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.
"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 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
"We must take shelter somewhere," said Burkin. "Let us go to Alehin's;
it's close by."
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
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.
"Go into the house, gentlemen," he said, smiling; "I'll come directly,
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.
"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends," said
Alehin, going into the hall with them. "It is a surprise! Pelagea," 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 Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and
soap, and Alehin 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 Ivanovitch meaningly, looking at his head.
"It's a long time since I washed..." said Alehin with embarrassment,
giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark blue,
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
"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 Alehin 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 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
"There are two of us brothers," he began—"I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and my
brother, Nikolay Ivanovitch, two 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.
"He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but I never
sympathized with this desire to 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.
"My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how he
would eat his own cabbages, 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.
"'Country life has its conveniences,' he would sometimes say. 'You sit on
the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there
is a delicious smell everywhere, and... and the gooseberries are growing.'
"He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there were the
same things—(a) house for the family, (b) servants' quarters, (c)
kitchen-garden, (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.
"Years 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.
"Her first husband had been a postmaster, and with him she was accustomed
to pies and home-made wines, 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 waiting-room, the blood was flowing—it was a horrible thing—and
he kept asking them to look for his leg and was very much worried about
it; there were twenty roubles in the boot on the leg that had been cut
off, and he was afraid they would be lost."
"That's a story from a different opera," said Burkin.
"After his wife's death," Ivan Ivanovitch went on, after thinking for half
a minute, "my brother began looking out for an estate for himself. Of
course, you may look about for five years and yet end by making a mistake,
and buying something quite different from what you have dreamed of. My
brother Nikolay bought through an agent a mortgaged estate of three
hundred and thirty acres, with a house for the family, with servants'
quarters, with a park, but with no orchard, no gooseberry-bushes, and no
duck-pond; there was a river, but the water in it was the colour of
coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brickyard and on the
other a factory for burning bones. But Nikolay Ivanovitch did not grieve
much; he ordered twenty gooseberry-bushes, planted them, and began living
as a country gentleman.
"Last year I went to pay him a visit. I thought I would go and see what it
was like. In his letters my brother called his estate 'Tchumbaroklov
Waste, alias Himalaiskoe.' I reached 'alias Himalaiskoe' in the afternoon.
It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, fir-trees
planted in rows, and there was no knowing how to get to the yard, where to
put one's horse. I went up to the house, and was met by a fat red dog that
looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but it was too lazy. The cook, a
fat, barefooted woman, came out of the kitchen, and she, too, looked like
a pig, and said that her master was resting after dinner. I went in to see
my brother. He was sitting up in bed with a quilt over his legs; he had
grown older, fatter, wrinkled; his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth all
stuck out—he looked as though he might begin grunting into the quilt
at any moment.
"We embraced each other, and shed tears of joy and of sadness at the
thought that we had once been young and now were both grey-headed and near
the grave. He dressed, and led me out to show me the estate.
"'Well, how are you getting on here?' I asked.
"'Oh, all right, thank God; I am getting on very well.'
"He was no more a poor timid clerk, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He
was already accustomed to it, had grown used to it, and liked it. He ate a
great deal, went to the bath-house, was growing stout, was already at law
with the village commune and both factories, and was very much offended
when the peasants did not call him 'Your Honour.' And he concerned himself
with the salvation of his soul in a substantial, gentlemanly manner, and
performed deeds of charity, not simply, but with an air of consequence.
And what deeds of charity! He treated the peasants for every sort of
disease with soda and castor oil, and on his name-day had a thanksgiving
service in the middle of the village, and then treated the peasants to a
gallon of vodka—he thought that was the thing to do. Oh, those
horrible gallons of vodka! One day the fat landowner hauls the peasants up
before the district captain for trespass, and next day, in honour of a
holiday, treats them to a gallon of vodka, and they drink and shout
'Hurrah!' and when they are drunk bow down to his feet. A change of life
for the better, and being well-fed and idle develop in a Russian the most
insolent self-conceit. Nikolay Ivanovitch, who at one time in the
government office was afraid to have any views of his own, now could say
nothing that was not gospel truth, and uttered such truths in the tone of
a prime minister. 'Education is essential, but for the peasants it is
premature.' 'Corporal punishment is harmful as a rule, but in some cases
it is necessary and there is nothing to take its place.'
"'I know the peasants and understand how to treat them,' he would say.
'The peasants like me. I need only to hold up my little finger and the
peasants will do anything I like.'
"And all this, observe, was uttered with a wise, benevolent smile. He
repeated twenty times over 'We noblemen,' 'I as a noble'; obviously he did
not remember that our grandfather was a peasant, and our father a soldier.
Even our surname Tchimsha-Himalaisky, in reality so incongruous, seemed to
him now melodious, distinguished, and very agreeable.
"But the point just now is not he, but myself. I want to tell you about
the change that took place in me during the brief hours I spent at his
country place. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook put on
the table a plateful of gooseberries. They were not bought, but his own
gooseberries, gathered for the first time since the bushes were planted.
