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diff --git a/old/13417-h/13417-h.htm b/old/13417-h/13417-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e928f2d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13417-h/13417-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9179 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title>The Cook's Wedding and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov</title> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Project Gutenberg’s The Cook’s Wedding and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Cook’s Wedding and Other Stories + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Release Date: September 9, 2004 [EBook #13417] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COOK’S WEDDING AND OTHER *** + + + + +Etext produced by James Rusk + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE TALES OF CHEKHOV + </h1> + <h4> + Volume 12 + </h4> + <h3> + THE COOK’S WEDDING AND OTHER STORIES + </h3> + <h2> + By Anton Tchekhov + </h2> + <h4> + Translated by Constance Garnett + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE COOK’S WEDDING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> SLEEPY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CHILDREN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE RUNAWAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> GRISHA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> OYSTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> A CLASSICAL STUDENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VANKA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> AN INCIDENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A DAY IN THE COUNTRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> BOYS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> SHROVE TUESDAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE OLD HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> IN PASSION WEEK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> WHITEBROW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> KASHTANKA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A CHAMELEON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE DEPENDENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> WHO WAS TO BLAME? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE BIRD MARKET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> AN ADVENTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE FISH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> ART </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE SWEDISH MATCH </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COOK’S WEDDING + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>RISHA, a fat, + solemn little person of seven, was standing by the kitchen door listening + and peeping through the keyhole. In the kitchen something extraordinary, + and in his opinion never seen before, was taking place. A big, thick-set, + red-haired peasant, with a beard, and a drop of perspiration on his nose, + wearing a cabman’s full coat, was sitting at the kitchen table on which + they chopped the meat and sliced the onions. He was balancing a saucer on + the five fingers of his right hand and drinking tea out of it, and + crunching sugar so loudly that it sent a shiver down Grisha’s back. + Aksinya Stepanovna, the old nurse, was sitting on the dirty stool facing + him, and she, too, was drinking tea. Her face was grave, though at the + same time it beamed with a kind of triumph. Pelageya, the cook, was busy + at the stove, and was apparently trying to hide her face. And on her face + Grisha saw a regular illumination: it was burning and shifting through + every shade of colour, beginning with a crimson purple and ending with a + deathly white. She was continually catching hold of knives, forks, bits of + wood, and rags with trembling hands, moving, grumbling to herself, making + a clatter, but in reality doing nothing. She did not once glance at the + table at which they were drinking tea, and to the questions put to her by + the nurse she gave jerky, sullen answers without turning her face. + </p> + <p> + “Help yourself, Danilo Semyonitch,” the nurse urged him hospitably. “Why + do you keep on with tea and nothing but tea? You should have a drop of + vodka!” + </p> + <p> + And nurse put before the visitor a bottle of vodka and a wine-glass, while + her face wore a very wily expression. + </p> + <p> + “I never touch it. . . . No . . .” said the cabman, declining. “Don’t + press me, Aksinya Stepanovna.” + </p> + <p> + “What a man! . . . A cabman and not drink! . . . A bachelor can’t get on + without drinking. Help yourself!” + </p> + <p> + The cabman looked askance at the bottle, then at nurse’s wily face, and + his own face assumed an expression no less cunning, as much as to say, + “You won’t catch me, you old witch!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t drink; please excuse me. Such a weakness does not do in our + calling. A man who works at a trade may drink, for he sits at home, but we + cabmen are always in view of the public. Aren’t we? If one goes into a + pothouse one finds one’s horse gone; if one takes a drop too much it is + worse still; before you know where you are you will fall asleep or slip + off the box. That’s where it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And how much do you make a day, Danilo Semyonitch?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s according. One day you will have a fare for three roubles, and + another day you will come back to the yard without a farthing. The days + are very different. Nowadays our business is no good. There are lots and + lots of cabmen as you know, hay is dear, and folks are paltry nowadays and + always contriving to go by tram. And yet, thank God, I have nothing to + complain of. I have plenty to eat and good clothes to wear, and . . . we + could even provide well for another. . .” (the cabman stole a glance at + Pelageya) “if it were to their liking. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Grisha did not hear what was said further. His mamma came to the door and + sent him to the nursery to learn his lessons. + </p> + <p> + “Go and learn your lesson. It’s not your business to listen here!” + </p> + <p> + When Grisha reached the nursery, he put “My Own Book” in front of him, but + he did not get on with his reading. All that he had just seen and heard + aroused a multitude of questions in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “The cook’s going to be married,” he thought. “Strange—I don’t + understand what people get married for. Mamma was married to papa, Cousin + Verotchka to Pavel Andreyitch. But one might be married to papa and Pavel + Andreyitch after all: they have gold watch-chains and nice suits, their + boots are always polished; but to marry that dreadful cabman with a red + nose and felt boots. . . . Fi! And why is it nurse wants poor Pelageya to + be married?” + </p> + <p> + When the visitor had gone out of the kitchen, Pelageya appeared and began + clearing away. Her agitation still persisted. Her face was red and looked + scared. She scarcely touched the floor with the broom, and swept every + corner five times over. She lingered for a long time in the room where + mamma was sitting. She was evidently oppressed by her isolation, and she + was longing to express herself, to share her impressions with some one, to + open her heart. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone,” she muttered, seeing that mamma would not begin the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “One can see he is a good man,” said mamma, not taking her eyes off her + sewing. “Sober and steady.” + </p> + <p> + “I declare I won’t marry him, mistress!” Pelageya cried suddenly, flushing + crimson. “I declare I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be silly; you are not a child. It’s a serious step; you must think + it over thoroughly, it’s no use talking nonsense. Do you like him?” + </p> + <p> + “What an idea, mistress!” cried Pelageya, abashed. “They say such things + that . . . my goodness. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “She should say she doesn’t like him!” thought Grisha. + </p> + <p> + “What an affected creature you are. . . . Do you like him?” + </p> + <p> + “But he is old, mistress!” + </p> + <p> + “Think of something else,” nurse flew out at her from the next room. “He + has not reached his fortieth year; and what do you want a young man for? + Handsome is as handsome does. . . . Marry him and that’s all about it!” + </p> + <p> + “I swear I won’t,” squealed Pelageya. + </p> + <p> + “You are talking nonsense. What sort of rascal do you want? Anyone else + would have bowed down to his feet, and you declare you won’t marry him. + You want to be always winking at the postmen and tutors. That tutor that + used to come to Grishenka, mistress . . . she was never tired of making + eyes at him. O-o, the shameless hussy!