A short
story by Anton Chekhov
[Anton
Chekov, a Russian, ( 29-1-1860—15-7-1904)
was considered to be among the greatest writers of short stories in history. On
the occasion of his birth day on 29th January, one of his short
stories is reproduced here.]
"HERE goes, I've done with
drinking! Nothing. . . n-o-thing shall tempt me to it. It's time to take myself
in hand; I must buck up and work. . . You're glad to get your salary, so you
must do your work honestly, heartily, conscientiously, regardless of sleep and
comfort. Chuck taking it easy. You've got into the way of taking a salary for
nothing, my boy -- that's not the right thing . . . not the right thing at all.
. . ."
After administering to himself
several such lectures Podtyagin, the head ticket collector, begins to feel an
irresistible impulse to get to work. It is past one o'clock at night, but in
spite of that he wakes the ticket collectors and with them goes up and down the
railway carriages, inspecting the tickets.
"T-t-t-ickets . . .
P-p-p-please!" he keeps shouting, briskly snapping the clippers.
Sleepy figures, shrouded in the
twilight of the railway carriages, start, shake their heads, and produce their
tickets.
"T-t-t-tickets,
please!" Podtyagin addresses a second-class passenger, a lean, scraggy-looking
man, wrapped up in a fur coat and a rug and surrounded with pillows.
"Tickets, please!"
The scraggy-looking man makes
no reply. He is buried in sleep. The head ticket-collector touches him on the
shoulder and repeats impatiently: "T-t-tickets, p-p-please!"
The passenger starts, opens his
eyes, and gazes in alarm at Podtyagin.
"What? . . . Who? . . .
Eh?"
"You're asked in plain
language: t-t-tickets, p-p-please! If you please!"
"My God!" moans the
scraggy-looking man, pulling a woebegone face. "Good Heavens! I'm
suffering from rheumatism. . . . I haven't slept for three nights! I've just
taken morphia on purpose to get to sleep, and you . . . with your tickets! It's
merciless, it's inhuman! If you knew how hard it is for me to sleep you wouldn't
disturb me for such nonsense. . . . It's cruel, it's absurd! And what do you
want with my ticket! It's positively stupid!"
Podtyagin considers whether to
take offence or not -- and decides to take offence.
"Don't shout here! This is
not a tavern!"
"No, in a tavern people
are more humane. . ." coughs the passenger. "Perhaps you'll let me go
to sleep another time! It's extraordinary: I've travelled abroad, all over the
place, and no one asked for my ticket there, but here you're at it again and again,
as though the devil were after you. . . ."
"Well, you'd better go
abroad again since you like it so much."
"It's stupid, sir! Yes! As
though it's not enough killing the passengers with fumes and stuffiness and
draughts, they want to strangle us with red tape, too, damn it all! He must
have the ticket! My goodness, what zeal! If it were of any use to the company
-- but half the passengers are travelling without a ticket!"
"Listen, sir!" cries
Podtyagin, flaring up. "If you don't leave off shouting and disturbing the
public, I shall be obliged to put you out at the next station and to draw up a
report on the incident!"
"This is revolting!"
exclaims "the public," growing indignant. "Persecuting an
invalid! Listen, and have some consideration!"
"But the gentleman himself
was abusive!" says Podtyagin, a little scared. "Very well. . . . I
won't take the ticket . . . as you like. . . . Only, of course, as you know
very well, it's my duty to do so. . . . If it were not my duty, then, of
course. . . You can ask the station-master . . . ask anyone you like. . .
."
Podtyagin shrugs his shoulders
and walks away from the invalid. At first he feels aggrieved and somewhat
injured, then, after passing through two or three carriages, he begins to feel
a certain uneasiness not unlike the pricking of conscience in his
ticket-collector's bosom.
"There certainly was no
need to wake the invalid," he thinks, "though it was not my fault. .
. .They imagine I did it wantonly, idly. They don't know that I'm bound in duty
. . . if they don't believe it, I can bring the station-master to them." A
station. The train stops five minutes. Before the third bell,
Podtyagin enters the same second-class carriage. Behind him stalks the
station-master in a red cap.
"This gentleman
here," Podtyagin begins, "declares that I have no right to ask for
his ticket and . . . and is offended at it. I ask you, Mr. Station-master, to
explain to him. . . . Do I ask for tickets according to regulation or to please
myself? Sir," Podtyagin addresses the scraggy-looking man, "sir! you
can ask the station-master here if you don't believe me."
The invalid starts as though he
had been stung, opens his eyes, and with a woebegone face sinks back in his
seat.
"My God! I have taken
another powder and only just dozed off when here he is again. . . again! I
beseech you have some pity on me!"
"You can ask the
station-master . . . whether I have the right to demand your ticket or
not."
"This is insufferable!
Take your ticket. . . take it! I'll pay for five extra if you'll only let me die
in peace! Have you never been ill yourself? Heartless people!"
"This is simply
persecution!" A gentleman in military uniform grows indignant. "I can
see no other explanation of this persistence."
"Drop it . . ." says
the station-master, frowning and pulling Podtyagin by the sleeve.
Podtyagin shrugs his shoulders
and slowly walks after the station-master.
"There's no pleasing
them!" he thinks, bewildered. "It was for his sake I brought the
station-master, that he might understand and be pacified, and he . . .
swears!"
Another station. The train
stops ten minutes. Before the second bell, while Podtyagin is standing at the
refreshment bar, drinking seltzer water, two gentlemen go up to him, one in the
uniform of an engineer, and the other in a military overcoat.
"Look here,
ticket-collector!" the engineer begins, addressing Podtyagin. "Your
behaviour to that invalid passenger has revolted all who witnessed it. My name
is Puzitsky; I am an engineer, and this gentleman is a colonel. If you do not
apologize to the passenger, we shall make a complaint to the traffic manager,
who is a friend of ours."
"Gentlemen! Why of course
I . . . why of course you . . ." Podtyagin is panic-stricken.
"We don't want
explanations. But we warn you, if you don't apologize, we shall see justice
done to him."
Certainly I . . . I'll
apologize, of course. . . To be sure. . . ."
Half an hour later, Podtyagin
having thought of an apologetic phrase which would satisfy the passenger
without lowering his own dignity, walks into the carriage. "Sir," he
addresses the invalid. "Listen, sir. . . ."
The invalid starts and leaps
up: "What?"
"I . . . what was it? . .
. You mustn't be offended. . . ."
"Och! Water . . ."
gasps the invalid, clutching at his heart. "I'd just taken a third dose of
morphia, dropped asleep, and . . . again! Good God! when will this torture
cease!"
"I only . . . you must
excuse . . ."
"Oh! . . . Put me out at
the next station! I can't stand any more. . . . I . . . I am dying. . . ."
"This is mean,
disgusting!" cry the "public," revolted. "Go away! You
shall pay for such persecution. Get away!"
Podtyagin waves his hand in
despair, sighs, and walks out of the carriage. He goes to the attendants'
compartment, sits down at the table, exhausted, and complains:
"Oh, the public! There's
no satisfying them! It's no use working and doing one's best! One's driven to
drinking and cursing it all. . . . If you do nothing -- they're angry; if you
begin doing your duty, they're angry too. There's nothing for it but
drink!"
Podtyagin empties a bottle
straight off and thinks no more of work, duty, and honesty!
NOTES
third bell: train passengers
were given 3 warning bells: the first (single) ring indicated 15 minutes until
departure; the second (2 rings) indicated 5 minutes; and the third bell (3
rings) sounded as the train left the station
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