Free Five Great Short Stories by ANTON CHEKHOV Page A

to work and will not. . . . Nothing is wanted, so let the world go to hell.”
    â€œMissyuss, go away,” said Lyda to her sister, evidently thinking my words dangerous to so young a girl.
    Genya looked sadly at her sister and mother and went out.
    â€œPeople generally talk like that,” said Lyda, “when they want to excuse their indifference. It is easier to deny hospitals and schools than to come and teach.”
    â€œTrue, Lyda, true,” her mother agreed.
    â€œYou say you will not work,” Lyda went on. “Apparently you set a high price on your work, but do stop arguing. We shall never agree, since I value the most imperfect library or pharmacy, of which you spoke so scornfully just now, more than all the landscapes in the world.” And at once she turned to her mother and began to talk in quite a different tone: “The Prince has got very thin, and is much changed since the last time he was here. The doctors are sending him to Vichy.”
    She talked to her mother about the Prince to avoid talking to me. Her face was burning, and, in order to conceal her agitation, she bent over the table as if she were short-sighted and made a show of reading the newspaper. My presence was distasteful to her. I took my leave and went home.

IV
    ALL WAS QUIET outside: the village on the other side of the pond was already asleep, not a single light was to be seen, and on the pond there was only the faint reflection of the stars. By the gate with the stone lions stood Genya, waiting to accompany me.
    â€œThe village is asleep,” I said, trying to see her face in the darkness, and I could see her dark sad eyes fixed on me. “The innkeeper and the horse-stealers are sleeping quietly, and decent people like ourselves quarrel and irritate each other.”
    It was a melancholy August night—melancholy because it already smelled of the autumn: the moon rose behind a purple cloud and hardly lighted the road and the dark fields of winter corn on either side. Stars fell frequently, Genya walked beside me on the road and tried not to look at the sky, to avoid seeing the falling stars, which somehow frightened her.
    â€œI believe you are right,” she said, trembling in the evening chill. “If people could give themselves to spiritual activity, they would soon burst everything.”
    â€œCertainly. We are superior beings, and if we really knew all the power of the human genius and lived only for higher purposes then we should become like gods. But this will never be. Mankind will degenerate and of their genius not a trace will be left.”
    When the gate was out of sight Genya stopped and hurriedly shook my hand.
    â€œGood night,” she said, trembling; her shoulders were covered only with a thin blouse and she was shivering with cold. “Come to-morrow.”
    I was filled with a sudden dread of being left alone with my inevitable dissatisfaction with myself and people, and I, too, tried not to see the falling stars.
    â€œStay with me a little longer,” I said. “Please.”
    I loved Genya, and she must have loved me, because she used to meet me and walk with me, and because she looked at me with tender admiration. How thrillingly beautiful her pale face was, her thin nose, her arms, her slenderness, her inactivity, her constant reading. And her mind? I suspected her of having an unusual intellect: I was fascinated by the breadth of her views, perhaps because she thought differently from the strong, handsome Lyda, who did not love me. Genya liked me as a painter, I had conquered her heart by my talent, and I longed passionately to paint only for her, and I dreamed of her as my little queen, who would one day possess with me the trees, the fields, the river, the dawn, all Nature, wonderful and fascinating, with whom, as with them, I have felt hopeless and useless.
    â€œStay with me a moment longer,” I called. “I implore you.”
    I took off my