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen this Danilo before?” mamma asked Pelageya. + </p> + <p> + “How could I have seen him? I set eyes on him to-day for the first time. + Aksinya picked him up and brought him along . . . the accursed devil. . . + . And where has he come from for my undoing!” + </p> + <p> + At dinner, when Pelageya was handing the dishes, everyone looked into her + face and teased her about the cabman. She turned fearfully red, and went + off into a forced giggle. + </p> + <p> + “It must be shameful to get married,” thought Grisha. “Terribly shameful.” + </p> + <p> + All the dishes were too salt, and blood oozed from the half-raw chickens, + and, to cap it all, plates and knives kept dropping out of Pelageya’s + hands during dinner, as though from a shelf that had given way; but no one + said a word of blame to her, as they all understood the state of her + feelings. Only once papa flicked his table-napkin angrily and said to + mamma: + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to be getting them all married for? What business is it + of yours? Let them get married of themselves if they want to.” + </p> + <p> + After dinner, neighbouring cooks and maidservants kept flitting into the + kitchen, and there was the sound of whispering till late evening. How they + had scented out the matchmaking, God knows. When Grisha woke in the night + he heard his nurse and the cook whispering together in the nursery. Nurse + was talking persuasively, while the cook alternately sobbed and giggled. + When he fell asleep after this, Grisha dreamed of Pelageya being carried + off by Tchernomor and a witch. + </p> + <p> + Next day there was a calm. The life of the kitchen went on its accustomed + way as though the cabman did not exist. Only from time to time nurse put + on her new shawl, assumed a solemn and austere air, and went off somewhere + for an hour or two, obviously to conduct negotiations. . . . Pelageya did + not see the cabman, and when his name was mentioned she flushed up and + cried: + </p> + <p> + “May he be thrice damned! As though I should be thinking of him! Tfoo!” + </p> + <p> + In the evening mamma went into the kitchen, while nurse and Pelageya were + zealously mincing something, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You can marry him, of course—that’s your business—but I must + tell you, Pelageya, that he cannot live here. . . . You know I don’t like + to have anyone sitting in the kitchen. Mind now, remember . . . . And I + can’t let you sleep out.” + </p> + <p> + “Goodness knows! What an idea, mistress!” shrieked the cook. “Why do you + keep throwing him up at me? Plague take him! He’s a regular curse, + confound him! . . .” + </p> + <p> + Glancing one Sunday morning into the kitchen, Grisha was struck dumb with + amazement. The kitchen was crammed full of people. Here were cooks from + the whole courtyard, the porter, two policemen, a non-commissioned officer + with good-conduct stripes, and the boy Filka. . . . This Filka was + generally hanging about the laundry playing with the dogs; now he was + combed and washed, and was holding an ikon in a tinfoil setting. Pelageya + was standing in the middle of the kitchen in a new cotton dress, with a + flower on her head. Beside her stood the cabman. The happy pair were red + in the face and perspiring and blinking with embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Well . . . I fancy it is time,” said the non-commissioned officer, after + a prolonged silence. + </p> + <p> + Pelageya’s face worked all over and she began blubbering. . . . + </p> + <p> + The soldier took a big loaf from the table, stood beside nurse, and began + blessing the couple. The cabman went up to the soldier, flopped down on + his knees, and gave a smacking kiss on his hand. He did the same before + nurse. Pelageya followed him mechanically, and she too bowed down to the + ground. At last the outer door was opened, there was a whiff of white + mist, and the whole party flocked noisily out of the kitchen into the + yard. + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing, poor thing,” thought Grisha, hearing the sobs of the cook. + “Where have they taken her? Why don’t papa and mamma protect her?” + </p> + <p> + After the wedding there was singing and concertina-playing in the laundry + till late evening. Mamma was cross all the evening because nurse smelt of + vodka, and owing to the wedding there was no one to heat the samovar. + Pelageya had not come back by the time Grisha went to bed. + </p> + <p> + “The poor thing is crying somewhere in the dark!” he thought. “While the + cabman is saying to her ‘shut up!’” + </p> + <p> + Next morning the cook was in the kitchen again. The cabman came in for a + minute. He thanked mamma, and glancing sternly at Pelageya, said: + </p> + <p> + “Will you look after her, madam? Be a father and a mother to her. And you, + too, Aksinya Stepanovna, do not forsake her, see that everything is as it + should be . . . without any nonsense. . . . And also, madam, if you would + kindly advance me five roubles of her wages. I have got to buy a new + horse-collar.” + </p> + <p> + Again a problem for Grisha: Pelageya was living in freedom, doing as she + liked, and not having to account to anyone for her actions, and all at + once, for no sort of reason, a stranger turns up, who has somehow acquired + rights over her conduct and her property! Grisha was distressed. He longed + passionately, almost to tears, to comfort this victim, as he supposed, of + man’s injustice. Picking out the very biggest apple in the store-room he + stole into the kitchen, slipped it into Pelageya’s hand, and darted + headlong away. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SLEEPY + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>IGHT. Varka, the + little nurse, a girl of thirteen, is rocking the cradle in which the baby + is lying, and humming hardly audibly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, + While I sing a song for thee.” + </pre> + <p> + A little green lamp is burning before the ikon; there is a string + stretched from one end of the room to the other, on which baby-clothes and + a pair of big black trousers are hanging. There is a big patch of green on + the ceiling from the ikon lamp, and the baby-clothes and the trousers + throw long shadows on the stove, on the cradle, and on Varka. . . . When + the lamp begins to flicker, the green patch and the shadows come to life, + and are set in motion, as though by the wind. It is stuffy. There is a + smell of cabbage soup, and of the inside of a boot-shop. + </p> + <p> + The baby’s crying. For a long while he has been hoarse and exhausted with + crying; but he still goes on screaming, and there is no knowing when he + will stop. And Varka is sleepy. Her eyes are glued together, her head + droops, her neck aches. She cannot move her eyelids or her lips, and she + feels as though her face is dried and wooden, as though her head has + become as small as the head of a pin. + </p> + <p> + “Hush-a-bye, my baby wee,” she hums, “while I cook the groats for thee. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + A cricket is churring in the stove. Through the door in the next room the + master and the apprentice Afanasy are snoring. . . . The cradle creaks + plaintively, Varka murmurs—and it all blends into that soothing + music of the night to which it is so sweet to listen, when one is lying in + bed. Now that music is merely irritating and oppressive, because it goads + her to sleep, and she must not sleep; if Varka—God forbid!—should + fall asleep, her master and mistress would beat her. + </p> + <p> + The lamp flickers. The patch of green and the shadows are set in motion, + forcing themselves on Varka’s fixed, half-open eyes, and in her half + slumbering brain are fashioned into misty visions. She sees dark clouds + chasing one another over the sky, and screaming like the baby. But then + the wind blows, the clouds are gone, and Varka sees a broad high road + covered with liquid mud; along the high road stretch files of wagons, + while people with wallets on their backs are trudging along and shadows + flit backwards and forwards; on both sides she can see forests through the + cold harsh mist. All at once the people with their wallets and their + shadows fall on the ground in the liquid mud. “What is that for?” Varka + asks. “To sleep, to sleep!” they answer her. And they fall sound asleep, + and sleep sweetly, while crows and magpies sit on the telegraph wires, + scream like the baby, and try to wake them. + </p> + <p> + “Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, and I will sing a song to thee,” murmurs Varka, + and now she sees herself in a dark stuffy hut. + </p> + <p> + Her dead father, Yefim Stepanov, is tossing from side to side on the + floor. She does not see him, but she hears him moaning and rolling on the + floor from pain. “His guts have burst,” as he says; the pain is so violent + that he cannot utter a single word, and can only draw in his breath and + clack his teeth like the rattling of a drum: + </p> + <p> + “Boo—boo—boo—boo. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Her mother, Pelageya, has run to the master’s house to say that Yefim is + dying. She has been gone a long time, and ought to be back. Varka lies + awake on the stove, and hears her father’s “boo—boo—boo.” And + then she hears someone has driven up to the hut. It is a young doctor from + the town, who has been sent from the big house where he is staying on a + visit. The doctor comes into the hut; he cannot be seen in the darkness, + but he can be heard coughing and rattling the door. + </p> + <p> + “Light a candle,” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Boo—boo—boo,” answers Yefim. + </p> + <p> + Pelageya rushes to the stove and begins looking for the broken pot with + the matches. A minute passes in silence. The doctor, feeling in his + pocket, lights a match. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute, sir, in a minute,” says Pelageya. She rushes out of the hut, + and soon afterwards comes back with a bit of candle. + </p> + <p> + Yefim’s cheeks are rosy and his eyes are shining, and there is a peculiar + keenness in his glance, as though he were seeing right through the hut and + the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Come, what is it? What are you thinking about?” says the doctor, bending + down to him. “Aha! have you had this long?” + </p> + <p> + “What? Dying, your honour, my hour has come. . . . I am not to stay among + the living.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk nonsense! We will cure you!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s as you please, your honour, we humbly thank you, only we + understand. . . . Since death has come, there it is.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor spends a quarter of an hour over Yefim, then he gets up and + says: + </p> + <p> + “I can do nothing. You must go into the hospital, there they will operate + on you. Go at once . . . You must go! It’s rather late, they will all be + asleep in the hospital, but that doesn’t matter, I will give you a note. + Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “Kind sir, but what can he go in?” says Pelageya. “We have no horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. I’ll ask your master, he’ll let you have a horse.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor goes away, the candle goes out, and again there is the sound of + “boo—boo—boo.” Half an hour later someone drives up to the + hut. A cart has been sent to take Yefim to the hospital. He gets ready and + goes. . . . + </p> + <p> + But now it is a clear bright morning. Pelageya is not at home; she has + gone to the hospital to find what is being done to Yefim. Somewhere there + is a baby crying, and Varka hears someone singing with her own voice: + </p> + <p> + “Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, I will sing a song to thee.” + </p> + <p> + Pelageya comes back; she crosses herself and whispers: + </p> + <p> + “They put him to rights in the night, but towards morning he gave up his + soul to God. . . . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and peace everlasting. . . + . They say he was taken too late. . . . He ought to have gone sooner. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Varka goes out into the road and cries there, but all at once someone hits + her on the back of her head so hard that her forehead knocks against a + birch tree. She raises her eyes, and sees facing her, her master, the + shoemaker. + </p> + <p> + “What are you about, you scabby slut?” he says. “The child is crying, and + you are asleep!” + </p> + <p> + He gives her a sharp slap behind the ear, and she shakes her head, rocks + the cradle, and murmurs her song. The green patch and the shadows from the + trousers and the baby-clothes move up and down, nod to her, and soon take + possession of her brain again. Again she sees the high road covered with + liquid mud. The people with wallets on their backs and the shadows have + lain down and are fast asleep. Looking at them, Varka has a passionate + longing for sleep; she would lie down with enjoyment, but her mother + Pelageya is walking beside her, hurrying her on. They are hastening + together to the town to find situations. + </p> + <p> + “Give alms, for Christ’s sake!” her mother begs of the people they meet. + “Show us the Divine Mercy, kind-hearted gentlefolk!” + </p> + <p> + “Give the baby here!” a familiar voice answers. “Give the baby here!” the + same voice repeats, this time harshly and angrily. “Are you asleep, you + wretched girl?” + </p> + <p> + Varka jumps up, and looking round grasps what is the matter: there is no + high road, no Pelageya, no people meeting them, there is only her + mistress, who has come to feed the baby, and is standing in the middle of + the room. While the stout, broad-shouldered woman nurses the child and + soothes it, Varka stands looking at her and waiting till she has done. And + outside the windows the air is already turning blue, the shadows and the + green patch on the ceiling are visibly growing pale, it will soon be + morning. + </p> + <p> + “Take him,” says her mistress, buttoning up her chemise over her bosom; + “he is crying. He must be bewitched.” + </p> + <p> + Varka takes the baby, puts him in the cradle and begins rocking it again. + The green patch and the shadows gradually disappear, and now there is + nothing to force itself on her eyes and cloud her brain. But she is as + sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy! Varka lays her head on the edge of the + cradle, and rocks her whole body to overcome her sleepiness, but yet her + eyes are glued together, and her head is heavy. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, heat the stove!” she hears the master’s voice through the door. + </p> + <p> + So it is time to get up and set to work. Varka leaves the cradle, and runs + to the shed for firewood. She is glad. When one moves and runs about, one + is not so sleepy as when one is sitting down. She brings the wood, heats + the stove, and feels that her wooden face is getting supple again, and + that her thoughts are growing clearer. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, set the samovar!” shouts her mistress. + </p> + <p> + Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely time to light the splinters + and put them in the samovar, when she hears a fresh order: + </p> + <p> + “Varka, clean the master’s goloshes!” + </p> + <p> + She sits down on the floor, cleans the goloshes, and thinks how nice it + would be to put her head into a big deep golosh, and have a little nap in + it. . . . And all at once the golosh grows, swells, fills up the whole + room. Varka drops the brush, but at once shakes her head, opens her eyes + wide, and tries to look at things so that they may not grow big and move + before her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, wash the steps outside; I am ashamed for the customers to see + them!” + </p> + <p> + Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heats another + stove and runs to the shop. There is a great deal of work: she hasn’t one + minute free. + </p> + <p> + But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen table + peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoes dance + before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her fat, angry + mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked up, talking so + loud that it makes a ringing in Varka’s ears. It is agonising, too, to + wait at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minutes when she longs to flop + on to the floor regardless of everything, and to sleep. + </p> + <p> + The day passes. Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses her temples + that feel as though they were made of wood, and smiles, though she does + not know why. The dusk of evening caresses her eyes that will hardly keep + open, and promises her sound sleep soon. In the evening visitors come. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, set the samovar!” shouts her mistress. The samovar is a little + one, and before the visitors have drunk all the tea they want, she has to + heat it five times. After tea Varka stands for a whole hour on the same + spot, looking at the visitors, and waiting for orders. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, run and buy three bottles of beer!” + </p> + <p> + She starts off, and tries to run as quickly as she can, to drive away + sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, fetch some vodka! Varka, where’s the corkscrew? Varka, clean a + herring!” + </p> + <p> + But now, at last, the visitors have gone; the lights are put out, the + master and mistress go to bed. + </p> + <p> + “Varka, rock the baby!” she hears the last order. + </p> + <p> + The cricket churrs in the stove; the green patch on the ceiling and the + shadows from the trousers and the baby-clothes force themselves on Varka’s + half-opened eyes again, wink at her and cloud her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Hush-a-bye, my baby wee,” she murmurs, “and I will sing a song to thee.” + </p> + <p> + And the baby screams, and is worn out with screaming. Again Varka sees the + muddy high road, the people with wallets, her mother Pelageya, her father + Yefim. She understands everything, she recognises everyone, but through + her half sleep she cannot understand the force which binds her, hand and + foot, weighs upon her, and prevents her from living. She looks round, + searches for that force that she may escape from it, but she cannot find + it. At last, tired to death, she does her very utmost, strains her eyes, + looks up at the flickering green patch, and listening to the screaming, + finds the foe who will not let her live. + </p> + <p> + That foe is the baby. + </p> + <p> + She laughs. It seems strange to her that she has failed to grasp such a + simple thing before. The green patch, the shadows, and the cricket seem to + laugh and wonder too. + </p> + <p> + The hallucination takes possession of Varka. She gets up from her stool, + and with a broad smile on her face and wide unblinking eyes, she walks up + and down the room. She feels pleased and tickled at the thought that she + will be rid directly of the baby that binds her hand and foot. . . . Kill + the baby and then sleep, sleep, sleep. . . . + </p> + <p> + Laughing and winking and shaking her fingers at the green patch, Varka + steals up to the cradle and bends over the baby. When she has strangled + him, she quickly lies down on the floor, laughs with delight that she can + sleep, and in a minute is sleeping as sound as the dead. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHILDREN + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>APA and mamma and + Aunt Nadya are not at home. They have gone to a christening party at the + house of that old officer who rides on a little grey horse. While waiting + for them to come home, Grisha, Anya, Alyosha, Sonya, and the cook’s son, + Andrey, are sitting at the table in the dining-room, playing at loto. To + tell the truth, it is bedtime, but how can one go to sleep without hearing + from mamma what the baby was like at the christening, and what they had + for supper? The table, lighted by a hanging lamp, is dotted with numbers, + nutshells, scraps of paper, and little bits of glass. Two cards lie in + front of each player, and a heap of bits of glass for covering the + numbers. In the middle of the table is a white saucer with five kopecks in + it. Beside the saucer, a half-eaten apple, a pair of scissors, and a plate + on which they have been told to put their nutshells. The children are + playing for money. The stake is a kopeck. The rule is: if anyone cheats, + he is turned out at once. There is no one in the dining-room but the + players, and nurse, Agafya Ivanovna, is in the kitchen, showing the cook + how to cut a pattern, while their elder brother, Vasya, a schoolboy in the + fifth class, is lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, feeling bored. + </p> + <p> + They are playing with zest. The greatest excitement is expressed on the + face of Grisha. He is a small boy of nine, with a head cropped so that the + bare skin shows through, chubby cheeks, and thick lips like a negro’s. He + is already in the preparatory class, and so is regarded as grown up, and + the cleverest. He is playing entirely for the sake of the money. If there + had been no kopecks in the saucer, he would have been asleep long ago. His + brown eyes stray uneasily and jealously over the other players’ cards. The + fear that he may not win, envy, and the financial combinations of which + his cropped head is full, will not let him sit still and concentrate his + mind. He fidgets as though he were sitting on thorns. When he wins, he + snatches up the money greedily, and instantly puts it in his pocket. His + sister, Anya, a girl of eight, with a sharp chin and clever shining eyes, + is also afraid that someone else may win. She flushes and turns pale, and + watches the players keenly. The kopecks do not interest her. Success in + the game is for her a question of vanity. The other sister, Sonya, a child + of six with a curly head, and a complexion such as is seen only in very + healthy children, expensive dolls, and the faces on bonbon boxes, is + playing loto for the process of the game itself. There is bliss all over + her face. Whoever wins, she laughs and claps her