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The Marshal's Widow
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,
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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
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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 chère, 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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