The Marshal's Widow

The Marshal's Widow
by Anton Chekhov
ON the first of February every year, St. Trifon's day, there is an extraordinary
commotion on the estate of Madame Zavzyatov, the widow of Trifon Lvovitch,
the late marshal of the district. On that day, the nameday of the deceased
marshal, the widow Lyubov Petrovna has a requiem service celebrated in his
memory, and after the requiem a thanksgiving to the Lord. The whole district
assembles for the service. There you will see Hrumov the present marshal,
Marfutkin, the president of the Zemstvo, Potrashkov, the permanent member
of the Rural Board, the two justices of the peace of the district, the police
captain, Krinolinov, two police-superintendents, the district doctor, Dvornyagin,
smelling of iodoform, all the landowners, great and small, and so on. There
are about fifty people assembled in all.
Precisely at twelve o'clock, the visitors, with long faces, make their way from
all the rooms to the big hall. There are carpets on the floor and their steps are
noiseless, but the solemnity of the occasion makes them instinctively walk on
tip-toe, holding out their hands to balance themselves. In the hall everything is
already prepared. Father Yevmeny, a little old man in a high faded cap, puts
on his black vestments. Konkordiev, the deacon, already in his vestments, and
as red as a crab, is noiselessly turning over the leaves of his missal and
putting slips of paper in it. At the door leading to the vestibule, Luka, the
sacristan, puffing out his cheeks and making round eyes, blows up the censer.
The hall is gradually filled with bluish transparent smoke and the smell of
incense.
Gelikonsky, the elementary schoolmaster, a young man with big pimples on

