HUSH!
Anton Chekhov
IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide. Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging his sister:
"Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart . . . and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears at the word of command when his heart is light? I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish!"
He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes. . . . Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.
"Nadya," he says, "I am sitting down to write. . . . Please don't let anyone interrupt me. I can't write with children crying or cooks snoring. . . . See, too, that there's tea and . . . steak or something. . . . You know that I can't write without tea. . . . Tea is the one thing that gives me the energy for my work."
Returning to his room he takes off his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He does this very slowly; then, assuming an expression of injured innocence, he sits down to his table.
There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table, down to the veriest trifle everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned programme. Little busts and photographs of distinguished writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down, part of a skull by way of an ash-tray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word "disgraceful." There are a dozen sharply-pointed pencils and several penholders fitted with new nibs, put in readiness that no accidental breaking of a pen may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.
Ivan Yegoritch throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates himself on his subject. He hears his wife shuffling about in her slippers and splitting shavings to heat the samovar. She is hardly awake, that is apparent from the way the knife and the lid of the samovar keep dropping from her hands. Soon the hissing of the samovar and the spluttering of the frying meat reaches him. His wife is still splitting shavings and rattling with the doors and blowers of the stove.
All at once Ivan Yegoritch starts, opens frightened eyes, and begins to sniff the air.
"Heavens! the stove is smoking!" he groans, grimacing with a face of agony. "Smoking! That insufferable woman makes a point of trying to poison me! How, in God's Name, am I to write in such surroundings, kindly tell me that?"
He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical wail. When a little later, his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him in a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his article. He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife's presence. . . . His face wears an expression of injured innocence.
Like a girl who has been presented with a costly fan, he spends a long time coquetting, grimacing, and posing to himself before he writes the title. . . . He presses his temples, he wriggles, and draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes languidly like a cat on the sofa. At last, not without hesitation, he stretches out his hand towards the inkstand, and with an expression as though he were signing a death-warrant, writes the title. . . .
"Mammy, give me some water!" he hears his son's voice.
"Hush!" says his mother. "Daddy's writing! Hush!"
Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses, he has scarcely time to turn over the pages. The busts and portraits of celebrated authors look at his swiftly racing pen and, keeping stock still, seem to be thinking: "Oh my, how you are going it!"
"Sh!" squeaks the pen.
"Sh!" whisper the authors, when his knee jolts the table and they are set trembling.
All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens. . . . He hears an even monotonous whispering. . . . It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger in the next room, saying his prayers.
"I say!" cries Krasnyhin. "Couldn't you, please, say your prayers more quietly? You prevent me from writing!"
"Very sorry. . . ." Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch.
"Goodness, three o'clock already," he moans. "Other people are asleep while I . . . I alone must work!"
Shattered and exhausted he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:
"Nadya, get me some more tea! I . . . feel weak."
He writes till four o'clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. And how different is this despot here at home from the humble, meek, dull-witted little man we are accustomed to see in the editor's offices!
"I am so exhausted that I am afraid I shan't sleep . . ." he says as he gets into bed. "Our work, this cursed, ungrateful hard labour, exhausts the soul even more than the body. . . . I had better take some bromide. . . . God knows, if it were not for my family I'd throw up the work. . . . To write to order! It is awful."
He sleeps till twelve or one o'clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep. . . . Ah! how he would sleep, what dreams he would have, how he would spread himself if he were to become a well-known writer, an editor, or even a sub-editor!
"He has been writing all night," whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. "Sh!"
No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.
"Hush!" floats over the flat. "Hush!"
Anton Chekhov
IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide. Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging his sister:
"Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart . . . and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears at the word of command when his heart is light? I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish!"
He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes. . . . Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.
"Nadya," he says, "I am sitting down to write. . . . Please don't let anyone interrupt me. I can't write with children crying or cooks snoring. . . . See, too, that there's tea and . . . steak or something. . . . You know that I can't write without tea. . . . Tea is the one thing that gives me the energy for my work."
Returning to his room he takes off his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He does this very slowly; then, assuming an expression of injured innocence, he sits down to his table.
