Gooseberries

The second of three linked stories, published in 1898, which have come to be called Chekhov's "Little Trilogy": "The Man in a Case," "Gooseberries" and "About Love." The two friends, the veterinary surgeon Ivan Ivanych and the schoolmaster Burkin, are hunting together in all three; each story is told by one of them. This one is short and undivided, so it is given as one episode, nearly complete; the English keeps very close to Chekhov's words and follows, with revisions, the public-domain translation by Constance Garnett.

The 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 Ivanych, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired with walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoye; 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 Ivanych and Burkin were filled with love of that countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.

"Last time we were in Prokofy's barn," said Burkin, "you were about to tell me a story."

"Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother."

Ivan Ivanych 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 Ivanych and Burkin stopped in hesitation; the dogs, already drenched, stood with their tails between their legs gazing at them feelingly.

"We must take shelter somewhere," said Burkin. "Let us go to Alyokhin's; it's close by."

"Come along."

They turned aside and walked through mown meadows, 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 Alyokhin 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 Ivanych 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 Alyokhin 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 recognised Ivan Ivanych and Burkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them.

"Go into the house, gentlemen," he said, smiling; "I'll come directly, this minute."

It was a big two-storeyed house. Alyokhin 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 only went upstairs into the best rooms on rare occasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanych 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.

"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends," said Alyokhin, going into the hall with them. "It is a surprise! Pelageya," he said, addressing the girl, "give our visitors something to change into. And, by 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 Pelageya, so refined and soft in appearance, brought them towels and soap, and Alyokhin went to the bath-house with his guests.

"It's a long time since I had a wash," he said, undressing. "I have got a nice bath-house, as you see — my 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.

"Yes, I must say," said Ivan Ivanych meaningly, looking at his head.

"It's a long time since I washed . . ." said Alyokhin, embarrassed, giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark blue, like ink.

Ivan Ivanych 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.

"Oh, my goodness!" he repeated continually, enjoying himself thoroughly. "Oh, my goodness!" He swam 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 Alyokhin were dressed and ready to go, but he still went on swimming and diving. "Oh, my goodness! . . ." he said. "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! . . ."

"That's enough!" Burkin shouted to him.

They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lighted in the big drawing-room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanych, attired in silk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in armchairs; and Alyokhin, 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 Pelageya, stepping noiselessly on the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray — only then Ivan Ivanych began on his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and Alyokhin were listening, but also the ladies, young and old, and the officers who looked down upon them sternly and calmly from their gold frames.