The Runaway

Anton Chekhov

IT had been a long business. At first Pashka had walked with his mother in the rain, at one

time across a mown field, then by forest paths, where the yellow leaves stuck to his boots;

he had walked until it was daylight. Then he had stood for two hours in the dark passage,

waiting for the door to open. It was not so cold and damp in the passage as in the yard, but

with the high wind spurts of rain flew in even there. When the passage gradually became

packed with people Pashka, squeezed among them, leaned his face against somebody's

sheepskin which smelt strongly of salt fish, and sank into a doze. But at last the bolt

clicked, the door flew open, and Pashka and his mother went into the waiting-room. All the

"Come and be registered!" he boomed out.

All of them, including the funny lad who hopped, filed up to the window. The assistant

asked each one his name, and his father's name, where he lived, how long he had been ill,

and so on. From his mother's answers, Pashka learned that his name was not Pashka, but

Pavel Galaktionov, that he was seven years old, that he could not read or write, and that he

had been ill ever since Easter.

Soon after the registration, he had to stand up for a little while; the doctor in a white apron,

with a towel round his waist, walked across the waiting-room. As he passed by the boy who

hopped, he shrugged his shoulders, and said in a sing-song tenor:

"Well, you are an idiot! Aren't you an idiot? I told you to come on Monday, and you come

The doctor began seeing the patients. He sat in his little room, and called up the patients in

turn. Sounds were continually coming from the little room, piercing wails, a child's crying,

or the doctor's angry words:

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Pashka's turn came.

"Pavel Galaktionov!" shouted the doctor.

His mother was aghast, as though she had not expected this summons, and taking Pashka by

the hand, she led him into the room.

The doctor was sitting at the table, mechanically tapping on a thick book with a little

hammer.

"What's wrong?" he asked, without looking at them.

"The little lad has an ulcer on his elbow, sir," answered his mother, and her face assumed an

expression as though she really were terribly grieved at Pashka's ulcer.

"Undress him!"

"You have grown quite a respectable corporation, brother Pashka," he said, and heaved a

sigh. "Come, show me your elbow."

Pashka looked sideways at the basin full of bloodstained slops, looked at the doctor's apron,

and began to cry.

"May-ay!" the doctor mimicked him. "Nearly old enough to be married, spoilt boy, and here

he is blubbering! For shame!"

Pashka, trying not to cry, looked at his mother, and in that look could be read the entreaty:

"Don't tell them at home that I cried at the hospital."

The doctor examined his elbow, pressed it, heaved a sigh, clicked with his lips, then pressed

it again.

had a pimple on your nose, you'd have run to the hospital quick enough, but you have left

The doctor lighted a cigarette. While the cigarette smoked, he scolded the woman, and

shook his head in time to the song he was humming inwardly, while he thought of

something else. Pashka stood naked before him, listening and looking at the smoke. When

the cigarette went out, the doctor started, and said in a lower tone:

"Well, listen, woman. You can do nothing with ointments and drops in this case. You must

leave him in the hospital."

"If necessary, sir, why not?

"We must operate on him. You stop with me, Pashka," said the doctor, slapping Pashka on

the shoulder. "Let mother go home, and you and I will stop here, old man. It's nice with me,

old boy, it's first-rate here. I'll tell you what we'll do, Pashka, we will go catching finches

together. I will show you a fox! We will go visiting together! Shall we? And mother will

Pashka looked inquiringly at his mother.

him upstairs!"

The doctor, apparently a light-hearted and friendly fellow, seemed glad to have company;

Pashka wanted to oblige him, especially as he had never in his life been to a fair, and would

have been glad to have a look at a live fox, but how could he do without his mother?

After a little reflection he decided to ask the doctor to let his mother stay in the hospital too,

but before he had time to open his mouth the lady assistant was already taking him upstairs.

He walked up and looked about him with his mouth open. The staircase, the floors, and the

and had a delicious smell of Lenten oil. On all sides lamps were hanging, strips of carpet

stretched along the floor, copper taps stuck out on the walls. But best of all Pashka liked the

the pillows and the coverlet with his hands, looked round the ward, and made up his mind

that it was very nice at the doctor's.

bundle of clothes under her arm.

