. ‘Isn’t living in a crowded, stuffy town, writing documents nobody really needs, playing cards, the same as being in some kind of case? And spending our whole lives with idlers, litigants, stupid ladies of leisure, talking and hearing all kinds of rubbish – isn’t that living in a case? If you like, I’ll tell you another very edifying story.’

‘No, it’s time we got some sleep,’ Burkin said. ‘It can wait till tomorrow.’

The two men went into the barn and lay down on the hay. They had only just covered themselves and were dozing off when suddenly they could hear the patter of light footsteps. Someone was walking near the barn. The steps passed, stopped, then came the same patter. The dogs growled.

‘That’s Mavra,’ Burkin said.

The footsteps died away.

‘People are such liars,’ Ivan Ivanych said as he turned over, ‘and you’re called a fool for putting up with their lies. Suffering insults, humiliation, lacking the courage to declare that you’re on the side of honest, free people, lying yourself, smiling – all this for a slice of bread, a snug little home of your own, a lousy clerical job not worth a damn! No, I can’t live this kind of life any more!’

‘Come on, that’s another story, Ivan Ivanych,’ the teacher said. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’

And ten minutes later, Burkin was fast asleep. But Ivan Ivanych kept tossing and turning, and sighing. Then he got up, went outside again, sat in the doorway and lit his pipe.