Page:The Kiss and Other Stories by Anton Tchekhoff, 1908.pdf/222



N beds of new-mown hay in a peasant's cabin a party of sportsmen settled down for the night. The moon looked through the window; outside, a concertina moaned plaintively. The hay exhaled a heavy, irritating smell. The sportsmen spoke of dogs, of women, of first love, of snipe. When they had picked to pieces all the women they knew and told a hundred stories, the stoutest of the party, who looked in the darkness like a haycock and spoke in the thick voice of a staff-officer, yawned audibly and remarked —

“There is nothing so wonderful, after all, in being loved; women exist only for that — to love our brother. But tell me, can any of you boast that he has been really hated — hated passionately, hated as devils hate? Has any one ever witnessed an ecstasy of detestation? Eh?”

There was no answer.

“I fancy not,” resumed the staff-officer's bass. “I alone have had that experience. I have been hated by a girl, and a pretty girl; and, in my own person, Rh