A HAPPY ENDING
Anton Chekhov
Lyubov Grigoryevna, a substantial, buxom lady of forty who undertook matchmaking and many other matters of which it is usual to speak only in whispers, had come to see Stytchkin, the head guard, on a day when he was off duty. Stytchkin, somewhat embarrassed, but, as always, grave, practical, and severe, was walking up and down the room, smoking a cigar and saying:
"Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Semyon Ivanovitch recommended you on the ground that you may be able to assist me in a delicate and very important matter affecting the happiness of my life. I have, Lyubov Grigoryevna, reached the age of fifty-two; that is a period of life at which very many have already grown-up children. My position is a secure one. Though my fortune is not large, yet I am in a position to support a beloved being and children at my side. I may tell you between ourselves that apart from my salary I have also money in the bank which my manner of living has enabled me to save. I am a practical and sober man, I lead a sensible and consistent life, so that I may hold myself up as an example to many. But one thing I lack -- a domestic hearth of my own and a partner in life, and I live like a wandering Magyar, moving from place to place without any satisfaction. I have no one with whom to take counsel, and when I am ill no one to give me water, and so on. Apart from that, Lyubov Grigoryevna, a married man has always more weight in society than a bachelor.... I am a man of the educated class, with money, but if you look at me from a point of view, what am I? A man with no kith and kin, no better than some Polish priest. And therefore I should be very desirous to be united in the bonds of Hymen -- that is, to enter into matrimony with some worthy person."
"An excellent thing," said the matchmaker, with a sigh.
"I am a solitary man and in this town I know no one. Where can I go, and to whom can I apply, since all the people here are strangers to me? That is why Semyon Ivanovitch advised me to address myself to a person who is a specialist in this line, and makes the arrangement of the happiness of others her profession. And therefore I most earnestly beg you, Lyubov Grigoryevna, to assist me in ordering my future. You know all the marriageable young ladies in the town, and it is easy for you to accommodate me."
"I can...."
"A glass of wine, I beg you...."
With an habitual gesture the matchmaker raised her glass to her mouth and tossed it off without winking.
"I can," she repeated. "And what sort of bride would you like, Nikolay Nikolayitch?"
"Should I like? The bride fate sends me."
"Well, of course it depends on your fate, but everyone has his own taste, you know. One likes dark ladies, the other prefers fair ones."
"You see, Lyubov Grigoryevna," said Stytchkin, sighing sedately, "I am a practical man and a man of character; for me beauty and external appearance generally take a secondary place, for, as you know yourself, beauty is neither bowl nor platter, and a pretty wife involves a great deal of anxiety. The way I look at it is, what matters most in a woman is not what is external, but what lies within -- that is, that she should have soul and all the qualities. A glass of wine, I beg.... Of course, it would be very agreeable that one's wife should be rather plump, but for mutual happiness it is not of great consequence; what matters is the mind. Properly speaking, a woman does not need mind either, for if she has brains she will have too high an opinion of herself, and take all sorts of ideas into her head. One cannot do without education nowadays, of course, but education is of different kinds. It would be pleasing for one's wife to know French and German, to speak various languages, very pleasing; but what's the use of that if she can't sew on one's buttons, perhaps? I am a man of the educated class: I am just as much at home, I may say, with Prince Kanitelin as I am with you here now. But my habits are simple, and I want a girl who is not too much a fine lady. Above all, she must have respect for me and feel that I have made her happiness."
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"To be sure."
"Well, now as regards the essential.... I do not want a wealthy bride; I would never condescend to anything so low as to marry for money. I desire not to be kept by my wife, but to keep her, and that she may be sensible of it. But I do not want a poor girl either. Though I am a man of means, and am marrying not from mercenary motives, but from love, yet I cannot take a poor girl, for, as you know yourself, prices have gone up so, and there will be children."
"One might find one with a dowry," said the matchmaker.
"A glass of wine, I beg...."
There was a pause of five minutes.
The matchmaker heaved a sigh, took a sidelong glance at the guard, and asked:
"Well, now, my good sir... do you want anything in the bachelor line? I have some fine bargains. One is a French girl and one is a Greek. Well worth the money."
The guard thought a moment and said:
"No, I thank you. In view of your favourable disposition, allow me to enquire now how much you ask for your exertions in regard to a bride?"
"I don't ask much. Give me twenty-five roubles and the stuff for a dress, as is usual, and I will say thank you... but for the dowry, that's a different account."