There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table, down to the veriest trifle everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned programme. Little busts and photographs of distinguished writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down, part of a skull by way of an ash-tray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word "disgraceful." There are a dozen sharply-pointed pencils and several penholders fitted with new nibs, put in readiness that no accidental breaking of a pen may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.
Ivan Yegoritch throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates himself on his subject. He hears his wife shuffling about in her slippers and splitting shavings to heat the samovar. She is hardly awake, that is apparent from the way the knife and the lid of the samovar keep dropping from her hands. Soon the hissing of the samovar and the spluttering of the frying meat reaches him. His wife is still splitting shavings and rattling with the doors and blowers of the stove.
All at once Ivan Yegoritch starts, opens frightened eyes, and begins to sniff the air.
"Heavens! the stove is smoking!" he groans, grimacing with a face of agony. "Smoking! That insufferable woman makes a point of trying to poison me! How, in God's Name, am I to write in such surroundings, kindly tell me that?"
He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical wail. When a little later, his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him in a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his article. He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife's presence. . . . His face wears an expression of injured innocence.
Like a girl who has been presented with a costly fan, he spends a long time coquetting, grimacing, and posing to himself before he writes the title. . . . He presses his temples, he wriggles, and draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes languidly like a cat on the sofa. At last, not without hesitation, he stretches out his hand towards the inkstand, and with an expression as though he were signing a death-warrant, writes the title. . . .
"Mammy, give me some water!" he hears his son's voice.
"Hush!" says his mother. "Daddy's writing! Hush!"
Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses, he has scarcely time to turn over the pages. The busts and portraits of celebrated authors look at his swiftly racing pen and, keeping stock still, seem to be thinking: "Oh my, how you are going it!"
"Sh!" squeaks the pen.
"Sh!" whisper the authors, when his knee jolts the table and they are set trembling.
All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens. . . . He hears an even monotonous whispering. . . . It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger in the next room, saying his prayers.
"I say!" cries Krasnyhin. "Couldn't you, please, say your prayers more quietly? You prevent me from writing!"
"Very sorry. . . ." Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch.
"Goodness, three o'clock already," he moans. "Other people are asleep while I . . . I alone must work!"
Shattered and exhausted he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:
"Nadya, get me some more tea! I . . . feel weak."
He writes till four o'clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. And how different is this despot here at home from the humble, meek, dull-witted little man we are accustomed to see in the editor's offices!
"I am so exhausted that I am afraid I shan't sleep . . ." he says as he gets into bed. "Our work, this cursed, ungrateful hard labour, exhausts the soul even more than the body. . . . I had better take some bromide. . . . God knows, if it were not for my family I'd throw up the work. . . . To write to order! It is awful."
He sleeps till twelve or one o'clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep. . . . Ah! how he would sleep, what dreams he would have, how he would spread himself if he were to become a well-known writer, an editor, or even a sub-editor!
"He has been writing all night," whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. "Sh!"
No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.
"Hush!" floats over the flat. "Hush!"
هیس!
ایوان یگوریچ کراسنیان(1) که یک روز نامه نگار درجه چهار است,خسته و مکدر و با حالتی که نشان از تمرکزی خاص داشت شب هنگام به خانه برگشت.درست مثل کسی بود که انتظار حمله پلیس یا فکر خود کشی را درسر دارد.همان طور که نزدیک اتاقش شد ناگهان ایستاد و دستی به موهایش کشید و مثل لائرتیس(2)که از قصد انتقام با خواهرش حرف می زد,گفت:
خسته و کوفته,درب و داغون و با کوله باری سنگین از رنج و بدبختی که در قلبم خانه کرده است و...تازه حالا بیا بنشین و بنویس.به اینم میگن زندگی!آخر چطور هیچ کس نمی تواند این ناسازگاری دردناک در روح یک نویسنده که مجبور است زمانی که دلش گرفته مردم را سرگرم کند یا زمانی که خوشحال است اشک مردم را دربیاورد,شرح دهد؟من باید بی خیال و شوخ و سرزنده باشم.اما وقتی که بار غم به دوشم سنگینی می کند یا مریض هستم یا بچه ام در حال تلف شدن یا زنم هراسان و سراسیمه است,باید چه کار کنم!
