A Lady’s Story

by Anton Chekhov

Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding
towards evening in haymaking time to fetch the letters from the station.

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder,
and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The
storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it.

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall
poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My
companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense.
He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with
turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the
rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt....Then the first wave raced through
the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and
round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.

“It’s fine!” he cried, “it’s splendid!”

Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I
should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a
bird, thrills one and puts one’s heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our
courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the
grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.

Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I
stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks
of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the
fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.

“What a crash!” said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling
peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. “What do you
say to that?” He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his
rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me.
“Natalya Vladimirovna,” he said, “I would give anything only to stay here a little
longer and look at you. You are lovely today.”
His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his
beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be
looking at me with love.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you
cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love you.
Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you are dear
to me and let me look at you.” His rapture affected me too; I looked at his
enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain,
and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir. I longed to go on endlessly
looking at his shining eyes and listening.

“You say nothing, and that is splendid,” said Pyotr Sergeyitch. “Go on being
silent.” I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to
the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me.

Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we dashed
into the room. My father and brother, who were not used to seeing me laughing
and light-hearted, looked at me in surprise and began laughing too.

The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but the
raindrops still glittered on Pyotr Sergeyitch’s beard. The whole evening till
supper-time he was singing, whistling, playing noisily with the dog and racing
about the room after it, so that he nearly upset the servant with the samovar. And
at supper he ate a great deal, talked nonsense, and maintained that when one
eats fresh cucumbers in winter there is the fragrance of spring in one’s mouth.

When I went to bed I lighted a candle and threw my window wide open, and an
undefined feeling took possession of my soul. I remembered that I was free and
healthy, that I had rank and wealth, that I was beloved; above all, that I had rank
and wealth, rank and wealth, my God! how nice that was!... Then, huddling up in
bed at a touch of cold which reached me from the garden with the dew, I tried to
discover whether I loved Pyotr Sergeyitch or not,... and fell asleep unable to
reach any conclusion.

And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the shadows of
the lime trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rose vividly in my
memory. Life seemed to me rich, varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed
quickly and went out into the garden.... And what happened afterwards? Why—
nothing. In the winter when we lived in town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us
from time to time. Country acquaintances are charming only in the country and in
summer; in the town and in winter they lose their charm. When you
pour out tea for them in the town it seems as though they are wearing other
people’s coats, and as though they stirred their tea too long. In the town, too,
Pyotr Sergeyitch spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all the same
as in the country. In the town we were more vividly conscious of the wall that
stood between us. I had rank and wealth, while he was poor, and he was not
even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy public prosecutor;
we both of us—I through my youth and he for some unknown reason—thought of
that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us in the town he would
criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence
when there was anyone else in the drawing-room. There is no wall that cannot be
broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them,
are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign
themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that personal life has
disappointed them; instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world
vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity.
I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me;
I went on living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing
what I expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on and on.... People
passed by me with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the
nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in
remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was
not prized, and vanished like mist.... Where is it all?

My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed
me, gave me hope—the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of
happiness, talk of love—all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see
before me a flat desert distance; on the plain not one living soul, and out there on
the horizon it is dark and terrible....

A ring at the bell.... It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter I see the trees and
remember how green they were for me in the summer I whisper:
“Oh, my darlings!”

And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowful and
warm and whisper the same thing.

He has long ago by my father’s good offices been transferred to town. He looks a
little older, a little fallen away. He has long given up declaring his love, has left off
talking nonsense, dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he
has given up trying to get anything out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now
he has sat down by the hearth and looks in silence at the fire....
Not knowing what to say I ask him:
“Well, what have you to tell me?”

“Nothing,” he answers.

And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholy face.

I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, my head
dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for myself and for
this man, and passionately longed for what had passed away and what life
refused us now. And now I did not think about rank and wealth.

I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:

“My God! my God! My life is wasted!”

And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: “Don’t weep.” He understood
that I must weep, and that the time for this had come.

I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and
vexed with this timid, unsuccessful man who could not make a life for me, nor for
himself.

When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while putting on
his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a long while into
my tear-stained face. I believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks
of rain, our laughter, my face that day; he longed to say something to me, and he
would have been glad to say it; but he said nothing, he merely shook his head
and pressed my hand. God help him!

After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet before
the fireplace; the red embers were covered with ash and began to grow dim. The
frost tapped still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the
chimney.

The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name.

Guide Questions:
1. Summarize the plot of “A Lady’s Story.” In two to three sentences each, detail
the following:
a) Exposition
 b) Rising Action
c) Climax
d) Falling Action
e) Resolution
2. Which type of point of view did the author use? Was it the most appropriate
type for the story? Why or why not?
3. What kind/s of conflict/s did the story have? Explain.