hands. Alyosha, a chubby, + spherical little figure, gasps, breathes hard through his nose, and stares + open-eyed at the cards. He is moved neither by covetousness nor vanity. So + long as he is not driven out of the room, or sent to bed, he is thankful. + He looks phlegmatic, but at heart he is rather a little beast. He is not + there so much for the sake of the loto, as for the sake of the + misunderstandings which are inevitable in the game. He is greatly + delighted if one hits another, or calls him names. He ought to have run + off somewhere long ago, but he won’t leave the table for a minute, for + fear they should steal his counters or his kopecks. As he can only count + the units and numbers which end in nought, Anya covers his numbers for + him. The fifth player, the cook’s son, Andrey, a dark-skinned and sickly + looking boy in a cotton shirt, with a copper cross on his breast, stands + motionless, looking dreamily at the numbers. He takes no interest in + winning, or in the success of the others, because he is entirely engrossed + by the arithmetic of the game, and its far from complex theory; “How many + numbers there are in the world,” he is thinking, “and how is it they don’t + get mixed up?” + </p> + <p> + They all shout out the numbers in turn, except Sonya and Alyosha. To vary + the monotony, they have invented in the course of time a number of + synonyms and comic nicknames. Seven, for instance, is called the + “ovenrake,” eleven the “sticks,” seventy-seven “Semyon Semyonitch,” ninety + “grandfather,” and so on. The game is going merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-two,” cries Grisha, drawing the little yellow cylinders out of his + father’s cap. “Seventeen! Ovenrake! Twenty-eight! Lay them straight. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Anya sees that Andrey has let twenty-eight slip. At any other time she + would have pointed it out to him, but now when her vanity lies in the + saucer with the kopecks, she is triumphant. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-three!” Grisha goes on, “Semyon Semyonitch! Nine!” + </p> + <p> + “A beetle, a beetle,” cries Sonya, pointing to a beetle running across the + table. “Aie!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t kill it,” says Alyosha, in his deep bass, “perhaps it’s got + children . . . .” + </p> + <p> + Sonya follows the black beetle with her eyes and wonders about its + children: what tiny little beetles they must be! + </p> + <p> + “Forty-three! One!” Grisha goes on, unhappy at the thought that Anya has + already made two fours. “Six!” + </p> + <p> + “Game! I have got the game!” cries Sonya, rolling her eyes coquettishly + and giggling. + </p> + <p> + The players’ countenances lengthen. + </p> + <p> + “Must make sure!” says Grisha, looking with hatred at Sonya. + </p> + <p> + Exercising his rights as a big boy, and the cleverest, Grisha takes upon + himself to decide. What he wants, that they do. Sonya’s reckoning is + slowly and carefully verified, and to the great regret of her fellow + players, it appears that she has not cheated. Another game is begun. + </p> + <p> + “I did see something yesterday!” says Anya, as though to herself. “Filipp + Filippitch turned his eyelids inside out somehow and his eyes looked red + and dreadful, like an evil spirit’s.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw it too,” says Grisha. “Eight! And a boy at our school can move his + ears. Twenty-seven!” + </p> + <p> + Andrey looks up at Grisha, meditates, and says: + </p> + <p> + “I can move my ears too. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, move them.” + </p> + <p> + Andrey moves his eyes, his lips, and his fingers, and fancies that his + ears are moving too. Everyone laughs. + </p> + <p> + “He is a horrid man, that Filipp Filippitch,” sighs Sonya. “He came into + our nursery yesterday, and I had nothing on but my chemise . . . And I + felt so improper!” + </p> + <p> + “Game!” Grisha cries suddenly, snatching the money from the saucer. “I’ve + got the game! You can look and see if you like.” + </p> + <p> + The cook’s son looks up and turns pale. + </p> + <p> + “Then I can’t go on playing any more,” he whispers. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because . . . because I have got no more money.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t play without money,” says Grisha. + </p> + <p> + Andrey ransacks his pockets once more to make sure. Finding nothing in + them but crumbs and a bitten pencil, he drops the corners of his mouth and + begins blinking miserably. He is on the point of crying. . . . + </p> + <p> + “I’ll put it down for you!” says Sonya, unable to endure his look of + agony. “Only mind you must pay me back afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + The money is brought and the game goes on. + </p> + <p> + “I believe they are ringing somewhere,” says Anya, opening her eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + They all leave off playing and gaze open-mouthed at the dark window. The + reflection of the lamp glimmers in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “It was your fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “At night they only ring in the cemetery,” says Andrey. + </p> + <p> + “And what do they ring there for?” + </p> + <p> + “To prevent robbers from breaking into the church. They are afraid of the + bells.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do robbers break into the church for?” asks Sonya. + </p> + <p> + “Everyone knows what for: to kill the watchmen.” + </p> + <p> + A minute passes in silence. They all look at one another, shudder, and go + on playing. This time Andrey wins. + </p> + <p> + “He has cheated,” Alyosha booms out, apropos of nothing. + </p> + <p> + “What a lie, I haven’t cheated.” + </p> + <p> + Andrey turns pale, his mouth works, and he gives Alyosha a slap on the + head! Alyosha glares angrily, jumps up, and with one knee on the table, + slaps Andrey on the cheek! Each gives the other a second blow, and both + howl. Sonya, feeling such horrors too much for her, begins crying too, and + the dining-room resounds with lamentations on various notes. But do not + imagine that that is the end of the game. Before five minutes are over, + the children are laughing and talking peaceably again. Their faces are + tear-stained, but that does not prevent them from smiling; Alyosha is + positively blissful, there has been a squabble! + </p> + <p> + Vasya, the fifth form schoolboy, walks into the dining-room. He looks + sleepy and disillusioned. + </p> + <p> + “This is revolting!” he thinks, seeing Grisha feel in his pockets in which + the kopecks are jingling. “How can they give children money? And how can + they let them play games of chance? A nice way to bring them up, I must + say! It’s revolting!” + </p> + <p> + But the children’s play is so tempting that he feels an inclination to + join them and to try his luck. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute and I’ll sit down to a game,” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Put down a kopeck!” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute,” he says, fumbling in his pockets. “I haven’t a kopeck, but + here is a rouble. I’ll stake a rouble.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no. . . . You must put down a kopeck.” + </p> + <p> + “You stupids. A rouble is worth more than a kopeck anyway,” the schoolboy + explains. “Whoever wins can give me change.” + </p> + <p> + “No, please! Go away!” + </p> + <p> + The fifth form schoolboy shrugs his shoulders, and goes into the kitchen + to get change from the servants. It appears there is not a single kopeck + in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “In that case, you give me change,” he urges Grisha, coming back from the + kitchen. “I’ll pay you for the change. Won’t you? Come, give me ten + kopecks for a rouble.” + </p> + <p> + Grisha looks suspiciously at Vasya, wondering whether it isn’t some trick, + a swindle. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t,” he says, holding his pockets. + </p> + <p> + Vasya begins to get cross, and abuses them, calling them idiots and + blockheads. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll put down a stake for you, Vasya!” says Sonya. “Sit down.” He sits + down and lays two cards before him. Anya begins counting the numbers. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve dropped a kopeck!” Grisha announces suddenly, in an agitated voice. + “Wait!” + </p> + <p> + He takes the lamp, and creeps under the table to look for the kopeck. They + clutch at nutshells and all sorts of nastiness, knock their heads + together, but do not find the kopeck. They begin looking again, and look + till Vasya takes the lamp out of Grisha’s hands and puts it in its place. + Grisha goes on looking in the dark. But at last the kopeck is found. The + players sit down at the table and mean to go on playing. + </p> + <p> + “Sonya is asleep!” Alyosha announces. + </p> + <p> + Sonya, with her curly head lying on her arms, is in a sweet, sound, + tranquil sleep, as though she had been asleep for an hour. She has fallen + asleep by accident, while the others were looking for the kopeck. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, lie on mamma’s bed!” says Anya, leading her away from the + table. “Come along!” + </p> + <p> + They all troop out with her, and five minutes later mamma’s bed presents a + curious spectacle. Sonya is asleep. Alyosha is snoring beside her. With + their heads to the others’ feet, sleep Grisha and Anya. The cook’s son, + Andrey too, has managed to snuggle in beside them. Near them lie the + kopecks, that have lost their power till the next game. Good-night! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RUNAWAY + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T had been a long + business. At first Pashka had walked with his mother in the rain, at one + time across a mown field, then by forest paths, where the yellow leaves + stuck to his boots; he had walked until it was daylight. Then he had stood + for two hours in the dark passage, waiting for the door to open. It was + not so cold and damp in the passage as in the yard, but with the high wind + spurts of rain flew in even there. When the passage gradually became + packed with people Pashka, squeezed among them, leaned his face against + somebody’s sheepskin which smelt strongly of salt fish, and sank into a + doze. But at last the bolt clicked, the door flew open, and Pashka and his + mother went into the waiting-room. All the patients sat on benches without + stirring or speaking. Pashka looked round at them, and he too was silent, + though he was seeing a great deal that was strange and funny. Only once, + when a lad came into the waiting-room hopping on one leg, Pashka longed to + hop too; he nudged his mother’s elbow, giggled in his sleeve, and said: + “Look, mammy, a sparrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, child, hush!” said his mother. + </p> + <p> + A sleepy-looking hospital assistant appeared at the little window. + </p> + <p> + “Come and be registered!” he boomed out. + </p> + <p> + All of them, including the funny lad who hopped, filed up to the window. + The assistant asked each one his name, and his father’s name, where he + lived, how long he had been ill, and so on. From his mother’s answers, + Pashka learned that his name was not Pashka, but Pavel Galaktionov, that + he was seven years old, that he could not read or write, and that he had + been ill ever since Easter. + </p> + <p> + Soon after the registration, he had to stand up for a little while; the + doctor in a white apron, with a towel round his waist, walked across the + waiting-room. As he passed by the boy who hopped, he shrugged his + shoulders, and said in a sing-song tenor: + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are an idiot! Aren’t you an idiot? I told you to come on + Monday, and you come on Friday. It’s nothing to me if you don’t come at + all, but you know, you idiot, your leg will be done for!” + </p> + <p> + The lad made a pitiful face, as though he were going to beg for alms, + blinked, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Kindly do something for me, Ivan Mikolaitch!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use saying ‘Ivan Mikolaitch,’” the doctor mimicked him. “You were + told to come on Monday, and you ought to obey. You are an idiot, and that + is all about it.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor began seeing the patients. He sat in his little room, and + called up the patients in turn. Sounds were continually coming from the + little room, piercing wails, a child’s crying, or the doctor’s angry + words: + </p> + <p> + “Come, why are you bawling? Am I murdering you, or what? Sit quiet!” + </p> + <p> + Pashka’s turn came. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Galaktionov!” shouted the doctor. + </p> + <p> + His mother was aghast, as though she had not expected this summons, and + taking Pashka by the hand, she led him into the room. + </p> + <p> + The doctor was sitting at the table, mechanically tapping on a thick book + with a little hammer. + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong?” he asked, without looking at them. + </p> + <p> + “The little lad has an ulcer on his elbow, sir,” answered his mother, and + her face assumed an expression as though she really were terribly grieved + at Pashka’s ulcer. + </p> + <p> + “Undress him!” + </p> + <p> + Pashka, panting, unwound the kerchief from his neck, then wiped his nose + on his sleeve, and began deliberately pulling off his sheepskin. + </p> + <p> + “Woman, you have not come here on a visit!” said the doctor angrily. “Why + are you dawdling? You are not the only one here.” + </p> + <p> + Pashka hurriedly flung the sheepskin on the floor, and with his mother’s + help took off his shirt. . . The doctor looked at him lazily, and patted + him on his bare stomach. + </p> + <p> + “You have grown quite a respectable corporation, brother Pashka,” he said, + and heaved a sigh. “Come, show me your elbow.” + </p> + <p> + Pashka looked sideways at the basin full of bloodstained slops, looked at + the doctor’s apron, and began to cry. + </p> + <p> + “May-ay!” the doctor mimicked him. “Nearly old enough to be married, + spoilt boy, and here he is blubbering! For shame!” + </p> + <p> + Pashka, trying not to cry, looked at his mother, and in that look could be + read the entreaty: “Don’t tell them at home that I cried at the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor examined his elbow, pressed it, heaved a sigh, clicked with his + lips, then pressed it again. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be beaten, woman, but there is no one to do it,” he said. + “Why didn’t you bring him before? Why, the whole arm is done for. Look, + foolish woman. You see, the joint is diseased!” + </p> + <p> + “You know best, kind sir . . .” sighed the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Kind sir. . . . She’s let the boy’s arm rot, and now it is ‘kind sir.’ + What kind of workman will he be without an arm? You’ll be nursing him and + looking after him for ages. I bet if you had had a pimple on your nose, + you’d have run to the hospital quick enough, but you have left your boy to + rot for six months. You are all like that.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor lighted a cigarette. While the cigarette smoked, he scolded the + woman, and shook his head in time to the song he was humming inwardly, + while he thought of something else. Pashka stood naked before him, + listening and looking at the smoke. When the cigarette went out, the + doctor started, and said in a lower tone: + </p> + <p> + “Well, listen, woman. You can do nothing with ointments and drops in this + case. You must leave him in the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “If necessary, sir, why not? + </p> + <p> + “We must operate on him. You stop with me, Pashka,” said the doctor, + slapping Pashka on the shoulder. “Let mother go home, and you and I will + stop here, old man. It’s nice with me, old boy, it’s first-rate here. I’ll + tell you what we’ll do, Pashka, we will go catching finches together. I + will show you a fox! We will go visiting together! Shall we? And mother + will come for you tomorrow! Eh?” + </p> + <p> + Pashka looked inquiringly at his mother. + </p> + <p> + “You stay, child!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll stay, he’ll stay!” cried the doctor gleefully. “And there is no + need to discuss it. I’ll show him a live fox! We will go to the fair + together to buy candy! Marya Denisovna, take him upstairs!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, apparently a light-hearted and friendly fellow, seemed glad to + have company; Pashka wanted to oblige him, especially as he had never in + his life been to a fair, and would have been glad to have a look at a live + fox, but how could he do without his mother? + </p> + <p> + After a little reflection he decided to ask the doctor to let his mother + stay in the hospital too, but before he had time to open his mouth the + lady assistant was already taking him upstairs. He walked up and looked + about him with his mouth open. The staircase, the floors, and the + doorposts—everything huge, straight, and bright-were painted a + splendid yellow colour, and had a delicious smell of Lenten oil. On all + sides lamps were hanging, strips of carpet stretched along the floor, + copper taps stuck out on the walls. But best of all Pashka liked the + bedstead upon which he was made to sit down, and the grey woollen + coverlet. He touched the pillows and the coverlet with his hands, looked + round the ward, and made up his mind that it was very nice at the + doctor’s. + </p> + <p> + The ward was not a large one, it consisted of only three beds. One bed + stood empty, the second was occupied by Pashka, and on the third sat an + old man with sour eyes, who kept coughing and spitting into a mug. From + Pashka’s bed part of another ward could be seen with two beds; on one a + very pale wasted-looking man with an india-rubber bottle on his head was + asleep; on the other a peasant with his head tied up, looking very like a + woman, was sitting with his arms spread out. + </p> + <p> + After making Pashka sit down, the assistant went out and came back a + little later with a bundle of clothes under her arm. + </p> + <p> + “These are for you,” she said, “put them on.” + </p> + <p> + Pashka undressed and, not without satisfaction began attiring himself in + his new array. When he had put on the shirt, the drawers, and the little + grey dressing-gown, he looked at himself complacently, and thought that it + would not be bad to walk through the village in that costume. His + imagination pictured his mother’s sending him to the kitchen garden by the + river to gather cabbage leaves for the little pig; he saw himself walking + along, while the boys and girls surrounded him and looked with envy at his + little dressing-gown. + </p> + <p> + A nurse came into the ward, bringing two tin bowls, two spoons, and two + pieces of bread. One bowl she set before the old man, the other before + Pashka. + </p> + <p> + “Eat!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Looking into his bowl, Pashka saw some rich cabbage soup, and in the soup + a piece of meat, and thought again that it was very nice at the doctor’s, + and that the doctor was not nearly so cross as he had seemed at first. He + spent a long time swallowing the soup, licking the spoon after each + mouthful, then when there was nothing left in the bowl but the meat he + stole a look at the old man, and felt envious that he was still eating the + soup. With a sigh Pashka attacked the meat, trying to make it last as long + as possible, but his efforts were fruitless; the meat, too, quickly + vanished. There was nothing left but the piece of bread. Plain bread + without anything on it was not appetising, but there was no help for it. + Pashka thought a little, and ate the bread. At that moment the nurse came + in with another bowl. This time there was roast meat with potatoes in the + bowl. + </p> + <p> + “And where is the bread?” asked the nurse. + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering, Pashka puffed out his cheeks, and blew out the air. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you gobble it all up?” said the nurse reproachfully. “What are + you going to eat your meat with?” + </p> + <p> + She went and fetched another piece of bread. Pashka had never eaten roast + meat in his life, and trying it now found it very nice. It vanished + quickly, and then he had a piece of bread left bigger than the first. When + the old man had finished his dinner, he put away the remains of his bread + in a little table. Pashka meant to do the same, but on second thoughts ate + his piece. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished he went for a walk. In the next ward, besides the two + he had seen from the door, there were four other people. Of these only one + drew his attention. This was a tall, extremely emaciated peasant with a + morose-looking, hairy face. He was sitting on the bed, nodding his head + and swinging his right arm all the time like a pendulum. Pashka could not + take his eyes off him for a long time. At first the man’s regular + pendulum-like movements seemed to him curious, and he thought they were + done for the general amusement, but when he looked into the man’s face he + felt frightened, and realised that he was terribly ill. Going into a third + ward he saw two peasants with dark red faces as though they were smeared + with clay. They were sitting motionless on their beds, and with their + strange faces, in which it was hard to distinguish their features, they + looked like heathen idols. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie, why do they look like that?” Pashka asked the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “They have got smallpox, little lad.” + </p> + <p> + Going back to his own ward, Pashka sat down on his bed and began waiting + for the doctor to come and take him to catch finches, or to go to the + fair. But the doctor did not come. He got a passing glimpse of a hospital + assistant at the door of the next ward. He bent over the patient on whose + head lay a bag of ice, and cried: “Mihailo!” + </p> + <p> + But the sleeping man did not stir. The assistant made a gesture and went + away. Pashka scrutinised the old man, his next neighbour. The old man + coughed without ceasing and spat into a mug. His cough had a + long-drawn-out, creaking sound. + </p> + <p> + Pashka liked one peculiarity about him; when he drew the air in as he + coughed, something in his chest whistled and sang on different notes. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what is it whistles in you?” Pashka asked. + </p> + <p> + The old man made no answer. Pashka waited a little and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, where is the fox?” + </p> + <p> + “What fox?” + </p> + <p> + “The live one.” + </p> + <p> + “Where should it be? In the forest!” + </p> + <p> + A long time passed, but the doctor still did not appear. The nurse brought + in tea, and scolded Pashka for not having saved any bread for his tea; the + assistant came once more and set to work to wake Mihailo. It turned blue + outside the windows, the wards were lighted up, but the doctor did not + appear. It was too late now to go to the fair and catch finches; Pashka + stretched himself on his bed and began thinking. He remembered the candy + promised him by the doctor, the face and voice of his mother, the darkness + in his hut at home, the stove, peevish granny Yegorovna . . . and he + suddenly felt sad and dreary. He remembered that his mother was coming for + him next day, smiled, and shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He was awakened by a rustling. In the next ward someone was stepping about + and speaking in a whisper. Three figures were moving about Mihailo’s bed + in the dim light of the night-light and the ikon lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we take him, bed and all, or without?” asked one of them. + </p> + <p> + “Without. You won’t get through the door with the bed.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s died at the wrong time, the Kingdom of Heaven be his!” + </p> + <p> + One took Mihailo by his shoulders, another by his legs and lifted him up: + Mihailo’s arms and the skirt of his dressing-gown hung limply to the + ground. A third—it was the peasant who looked like a woman—crossed + himself, and all three tramping clumsily with their feet and stepping on + Mihailo’s skirts, went out of the ward. + </p> + <p> + There came the whistle and humming on different notes from the chest of + the old man who was asleep. Pashka listened, peeped at the dark windows, + and jumped out of bed in terror. + </p> + <p> + “Ma-a-mka!” he moaned in a deep bass. + </p> + <p> + And without waiting for an answer, he rushed into the next ward. There the + darkness was dimly lighted up by a night-light and the ikon lamp; the + patients, upset by the death of Mihailo, were sitting on their bedsteads: + their dishevelled figures, mixed up with the shadows, looked broader, + taller, and seemed to be growing bigger and bigger; on the furthest + bedstead in the corner, where it was darkest, there sat the peasant moving + his head and his hand. + </p> + <p> + Pashka, without noticing the doors, rushed into the smallpox ward, from + there into the corridor, from the corridor he flew into a big room where + monsters, with long hair and the faces of old women, were lying and + sitting on the beds. Running through the women’s wing he found himself + again in the corridor, saw the banisters of the staircase he knew already, + and ran downstairs. There he recognised the waiting-room in which he had + sat that morning, and began looking for the door into the open air. + </p> + <p> + The latch creaked, there was a whiff of cold wind, and Pashka, stumbling, + ran out into the yard. He had only one thought—to run, to run! He + did not know the way, but felt convinced that if he ran he would be sure + to find himself at home with his mother. The sky was overcast, but there + was a moon behind the clouds. Pashka ran from the steps straight forward, + went round the barn and stumbled into some thick bushes; after stopping + for a minute and thinking, he dashed back again to the hospital, ran round + it, and stopped again undecided; behind the hospital there were white + crosses. + </p> + <p> + “Ma-a-mka!” he cried, and dashed back. + </p> + <p> + Running by the dark sinister buildings, he saw one lighted window. + </p> + <p> + The bright red patch looked dreadful in the darkness, but Pashka, frantic + with terror, not knowing where to run, turned towards it. Beside the + window was a porch with steps, and a front door with a white board on it; + Pashka ran up the steps, looked in at the window, and was at once + possessed by intense overwhelming joy. Through the window he saw the merry + affable doctor sitting at the table reading a book. Laughing with + happiness, Pashka stretched out his hands to the person he knew and tried + to call out, but some unseen force choked him and struck at his legs; he + staggered and fell down on the steps unconscious. + </p> + <p> + When he came to himself it was daylight, and a voice he knew very well, + that had promised him a fair, finches, and a fox, was saying beside him: + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are an idiot, Pashka! Aren’t you an idiot? You ought to be + beaten, but there’s no one to do it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GRISHA + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>RISHA, a chubby + little boy, born two years and eight months ago, is walking on the + boulevard with his nurse. He is wearing a long, wadded pelisse, a scarf, a + big cap with a fluffy pom-pom, and warm over-boots. He feels hot and + stifled, and now, too, the rollicking April sunshine is beating straight + in his face, and making his eyelids tingle. + </p> + <p> + The whole of his clumsy, timidly and uncertainly stepping little figure + expresses the utmost bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto Grisha has known only a rectangular world, where in one corner + stands his bed, in the other nurse’s trunk, in the third a chair, while in + the fourth there is a little lamp burning. If one looks under the bed, one + sees a doll with a broken arm and a drum; and behind nurse’s trunk, there + are a great many things of all sorts: cotton reels, boxes without lids, + and a broken Jack-a-dandy. In that world, besides nurse and Grisha, there + are often mamma and the cat. Mamma is like a doll, and puss is like papa’s + fur-coat, only the coat hasn’t got eyes and a tail. From the world which + is called the nursery a door leads to a great expanse where they have + dinner and tea. There stands Grisha’s chair on high legs, and on the wall + hangs a clock which exists to swing its pendulum and chime. From the + dining-room, one can go into a room where there are red arm-chairs. Here, + there is a dark patch on the carpet, concerning which fingers are still + shaken at Grisha. Beyond that room is still another, to which one is not + admitted, and where one sees glimpses of papa—an extremely + enigmatical person! Nurse and mamma are comprehensible: they dress Grisha, + feed him, and put him to bed, but what papa exists for is unknown. There + is another enigmatical person, auntie, who presented Grisha with a drum. + She appears and disappears. Where does she disappear to? Grisha has more + than once looked under the bed, behind the trunk, and under the sofa, but + she was not there. + </p> + <p> + In this new world, where the sun hurts one’s eyes, there are so many papas + and mammas and aunties, that there is no knowing to whom to run. But what + is stranger and more absurd than anything is the horses. Grisha gazes at + their moving legs, and can make nothing of it. He looks at his nurse for + her to solve the mystery, but she does not speak. + </p> + <p> + All at once he hears a fearful tramping. . . . A crowd of soldiers, with + red faces and bath brooms under their arms, move in step along the + boulevard straight upon him. Grisha turns cold all over with terror, and + looks inquiringly at nurse to know whether it is dangerous. But nurse + neither weeps nor runs away, so there is no danger. Grisha looks after the + soldiers, and begins to move his feet in step with them himself. + </p> + <p> + Two big cats with long faces run after each other across the boulevard, + with their tongues out, and their tails in the air. Grisha thinks that he + must run too, and runs after the cats. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” cries nurse, seizing him roughly by the shoulder. “Where are you + off to? Haven’t you been told not to be naughty?” + </p> + <p> + Here there is a nurse sitting holding a tray of oranges. Grisha passes by + her, and, without saying anything, takes an orange. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing that for?” cries the companion of his travels, + slapping his hand and snatching away the orange. “Silly!” + </p> + <p> + Now Grisha would have liked to pick up a bit of glass that was lying at + his feet and gleaming like a lamp, but he is afraid that his hand will be + slapped again. + </p> + <p> + “My respects to you!” Grisha hears suddenly, almost above his ear, a loud + thick voice, and he sees a tall man with bright buttons. + </p> + <p> + To his great delight, this man gives nurse his hand, stops, and begins + talking to her. The brightness of the sun, the noise of the carriages, the + horses, the bright buttons are all so impressively new and not dreadful, + that Grisha’s soul is filled with a feeling of enjoyment and he begins to + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Come along! Come along!” he cries to the man with the bright buttons, + tugging at his coattails. + </p> + <p> + “Come along where?” asks the man. + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” Grisha insists. + </p> + <p> + He wants to say that it would be just as well to take with them papa, + mamma, and the cat, but his tongue does not say what he wants to. + </p> + <p> + A little later, nurse turns out of the boulevard, and leads Grisha into a + big courtyard where there is still snow; and the man with the bright + buttons comes with them too. They carefully avoid the lumps of snow and + the puddles, then, by a dark and dirty staircase, they go into a room. + Here there is a great deal of smoke, there is a smell of roast meat, and a + woman is standing by the stove frying cutlets. The cook and the nurse kiss + each other, and sit down on the bench together with the man, and begin + talking in a low voice. Grisha, wrapped up as he is, feels insufferably + hot and stifled. + </p> + <p> + “Why is this?” he wonders, looking about him. + </p> + <p> + He sees the dark ceiling, the oven fork with two horns, the stove which + looks like a great black hole. + </p> + <p> + “Mam-ma,” he drawls. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, come!” cries the nurse. “Wait a bit!” + </p> + <p> + The cook puts a bottle on the table, two wine-glasses, and a pie. The two + women and the man with the bright buttons clink glasses and empty them + several times, and, the man puts his arm round first the cook and then the + nurse. And then all three begin singing in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + Grisha stretches out his hand towards the pie, and they give him a piece + of it. He eats it and watches nurse drinking. . . . He wants to drink too. + </p> + <p> + “Give me some, nurse!” he begs. + </p> + <p> + The cook gives him a sip out of her glass. He rolls his eyes, blinks, + coughs, and waves his hands for a long time afterwards, while the cook + looks at him and laughs. + </p> + <p> + When he gets home Grisha begins to tell mamma, the walls, and the bed + where he has been, and what he has seen. He talks not so much with his + tongue, as with his face and his hands. He shows how the sun shines, how + the horses run, how the terrible stove looks, and how the cook drinks. . . + . + </p> + <p> + In the evening he cannot get to sleep. The soldiers with the brooms, the + big cats, the horses, the bit of glass, the tray of oranges, the bright + buttons, all gathered together, weigh on his brain. He tosses from side to + side, babbles, and, at last, unable to endure his excitement, begins + crying. + </p> + <p> + “You are feverish,” says mamma, putting her open hand on his forehead. + “What can have caused it? + </p> + <p> + “Stove!” wails Grisha. “Go away, stove!” + </p> + <p> + “He must have eaten too much . . .” mamma decides. + </p> + <p> + And Grisha, shattered by the impressions of the new life he has just + experienced, receives a spoonful of castor-oil from mamma. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OYSTERS + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> NEED no great + effort of memory to recall, in every detail, the rainy autumn evening when + I stood with my father in one of the more frequented streets of Moscow, + and felt that I was gradually being overcome by a strange illness. I had + no pain at all, but my legs were giving way under me, the words stuck in + my throat, my head slipped weakly on one side . . . It seemed as though, + in a moment, I must fall down and lose consciousness. + </p> + <p> + If I had been taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctors would have + had to write over my bed: <i>Fames</i>, a disease which is not in the + manuals of medicine. + </p> + <p> + Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoat and + a serge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was sticking out. On his + feet he had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, that people would see + that his feet were bare under his goloshes, he had drawn the tops of some + old boots up round the calves of his legs. + </p> + <p> + This poor, foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly the more + ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had come to Moscow, + five months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk. For those five + months he had been trudging about Moscow looking for work, and it was only + on that day that he had brought himself to go into the street to beg for + alms. + </p> + <p> + Before us was a big house of three storeys, adorned with a blue signboard + with the word “Restaurant” on it. My head was drooping feebly backwards + and on one side, and I could not help looking upwards at the lighted + windows of the restaurant. Human figures were flitting about at the + windows. I could see the right side of the orchestrion, two oleographs, + hanging lamps . . . . Staring into one window, I saw a patch of white. The + patch was motionless, and its rectangular outlines stood out sharply + against the dark, brown background. I looked intently and made out of the + patch a white placard on the wall. Something was written on it, but what + it was, I could not see. . . + </p> + <p> + For half an hour I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attracted my + eyes, and, as it were, hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it, but my + efforts were in vain. + </p> + <p> + At last the strange disease got the upper hand. + </p> + <p> + The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder, in the stench of + the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurant lights and + the lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My five senses were overstrained + and sensitive beyond the normal. I began to see what I had not seen + before. + </p> + <p> + “Oysters . . .” I made out on the placard. + </p> + <p> + A strange word! I had lived in the world eight years and three months, but + had never come across that word. What did it mean? Surely it was not the + name of the restaurant-keeper? But signboards with names on them always + hang outside, not on the walls indoors! + </p> + <p> + “Papa, what does ‘oysters’ mean?” I asked in a husky voice, making an + effort to turn my face towards my father. + </p> + <p> + My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movements of the + crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes. . . . From his eyes I + saw that he wanted to say something to the passers-by, but the fatal word + hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lips and could not be flung off. + He even took a step after one passer-by and touched him on the sleeve, but + when he turned round, he said, “I beg your pardon,” was overcome with + confusion, and staggered back. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, what does ‘oysters’ mean?” I repeated. + </p> + <p> + “It is an animal . . . that lives in the sea.” + </p> + <p> + I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I thought + it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the + sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savoury + pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and + cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or served it cold with horse-radish. . . . I + vividly imagined it being brought from the market, quickly cleaned, + quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . + awfully hungry! From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish + soup. + </p> + <p> + I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, that it was + gradually taking possession of my whole body. . . . The restaurant, my + father, the white placard, my sleeves were all smelling of it, smelling so + strongly that I began to chew. I moved my jaws and swallowed as though I + really had a piece of this marine animal in my mouth . . . + </p> + <p> + My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and I clutched + at my father’s arm to keep myself from falling, and leant against his wet + summer overcoat. My father was trembling and shivering. He was cold . . . + </p> + <p> + “Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “They are eaten alive . . .” said my father. “They are in shells like + tortoises, but . . . in two halves.” + </p> + <p> + The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusion + vanished. . . . Now I understood it all! + </p> + <p> + “How nasty,” I whispered, “how nasty!” + </p> + <p> + So that’s what “oysters” meant! I imagined to myself a creature like a + frog. A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it with big, glittering + eyes, and moving its revolting jaws. I imagined this creature in a shell + with claws, glittering eyes, and a slimy skin, being brought from the + market. . . . The children would all hide while the cook, frowning with an + air of disgust, would take the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, + and carry it into the dining-room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, + eat it alive with its eyes, its teeth, its legs! While it squeaked and + tried to bite their lips. . . . + </p> + <p> + I frowned, but . . . but why did my teeth move as though I were munching? + The creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible, but I ate it, ate it + greedily, afraid of distinguishing its taste or smell. As soon as I had + eaten one, I saw the glittering eyes of a second, a third . . . I ate them + too. . . . At last I ate the table-napkin, the plate, my father’s + goloshes, the white placard . . . I ate everything that caught my eye, + because I felt that nothing but eating would take away my illness. The + oysters had a terrible look in their eyes and were loathsome. I shuddered + at the thought of them, but I wanted to eat! To eat! + </p> + <p> + “Oysters! Give me some oysters!” was the cry that broke from me and I + stretched out my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Help us, gentlemen!” I heard at that moment my father say, in a hollow + and shaking voice. “I am ashamed to ask but—my God!