این را گفت و مشت هایش را در هوا تابی داد و نگاهش را به سویی افکند و...سپس به تخت خواب رفت و همسرش را بیدار کرد:
نادیا,می خواهم مطلب بنویسم...لطفا اجازه نده کسی مزاحم من بشود.نمی توانم با صدای گریه بچه ها یا صدای جوش آمدن غذای روی اجاق چیزی بنویسم...گرفتی که...پس چای و استیک یا یک چیز دیگر را برای من آماده کن.می دانی که نمی توانم بدون چای بنویسم.تنها چیزی که به من برای کار انرژی می دهد,چای است.
به اتاقش برگشت,کت و جلیقه و چکمه هایش را به آرامی درآورد.سپس,حس و حال یک مجروح بیگناه را به خود گرفت و پشت میزش نشست.
روی میز تحریر او وسیله ای اضافی یا بی استفاده وجود ندارد.گذشته از چیزهای کم اهمیت و جزئی,همه چیز نشان از یک برنامه مشخص و هدف دارو سختگیرانه را دارد.نیم تنه و عکس هایی کوچک از نویسندگان مشهور,انبوهی از نوشته های درهم برهم,یک جلد از کتاب های بایلینسکی(3)با صفحه ای که تا شده بود,بخشی از جمجمه که نقش یک زیر سیگاری را ایفا می کند,روزنامه ای مچاله شده که علی رغم مچاله بودن مطلبی را به واضحی نشان می دهد که بالای آن با خطی درشت کلمه "شرم آور" را نوشته اند.یک دوجین مداد تراشیده شده و چندین جا قلمی پر از قلم های نو که در آمادگی به سر می برند تا شکستن اتفاقی یک قلم,حتی لحظه ای از پرواز تخیل خلاق او را به وقفه نیندازد.
ایوان یگوریچ خودش را به روی صندلی انداخت و چشمان خود را برای تمرکز به روی موضوعش بست.صدای همسرش را می شنید که با دمپایی به این طرف و آن طرف می رود.تکه های چوب را زیر اجاق می ریزد تا سماور را روشن کند.معلوم بود که همسرش هنوز خوابالود است چون که در سماور و چاقو از دستش به زمین افتاد.کمی بعد صدای جوش آمدن آب داخل سماور و جیلیز و ویلیز گوشت سرخ شده به گوش رسید.همسرش هنوز مشغول ریختن چوب بود تا با کمک دمنده آتش اجاق را زیاد کند.صدای غژغژ لولاهای در هنگام باز و بسته شدن آن نیز به گوش می رسید.
ناگهان ایوان یگوریچ سراسیمه چشم هایش را باز کرد و شروع کرد به فین فین کردن.
سپس ناله کنان گفت:وای خدا!اجاق داره دود می کنه!و با چهره اش نشان داد که در رنج و عذاب است. "دود" این زن غیر قابل تحمل با این کارهایش قصد مسموم کردن مرا دارد.به خاطر خدا به من بگویید که چگونه در چنین محیطی توان نوشتن را دارم؟ آخر چگونه!
به سمت آشپزخانه هجوم برد و داد و قالی تماشایی به راه انداخت.چند لحظه بعد,همسرش آرام آرام و در حالی که با نوک پنجه راه می رفت برای او لیوانی چای برد.اما او در صندلی راحتی خود نشسته بود و با چشمانی بسته مجذوب مقاله اش شده بود.تکانی نمی خورد و به آرامی با دو انگشت به روی پیشانی خود ضرب می زد و وانمود می کرد که از حضور همسرش آگاه نیست و...چهره اش حس و حال یک مجروح بیگناه را در خود داشت.
قبل از اینکه عنوان را بنویسد,مانند دختری که همراهش یک بادبزن گران قیمت است بیشتر وقت خود را صرف عشوه ریختن و شکلک درآوردن یا ژست گرفتن برای خود می کند.شقیقه هایش را می فشارد,وول می خورد وپاهایش را طوری از زیر صندلی بالا می آورد که گویی درد شدیدی دارد.یا اینکه با چشمان نیمه باز و بی حال خود را شبیه به گربه ای روی کاناپه می کند.در آخر با درنگی طولانی دستش را به سمت دوات برده و با حالتی که گویی در حال امضای یک حکم مرگ است,عنوان را می نویسد...
صدای پسرش را می شنود که می گوید:مامان,یه کم آب به من بده!
