The Schoolmaster and other stories - Penn State University

Anton TchekhovTHE MARSHAL’S WIDOWON THE FIRST of February every year, St. Trifon’s day,there is an extraordinary commotion on the estate ofMadame Zavzyatov, the widow of Trifon Lvovitch, thelate marshal of the district. On that day, the namedayof the deceased marshal, the widow Lyubov Petrovnahas a requiem service celebrated in his memory, and afterthe requiem a thanksgiving to the Lord. The wholedistrict assembles for the service. There you will seeHrumov the present marshal, Marfutkin, the presidentof the Zemstvo, Potrashkov, the permanent member ofthe Rural Board, the two justices of the peace of thedistrict, the police captain, Krinolinov, two police-superintendents,the district doctor, Dvornyagin, smellingof 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. Thereare carpets on the floor and their steps are noiseless, butthe solemnity of the occasion makes them instinctivelywalk on tip-toe, holding out their hands to balance themselves.In the hall everything is already prepared. FatherYevmeny, a little old man in a high faded cap, putson his black vestments. Konkordiev, the deacon, alreadyin his vestments, and as red as a crab, is noiselessly turningover the leaves of his missal and putting slips ofpaper in it. At the door leading to the vestibule, Luka,the sacristan, puffing out his cheeks and making roundeyes, blows up the censer. The hall is gradually filledwith bluish transparent smoke and the smell of incense.Gelikonsky, the elementary schoolmaster, a young manwith big pimples on his frightened face, wearing a newgreatcoat like a sack, carries round wax candles on asilver-plated tray. The hostess, Lyubov Petrovna, standsin the front by a little table with a dish of funeral riceon it, and holds her handkerchief in readiness to herface. There is a profound stillness, broken from time totime by sighs. Everybody has a long, solemn face….91