his frightened face, wearing a new greatcoat like a sack, carries round wax
candles on a silver-plated tray. The hostess, Lyubov Petrovna, stands in the
front by a little table with a dish of funeral rice on it, and holds her
handkerchief in readiness to her face. There is a profound stillness, broken
from time to time by sighs. Everybody has a long, solemn face. . . .
The requiem service begins. The blue smoke curls up from the censer and
plays in the slanting sunbeams, the lighted candles faintly splutter. The
singing, at first harsh and deafening, soon becomes quiet and musical as the
choir gradually adapt themselves to the acoustic conditions of the rooms. . . .
The tunes are all mournful and sad. . . . The guests are gradually brought to a
melancholy mood and grow pensive. Thoughts of the brevity of human life, of
mutability, of worldly vanity stray through their brains. . . . They recall the
deceased Zavzyatov, a thick-set, red-cheeked man who used to drink off a
bottle of champagne at one gulp and smash looking-glasses with his
forehead. And when they sing "With Thy Saints, O Lord," and the sobs of their
hostess are audible, the guests shift uneasily from one foot to the other. The
more emotional begin to feel a tickling in their throat and about their eyelids.
Marfutkin, the president of the Zemstvo, to stifle the unpleasant feeling, bends
down to the police captain's ear and whispers:
"I was at Ivan Fyodoritch's yesterday. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch and I took all the
tricks, playing no trumps. . . . Yes, indeed. . . . Olga Andreyevna was so
exasperated that her false tooth fell out of her mouth."
But at last the "Eternal Memory" is sung. Gelikonsky respectfully takes away
the candles, and the memorial service is over. Thereupon there follows a
momentary commotion; there is a changing of vestments and a thanksgiving
service. After the thanksgiving, while Father Yevmeny is disrobing, the visitors
rub their hands and cough, while their hostess tells some anecdote of the
good-heartedness of the deceased Trifon Lvovitch.
"Pray come to lunch, friends," she says, concluding her story with a sigh.
The visitors, trying not to push or tread on each other's feet, hasten into the
dining-room. . . . There the luncheon is awaiting them. The repast is so
magnificent that the deacon Konkordiev thinks it his duty every year to fling up
his hands as he looks at it and, shaking his head in amazement, say:
"Supernatural! It's not so much like human fare, Father Yevmeny, as offerings
to the gods."
The lunch is certainly exceptional. Everything that the flora and fauna of the
country can furnish is on the table, but the only thing supernatural about it,
perhaps, is that on the table there is everything except . . . alcoholic
beverages. Lyubov Petrovna has taken a vow never to have in her house
cards or spirituous liquors -- the two sources of her husband's ruin. And the
only bottles contain oil and vinegar, as though in mockery and chastisement of
the guests who are to a man desperately fond of the bottle, and given to
tippling.
Please help yourselves, gentlemen!" the marshal's widow presses them. "Only
you must excuse me, I have no vodka. . . . I have none in the house."
The guests approach the table and hesitatingly attack the pie. But the
progress with eating is slow. In the plying of forks, in the cutting up and
munching, there is a certain sloth and apathy. . . . Evidently something is
wanting.
"I feel as though I had lost something," one of the justices of the peace
whispers to the other. "I feel as I did when my wife ran away with the engineer.
. . . I can't eat."
Marfutkin, before beginning to eat, fumbles for a long time in his pocket and
looks for his handkerchief.
"Oh, my handkerchief must be in my greatcoat," he recalls in a loud voice,
"and here I am looking for it," and he goes into the vestibule where the fur
coats are hanging up.
He returns from the vestibule with glistening eyes, and at once attacks the pie
with relish.
"I say, it's horrid munching away with a dry mouth, isn't it?" he whispers to
Father Yevmeny. "Go into the vestibule, Father. There's a bottle there in my fur
coat. . . . Only mind you are careful; don't make a clatter with the bottle."
Father Yevmeny recollects that he has some direction to give to Luka, and
trips off to the vestibule.
"Father, a couple of words in confidence," says Dvornyagin, overtaking him.
"You should see the fur coat I've bought myself, gentlemen," Hrumov boasts.
"It's worth a thousand, and I gave . . . you won't believe it . . . two hundred and
fifty! Not a farthing more."
At any other time the guests would have greeted this information with
indifference, but now they display surprise and incredulity. In the end they all
troop out into the vestibule to look at the fur coat, and go on looking at it till the
doctor's man Mikeshka carries five empty bottles out on the sly. When the
steamed sturgeon is served, Marfutkin remembers that he has left his cigar
case in his sledge and goes to the stable. That he may not be lonely on this
expedition, he takes with him the deacon, who appropriately feels it necessary
to have a look at his horse. . . .
On the evening of the same day, Lyubov Petrovna is sitting in her study, writing
a letter to an old friend in Petersburg:
"To-day, as in past years," she writes among other things, "I had a memorial
service for my dear husband. All my neighbours came to the service. They are
a simple, rough set, but what hearts! I gave them a splendid lunch, but of
course, as in previous years, without a drop of alcoholic liquor. Ever since he
died from excessive drinking I have vowed to establish temperance in this
district and thereby to expiate his sins. I have begun the campaign for
temperance at my own house. Father Yevmeny is delighted with my efforts,
and helps me both in word and deed. Oh, ma chre, if you knew how fond my
bears are of me! The president of the Zemstvo, Marfutkin, kissed my hand
after lunch, held it a long while to his lips, and, wagging his head in an absurd
way, burst into tears: so much feeling but no words! Father Yevmeny, that
delightful little old man, sat down by me, and looking tearfully at me kept
babbling something like a child. I did not understand what he said, but I know
how to understand true feeling. The police captain, the handsome man of
whom I wrote to you, went down on his knees to me, tried to read me some
verses of his own composition (he is a poet), but . . . his feelings were too
much for him, he lurched and fell over . . . that huge giant went into hysterics,
you can imagine my delight! The day did not pass without a hitch, however.
Poor Alalykin, the president of the judges' assembly, a stout and apoplectic
man, was overcome by illness and lay on the sofa in a state of
unconsciousness for two hours. We had to pour water on him. . . . I am
thankful to Doctor Dvornyagin: he had brought a bottle of brandy from his
dispensary and he moistened the patient's temples, which quickly revived him,
and he was able to be moved. . . ."

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Gelikonsky, the elementary schoolmaster, a young man with big pimples on

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