Anton Pavlovich Chekhov 



   A Chameleon

    The police superintendent Otchumyelov is walking across the  market  square 
wearing a new overcoat and carrying  a  parcel  under  his  arm.  A  red-haired 
policeman  strides after him with a sieve full of confiscated  gooseberries  in 
his hands. There is silence all around. Not a soul in the  square...  The  open 
doors of the shops and taverns look out upon God's world  disconsolately,  like 
hungry mouths; there is not even a beggar near them. 
    "So you bite, you damned brute?" Otchumyelov hears suddenly.  "Lads,  don't 
let him go! Biting is prohibited nowadays! Hold him! ah ... ah!" 
    There is the sound of a dog yelping.  Otchumyelov looks in the direction of 
the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs and looking about her, run  out 
of Pitchugin's timber-yard.  A  man  in  a  starched  cotton  shirt,  with  his 
waistcoat unbuttoned, is chasing her. He runs after her, and throwing his  body 
forward falls down and seizes the dog by her hind  legs.  Once  more  there  is 
a yelping and a shout of "Don't let go!" Sleepy countenances are protruded from 
the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have sprung out of  the  earth,  is 
gathered round the timber-yard. 
    "It looks like a row, your honour..." says the policeman. 
    Otchumyelov makes a half turn to the left and strides towards the crowd. He 
sees the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned waistcoat standing close  by  the 
gate of the timber-yard, holding his right  hand  in  the  air  and  displaying 
a bleeding finger to the crowd. On  his  half-drunken  face  there  is  plainly 
written: "I'll pay you out, you rogue!" and indeed the very finger has the look 
of a  flag  of  victory.  In  this  man  Otchumyelov  recognises  Hryukin,  the 
goldsmith. The culprit who has caused the sensation, a white borzoy puppy  with 
a sharp muzzle and a yellow patch on her back, is sitting on  the  ground  with 
her fore-paws outstretched in the middle of  the  crowd,  trembling  all  over. 
There is an expression of misery and terror in her tearful eyes. 
    "What's it all about?" Otchumyelov inquires, pushing his  way  through  the 
crowd. "What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger...?  Who  was  it 
shouted?" 
    "I was walking along here,  not  interfering  with  anyone,  your  honour," 
Hryukin begins, coughing into his fist.  "I was talking about firewood to Mitry 
Mitritch, when this low brute for no rhyme or reason bit my finger...  You must 
excuse me, I am a working man... Mine is fine work. I must  have  damages,  for 
I shan't be able to use this finger for a week, may be...  It's  not  even  the 
law, your honour, that one should put up with it from a beast... If everyone is 
going to be bitten, life won't be worth living..." 
    "H'm. Very good,"  says  Otchumyelov  sternly,  coughing  and  raising  his 
eyebrows. "Very good. Whose dog is it? I won't let this pass! I'll  teach  them 
to let their dogs run all over the place! It's time these  gentry  were  looked 
after, if they won't obey the regulations! When  he's  fined,  the  blackguard, 
I'll teach him what it means to keep dogs and such stray cattle!  I'll give him 
a lesson!... Yeldyrin," cries the  superintendent,  addressing  the  policeman, 
"find out whose dog this is  and  draw  up  a  report!  And  the  dog  must  be 
strangled. Without delay! It's sure to be mad... Whose dog is it, I ask?" 
    "I fancy it's General Zhigalov's," says someone in the crowd. 
    "General Zhigalov's, h'm... Help me off  with  my  coat,  Yeldyrin...  it's 
frightfully hot! It must be a sign of rain... There's one thing  I  can't  make 
out, how it came to  bite  you?"  Otchumyelov  turns  to  Hryukin.  "Surely  it 
couldn't reach your finger. It's a little dog, and  you  are  a  great  hulking 
fellow! You must have scratched your finger with a  nail,  and  then  the  idea 
struck you to get damages for it. We all know... your sort! I know you devils!" 
    "He put a cigarette in her face, your honour, for a joke, and she  had  the 
sense to snap at him... He is a nonsensical fellow, your honour!" 
    "That's a lie, Squinteye! You didn't see, so why tell lies  about  it?  His 
honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is telling lies and who is telling 
the truth, as in God's sight... And if I am lying let the  court  decide.  It's 
written in the law... We are all equal nowadays.  My  own  brother  is  in  the 
gendarmes... let me tell you..." 
    "Don't argue!" 
    "No, that's not the General's  dog,"  says  the  policeman,  with  profound 
conviction, "the General hasn't got one like that. His are mostly setters." 
    "Do you know that for a fact?" 
    "Yes, your honour." 
    "I know it, too. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, and  this  is 
goodness knows what! No coat, no shape... A low creature. And  to  keep  a  dog 
like that!... where's the sense of it. If a dog like that were to  turn  up  in 
Petersburg or Moscow, do you know what would happen? They would not worry about 
the law, they would strangle it in a twinkling! You've been  injured,  Hryukin, 
and we can't let the matter drop... We must give them  a  lesson!  It  is  high 
time...!" 
    "Yet maybe it is the General's," says the policeman, thinking aloud.  "It's 
not written on its face... I saw one like it the other day in his yard." 
    "It is the General's, that's certain! " says a voice in the crowd. 
    "H'm, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad... the  wind's  getting 
up... I am cold... You take it to the General's, and inquire there. Say I found 
it and sent it. And tell them not to let it out into the street...  It  may  be 
a valuable dog, and if every swine goes sticking a cigar in its mouth, it  will 
soon be ruined. A dog is a delicate animal... And you put your hand  down,  you 
blockhead. It's no use your displaying your fool of a  finger.  It's  your  own 
fault..." 
    "Here comes the General's cook, ask him... Hi, Prohor! Come here,  my  dear 
man! Look at this dog... Is it one of yours?" 
    "What an idea! We have never had one like that!" 
    "There's no need to waste time asking," says  Otchumyelov.  "It's  a  stray 
dog! There's no need to waste time talking  about  it...  Since  he  says  it's 
a stray dog, a stray dog it is... It must be destroyed, that's all about it." 
    "It is not our dog," Prohor goes on. "It belongs to the General's  brother, 
who arrived the other day. Our master does not care for hounds. But his  honour 
is fond of them..." 
    "You don't say  his  Excellency's  brother  is  here?  Vladimir  Ivanitch?" 
inquires Otchumyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstatic smile. "Well, I 
never! And I didn't know! Has he come on a visit?" 
    "Yes." 
    "Well, I never... He couldn't stay  away  from  his  brother...  And  there 
I didn't know! So this is his honour's dog? Delighted to hear  it...  Take  it. 
It's not a bad pup... A lively creature... Snapped  at  this  fellow's  finger! 
Ha-ha-ha... Come, why are you shivering? Rrr... Rrrr...  The  rogue's  angry... 
a nice little pup." 
    Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the  timber-yard  with  her.  The 
crowd laughs at Hryukin. 
    "I'll make you smart yet!" Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping  himself 
in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square. 

    1884

_______________________________________________________________________________

   Notes
    Otchumyelov: the name is similar to ochumely, crazed. 

    Hryukin:  usually   tranliterated   as   Khryukin;   khryu-khryu   is   the 
representation in Russian of a pig's grunt. 

_______________________________________________________________________________