NCERT Textbook - The Lament | English Class 11 PDF Download

 Page 1


The Lament 1
SHORT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot
which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the ‘story of incident’ the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The ‘story of character’ focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekov’s The Lament
focuses on form—nothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.
2019-2020
Page 2


The Lament 1
SHORT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot
which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the ‘story of incident’ the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The ‘story of character’ focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekov’s The Lament
focuses on form—nothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.
2019-2020
2 Woven Words
The Lament
Anton Chekhov
F Guess the meaning of these expressions from the context
gingerbread horse slough
snuffle as if he were on needles
It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around
the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers
on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats.
The cabdriver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a
phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can
bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a
move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he
would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse
is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility,
its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even
close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse
worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If
you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray
surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of
monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people,
you too would find it difficult not to think.
Iona and his little horse have not moved from their
place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner
and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending
over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing
brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder.
‘Cabby for Viborg Way!’ suddenly hears Iona. ‘Cabby!’
Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes,
sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head.
‘Viborg way!’ the officer repeats. ‘Are you asleep, eh?
Viborg way!’
1
2019-2020
Page 3


The Lament 1
SHORT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot
which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the ‘story of incident’ the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The ‘story of character’ focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekov’s The Lament
focuses on form—nothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.
2019-2020
2 Woven Words
The Lament
Anton Chekhov
F Guess the meaning of these expressions from the context
gingerbread horse slough
snuffle as if he were on needles
It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around
the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers
on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats.
The cabdriver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a
phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can
bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a
move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he
would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse
is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility,
its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even
close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse
worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If
you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray
surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of
monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people,
you too would find it difficult not to think.
Iona and his little horse have not moved from their
place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner
and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending
over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing
brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder.
‘Cabby for Viborg Way!’ suddenly hears Iona. ‘Cabby!’
Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes,
sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head.
‘Viborg way!’ the officer repeats. ‘Are you asleep, eh?
Viborg way!’
1
2019-2020
The Lament 3
With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in
consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse’s
back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the
cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches
out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit
than necessity, brandishes his whip. The little horse also
stretches its neck, bends its wooden-looking legs, and
makes a move undecidedly.
‘What are you doing, werewolf!’ is the exclamation Iona
hears from the dark mass moving to and fro, as soon as
they have started.
‘Where the devil are you going? To the r-r-right!’
‘You do not know how to drive. Keep to the right!’ calls
the officer angrily.
A coachman from a private carriage swears at him; a
passerby, who has run across the road and rubbed his
shoulder against the horse’s nose, looks at him furiously
as he sweeps the snow from his sleeve. Iona shifts about
on his seat as if he were on needles, moves his elbows as if
he were trying to keep his equilibrium, and gasps about
like someone suffocating, who does not understand why
and wherefore he is there.
‘What scoundrels they all are!’ jokes the officer; ‘one
would think they had all entered into an agreement to jostle
you or fall under your horse.’
Iona looks around at the officer and moves his lips. He
evidently wants to say something but the only sound that
issues is a snuffle.
‘What?’ asks the officer.
Iona twists his mouth into a smile and, with an effort,
says hoarsely:
‘My son, Barin, died this week.’
‘Hm! What did he die of?’
Iona turns with his whole body towards his fare and
says: ‘And who knows! They say high fever. He was three
days in the hospital and then died… God’s will be done.’
“Turn round! The devil!’ sounds from the darkness.
‘Have you popped off, old doggie, eh? Use your eyes!’
‘Go on, go on,’ says the officer, ‘otherwise we shall not
get there by tomorrow. Hurry up a bit!’
2019-2020
Page 4


