Anton Pavlovich Chekhov 



   Oysters

    I need no great effort of memory to recall,  in  every  detail,  the  rainy 
autumn evening when I stood with my  father  in  one  of  the  more  frequented 
streets of Moscow, and felt that I was gradually being overcome  by  a  strange 
illness. I had no pain at all, but my legs were giving way under me, the  words 
stuck in my throat, my head slipped weakly on one side... It seemed as  though, 
in a moment, I must fall down and lose consciousness. 
    If I had been taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctors would  have 
had to write over my bed: Fames, a disease which  is  not  in  the  manuals  of 
medicine.
    Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoat and a 
serge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was sticking out. On his  feet  he 
had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, that people would see that  his  feet 
were bare under his goloshes, he had drawn the tops of some old boots up  round 
the calves of his legs.
    This poor, foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly  the  more 
ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had  come  to  Moscow,  five 
months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk. For those five months he had 
been trudging about Moscow looking for work, and it was only on that  day  that 
he had brought himself to go into the street to beg for alms.
    Before us was a big house of three storeys, adorned with a  blue  signboard 
with the word "Restaurant" on it. My head was drooping feebly backwards and  on 
one side, and I could not help looking upwards at the lighted  windows  of  the 
restaurant. Human figures were flitting about at the windows. I could  see  the 
right side of the orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging  lamps...  Staring  into
one window, I saw  a  patch  of  white.  The  patch  was  motionless,  and  its 
rectangular outlines stood out sharply  against  the  dark,  brown  background. 
I looked intently and made out of the  patch  a  white  placard  on  the  wall. 
Something was written on it, but what it was, I could not see...
    For half an hour I kept my eyes on the  placard.  Its  white  attracted  my 
eyes, and, as it were, hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it, but my  efforts 
were in vain.
    At last the strange disease got the upper hand.
    The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder, in  the  stench  of 
the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The  restaurant  lights  and  the 
lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My  five  senses  were  overstrained  and 
sensitive beyond the normal. I began to see what I had not seen before.
    "Oysters..." I made out on the placard.
    A strange word! I had lived in the world eight years and three months,  but 
had never come across that word. What did it mean? Surely it was not  the  name 
of the restaurant-keeper?  But  signboards  with  names  on  them  always  hang 
outside, not on the walls indoors!
    "Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I asked  in  a  husky  voice,  making  an 
effort to turn my face towards my father.
    My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch  on  the  movements  of  the 
crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes... From his eyes I saw  that 
he wanted to say something to the passers-by, but  the  fatal  word  hung  like 
a heavy weight on his trembling lips and could not be flung off. He even took a 
step after one passer-by and touched him on the  sleeve,  but  when  he  turned 
round, he said, "I beg your pardon," was overcome with confusion, and staggered
back.
    "Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated.
    "It is an animal... that lives in the sea."
    I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal... I  thought  it 
must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the sea they 
made of it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel 
leaves, or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and  cabbage,  or  crayfish 
sauce, or served it cold with  horse-radish...  I  vividly  imagined  it  being 
brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly  put  in  the  pot,  quickly, 
quickly, for everyone was hungry... awfully hungry! From the kitchen  rose  the 
smell of hot fish and crayfish soup.
    I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and  nostrils,  that  it  was 
gradually taking possession of my whole body... The restaurant, my father,  the 
white placard, my sleeves were all smelling of it, smelling  so  strongly  that 
I began to chew. I moved my jaws and swallowed as though I really had  a  piece 
of this marine animal in my mouth...
    My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and I  clutched 
at my father's arm to keep myself from  falling,  and  leant  against  his  wet 
summer overcoat. My father was trembling and shivering. He was cold...
    "Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?" I asked.
    "They are eaten  alive..."  said  my  father.  "They  are  in  shells  like 
tortoises, but... in two halves."
    The delicious smell instantly left  off  affecting  me,  and  the  illusion
vanished... Now I understood it all!
    "How nasty," I whispered, "how nasty!"
    So that's what "oysters" meant!  I  imagined  to  myself  a  creature  like 
a frog. A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from  it  with  big,  glittering 
eyes, and moving its revolting jaws. I imagined this creature in a  shell  with 
claws, glittering eyes, and a slimy skin, being brought from the market...  The 
children would all hide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust,  would 
take the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into the dining-
room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alive with its  eyes,  its 
teeth, its legs! While it squeaked and tried to bite their lips...
    I frowned, but... but why did my teeth move as though I were munching?  The 
creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible, but I ate it,  ate  it  greedily, 
afraid of distinguishing its taste or smell. As soon as I had eaten one, I  saw 
the glittering eyes of a second, a third... I ate them too... At last I ate the
table-napkin, the plate, my father's  goloshes,  the  white  placard...  I  ate 
everything that caught my eye, because I felt that  nothing  but  eating  would 
take away my illness. The oysters had a terrible look in their  eyes  and  were 
loathsome. I shuddered at the thought of them, but I wanted to eat! To eat!
    "Oysters! Give me some oysters!"  was  the  cry  that  broke  from  me  and 
I stretched out my hand.
    "Help us, gentlemen!" I heard at that moment my father say, in a hollow and 
shaking voice. "I am ashamed to ask but - my God! - I can bear no more!"
    "Oysters!" I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat.
    "Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A  little  chap  like  you!"  I  heard 
laughter close to me.
    Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into my face and 
laughing.
    "Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That's interesting! How do  you  eat 
them?"
    I remember that a strong hand  dragged  me  into  the  lighted  restaurant. 
A minute later there was a crowd round  me,  watching  me  with  curiosity  and 
amusement. I sat at a table and ate something slimy, salt  with  a  flavour  of 
dampness and mouldiness. I ate greedily without chewing,  without  looking  and 
trying to discover what I was eating. I  fancied  that  if  I  opened  my  eyes 
I should see glittering eyes, claws, and sharp teeth.
    All  at  once  I  began  biting  something  hard,  there  was  a  sound  of 
a scrunching.
    "Ha, ha! He is eating the shells," laughed the crowd. "Little silly, do you 
suppose you can eat that?"
    After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed,  and  could 
not sleep for heartburn and the strange taste in my parched  mouth.  My  father 
was walking up and down, gesticulating with his hands.
    "I believe I have caught cold," he was muttering. "I've  a  feeling  in  my 
head as though someone were sitting on it...  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  have 
not... er... eaten anything to-day... I really am a queer,  stupid  creature... 
I saw those gentlemen pay ten roubles for the oysters. Why didn't I  go  up  to 
them and ask them... to lend me something? They would have given something."
    Towards morning, I fell asleep and dreamt of a frog  sitting  in  a  shell, 
moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst, and looked for my  father: 
he was still walking up and down and gesticulating.

    1884

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   Notes
    Fames: hunger (Latin). 

    Orchestrion:  musical instument similar to a barrel-organ that imitates the 
sounds of other instruments. 

    Oleographs: imitation oil paintings. 

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