Hush! (Chekhov)
Short summary
A fourth-rate journalist, Ivan Yegoritch Krasnyhin, returned home late at night and prepared to write. He woke his wife, demanding tea and silence, then settled at his meticulously arranged desk with an air of theatrical importance.
He performed an elaborate ritual before writing, posing dramatically and making a show of concentration. When his wife brought tea, he pretended not to notice her. He wrote rapidly while his family tiptoed around him, hushing any noise that might disturb his work.
Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence.
He complained about interruptions from the smoking stove, his neighbor's prayers, and his own exhaustion. After writing until 4 a.m., he dramatically declared himself drained by his "cursed, ungrateful hard labour." He then slept soundly until noon while his family maintained absolute silence, fearful of disturbing his "sacred" sleep. "Hush!" floated over the apartment.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
The theatrical return of a fourth-rate journalist
Ivan Yegoritch Krasnyhin returned home late at night with a grave and careworn expression. His demeanor suggested a man expecting a police raid or contemplating suicide. He paced around his rooms before halting abruptly, ruffling his hair, and launching into a dramatic monologue in the style of Laertes announcing his intention to avenge his sister.
"Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart… and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd"
After his theatrical display, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes, Ivan went to the bedroom and woke his wife. He informed her that he was about to write and demanded not to be interrupted by crying children or snoring cooks. He also requested tea and steak, claiming he could not write without tea, as it was the only thing that gave him energy for his work.
Elaborate preparation rituals before writing
Returning to his room, Ivan slowly removed his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He then assumed an expression of injured innocence and sat down at his writing table. Nothing on his desk was casual or ordinary; every item was deliberately arranged to create the impression of a serious writer at work.
There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table... everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned programme... part of a skull by way of an ashtray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost
His desk displayed small busts and photographs of distinguished writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, and a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down. He had arranged a dozen sharply-pointed pencils and several penholders with new nibs, ensuring that no accidental breaking of a pen would interrupt his creative process.
Ivan threw himself back in his chair and closed his eyes to concentrate on his subject. Meanwhile, he could hear his wife shuffling about in her slippers, splitting shavings to heat the samovar. Her drowsiness was evident from the way she kept dropping the knife and the lid of the samovar. Soon, the hissing of the samovar and the spluttering of frying meat reached him as she continued preparing his requested refreshments.
The writing process and domestic interruptions
Suddenly, Ivan started, opened his eyes in fright, and began sniffing the air. He groaned about the stove smoking, accusing his wife of trying to poison him and making it impossible for him to write. He rushed to the kitchen with theatrical wails of complaint. When Nadya later brought him tea, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, he was sitting in his chair with eyes closed, pretending to be absorbed in his article and unaware of her presence, his face still wearing an expression of injured innocence.
Like a girl with a new fan, Ivan spent considerable time posing and grimacing to himself before writing the title. He pressed his temples, wriggled, and drew his legs under his chair as if in pain. Finally, with great hesitation and an expression suggesting he was signing a death warrant, he wrote the title and began writing very quickly, without corrections or pauses.
As Ivan wrote, his son's voice was heard asking for water. His mother hushed him, saying that daddy was writing.
"Hush!" says his mother. "Daddy's writing! Hush!" Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses... The busts and portraits of celebrated authors look at his swiftly racing pen and... seem to be thinking: "Oh my, how you are going it!"
The pen squeaked "Sh!" as it moved across the paper, and the busts of authors seemed to whisper the same when Ivan's knee jolted the table. Suddenly, Ivan stopped writing and listened. He heard an even, monotonous whispering from the next room - it was Foma Nikolaevitch saying his prayers. Ivan called out, asking him to pray more quietly as it prevented him from writing. Foma timidly apologized.
The contrast between public and private personas
After covering five pages, Ivan stretched and looked at his watch. He moaned about it being three o'clock already, lamenting that while others slept, he alone must work. Shattered and exhausted, he went to the bedroom with his head on one side to wake his wife, asking for more tea because he felt weak.
Ivan wrote until four o'clock and would have continued until six if his subject had not been exhausted. The narrator observed that posing to himself and domineering over his small domain were the honey and salt of Ivan's existence. This despot at home was remarkably different from the humble, meek, dull-witted little man seen in editors' offices.
No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault. "Hush!" floats over the flat. "Hush!"
As he got into bed, Ivan complained of exhaustion, fearing he wouldn't sleep. He lamented the cursed, ungrateful labor of writing to order and claimed he would abandon it if not for his family. He then slept soundly until noon or one o'clock, enjoying a healthy sleep. His wife whispered with a scared expression that he had been writing all night, and the command "Hush!" floated over the flat as everyone tiptoed around the sleeping writer.