مادرش می گوید:هیس!بابا داره می نویسه!هیس...
بابا تند تند می نویسد,بدون مکث و غلط.به ندرت وقت ورق زدن را پیدا می کند.نیم تنه ها و پرتره های نویسنده های مشهور به این حرکت سریع قلم نگاه می کنند و خشکشان می زند.گویی در این فکر هستند که: اه,خدای من چطوری از پسش بر میای؟
قلم جیرجیر می کند. "شششششش!"
زمانی که زانوی او به میز می خورد و همه میز را به لرزش در می آورد,نویسنده ها در گوش هم نجوایی می کنند. "شششششش!"
ناگهان کراسنیان دست از نوشتن بر می دارد,قلمش را زمین می گذارد و گوش می دهد.زمزمه ای یکنواخت و آرام را می شنود.این صدای فوما نیکولائویچ(4)است.مستاجر اتاق کناری که در حال خواندن دعا است.
کراسنیان فریاد می زند:گفتم که...! خواهش می کنم اگر می شود کمی آرام تر دعا بخوان.تو مانع نوشتن من هستی!
فوما نیکولائویچ با کمرویی جواب می دهد: خیلی متاسفم که...
شششششش!
بعد از پر کردن پنج صفحه,کراسنیان حرکتی به خود داد و نگاهی به ساعتش انداخت.سپس ناله کنان گفت:خدای من!ساعت سه است.زمانی که من باید تنها...تنها کار کنم بقیه مردم در خوابند.
خسته و کوفته و با سری افتاده به سوی همسرش رفت تا او را بیدار کند و با لحنی بی حال گفت:نادیا باز هم به من چای بده!احساس ضعف دارم...
او تا ساعت چهار صبح به نوشتن ادامه داد و اگر مطالبش تمام نشده بود تا ساعت شش هم به نوشتن ادامه می داد.در حالی که برای خود و اشیا بیجان اطرافش عشوه گری می کرد و شکلک درمی آورد و دور از هر گونه چشم منتقد و بی ملاحظه بر لانه کوچک مورچه ای که سرنوشت در اختیارش قرار داده بود,سلطه داشت و ستم می کرد.شیرینی ها و تلخی های وجودش نیز همراه آن بود.و چقدر این حاکم ستمگر در این خانه با آن مرد کوچک کودن افتاده فروتن که ما در دفتر سردبیر دیده بودیم متفاوت است.
در حالی که به تخت خواب خویش می رفت,گفت:این قدر خسته ام که می ترسم خوابم نبرد...این کار لعنتی نمک به حرام ,این بیگاری,روح را بیشتر از جسم از پای در می آورد...بهتره که یک کم برمید(5) بخورم... خدا می داند که اگر برای خانواده ام نبود,دست از این کار بر می داشتم...طبق دستور نوشتن,از این بدتر نمی شود.
او تا ساعت دوازده یا یک ظهر خوابید,راحت خوابید,یک خواب راحت و کامل... آه!چطور می تواند بخوابد,چه رویایی می بیند,اگر یک نویسنده مشهور یا یک سردبیر و یا حتی یک معاون سردبیر بشود,چگونه می خواهد خود را به همگان معرفی کند؟
همسرش با حالتی مقدس که به خود گرفته است می گوید: او تمام شب را مشغول نوشتن بوده است. شششششش!
هیچ کس جرات حرف زدن یا حرکت کردن یا حتی صدا درآوردن را ندارد,خواب او چیزی مقدس است و کسی که در برابر آن خطا کند گناهکار است و باید برای گناه خود جزای سنگینی بپردازد.
نوای هیس!هیس!در فضای خانه می خرامد.
1886
پانوشت ها:
1-Ivan Yegoritch Krasnyhin
2-Laertes, برادر افلیا (معشوقه هملت)در تراژدی هملت,نوشته ویلیام شکسپیر
3-Byelinsky منتقد و روزنامه نگار روسی 1811-1848
4-Foma Nikolaevitch
5-Bromideبرمید پتاسیم که در قرن نوزدهم به عنوان داروی مسکن مورد استفاده قرار می گرفته است.
اثر آنتون چخوف
ترجمه Motarjemonline
منبع
motarjemonline.com
