Anton Pavlovich Chekhov 



   Panic Fears

    During  all  the  years  I have been living in this world I have only three
times been terrified.
    The first real terror, which made my hair stand on end and made shivers run
all  over me, was caused by a trivial but strange phenomenon. It happened that,
having  nothing  to  do  one  July  evening,  I  drove  to  the station for the
newspapers.  It  was  a  still,  warm,  almost  sultry  evening, like all those
monotonous  evenings  in  July  which,  when once they have set in, go on for a
week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, in regular unbroken succession, and are
suddenly cut short by a violent thunderstorm and a lavish downpour of rain that
refreshes everything for a long time.
    The  sun  had  set some time before, and an unbroken gray dusk lay all over
the land. The mawkishly sweet scents of the grass and flowers were heavy in the
motionless, stagnant air.
    I was driving in a rough trolley. Behind my back the gardener's son Pashka,
a  boy  of eight years old, whom I had taken with me to look after the horse in
case of necessity, was gently snoring, with his head on a sack of oats. Our way
lay  along  a  narrow  by-road, straight as a ruler, which lay hid like a great
snake  in  the  tall  thick  rye.  There was a pale light from the afterglow of
sunset;  a streak of light cut its way through a narrow, uncouth-looking cloud,
which seemed sometimes like  a  boat  and  sometimes  like  a  man wrapped  in 
a quilt...
    I  had  driven  a  mile  and  a  half,  or two miles, when against the pale
background  of  the  evening  glow there came into sight one after another some
graceful  tall  poplars;  a river glimmered beyond them, and a gorgeous picture
suddenly, as though by magic, lay stretched before me. I had to stop the horse,
for our straight road broke off abruptly and ran down a steep incline overgrown
with  bushes. We were standing on the hillside and beneath us at the bottom lay
a  huge hole full of twilight, of fantastic shapes, and of space. At the bottom
of  this  hole,  in  a  wide  plain  guarded by the poplars and caressed by the
gleaming  river, nestled a village. It was now sleeping... Its huts, its church
with  the  belfry,  its  trees,  stood  out  against the gray twilight and were
reflected darkly in the smooth surface of the river.
    I waked Pashka for fear he should fall out and began cautiously going down.
    "Have we got to Lukovo?" asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily.
    "Yes. Hold the reins!.."
    I  led  the  horse  down  the  hill and looked at the village. At the first
glance  one  strange  circumstance  caught my attention: at the very top of the
belfry,  in  the  tiny  window  between  the  cupola and the bells, a light was
twinkling.  This  light was like that of a smoldering lamp, at one moment dying
down,  at another flickering up. What could it come from? Its source was beyond
my comprehension. It could not be burning at the window, for there were neither
ikons  nor lamps in the top turret of the belfry; there was nothing there, as I
knew,  but  beams,  dust,  and spiders' webs. It was hard to climb up into that
turret, for the passage to it from the belfry was closely blocked up.
    It  was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of some outside
light,  but  though I strained my eyes to the utmost, I could not see one other
speck  of  light in the vast expanse that lay before me. There was no moon. The
pale  and,  by  now,  quite  dim  streak  of  the afterglow could not have been
reflected,  for  the  window looked not to the west, but to the east. These and
other similar considerations were straying through my mind all the while that I
was  going  down  the  slope  with  the  horse. At the bottom I sat down by the
roadside and looked again at the light. As before it was glimmering and flaring
up.
    "Strange," I thought, lost in conjecture. "Very strange."
    And  little  by  little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At first I
thought  that  this  was  vexation  at  not  being  able  to  explain  a simple
phenomenon;  but  afterwards,  when  I  suddenly  turned away from the light in
horror  and  caught  hold  of  Pashka with one hand, it became clear that I was
overcome with terror...
    I  was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery, and horror, as though I
had been flung down against my will into this great hole full of shadows, where
I was standing all alone with the belfry looking at me with its red eye.
    "Pashka!" I cried, closing my eyes in horror.
    "Well?"
    "Pashka, what's that gleaming on the belfry?"
    Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn.
    "Who can tell?"
    This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, but not for
long.  Pashka,  seeing  my  uneasiness,  fastened  his big eyes upon the light,
looked at me again, then again at the light...
    "I am frightened," he whispered.
    At this point, beside myself with terror, I clutched the boy with one hand,
huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash.
    "It's  stupid!" I said to myself. "That phenomenon is only terrible because
I don't understand it; everything we don't understand is mysterious."
    I  tried  to  persuade  myself,  but  at  the same time I did not leave off
lashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I purposely stayed for a
full hour chatting with the overseer, and read through two or three newspapers,
but  the  feeling of uneasiness did not leave me. On the way back the light was
not  to  be  seen,  but  on  the other hand the silhouettes of the huts, of the
poplars,  and  of  the  hill  up  which  I had to drive, seemed to me as though
animated. And why the light was there I don't know to this day.
    The  second  terror  I  experienced  was  excited by a circumstance no less
trivial...  I  was  returning  from a romantic interview. It was one o'clock at
night,  the  time  when nature is buried in the soundest, sweetest sleep before
the dawn. That time nature was not sleeping, and one could not call the night a
still  one.  Corncrakes,  quails,  nightingales,  and  woodcocks  were calling,
crickets  and  grasshoppers  were  chirruping.  There was a light mist over the
grass,  and  clouds were scurrying straight ahead across the sky near the moon.
