A Lady's Story

Anton Chekhov

NINE years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening

in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the station.

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an

angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was

approaching us and we were approaching it.

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone

like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He

kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could

drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird,

thrills one and puts one's heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind

had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There

was not a soul near the stable.

Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in the

doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish,

exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain

made it almost twilight.

"What a crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling peal of

mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.

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His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which

mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir.

I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening.

"You say nothing, and that is splendid," said Pyotr Sergeyitch. "Go on being silent."

I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to the house; he

laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me.

Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we dashed into the

room. My father and brother, who were not used to seeing me laughing and light-hearted,

looked at me in surprise and began laughing too.

The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but the raindrops still

feeling took possession of my soul. I remembered that I was free and healthy, that I had

rank and wealth, that I was beloved; above all, that I had rank and wealth, rank and wealth,

my God! how nice that was! . . . Then, huddling up in bed at a touch of cold which reached

me from the garden with the dew, I tried to discover whether I loved Pyotr Sergeyitch or

not, . . . and fell asleep unable to reach any conclusion.

And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the shadows of the lime

trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rose vividly in my memory. Life seemed to

me rich, varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the

garden. . . .

And what happened afterwards? Why -- nothing. In the winter when we lived in town Pyotr

poor, and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy public

prosecutor; we both of us -- I through my youth and he for some unknown reason -- thought

of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us in the town he would criticize

aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence when there was

anyone else in the drawing-room. There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the

calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into

vulgarity.

I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me; I went on

living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing what I expected or

what I wanted from life, and time went on and on. . . . People passed by me with their love,

bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and

all this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly,

leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like mist. . . . Where is it all?

My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me

hope -- the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love

-- all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; on

the plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is dark and terrible. . . .

A ring at the bell. . . . It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter I see the trees and

He has long ago by my father's good offices been transferred to town. He looks a little

older, a little fallen away. He has long given up declaring his love, has left off talking

nonsense, dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up

trying to get anything out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now he has sat down by the

hearth and looks in silence at the fire. . . .

Not knowing what to say I ask him:

"Well, what have you to tell me?"

I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:

"My God! my God! my life is wasted!"

I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and vexed with

this timid, unsuccessful man who could not make a life for me, nor for himself.

When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while putting on his coat.

Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a long while into my tear-stained

face. I believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks of rain, our laughter, my

face that day; he longed to say something to me, and he would have been glad to say it; but

he said nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. God help him!

After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet before the

fireplace; the red embers were covered with ash and began to grow dim. The frost tapped

still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney.

The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name.