A Woman's Revenge

by Anton Chekhov 

Someone rang the bell.  Nadezhda Petrovna, the lady of the house in which this story took place, stood up from  the couch and hurried to the door. 
     "It must be my husband," she thought.   But upon opening the door, it was not her husband that she saw.  Before her stood a tall, handsome man in an expensive bear fur coat and gold eye glasses.  His forehead was knitted and sleepy eyes looked out at the world indifferently.
     "What do you want?" asked Nadezhda Petrovna.
     "I am a doctor, madam.  Someone sent for me.  Uhh ... the Chelobitevs ... are you the Chelobitevs?" 
     "We are the Chelobitevs, but ... for God's sake, excuse us, doctor.  My husband had an abscess and a fever.  He sent you a letter, but you took so long to come that he lost all patience and went to the dentist." 
     "Huh.  He could have gone to the dentist without bothering me." The doctor frowned.  A minute passed in silence. 
     "I am sorry, doctor, that we troubled you and made you come for nothing.  Excuse us." 
     Another minute passed in silence.       Nadezhda Petrovna scratched the back of her head.       I don't understand what he's waiting for,  she thought, looking at the door. 
     "Let me go.  Don't delay me, madam," the doctor mumbled.  "Time is money, you know." 
     "Well, I ... that is ... I'm not keeping you ...." 
     "But madam, I can't go, I haven't been paid for my trouble." 
     "For your trouble!  Oh, yes," Nadezhda Petrovna stammered, blushing deeply.  "You're right.  You need to be paid for the visit, that's true.  You went to the trouble to come.  But doctor, this is very embarrassing.  When my husband left the house he took all our money with him.  There's absolutely no money in the house." 
     "Hmm.  That's strange.  How can that be?  I can't wait for your husband.  Maybe if you look you can find something.  The amount, actually, is insignificant." 
     "But I assure you, my husband took everything.  This is embarrassing.  I would never put myself through something like this for a rouble.  It's a stupid situation." 
     "It's strange to me that the public looks at a physician's difficulties as it does.  It's strange, by God.   As if we aren't people, as if our difficulties are nothing.  After all, I came to your house, I took the time.  I was inconvenienced." 
     "And I understand this very well.  But you'll agree that there are times when there isn't a kopeck in the house!" 
     "Ah, what's that to me?  You, madam, are simply being naive and illogical.  Not to pay a fellow.  This is very unfortunate.  You take advantage of the fact that I am not able to take you to court, and so without ceremony, by God ....  It's more than just strange!" 
     The doctor was silent.  He was ashamed of mankind. Nadezhda Petrovna blushed.  She felt strange. 
    "Okay!" she said abruptly.  "Wait.  I'll send to the shopkeeper and see if he'll let me have some money.  I'll pay you."
     Nadezhda Petrovna went to the living room and sat down to write a note to the storekeeper.  The doctor took off his coat, went into the living room, and collapsed into a chair.  They both waited in silence for an answer from the shopkeeper.  After a couple of minutes a reply came.  Nadezhda took a rouble from the envelope and gave it to the doctor.  The doctor's eyes got big. 
     "You are joking, madam," he said, putting the rouble on the table.  "My man servant might take a rouble, but I ... no-o,  excuse me!" 
     "How much do you need?" 
     "Usually I take ten.  From you, however, I will take five, if you like." 
     "Well, you just go right ahead and see if you get five from me.  I don't have any money for you." 
     "Send to the shopkeeper.  If he's able to give you a rouble, maybe he'll give you five.  Isn't it all the same?  I beg you, madam, not to delay me.  Never delay me." 
     "Please, doctor.  You're not being courteous, if....  Don't be impudent!  No, you are rude, uncivil.  Do you understand?  You are vile!"        Nadezhda Petrovna turned to the window and bit her lip.  Big tears fell from her eyes.  Scoundrel!  Bastard! she thought. He laughs.  Laughs!  He's not able to understand my horror at this annoying situation.  Well, he can just wait.  The devil!  After thinking it over, she turned her face to the doctor.  And now there was an expression of suffering and entreaty on her face. 
     "Doctor!" she said in a quiet, pleading voice.  "Doctor, if you had a heart, if you wanted to understand, you would not have tormented me about this money.  All this torment and torture." 
     Nadezhda Petrovna squeezed her temples as if she was squeezing a spring.  Strands of her hair spilled onto her shoulders. 
     "As it is, I suffer from my ignoramus of a husband.  I must bear these terrible, difficult surroundings, and on top of that, to have to take the insults of an educated man.  My God!  It's unbearable!" 
     "But you must understand, madam, the special conditions of our profession." 
     But the doctor's speech was interrupted. Nadezhda Petrovna staggered and fell senseless into his outstretched arms.  Her head inclined against his shoulder. 
     "There, by the fireplace, doctor," she whispered after a minute.  "Closer ... I will tell you everything ... everything." 
     After an hour the doctor left the Chelobitev's apartment.  He was annoyed, ashamed, and pleased. 
     The hell with it, he thought, sitting down in his carriage.  You should never take a lot of money with  you when you leave the house. You don't know what you're  going to run into!

