A Trifle From Life
Anton Chekhov
A WELL-FED, red-cheeked young man called Nikolay Ilyitch Belyaev, of thirty-two, who
was an owner of house property in Petersburg, and a devotee of the race-course, went one
evening to see Olga Ivanovna Irnin, with whom he was living, or, to use his own
expression, was dragging out a long, wearisome romance. And, indeed, the first interesting
and enthusiastic pages of this romance had long been perused; now the pages dragged on,
and still dragged on, without presenting anything new or of interest.
Not finding Olga Ivanovna at home, my hero lay down on the lounge chair and proceeded
to wait for her in the drawing-room.
"Good-evening, Nikolay Ilyitch!" he heard a child's voice. "Mother will be here directly.
She has gone with Sonia to the dressmaker's."
Olga Ivanovna's son, Alyosha -- a boy of eight who looked graceful and very well cared for,
who was dressed like a picture, in a black velvet jacket and long black stockings -- was
lying on the sofa in the same room. He was lying on a satin cushion and, evidently imitating
an acrobat he had lately seen at the circus, stuck up in the air first one leg and then the
other. When his elegant legs were exhausted, he brought his arms into play or jumped up
impulsively and went on all fours, trying to stand with his legs in the air. All this he was
doing with the utmost gravity, gasping and groaning painfully as though he regretted that
God had given him such a restless body.
"Ah, good-evening, my boy," said Belyaev. "It's you! I did not notice you. Is your mother
well?"
Alyosha, taking hold of the tip of his left toe with his right hand and falling into the most
unnatural attitude, turned over, jumped up, and peeped at Belyaev from behind the big
fluffy lampshade.
"What shall I say?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "In reality mother's never well. You
see, she is a woman, and women, Nikolay Ilyitch, have always something the matter with
them."
Belyaev, having nothing better to do, began watching Alyosha's face. He had never before
during the whole of his intimacy with Olga Ivanovna paid any attention to the boy, and had
completely ignored his existence; the boy had been before his eyes, but he had not cared to
think why he was there and what part he was playing.
In the twilight of the evening, Alyosha's face, with his white forehead and black, unblinking
eyes, unexpectedly reminded Belyaev of Olga Ivanovna as she had been during the first
pages of their romance. And he felt disposed to be friendly to the boy.
"Come here, insect," he said; "let me have a closer look at you."