The Lament 1
SHORT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot
which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the ‘story of incident’ the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The ‘story of character’ focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekov’s The Lament
focuses on form—nothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.
2019-2020
2 Woven Words
The Lament
Anton Chekhov
F Guess the meaning of these expressions from the context
gingerbread horse slough
snuffle as if he were on needles
It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around
the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers
on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats.
The cabdriver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a
phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can
bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a
move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he
would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse
is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility,
its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even
close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse
worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If
you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray
surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of
monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people,
you too would find it difficult not to think.
Iona and his little horse have not moved from their
place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner
and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending
over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing
brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder.
‘Cabby for Viborg Way!’ suddenly hears Iona. ‘Cabby!’
Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes,
sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head.
‘Viborg way!’ the officer repeats. ‘Are you asleep, eh?
Viborg way!’
1
2019-2020
The Lament 3
With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in
consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse’s
back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the
cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches
out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit
than necessity, brandishes his whip. The little horse also
stretches its neck, bends its wooden-looking legs, and
makes a move undecidedly.
‘What are you doing, werewolf!’ is the exclamation Iona
hears from the dark mass moving to and fro, as soon as
they have started.
‘Where the devil are you going? To the r-r-right!’
‘You do not know how to drive. Keep to the right!’ calls
the officer angrily.
A coachman from a private carriage swears at him; a
passerby, who has run across the road and rubbed his
shoulder against the horse’s nose, looks at him furiously
as he sweeps the snow from his sleeve. Iona shifts about
on his seat as if he were on needles, moves his elbows as if
he were trying to keep his equilibrium, and gasps about
like someone suffocating, who does not understand why
and wherefore he is there.
‘What scoundrels they all are!’ jokes the officer; ‘one
would think they had all entered into an agreement to jostle
you or fall under your horse.’
Iona looks around at the officer and moves his lips. He
evidently wants to say something but the only sound that
issues is a snuffle.
‘What?’ asks the officer.
Iona twists his mouth into a smile and, with an effort,
says hoarsely:
‘My son, Barin, died this week.’
‘Hm! What did he die of?’
Iona turns with his whole body towards his fare and
says: ‘And who knows! They say high fever. He was three
days in the hospital and then died… God’s will be done.’
“Turn round! The devil!’ sounds from the darkness.
‘Have you popped off, old doggie, eh? Use your eyes!’
‘Go on, go on,’ says the officer, ‘otherwise we shall not
get there by tomorrow. Hurry up a bit!’
2019-2020
4 Woven Words
The cabdriver again stretches his neck, sits up and,
with a bad grace, brandishes his whip. Several times again
he turns to look at his fare, but the latter has closed his
eyes and, apparently, is not disposed to listen. Having
deposited the officer in the Viborg, he stops by the tavern,
doubles himself up on his seat, and again remains
motionless, while the snow once more begins to cover him
and his horse. An hour, and another… Then, along the
footpath, with a squeak of galoshes, and quarrelling, come
three young men, two of them tall and lanky, the third one
short and humpbacked.
‘Cabby, to the Police Bridge!’ in a cracked voice calls
the humpback. ‘The three of us for two griveniks.’
Iona picks up his reins and smacks his lips. Two
griveniks is not a fair price, but he does not mind whether
it is a rouble or five kopeks—to him it is all the same now,
so long as they are fares. The young men, jostling each
other and using bad language, approach the sleigh and all
three at once try to get onto the seat; then begins a
discussion as to which two shall sit and who shall be the
one to stand. After wrangling, abusing each other and much
petulance, it is at last decided that the humpback shall
stand as he is the smallest.
‘Now then, hurry up!’ says the humpback in a twanging
voice, as he takes his place and breathes in Iona’s neck.
‘Old furry! Here, mate, what a cap you have! There is not a
worse one to be found in all Petersburg! …’
‘He-he—he-he’, giggles Iona. ‘Such a …’
‘Now you, ‘such a’, hurry up, are you going the whole
way at this pace? Are you...Do you want it in the neck?’
‘My head feels like bursting,’ says one of the lanky
ones. ‘Last night at the Donkmasoves, Vaska and I drank
the whole of four bottles of cognac.’
“I don’t understand what you lie for,’ says the other
lanky one angrily; ‘you lie like a brute.’
‘God strike me, it’s the truth!’
‘It’s as much the truth as that a louse coughs!’
‘He-he,’ grins Iona, ‘what gay young gentlemen!’
‘Pshaw, go to the devil!’ says the humpback indignantly.
‘Are you going to get on or not, you old pest? Is that the
2019-2020
Page 5


