3:21 pm - Saturday March 19, 4489

The Chorus Girl-by Anton Chekhov-Novel and Ebooks

Novel Name:The Chorus Girl

Written by:Anton Chekhov

Category:Short Novel, Fantasy,Classics,Fairytales


ONE day when she was younger and better-looking, and when her voice was stronger, Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov, her adorer, was sitting in the outer room in her summer villa. It was intolerably hot and stifling. Kolpakov, who had just dined and drunk a whole bottle of inferior port, felt ill-humoured and out of sorts. Both were bored and waiting for the heat of the day to be over in order to go for a walk.

All at once there was a sudden ring at the door. Kolpakov, who was sitting with his coat off, in his slippers, jumped up and looked inquiringly at Pasha.

“It must be the postman or one of the girls,” said the singer.

Kolpakov did not mind being found by the postman or Pasha’s lady friends, but by way of precaution gathered up his clothes and went into the next room, while Pasha ran to open the door. To her great surprise in the doorway stood, not the postman and not a girl friend, but an unknown woman, young and beautiful, who was dressed like a lady, and from all outward signs was one.

The stranger was pale and was breathing heavily as though she had been running up a steep flight of stairs.

“What is it?” asked Pasha.

The lady did not at once answer. She took a step forward, slowly looked about the room, and sat down in a way that suggested that from fatigue, or perhaps illness, she could not stand; then for a long time her pale lips quivered as she tried in vain to speak.

“Is my husband here?” she asked at last, raising to Pasha her big eyes with their red tear-stained lids.

“Husband?” whispered Pasha, and was suddenly so frightened that her hands and feet turned cold. “What husband?” she repeated, beginning to tremble.

“My husband, . . . Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov.”

“N . . . no, madam. . . . I . . . I don’t know any husband.”

A minute passed in silence. The stranger several times passed her handkerchief over her pale lips and held her breath to stop her inward trembling, while Pasha stood before her motionless, like a post, and looked at her with astonishment and terror.

“So you say he is not here?” the lady asked, this time speaking with a firm voice and smiling oddly.

“I . . . I don’t know who it is you are asking about.”

“You are horrid, mean, vile . . .” the stranger muttered, scanning Pasha with hatred and repulsion. “Yes, yes . . . you are horrid. I am very, very glad that at last I can tell you so!”

Pasha felt that on this lady in black with the angry eyes and white slender fingers she produced the impression of something horrid and unseemly, and she felt ashamed of her chubby red cheeks, the pock-mark on her nose, and the fringe on her forehead, which never could be combed back. And it seemed to her that if she had been thin, and had had no powder on her face and no fringe on her forehead, then she could have disguised the fact that she was not “respectable,” and she would not have felt so frightened and ashamed to stand facing this unknown, mysterious lady.

“Where is my husband?” the lady went on. “Though I don’t care whether he is here or not, but I ought to tell you that the money has been missed, and they are looking for Nikolay Petrovitch. . . . They mean to arrest him. That’s your doing!”

The lady got up and walked about the room in great excitement. Pasha looked at her and was so frightened that she could not understand.

“He’ll be found and arrested to-day,” said the lady, and she gave a sob, and in that sound could be heard her resentment and vexation. “I know who has brought him to this awful position! Low, horrid creature! Loathsome, mercenary hussy!” The lady’s lips worked and her nose wrinkled up with disgust. “I am helpless, do you hear, you low woman? . . . I am helpless; you are stronger than I am, but there is One to defend me and my children! God sees all! He is just! He will punish you for every tear I have shed, for all my sleepless nights! The time will come; you will think of me! . . .”

Silence followed again. The lady walked about the room and wrung her hands, while Pasha still gazed blankly at her in amazement, not understanding and expecting something terrible.

“I know nothing about it, madam,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears.

“You are lying!” cried the lady, and her eyes flashed angrily at her. “I know all about it! I’ve known you a long time. I know that for the last month he has been spending every day with you!”

“Yes. What then? What of it? I have a great many visitors, but I don’t force anyone to come. He is free to do as he likes.”

“I tell you they have discovered that money is missing! He has embezzled money at the office! For the sake of such a . . . creature as you, for your sake he has actually committed a crime. Listen,” said the lady in a resolute voice, stopping short, facing Pasha. “You can have no principles; you live simply to do harm — that’s your object; but one can’t imagine you have fallen so low that you have no trace of human feeling left! He has a wife, children. . . . If he is condemned and sent into exile we shall starve, the children and I. . . . Understand that! And yet there is a chance of saving him and us from destitution and disgrace. If I take them nine hundred roubles to-day they will let him alone. Only nine hundred roubles!”

“What nine hundred roubles?” Pasha asked softly. “I . . . I don’t know. . . . I haven’t taken it.”

“I am not asking you for nine hundred roubles. . . . You have no money, and I don’t want your money. I ask you for something else. . . . Men usually give expensive things to women like you. Only give me back the things my husband has given you!”

“Madam, he has never made me a present of anything!” Pasha wailed, beginning to understand.

“Where is the money? He has squandered his own and mine and other people’s. . . . What has become of it all? Listen, I beg you! I was carried away by indignation and have said a lot of nasty things to you, but I apologize. You must hate me, I know, but if you are capable of sympathy, put yourself in my position! I implore you to give me back the things!”

Filed in: Anton Chekhov, Fairytales, Fantasy, Short Stories

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