Love and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov Page 1 of 183
LOVE AND OTHER STORIES
"THREE o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can't sleep, I am so happy!
"My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can't analyse it just now-I haven't the time, I'm too lazy, and there-hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?"
This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order.
And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's study and communes with one's own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one's window.
Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naÃ¯vely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate.
Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her.