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The Student
Anton Chekhov
At first the weather was fine and still. The thrushes were calling, and in the swamps close
by something alive droned pitifully with a sound like blowing into an empty bottle. A snipe
flew by, and the shot aimed at it rang out with a gay, resounding note in the spring air. But
when it began to get dark in the forest a cold, penetrating wind blew inappropriately from
the east, and everything sank into silence. Needles of ice stretched across the pools, and it
felt cheerless, remote, and lonely in the forest. There was a whiff of winter.
Ivan Velikopolsky, the son of a sacristan, and a student of the clerical academy, returning
home from shooting, kept walking on the path by the water-logged meadows. His fingers
were numb and his face was burning with the wind. It seemed to him that the cold that had
suddenly come on had destroyed the order and harmony of things, that nature itself felt ill at
ease, and that was why the evening darkness was falling more rapidly than usual. All
around it was deserted and peculiarly gloomy. The only light was one gleaming in the
widows' gardens near the river; the village, over three miles away, and everything in the
distance all round was plunged in the cold evening mist. The student remembered that, as
he had left the house, his mother was sitting barefoot on the floor in the entryway, cleaning
the samovar, while his father lay on the stove coughing; as it was Good Friday nothing had
been cooked, and the student was terribly hungry. And now, shrinking from the cold, he
thought that just such a wind had blown in the days of Rurik and in the time of Ivan the
Terrible and Peter, and in their time there had been just the same desperate poverty and
hunger, the same thatched roofs with holes in them, ignorance, misery, the same desolation
around, the same darkness, the same feeling of oppression -- all these had existed, did exist,
and would exist, and the lapse of a thousand years would make life no better. And he did
not want to go home.
The gardens were called the widows' because they were kept by two widows, mother and
daughter. A campfire was burning brightly with a crackling sound, throwing out light far
around on the ploughed earth. The widow Vasilisa, a tall, fat old woman in a man's coat,
was standing by and looking thoughtfully into the fire; her daughter Lukerya, a little
pockmarked woman with a stupid-looking face, was sitting on the ground, washing a
cauldron and spoons. Apparently they had just had supper. There was a sound of men's
voices; it was the laborers watering their horses at the river.
"Here you have winter back again," said the student, going up to the campfire. "Good
Vasilisa started, but at once recognized him and smiled cordially.
"I did not know you; God bless you," she said. "You'll be rich."
They talked. Vasilisa, a woman of experience who had been in service with the gentry, first
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as a wet-nurse, afterwards as a children's nurse expressed herself with refinement, and a
soft, sedate smile never left her face; her daughter Lukerya, a village peasant woman who
had been beaten by her husband, simply screwed up her eyes at the student and said
nothing, and she had a strange expression like that of a deaf-mute.
"At just such a fire the Apostle Peter warmed himself," said the student, stretching out his
hands to the fire, "so it must have been cold then, too. Ah, what a terrible night it must have
been, granny! An utterly dismal long night!"
He looked round at the darkness, shook his head abruptly and asked:
"No doubt you have heard the reading of the Twelve Apostles?"
"Yes, I have," answered Vasilisa.
"If you remember, at the Last Supper Peter said to Jesus, 'I am ready to go with Thee into
darkness and unto death.' And our Lord answered him thus: 'I say unto thee, Peter, before
the cock croweth thou wilt have denied Me thrice.' After the supper Jesus went through the
agony of death in the garden and prayed, and poor Peter was weary in spirit and faint, his
eyelids were heavy and he could not struggle against sleep. He fell asleep. Then you heard
how Judas the same night kissed Jesus and betrayed Him to His tormentors. They took Him
bound to the high priest and beat Him, while Peter, exhausted, worn out with misery and
alarm, hardly awake, you know, feeling that something awful was just going to happen on
earth, followed behind. . . . He loved Jesus passionately, intensely, and now he saw from far
off how He was beaten. . . . "
Lukerya left the spoons and fixed an immovable stare upon the student.
"They came to the high priest's," he went on; "they began to question Jesus, and meantime
the laborers made a fire in the yard as it was cold, and warmed themselves. Peter, too, stood
with them near the fire and warmed himself as I am doing. A woman, seeing him, said: 'He
was with Jesus, too' -- that is as much as to say that he, too, should be taken to be
questioned. And all the laborers that were standing near the fire must have looked sourly
and suspiciously at him, because he was confused and said: 'I don't know Him.' A little
while after again someone recognized him as one of Jesus' disciples and said: 'Thou, too, art
one of them,' but again he denied it. And for the third time someone turned to him: 'Why,
did I not see thee with Him in the garden today?' For the third time he denied it. And
immediately after that time the cock crowed, and Peter, looking from afar off at Jesus,
remembered the words He had said to him in the evening. . . . He remembered, he came to
himself, went out of the yard and wept bitterly -- bitterly. In the Gospel it is written: 'He
went out and wept bitterly.' I imagine it: the still, still, dark, dark garden, and in the
stillness, faintly audible, smothered sobbing.. . . ."
The student sighed and sank into thought. Still smiling, Vasilisa suddenly gave a gulp, big
tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and she screened her face from the fire with her sleeve
as though ashamed of her tears, and Lukerya, staring immovably at the student, flushed
crimson, and her expression became strained and heavy like that of someone enduring
intense pain.
The laborers came back from the river, and one of them riding a horse was quite near, and
the light from the fire quivered upon him. The student said good-night to the widows and
went on. And again the darkness was about him and his fingers began to be numb. A cruel
wind was blowing, winter really had come back and it did not feel as though Easter would
be the day after tomorrow.
Now the student was thinking about Vasilisa: since she had shed tears all that had happened
to Peter the night before the Crucifixion must have some relation to her. . . .
He looked round. The solitary light was still gleaming in the darkness and no figures could
be seen near it now. The student thought again that if Vasilisa had shed tears, and her
daughter had been troubled, it was evident that what he had just been telling them about,
which had happened nineteen centuries ago, had a relation to the present -- to both women,
to the desolate village, to himself, to all people. The old woman had wept, not because he
could tell the story touchingly, but because Peter was near to her, because her whole being
was interested in what was passing in Peter's soul.
And joy suddenly stirred in his soul, and he even stopped for a minute to take breath. "The
past," he thought, "is linked with the present by an unbroken chain of events flowing one
out of another." And it seemed to him that he had just seen both ends of that chain; that
when he touched one end the other quivered.
When he crossed the river by the ferryboat and afterwards, mounting the hill, looked at his
village and towards the west where the cold crimson sunset lay a narrow streak of light, he
thought that truth and beauty which had guided human life there in the garden and in the
yard of the high priest had continued without interruption to this day, and had evidently
always been the chief thing in human life and in all earthly life, indeed; and the feeling of
youth, health, vigor -- he was only twenty-two -- and the inexpressible sweet expectation of
happiness, of unknown mysterious happiness, took possession of him little by little, and life
seemed to him enchanting, marvellous, and full of lofty meaning.
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