"These are for you," she said, "put them on."

Pashka undressed and, not without satisfaction began attiring himself in his new array.

When he had put on the shirt, the drawers, and the little grey dressing-gown, he looked at

himself complacently, and thought that it would not be bad to walk through the village in

that costume. His imagination pictured his mother's sending him to the kitchen garden by

the river to gather cabbage leaves for the little pig; he saw himself walking along, while the

boys and girls surrounded him and looked with envy at his little dressing-gown.

A nurse came into the ward, bringing two tin bowls, two spoons, and two pieces of bread.

One bowl she set before the old man, the other before Pashka.

"Eat!" she said.

Looking into his bowl, Pashka saw some rich cabbage soup, and in the soup a piece of

the spoon after each mouthful, then when there was nothing left in the bowl but the meat he

This time there was roast meat with potatoes in the bowl.

"And where is the bread?" asked the nurse.

Instead of answering, Pashka puffed out his cheeks, and blew out the air.

"Why did you gobble it all up?" said the nurse reproachfully. "What are you going to eat

your meat with?"

and trying it now found it very nice. It vanished quickly, and then he had a piece of bread

left bigger than the first. When the old man had finished his dinner, he put away the remains

piece.

strange faces, in which it was hard to distinguish their features, they looked like heathen

"Auntie, why do they look like that?" Pashka asked the nurse.

"They have got smallpox, little lad."

Going back to his own ward, Pashka sat down on his bed and began waiting for the doctor

to come and take him to catch finches, or to go to the fair. But the doctor did not come. He

got a passing glimpse of a hospital assistant at the door of the next ward. He bent over the

patient on whose head lay a bag of ice, and cried: "Mihailo!"

But the sleeping man did not stir. The assistant made a gesture and went away. Pashka

scrutinised the old man, his next neighbour. The old man coughed without ceasing and spat

into a mug. His cough had a long-drawn-out, creaking sound.

Pashka liked one peculiarity about him; when he drew the air in as he coughed, something

"Grandfather, what is it whistles in you?" Pashka asked.

"What fox?"

"The live one."

"Where should it be? In the forest!"

A long time passed, but the doctor still did not appear. The nurse brought in tea, and

scolded Pashka for not having saved any bread for his tea; the assistant came once more and

set to work to wake Mihailo. It turned blue outside the windows, the wards were lighted up,

stretched himself on his bed and began thinking. He remembered the candy promised him

by the doctor, the face and voice of his mother, the darkness in his hut at home, the stove,

mother was coming for him next day, smiled, and shut his eyes.

and the skirt of his dressing-gown hung limply to the ground. A third -- it was the peasant

who looked like a woman -- crossed himself, and all three tramping clumsily with their feet

and stepping on Mihailo's skirts, went out of the ward.

There came the whistle and humming on different notes from the chest of the old man who

was asleep. Pashka listened, peeped at the dark windows, and jumped out of bed in terror.

"Ma-a-mka!" he moaned in a deep bass.

And without waiting for an answer, he rushed into the next ward. There the darkness was

dimly lighted up by a night-light and the ikon lamp; the patients, upset by the death of

Mihailo, were sitting on their bedsteads: their dishevelled figures, mixed up with the

shadows, looked broader, taller, and seemed to be growing bigger and bigger; on the

furthest bedstead in the corner, where it was darkest, there sat the peasant moving his head

and his hand.

corridor, from the corridor he flew into a big room where monsters, with long hair and the

The latch creaked, there was a whiff of cold wind, and Pashka, stumbling, ran out into the

yard. He had only one thought -- to run, to run! He did not know the way, but felt convinced

that if he ran he would be sure to find himself at home with his mother. The sky was

overcast, but there was a moon behind the clouds. Pashka ran from the steps straight

forward, went round the barn and stumbled into some thick bushes; after stopping for a

minute and thinking, he dashed back again to the hospital, ran round it, and stopped again

undecided; behind the hospital there were white crosses.

"Ma-a-mka! " he cried, and dashed back.

Running by the dark sinister buildings, he saw one lighted window.

knowing where to run, turned towards it. Beside the window was a porch with steps, and a

front door with a white board on it; Pashka ran up the steps, looked in at the window, and

one to do it."

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