After the Theatre
by
Anton Chekhov

Nadya Zelenin had just come back with her mamma from the theatre where she had seen a performance of Yevgeny Onyegin. As soon as she reached her own room she threw off her dress, let down her hair, and in her petticoat and white dressing-jacket hastily sat down at the table to write a letter like Tatyana’s.

“I love you,” she wrote, “but you do not love me, do not love me!”

She wrote it and laughed.

She was only sixteen and did not love anyone yet. She knew an officer called Gorny and a student called Gruzdev loved her, but now after the opera she wanted to be doubtful of their love. To be unloved and unhappy – how interesting that was. There was something beautiful, touching and poetical about it when one loved and the other was indifferent. Onyegin was interesting because he was not in love at all, and Tatyana was fascinating because she was so much in love; but if they had been equally in love with each other and happy, perhaps they would have seemed dull.

“Leave off declaring you love me,” Nadya went on writing, thinking of Gorny. “I cannot believe it. You are very clever, cultivated, serious, you have immense talent, and perhaps a brilliant future awaits you; while I am an uninteresting girl of no importance, and you know very well I should only be a hindrance in your life. It is true you were attracted by me and thought you had found your ideal in me, but that was a mistake, and now you are asking yourself in despair: ‘Why did I meet that girl?’ And only your goodness of heart prevents you from owning it to yourself…”

Nadya felt sorry for herself, she began to cry, and went on:

“It is hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, or I should take a nun’s veil and go whither chance may lead me. And you would be left free and would love another. Oh, if I were dead!”

She could not make out what she had written through her tears; little rainbows were quivering on the table, on the floor, on the ceiling, as though she were looking through a prism. She could not write, she sank back in her easy-chair and fell to thinking of Gorny.

My God! how interesting, how fascinating men were! Nadya recalled the fine expression, ingratiating, guilty and soft, which came into the officer’s face when one argued about music with him, and the effort he made to prevent his voice from betraying his passion. In a society where cold haughtiness and indifference were regarded as signs of good breeding and gentlemanly bearing, one concealed one’s passions. And he did try to conceal them but he not succeed, and everyone knew very well he had a passionate love of music. The endless discussions about music and the bold criticisms of people who knew nothing about it kept him always strained; he was frightened, timid, and silent. He played the piano magnificently, like a professional pianist, and if he had not been in the army he would have certainly been a famous musician.

The tears in her eyes dried. Nadya remembered Gorny had declared his love at a Symphony concert, and again downstairs by the hatstand where there was a tremendous draught blowing in all directions.

“I am very glad you have at last made the acquaintance of Gruzdev, our student friend,” she went on writing. “He is a very clever man and you will be sure to like him. He came to see us yesterday and stayed till two o’clock. We were all delighted with him, and I regretted that you had not come. He said a great deal that was remarkable.”

Nadya laid her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, and her hair covered the letter. She recalled the student loved her too, and that he had as much right to a letter as Gorny. Wouldn’t it be better after all to write to Gruzdev?

There was a stir of joy in her chest for no reason whatever; at first the joy was small, and rolled in her chest like an india-rubber ball; then it became more massive, bigger, and rushed like a wave. Nadya forgot Gorny and Gruzdev; her thoughts were in a tangle and her joy grew and grew; from her chest it passed into her arms and legs, and it seemed as if a light, cool breeze was breathing on her head and ruffling her hair. Her shoulders quivered with subdued laughter, the table and the lamp chimney shook too, and tears from her eyes splashed on the letter. She could not stop laughing, and to prove to herself she was not laughing about nothing she hastened to think of something funny.

“What a funny poodle,” she said, feeling as though she would choke with laughter. “What a funny poodle!”

She thought how, after tea the evening before, Gruzdev had played with Maxim the poodle, and afterwards told them about a very intelligent poodle who ran after a crow in the yard, and the crow looked round at him and said: “Oh, you scamp!”

The poodle, not knowing he was dealing with a learned crow, was fearfully confused and retreated in perplexity, then began barking…

“No, I had better love Gruzdev,” Nadya decided, and she tore up the letter to Gorny.

She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; but the thoughts in her head insisted on flowing in all directions, and she thought about everything – about her mother, about the street, about the pencil, about the piano… She thought of them joyfully, and felt that everything was good, splendid, and her joy told that this was not all, that in a little while it would be better still. Soon it would be spring, summer, going with her mother to Gorbiki. Gorny would come for his furlough, would walk about the garden with her and make love to her. Gruzdev would come too. He would play croquet and skittles with her, and would tell her wonderful things. She had a passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed to her there was a scent of wormwood in the room and that a twig was tapping at the window.

She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with the immense joy which filled her with yearning, she looked at the holy image hanging at the back of her bed, and said:

“Oh, Lord God! Oh, Lord God!”