Nikolay Ivanovitch laughed and looked for a minute in silence at the
gooseberries, with tears in his eyes; he could not speak for excitement.
Then he put one gooseberry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of
a child who has at last received his favourite toy, and said:
"And he ate them greedily, continually repeating, 'Ah, how delicious! Do
"They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says:
"'Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts
Than hosts of baser truths.'
"I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, who
had attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who was
satisfied with his fate and himself. There is always, for some reason, an
element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on
this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome by an oppressive
feeling that was close upon despair. It was particularly oppressive at
night. A bed was made up for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom,
and I could hear that he was awake, and that he kept getting up and going
to the plate of gooseberries and taking one. I reflected how many
satisfied, happy people there really are! 'What a suffocating force it is!
You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance
and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all about us,
overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying.... Yet all is
calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand
living in a town, there is not one who would cry out, who would give vent
to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for
provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly
nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to
the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and
what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes....
Everything is quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute
statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of
vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition.... And this order of
things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease
because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that
silence happiness would be impossible. It's a case of general hypnotism.
There ought to be behind the door of every happy, contented man some one
standing with a hammer continually reminding him with a tap that there are
unhappy people; that however happy he may be, life will show him her laws
sooner or later, trouble will come for him—disease, poverty, losses,
and no one will see or hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others.
But there is no man with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and
trivial daily cares faintly agitate him like the wind in the aspen-tree—and
all goes well.
"That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented," Ivan
Ivanovitch went on, getting up. "I, too, at dinner and at the hunt liked
to lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage the
peasantry. I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture was
essential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enough for
the time. Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more do without
it than without air, but we must wait a little. Yes, I used to talk like
that, and now I ask, 'For what reason are we to wait?'" asked Ivan
Ivanovitch, looking angrily at Burkin. "Why wait, I ask you? What grounds
have we for waiting? I shall be told, it can't be done all at once; every
idea takes shape in life gradually, in its due time. But who is it says
that? Where is the proof that it's right? You will fall back upon the
natural order of things, the uniformity of phenomena; but is there order
and uniformity in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand over a
chasm and wait for it to close of itself, or to fill up with mud at the
very time when perhaps I might leap over it or build a bridge across it?
And again, wait for the sake of what? Wait till there's no strength to
live? And meanwhile one must live, and one wants to live!
"I went away from my brother's early in the morning, and ever since then
it has been unbearable for me to be in town. I am oppressed by its peace
and quiet; I am afraid to look at the windows, for there is no spectacle
more painful to me now than the sight of a happy family sitting round the
table drinking tea. I am old and am not fit for the struggle; I am not
even capable of hatred; I can only grieve inwardly, feel irritated and
vexed; but at night my head is hot from the rush of ideas, and I cannot
sleep.... Ah, if I were young!"
Ivan Ivanovitch walked backwards and forwards in excitement, and repeated:
"If I were young!"
He suddenly went up to Alehin and began pressing first one of his hands
and then the other.
"Pavel Konstantinovitch," he said in an imploring voice, "don't be calm
and contented, don't let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young,
strong, confident, be not weary in well-doing! There is no happiness, and
there ought not to be; but if there is a meaning and an object in life,
that meaning and object is not our happiness, but something greater and
more rational. Do good!"
And all this Ivan Ivanovitch said with a pitiful, imploring smile, as
though he were asking him a personal favour.
Then all three sat in arm-chairs at different ends of the drawing-room and
were silent. Ivan Ivanovitch's story had not satisfied either Burkin or
Alehin. When the generals and ladies gazed down from their gilt frames,
looking in the dusk as though they were alive, it was dreary to listen to
the story of the poor clerk who ate gooseberries. They felt inclined, for
some reason, to talk about elegant people, about women. And their sitting
in the drawing-room where everything—the chandeliers in their
covers, the arm-chairs, and the carpet under their feet—reminded
them that those very people who were now looking down from their frames
had once moved about, sat, drunk tea in this room, and the fact that
lovely Pelagea was moving noiselessly about was better than any story.
Alehin was fearfully sleepy; he had got up early, before three o'clock in
the morning, to look after his work, and now his eyes were closing; but he
was afraid his visitors might tell some interesting story after he had
gone, and he lingered on. He did not go into the question whether what
Ivan Ivanovitch had just said was right and true. His visitors did not
talk of groats, nor of hay, nor of tar, but of something that had no
direct bearing on his life, and he was glad and wanted them to go on.
"It's bed-time, though," said Burkin, getting up. "Allow me to wish you
Alehin said good-night and went downstairs to his own domain, while the
visitors remained upstairs. They were both taken for the night to a big
room where there stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings, and in
the corner was an ivory crucifix. The big cool beds, which had been made
by the lovely Pelagea, smelt agreeably of clean linen.
Ivan Ivanovitch undressed in silence and got into bed.
"Lord forgive us sinners!" he said, and put his head under the quilt.
His pipe lying on the table smelt strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin
could not sleep for a long while, and kept wondering where the oppressive
smell came from.
The rain was pattering on the window-panes all night.