Nature was awake, as though afraid of missing the best moments of her life.
    I  walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway embankment. The
moonlight  glided  over  the  lines  which were already covered with dew. Great
shadows  from  the  clouds  kept flitting over the embankment. Far ahead, a dim
green light was glimmering peacefully.
    "So everything is well," I thought, looking at them.
    I  had  a quiet, peaceful, comfortable feeling in my heart. I was returning
from  a tryst, I had no need to hurry; I was not sleepy, and I was conscious of
youth  and  health in every sigh, every step I took, rousing a dull echo in the
monotonous  hum  of  the  night.  I  don't  know what I was feeling then, but I
remember I was happy, very happy.
    I  had  gone  not  more than three-quarters of a mile when I suddenly heard
behind  me  a  monotonous  sound,  a  rumbling, rather like the roar of a great
stream.  It grew louder and louder every second, and sounded nearer and nearer.
I  looked  round;  a  hundred paces from me was the dark copse from which I had
only  just  come;  there the embankment turned to the right in a graceful curve
and  vanished  among  the trees. I stood still in perplexity and waited. A huge
black  body  appeared  at once at the turn, noisily darted towards me, and with
the  swiftness  of a bird flew past me along the rails. Less than half a minute
passed  and the blur had vanished, the rumble melted away into the noise of the
night.
    It  was  an  ordinary  goods  truck. There was nothing peculiar about it in
itself, but its appearance without an engine and in the night puzzled me. Where
could  it  have  come  from  and what force sent it flying so rapidly along the
rails? Where did it come from and where was it flying to?
    If I had been superstitious I should have made up my mind it was a party of
demons  and witches journeying to a devils' sabbath, and should have gone on my
way; but as it was, the phenomenon was absolutely inexplicable to me. I did not
believe  my  eyes,  and  was  entangled in conjectures like a fly in a spider's
web...
    I  suddenly realized that I was utterly alone on the whole vast plain; that
the  night,  which  by  now  seemed  inhospitable, was peeping into my face and
dogging  my  footsteps; all the sounds, the cries of the birds, the whisperings
of  the  trees, seemed sinister, and existing simply to alarm my imagination. I
dashed  on  like a madman, and without realizing what I was doing I ran, trying
to  run faster and faster. And at once I heard something to which I had paid no
attention before: that is, the plaintive whining of the telegraph wires.
    "This  is  beyond  everything,"  I  said,  trying  to  shame  myself. "It's
cowardice! it's silly!"
    But cowardice was stronger than common sense. I only slackened my pace when
I  reached  the  green light, where I saw a dark signal-box, and near it on the
embankment the figure of a man, probably the signalman.
    "Did you see it?" I asked breathlessly.
    "See whom? What?"
    "Why, a truck ran by."
    "I  saw  it,.." the peasant said reluctantly. "It broke away from the goods
train.  There  is  an  incline  at  the ninetieth mile...; the train is dragged
uphill.  The  coupling  on  the  last  truck  gave way, so it broke off and ran
back... There is no catching it now!.."
    The  strange phenomenon was explained and its fantastic character vanished.
My panic was over and I was able to go on my way.
    My  third  fright  came  upon me as I was going home from stand shooting in
early  spring.  It was in the dusk of evening. The forest road was covered with
pools  from  a recent shower of rain, and the earth squelched under one's feet.
The  crimson  glow of sunset flooded the whole forest, coloring the white stems
of the birches and the young leaves. I was exhausted and could hardly move.
    Four or five miles from home, walking along the forest road, I suddenly met
a  big  black  dog  of  the  water  spaniel breed. As he ran by, the dog looked
intently at me, straight in my face, and ran on.
    "A nice dog!" I thought. "Whose is it?"
    I  looked  round. The dog was standing ten paces off with his eyes fixed on
me.  For  a  minute  we  scanned  each other in silence, then the dog, probably
flattered by my attention, came slowly up to me and wagged his tail.
    I walked on, the dog following me.
    "Whose dog can it be?" I kept asking myself. "Where does he come from?"
    I  knew  all  the country gentry for twenty or thirty miles round, and knew
all  their dogs. Not one of them had a spaniel like that. How did he come to be
in the depths of the forest, on a track used for nothing but carting timber? He
could hardly have dropped behind someone passing through, for there was nowhere
for the gentry to drive to along that road.
    I  sat  down  on  a stump to rest, and began scrutinizing my companion. He,
too,  sat down, raised his head, and fastened upon me an intent stare. He gazed
at  me  without  blinking.  I  don't  know  whether it was the influence of the
stillness,  the  shadows  and  sounds  of  the  forest,  or perhaps a result of
exhaustion,  but  I  suddenly felt uneasy under the steady gaze of his ordinary
doggy  eyes.  I  thought of Faust and his bulldog, and of the fact that nervous
people sometimes when exhausted have hallucinations. That was enough to make me
get up hurriedly and hurriedly walk on. The dog followed me.
    "Go away!" I shouted.
    The  dog  probably liked my voice, for he gave a gleeful jump and ran about
in front of me.
    "Go away!" I shouted again.
    The  dog  looked  round,  stared  at  me  intently,  and  wagged  his  tail
good-humoredly.  Evidently  my  threatening  tone  amused  him. I ought to have
patted  him, but I could not get Faust's dog out of my head, and the feeling of
panic  grew  more  and more acute... Darkness was coming on, which completed my
confusion, and every time the dog ran up to me and hit me with his tail, like a
coward  I shut my eyes. The same thing happened as with the light in the belfry
and the truck on the railway: I could not stand it and rushed away.
    At  home I found a visitor, an old friend, who, after greeting me, began to
complain  that as he was driving to me he had lost his way in the forest, and a
splendid valuable dog of his had dropped behind.

    1886

_______________________________________________________________________________