Read Online Five Great Short Stories by ANTON CHEKHOV - Free Book Online

incomprehensible.”
    â€œAnd you are not afraid of the incomprehensible?”
    â€œNo. I like to face things I do not understand and I do not submit to them. I am superior to them. Man must think himself higher than lions, tigers, stars, higher than anything in nature, even higher than that which seems incomprehensible and miraculous. Otherwise he is not a man, but a mouse which is afraid of everything.”
    Genya thought that I, as an artist, knew a great deal and could guess what I did not know. She wanted me to lead her into the region of the eternal and the beautiful, into the highest world, with which, as she thought, I was perfectly familiar, and she talked to me of God, of eternal life, of the miraculous. And I, who did not admit that I and my imagination would perish for ever, would reply: “Yes. Men are immortal. Yes, eternal life awaits us.” And she would listen and believe me and never asked for proof.
    As we approached the house she suddenly stopped and said:
    â€œOur Lyda is a remarkable person, isn’t she? I love her dearly and would gladly sacrifice my life for her at any time. But tell me”—Genya touched my sleeve with her finger—“but tell me, why do you argue with her all the time? Why are you so irritated?”
    â€œBecause she is not right.”
    Genya shook her head and tears came to her eyes.
    â€œHow incomprehensible!” she muttered.
    At that moment Lyda came out, and she stood by the balcony with a riding-whip in her hand, and looked very fine and pretty in the sunlight as she gave some orders to a farm-hand. Bustling about and talking loudly, she tended two or three of her patients, and then with a businesslike, preoccupied look she walked through the house, opening one cupboard after another, and at last went off to the attic; it took some time to find her for dinner and she did not come until we had finished the soup. Somehow I remember all these little details and love to dwell on them, and I remember the whole of that day vividly, though nothing particular happened. After dinner Genya read, lying in her lounge chair, and I sat on the bottom step of the terrace. We were silent. The sky was overcast and a thin fine rain began to fall. It was hot, the wind had dropped, and it seemed the day would never end. Ekaterina Pavlovna came out on to the terrace with a fan, looking very sleepy.
    â€œO, mamma,” said Genya, kissing her hand. “It is not good for you to sleep during the day.”
    They adored each other. When one went into the garden, the other would stand on the terrace and look at the trees and call: “Hello!” “Genya!” or “Mamma, dear, where are you?” They always prayed together and shared the same faith, and they understood each other very well, even when they were silent. And they treated other people in exactly the same way. Ekaterina Pavlovna also soon got used to me and became attached to me, and when I did not turn up for a few days she would send to inquire if I was well. And she too used to look admiringly at my sketches, and with the same frank loquacity she would tell me things that happened, and she would confide her domestic secrets to me.
    She revered her elder daughter. Lyda never came to her for caresses, and only talked about serious things: she went her own way and to her mother and sister she was as sacred and enigmatic as the admiral, sitting in his cabin, to his sailors.
    â€œOur Lyda is a remarkable person,” her mother would often say; “isn’t she?”
    And, now, as the soft rain fell, we spoke of Lyda:
    â€œShe is a remarkable woman,” said her mother, and added in a low voice like a conspirator’s as she looked round, “such as she have to be looked for with a lamp in broad daylight, though you know, I am beginning to be anxious. The school, pharmacies, books—all very well, but why go to such extremes? She is twenty-three and it is time for