For more on Chekhov see http://eldred.ne.mediaone.net/ac/yr/Anton_Chekhov.html

An Attempt At Jealousy

How is it living with another?
Simple isn't it? 
A stroke of the oar
And soon even the memory of me

Is left behind with the line of the shore,
A floating island(In the sky, not in the water)!
Spirits, spirits, they will be sisters,
Not lovers to you, ever!

How is your life with an ordinary woman? 
Without the divine?
The sovereign is deposed
From her throne (stepped down).

How's your life?  Busy?Huddled? 
Waking up ... how?
Taxed by the undyingly trivial
How do you cope with it, poor man?

"Hysterics and interruptions--Enough! 
I'll rent a place of my own."
How's life with your love,
My chosen one?

Is the food more to your taste? More delicious? 
You're to blame if you sicken.
How's your life with a semblance,
You, who have walked on Sinai?

How's your life with a stranger,
In another place?  Point blank:  Are you in love?
Does not shame, like the reins of Zeus,
Lash your forehead? How is your life?  Healthy?

Is it possible?  Do you sing: how?
Plagued with an undying conscience,
How do you cope, poor man?
How's your life with the goods

Of the market place? 
The rent— is it steep?
After Carrara marble
How is your life with the dust

Of plaster?  (God was carved from
A block of stone-- and beaten into sand!)
How is it living with one of a hundred thousand women--
You, who have known Lilith?

Are you sated with the novelty of
The market?  Grown cold to magic,
How is it living with an earthly
Woman, one without  a sixth Sense?

Are you happy now, in your mind?
No?  In a failure without end
How is your life, dear? As difficult
As mine with another man?

                            Tsvetaeva
                            November 19, 1924

Untitled

Wild honey has the scent of freedom,
Dust— a ray of the sun,
A young girl's mouth— violets,
And gold has no odor at all.

Mignonette smells watery
and love— like an apple.
But we have learned forever
That blood smells only of blood.
 

Untitled

And all day, frightened by its own moans,
The crowd stirs in deathly anguish,
And across the river on flags of mourning
Sinister skulls are laughing.
This is why I sang and dreamed,
They have torn my heart in two.
How quiet it became just after the fusillade:
Death has sent its patrols into the courtyard.

                                      Summer 1917

Not with the lyre of a lover
Do I go seducing people,
The rattle of the leper
is singing in my hands.

On The Way

Although this is not my native land
Forever the memory is in me
Of the tenderly icy sea
And the fresh waters. 

The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,
And the drunken air, like wine,
And the rosy body of the pine
Is naked in the twilight hour.

And the sun itself sets in waves of ether
In such a way that I cannot  comprehend
Whether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,
Or the secret of secrets is within me again.

                                                1964