Russian Literature ll অনুবাদ সাহিত্য

A Short Story from the Masterpieces of Russian Literature by Anton Chekhov

An old peasant carried his sick wife in the back seat of the cart, drawn by a frail horse, taking her to a distant city for treatment.

On the long journey, the man began to speak, confiding as if talking to himself, yet at the same time comforting his ailing wife. She had lived with him for forty years, enduring hardship, misery, and suffering—working tirelessly in the fields and single-handedly managing all the household burdens.

Now, he felt he had been harsh with her all these years. He realized that he must treat her with kindness and tenderness, letting her hear sweet and gentle words.

He told her that he had wronged her and that life had also been unjust to her, for he never found time in his daily routine to offer her a kind, affectionate word, a warm smile as pure as water, or a moment of tenderness!

Throughout the journey, he spoke with sorrow and regret, his words carving deep grooves into the human soul—like water steadily falling onto stone. He sought to compensate her—through words—for the love, warmth, and tenderness she had been deprived of for forty years. He made promises, assuring her that he would fulfill all her wishes in the years to come…

Upon reaching the city, he stepped down from the front seat to carry her in his arms—for the first time in his life—to the doctor. But he found her lifeless. She was cold, a mere corpse. She had died on the way—before hearing his sweet and sorrowful words!

Here, the tale of pain ends—written by Chekhov—leaving us like the old peasant, speaking to ourselves but only after it is too late.

Words are no longer useful now…

They have lost their meaning!

We only realize the value of those around us at the end!

Giving a flower at the right time is better than offering everything you own when it's too late.

Saying a kind word at the right moment is better than writing a poem after emotions have faded away.

There is no use for things that come too late—like a kiss of apology on the forehead of the dead.

"Do not delay beautiful things… for they may never come again."

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