The Lament 1
SHORT STORIES
INTRODUCTION
A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot
which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the ‘story of incident’ the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The ‘story of character’ focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekov’s The Lament
focuses on form—nothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.
2019-2020
2 Woven Words
The Lament
Anton Chekhov
F Guess the meaning of these expressions from the context
gingerbread horse slough
snuffle as if he were on needles
It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around
the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers
on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats.
The cabdriver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a
phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can
bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a
move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he
would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse
is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility,
its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even
close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse
worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If
you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray
surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of
monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people,
you too would find it difficult not to think.
Iona and his little horse have not moved from their
place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner
and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending
over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing
brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder.
‘Cabby for Viborg Way!’ suddenly hears Iona. ‘Cabby!’
Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes,
sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head.
‘Viborg way!’ the officer repeats. ‘Are you asleep, eh?
Viborg way!’
1
2019-2020
The Lament 3
With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in
consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horse’s
back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the
cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches
out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit
than necessity, brandishes his whip. The little horse also
stretches its neck, bends its wooden-looking legs, and
makes a move undecidedly.
‘What are you doing, werewolf!’ is the exclamation Iona
hears from the dark mass moving to and fro, as soon as
they have started.
‘Where the devil are you going? To the r-r-right!’
‘You do not know how to drive. Keep to the right!’ calls
the officer angrily.
A coachman from a private carriage swears at him; a
passerby, who has run across the road and rubbed his
shoulder against the horse’s nose, looks at him furiously
as he sweeps the snow from his sleeve. Iona shifts about
on his seat as if he were on needles, moves his elbows as if
he were trying to keep his equilibrium, and gasps about
like someone suffocating, who does not understand why
and wherefore he is there.
‘What scoundrels they all are!’ jokes the officer; ‘one
would think they had all entered into an agreement to jostle
you or fall under your horse.’
Iona looks around at the officer and moves his lips. He
evidently wants to say something but the only sound that
issues is a snuffle.
‘What?’ asks the officer.
Iona twists his mouth into a smile and, with an effort,
says hoarsely:
‘My son, Barin, died this week.’
‘Hm! What did he die of?’
Iona turns with his whole body towards his fare and
says: ‘And who knows! They say high fever. He was three
days in the hospital and then died… God’s will be done.’
“Turn round! The devil!’ sounds from the darkness.
‘Have you popped off, old doggie, eh? Use your eyes!’
‘Go on, go on,’ says the officer, ‘otherwise we shall not
get there by tomorrow. Hurry up a bit!’
2019-2020
4 Woven Words
The cabdriver again stretches his neck, sits up and,
with a bad grace, brandishes his whip. Several times again
he turns to look at his fare, but the latter has closed his
eyes and, apparently, is not disposed to listen. Having
deposited the officer in the Viborg, he stops by the tavern,
doubles himself up on his seat, and again remains
motionless, while the snow once more begins to cover him
and his horse. An hour, and another… Then, along the
footpath, with a squeak of galoshes, and quarrelling, come
three young men, two of them tall and lanky, the third one
short and humpbacked.
‘Cabby, to the Police Bridge!’ in a cracked voice calls
the humpback. ‘The three of us for two griveniks.’
Iona picks up his reins and smacks his lips. Two
griveniks is not a fair price, but he does not mind whether
it is a rouble or five kopeks—to him it is all the same now,
so long as they are fares. The young men, jostling each
other and using bad language, approach the sleigh and all
three at once try to get onto the seat; then begins a
discussion as to which two shall sit and who shall be the
one to stand. After wrangling, abusing each other and much
petulance, it is at last decided that the humpback shall
stand as he is the smallest.
‘Now then, hurry up!’ says the humpback in a twanging
voice, as he takes his place and breathes in Iona’s neck.
‘Old furry! Here, mate, what a cap you have! There is not a
worse one to be found in all Petersburg! …’
‘He-he—he-he’, giggles Iona. ‘Such a …’
‘Now you, ‘such a’, hurry up, are you going the whole
way at this pace? Are you...Do you want it in the neck?’
‘My head feels like bursting,’ says one of the lanky
ones. ‘Last night at the Donkmasoves, Vaska and I drank
the whole of four bottles of cognac.’
“I don’t understand what you lie for,’ says the other
lanky one angrily; ‘you lie like a brute.’
‘God strike me, it’s the truth!’
‘It’s as much the truth as that a louse coughs!’
‘He-he,’ grins Iona, ‘what gay young gentlemen!’
‘Pshaw, go to the devil!’ says the humpback indignantly.
‘Are you going to get on or not, you old pest? Is that the
2019-2020
The Lament 5
way to drive? Use the whip a bit! Go on, devil, go on, give it
to him well!’
Iona feels at his back the little man wriggling, and the
tremble in his voice. He listens to the insults hurled at
him, sees the people, and little by little the feeling of
loneliness leaves him. The humpback goes on swearing
until he gets mixed up in some elaborate six-foot oath, or
chokes with coughing. The lankies begin to talk about a
certain Nadejda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them several
times; he waits for a temporary silence, then, turning round
again, he murmurs:
‘My son… died this week.’
‘We must all die,’ sighs the humpback, wiping his lips
after an attack of coughing. ‘Now, hurry up, hurry up!
Gentlemen, I really cannot go any farther like this! When
will he get us there?’
‘Well, just you stimulate him a little in the neck!’
‘You old pest, do you hear, I’ll bone your neck for you! If
one treated the like of you with ceremony, one would have
to go on foot! Do you hear, old serpent Gorinytch! Or do you
not care a spit!”
Iona hears rather than feels the blow they deal him.
‘He-he’ he laughs. ‘They are gay young gentlemen, God
bless’em!’
‘Cabby, are you married?’ asks a lanky one.
‘I? He-he, gay young gentlemen! Now I have only a wife
and the moist ground…He, ho, ho, …that is to say, the
grave. My son has died, and I am alive…A wonderful thing,
death mistook the door…instead of coming to me, it went
to my son…’
Iona turns round to tell them how his son died  but, at
this moment, the humpback, giving a little sigh, announces,
‘Thank God, we have at last reached our destination,’ and
Iona watches them disappear through the dark entrance.
Once more he is alone, and again surrounded by silence…
His grief, which has abated for a short while, returns and
rends his heart with greater force. With an anxious and
hurried look, he searches among the crowds passing on
either side of the street to find whether there may be just
one person who will listen to him. But the crowds hurry by
2019-2020