Gooseberries by Anton Chekhov

Gooseberries

by

Anton Chekhov

The whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy,

as it is in grey dull weather when the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when

one expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school

teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they

could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right stretched a row of hillocks which

disappeared in the distance behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that

there

were

meadows,

green

willows,

homesteads

there,

and

that

if

one

stood

on

one

of

the

hillocks

one

could

see

from

it

the

same

vast

plain,

telegraph-wires,

and

a

train

which

in

the

distance

looked

like

a

crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, in still weather, when all

nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love of that countryside, and

both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.

Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lighted a pipe to begin to tell his story, but just at that moment the

rain began. And five minutes later heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tell when it

would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation; the dogs, already drenched, stood with

their tails between their legs gazing at them feelingly.

They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes going straight forward, sometimes turning

to the right, till they came out on the road. Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns;

there was a gleam of the river, and the view opened on to a broad expanse of water with a windmill and a

white bath-house: this was Sofino, where Alehin lived.

The watermill was at work, drowning the sound of the rain; the dam was shaking. Here wet horses with

drooping

heads

were

standing

near

their

carts,

and

men

were

walking

about

covered

with

sacks.

It

was

damp, muddy, and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were already

conscious of a feeling of wetness, messiness, and discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, and

when, crossing the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, as though they were angry with one

another.

In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine, the door was open, and clouds of dust

were coming from it. In the doorway was standing Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long

hair, more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He had on a white shirt that badly needed washing,

a rope for a belt, drawers instead of trousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. His

eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin, and was apparently much

delighted to see them.

It was a big two-storeyed house. Alehin lived in the lower storey, with arched ceilings and little windows,

where

the

bailiffs

had

once

lived;

here

everything

was

plain,

and

there

was

a

smell

of

rye

bread,

cheap

vodka, and harness. He went upstairs into the best rooms only on rare occasions, when visitors came. Ivan

Ivanovitch and Burkin were met in the house by a maid-servant, a young woman so beautiful that they both

stood still and looked at one another.

the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, for I almost think I have not washed since spring.

Wouldn't you like to come into the bath-house? and meanwhile they will get things ready here.

Beautiful

Pelagea,

looking

so

refined

and

soft,

brought

them

towels

and

soap,

and

Alehin

went

to

the

bath-house with his guests.

father built it -- but I somehow never have time to wash.

He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the water round him turned brown.

the water near him turned dark blue, like ink.

Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, and swam in the rain, flinging his

arms out wide. He stirred the water into waves which set the white lilies bobbing up and down; he swam to

the very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in another place, and swam on, and

kept on diving, trying to touch the bottom.

to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning

his face to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he still went on swimming and

diving.

They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lighted in the big drawing-room upstairs, and

Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, attired in silk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in arm-chairs;

and Alehin, washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about the drawing-room, evidently enjoying

the

feeling

of

warmth,

cleanliness,

dry

clothes,

and

light

shoes;

and

when

lovely

Pelagea,

stepping

noiselessly

on

the

carpet

and

smiling

softly,

handed

tea

and

jam

on

a

tray

--

only

then

Ivan

Ivanovitch

began on his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and Alehin were listening, but also the ladies,

young and old, and the officers who looked down upon them sternly and calmly from their gold frames.

years younger. I went in for a learned profession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay sat in a

government office from the time he was nineteen. Our father, Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but

he rose to be an officer and left us a little estate and the rank of nobility. After his death the little estate

went in debts and legal expenses; but, anyway, we had spent our childhood running wild in the country.

Like

peasant

children,

we

passed

our

days

and

nights

in

the

fields

and

the

woods,

looked

after

horses,

stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on. . . . And, you know, whoever has once in his life caught

perch or has seen the migrating of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocks over the village

on bright, cool days, he will never be a real townsman, and will have a yearning for freedom to the day of

his death. My brother was miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he went on sitting in

the same place, went on writing the same papers and thinking of one and the same thing -- how to get into

the country. And this yearning by degrees passed into a definite desire, into a dream of buying himself a

little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake.

shut himself up for the rest of his life in a little farm of his own. It's the correct thing to say that a man

needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, not a man. And they say, too, now,

that if our intellectual classes are attracted to the land and

yearn for a farm, it's a good thing. But these

farms are just the same as six feet of earth. To retreat from town, from the struggle, from the bustle of life,

to retreat and bury oneself in one's farm -- it's not life, it's egoism, laziness, it's monasticism of a sort, but

monasticism without good works. A man does not need six feet of earth or a farm, but the whole globe, all

nature, where he can have room to display all the qualities and peculiarities of his free spirit.

which would fill the whole yard with such a savoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the

sun, sit for whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and the forest. Gardening books and the

agricultural

hints

in

calendars

were

his

delight,

his

favourite

spiritual

sustenance;

he

enjoyed

reading

newspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were the advertisements of so many acres of arable

land and a grass meadow with farm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, for sale.

And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and

all

that

sort

of

thing,

you

know.

These

imaginary

pictures

were

of

different

kinds

according

to

the

advertisements which he came across, but for

some

reason in every one of them he had

always to have

gooseberries.

He

could

not

imagine

a

homestead,

he

could

not

picture

an

idyllic

nook,

without

gooseberries.

while your ducks swim on the pond, there is a delicious smell everywhere, and . . . and the gooseberries are

growing.'

family,

(b)

servants'

quarters,

(c)

kitchen-ga

rden,

(d)

gooseberry-bushes.

He

lived

parsimoniously,

was

frugal in food and drink, his clothes were beyond description; he looked like a beggar, but kept on saving

and putting money in the bank. He grew fearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to

give him something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but he used to save that too. Once a

man is absorbed by an idea there is no doing anything with him.

passed:

he

was

transferred

to

another

province.

He

was

over

forty,

and

he

was

still

reading

the

advertisements

in

the

papers

and

saving

up.

Then

I

heard

he

was

married.

Still

with

the

same

object

of

buying a farm and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and ugly widow without a trace of feeling for

her, simply because she had filthy lucre. He went on living frugally after marrying her, and kept her short

of food, while he put her money in the bank in his name.

while with her second husband she did not get enough black bread; she began to pine away with this sort of

life, and three years later she gave up her soul to God. And I need hardly say that my brother never for one

moment imagined that he was responsible for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer. In our

town there was a merchant who, before he died, ordered a plateful of honey and ate up all his money and

lottery tickets with the honey, so that no one might get the benefit of it. While I was inspecting cattle at a

railway-station,

a

cattle-dealer

fell

under

an

engine

and

had

his

leg

cut

off.

We

carried

him

into

the