Stytchkin folded his arms over his chest and fell to pondering in silence. After some thought he heaved a sigh and said:
"That's dear...."
"It's not at all dear, Nikolay Nikolayitch! In old days when there were lots of weddings one did do it cheaper, but nowadays what are our earnings? If you make fifty roubles in a month that is not a fast, you may be thankful. It's not on weddings we make our money, my good sir."
Stytchkin looked at the matchmaker in amazement and shrugged his shoulders.
"H'm!... Do you call fifty roubles little?" he asked.
"Of course it is little! In old days we sometimes made more than a hundred."
"H'm! I should never have thought it was possible to earn such a sum by these jobs. Fifty roubles! It is not every man that earns as much! Pray drink your wine...."
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The matchmaker drained her glass without winking. Stytchkin looked her over from head to foot in silence, then said:
"Fifty roubles.... Why, that is six hundred roubles a year.... Please take some more... With such dividends, you know, Lyubov Grigoryevna, you would have no difficulty in making a match for yourself...."
"For myself," laughed the matchmaker, "I am an old woman."
"Not at all.... You have such a figure, and your face is plump and fair, and all the rest of it."
The matchmaker was embarrassed. Stytchkin was also embarrassed and sat down beside her.
"You are still very attractive," said he; "if you met with a practical, steady, careful husband, with his salary and your earnings you might even attract him very much, and you'd get on very well together...."
"Goodness knows what you are saying, Nikolay Nikolayitch."
"Well, I meant no harm...."
A silence followed. Stytchkin began loudly blowing his nose, while the matchmaker turned crimson, and looking bashfully at him, asked:
"And how much do you get, Nikolay Nikolayitch?"
"I? Seventy-five roubles, besides tips.... Apart from that we make something out of candles and hares."
"You go hunting, then?"
"No. Passengers who travel without tickets are called hares with us."
Another minute passed in silence. Stytchkin got up and walked about the room in excitement.
"I don't want a young wife," said he. "I am a middle-aged man, and I want someone who... as it might be like you... staid and settled and a figure something like yours...."
"Goodness knows what you are saying..." giggled the matchmaker, hiding her crimson face in her kerchief.
"There is no need to be long thinking about it. You are after my own heart, and you suit me in your qualities. I am a practical, sober man, and if you like me... what could be better? Allow me to make you a proposal!"
The matchmaker dropped a tear, laughed, and, in token of her consent, clinked glasses with Stytchkin.
"Well," said the happy railway guard, "now allow me to explain to you the behaviour and manner of life I desire from you.... I am a strict, respectable, practical man. I take a gentlemanly view of everything. And I desire that my wife should be strict also, and should understand that to her I am a benefactor and the foremost person in the world."
He sat down, and, heaving a deep sigh, began expounding to his bride-elect his views on domestic life and a wife's duties.
A Legend About the flower and the wind
The wind met a beautiful Flower and fell in love with him. As he gently caressed the the Flower, he answered him even more love, expressed in color and flavor. But the Wind was a little of this, and he thought: "If I give the Flower of all its power and force, it will give me something greater". And he breathed on the Flower powerful breath of his love. But the Flower had not made a violent passion and broke. The wind tried to lift him up, but could not. Then he subsided and began to breathe on the Flower gentle breath of love, but it faded away in his eyes. The Wind cried then:
- I gave you all the power of his love, and you broke! See, it was not in you the power of love to me, and it means that you did not love me!
But the Flower said nothing. He died.
The one who loves must remember that no force and passion measure of Love and tenderness and gentle attitude. Best of ten times his temper than one time break
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Potato cakes
Ingredients
You will need:
400g potatoes
125g flour
40g butter jr margarine
40g grated cheese
salt
oil
Instruction
1. Peel the potatoes and slice them.
2. Put the potatoes in a saucepan with some water and bit of salt. Boil the potatoes for 20 minutes.
3. Pour away the water and mash the potatoes in the saucepan.
4. Put the mashed potatoes, the flour and the butter or margarine into a bowl. Mix them with a fork.
5. Take the mixture out of the bowl and roll it. Make 12 potato cakes like this: 1cm
6. Put the oil in a frying pan. Fry the potato cakes until they are brown on
both sides.
7. Take the cakes out of the frying pan and put them on a tray. Cover the cakes with the grated cheese.
8. Put the tray into the oven for two minutes.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
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IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, dont deal in lies,
Or being hated dont give way to hating,
And yet dont look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth youve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: Hold on!
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything thats in it,
And-which is more-youll be a Man, my son!
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