TALES OF CHEKHOV. THE CHORUS GIRL AND OTHER STORIES
BY ANTON TCHEKHOV




THE TALES OF CHEKHOV

VOLUME 8

THE CHORUS GIRL AND OTHER STORIES

BY

ANTON TCHEKHOV

Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT




CONTENTS


THE CHORUS GIRL
VEROTCHKA
MY LIFE
AT A COUNTRY HOUSE
A FATHER
ON THE ROAD
ROTHSCHILD'S FIDDLE
IVAN MATVEYITCH
ZINOTCHKA
BAD WEATHER
A GENTLEMAN FRIEND
A TRIVIAL INCIDENT




THE CHORUS GIRL

ONE day when she was younger and better-looking, and when her voice
was stronger, Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov, her adorer, was sitting
in the outer room in her summer villa. It was intolerably hot and
stifling. Kolpakov, who had just dined and drunk a whole bottle of
inferior port, felt ill-humoured and out of sorts. Both were bored
and waiting for the heat of the day to be over in order to go for
a walk.

All at once there was a sudden ring at the door. Kolpakov, who was
sitting with his coat off, in his slippers, jumped up and looked
inquiringly at Pasha.

"It must be the postman or one of the girls," said the singer.

Kolpakov did not mind being found by the postman or Pasha's lady
friends, but by way of precaution gathered up his clothes and went
into the next room, while Pasha ran to open the door. To her great
surprise in the doorway stood, not the postman and not a girl friend,
but an unknown woman, young and beautiful, who was dressed like a
lady, and from all outward signs was one.

The stranger was pale and was breathing heavily as though she had
been running up a steep flight of stairs.

"What is it?" asked Pasha.

The lady did not at once answer. She took a step forward, slowly
looked about the room, and sat down in a way that suggested that
from fatigue, or perhaps illness, she could not stand; then for a
long time her pale lips quivered as she tried in vain to speak.

"Is my husband here?" she asked at last, raising to Pasha her big
eyes with their red tear-stained lids.

"Husband?" whispered Pasha, and was suddenly so frightened that her
hands and feet turned cold. "What husband?" she repeated, beginning
to tremble.

"My husband, . . . Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov."

"N . . . no, madam. . . . I . . . I don't know any husband."

A minute passed in silence. The stranger several times passed her
handkerchief over her pale lips and held her breath to stop her
inward trembling, while Pasha stood before her motionless, like a
post, and looked at her with astonishment and terror.

"So you say he is not here?" the lady asked, this time speaking
with a firm voice and smiling oddly.

"I . . . I don't know who it is you are asking about."

"You are horrid, mean, vile . . ." the stranger muttered, scanning
Pasha with hatred and repulsion. "Yes, yes . . . you are horrid. I
am very, very glad that at last I can tell you so!"

Pasha felt that on this lady in black with the angry eyes and white
slender fingers she produced the impression of something horrid