—I can bear + no more!” + </p> + <p> + “Oysters!” I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A little chap like you!” I heard + laughter close to me. + </p> + <p> + Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into my face + and laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That’s interesting! How do you eat + them?” + </p> + <p> + I remember that a strong hand dragged me into the lighted restaurant. A + minute later there was a crowd round me, watching me with curiosity and + amusement. I sat at a table and ate something slimy, salt with a flavour + of dampness and mouldiness. I ate greedily without chewing, without + looking and trying to discover what I was eating. I fancied that if I + opened my eyes I should see glittering eyes, claws, and sharp teeth. + </p> + <p> + All at once I began biting something hard, there was a sound of a + scrunching. + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha! He is eating the shells,” laughed the crowd. “Little silly, do + you suppose you can eat that?” + </p> + <p> + After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed, and could + not sleep for heartburn and the strange taste in my parched mouth. My + father was walking up and down, gesticulating with his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I have caught cold,” he was muttering. “I’ve a feeling in my + head as though someone were sitting on it. . . . Perhaps it is because I + have not . . . er . . . eaten anything to-day. . . . I really am a queer, + stupid creature. . . . I saw those gentlemen pay ten roubles for the + oysters. Why didn’t I go up to them and ask them . . . to lend me + something? They would have given something.” + </p> + <p> + Towards morning, I fell asleep and dreamt of a frog sitting in a shell, + moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst, and looked for my + father: he was still walking up and down and gesticulating. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOME + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“S</span>OMEONE came from + the Grigoryevs’ to fetch a book, but I said you were not at home. The + postman brought the newspaper and two letters. By the way, Yevgeny + Petrovitch, I should like to ask you to speak to Seryozha. To-day, and the + day before yesterday, I have noticed that he is smoking. When I began to + expostulate with him, he put his fingers in his ears as usual, and sang + loudly to drown my voice.” + </p> + <p> + Yevgeny Petrovitch Bykovsky, the prosecutor of the circuit court, who had + just come back from a session and was taking off his gloves in his study, + looked at the governess as she made her report, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Seryozha smoking . . .” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I can picture + the little cherub with a cigarette in his mouth! Why, how old is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven. You think it is not important, but at his age smoking is a bad and + pernicious habit, and bad habits ought to be eradicated in the beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly true. And where does he get the tobacco?” + </p> + <p> + “He takes it from the drawer in your table.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? In that case, send him to me.” + </p> + <p> + When the governess had gone out, Bykovsky sat down in an arm-chair before + his writing-table, shut his eyes, and fell to thinking. He pictured his + Seryozha with a huge cigar, a yard long, in the midst of clouds of tobacco + smoke, and this caricature made him smile; at the same time, the grave, + troubled face of the governess called up memories of the long past, + half-forgotten time when smoking aroused in his teachers and parents a + strange, not quite intelligible horror. It really was horror. Children + were mercilessly flogged and expelled from school, and their lives were + made a misery on account of smoking, though not a single teacher or father + knew exactly what was the harm or sinfulness of smoking. Even very + intelligent people did not scruple to wage war on a vice which they did + not understand. Yevgeny Petrovitch remembered the head-master of the high + school, a very cultured and good-natured old man, who was so appalled when + he found a high-school boy with a cigarette in his mouth that he turned + pale, immediately summoned an emergency committee of the teachers, and + sentenced the sinner to expulsion. This was probably a law of social life: + the less an evil was understood, the more fiercely and coarsely it was + attacked. + </p> + <p> + The prosecutor remembered two or three boys who had been expelled and + their subsequent life, and could not help thinking that very often the + punishment did a great deal more harm than the crime itself. The living + organism has the power of rapidly adapting itself, growing accustomed and + inured to any atmosphere whatever, otherwise man would be bound to feel at + every moment what an irrational basis there often is underlying his + rational activity, and how little of established truth and certainty there + is even in work so responsible and so terrible in its effects as that of + the teacher, of the lawyer, of the writer. . . . + </p> + <p> + And such light and discursive thoughts as visit the brain only when it is + weary and resting began straying through Yevgeny Petrovitch’s head; there + is no telling whence and why they come, they do not remain long in the + mind, but seem to glide over its surface without sinking deeply into it. + For people who are forced for whole hours, and even days, to think by + routine in one direction, such free private thinking affords a kind of + comfort, an agreeable solace. + </p> + <p> + It was between eight and nine o’clock in the evening. Overhead, on the + second storey, someone was walking up and down, and on the floor above + that four hands were playing scales. The pacing of the man overhead who, + to judge from his nervous step, was thinking of something harassing, or + was suffering from toothache, and the monotonous scales gave the stillness + of the evening a drowsiness that disposed to lazy reveries. In the + nursery, two rooms away, the governess and Seryozha were talking. + </p> + <p> + “Pa-pa has come!” carolled the child. “Papa has co-ome. Pa! Pa! Pa!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Votre père vous appelle, allez vite!</i>” cried the governess, shrill + as a frightened bird. “I am speaking to you!” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to say to him, though?” Yevgeny Petrovitch wondered. + </p> + <p> + But before he had time to think of anything whatever his son Seryozha, a + boy of seven, walked into the study. + </p> + <p> + He was a child whose sex could only have been guessed from his dress: + weakly, white-faced, and fragile. He was limp like a hot-house plant, and + everything about him seemed extraordinarily soft and tender: his + movements, his curly hair, the look in his eyes, his velvet jacket. + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, papa!” he said, in a soft voice, clambering on to his + father’s knee and giving him a rapid kiss on his neck. “Did you send for + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Sergey Yevgenitch,” answered the prosecutor, removing him from + his knee. “Before kissing we must have a talk, and a serious talk . . . I + am angry with you, and don’t love you any more. I tell you, my boy, I + don’t love you, and you are no son of mine. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Seryozha looked intently at his father, then shifted his eyes to the + table, and shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done to you?” he asked in perplexity, blinking. “I haven’t + been in your study all day, and I haven’t touched anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Natalya Semyonovna has just been complaining to me that you have been + smoking. . . . Is it true? Have you been smoking?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did smoke once. . . . That’s true. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Now you see you are lying as well,” said the prosecutor, frowning to + disguise a smile. “Natalya Semyonovna has seen you smoking twice. So you + see you have been detected in three misdeeds: smoking, taking someone + else’s tobacco, and lying. Three faults.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” Seryozha recollected, and his eyes smiled. “That’s true, that’s + true; I smoked twice: to-day and before.” + </p> + <p> + “So you see it was not once, but twice. . . . I am very, very much + displeased with you! You used to be a good boy, but now I see you are + spoilt and have become a bad one.” + </p> + <p> + Yevgeny Petrovitch smoothed down Seryozha’s collar and thought: + </p> + <p> + “What more am I to say to him!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s not right,” he continued. “I did not expect it of you. In the + first place, you ought not to take tobacco that does not belong to you. + Every person has only the right to make use of his own property; if he + takes anyone else’s . . . he is a bad man!” (“I am not saying the right + thing!” thought Yevgeny Petrovitch.) “For instance, Natalya Semyonovna has + a box with her clothes in it. That’s her box, and we—that is, you + and I—dare not touch it, as it is not ours. That’s right, isn’t it? + You’ve got toy horses and pictures. . . . I don’t take them, do I? Perhaps + I might like to take them, but . . . they are not mine, but yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Take them if you like!” said Seryozha, raising his eyebrows. “Please + don’t hesitate, papa, take them! That yellow dog on your table is mine, + but I don’t mind. . . . Let it stay.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand me,” said Bykovsky. “You have given me the dog, it + is mine now and I can do what I like with it; but I didn’t give you the + tobacco! The tobacco is mine.” (“I am not explaining properly!” thought + the prosecutor. “It’s wrong! Quite wrong!”) “If I want to smoke someone + else’s tobacco, I must first of all ask his permission. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Languidly linking one phrase on to another and imitating the language of + the nursery, Bykovsky tried to explain to his son the meaning of property. + Seryozha gazed at his chest and listened attentively (he liked talking to + his father in the evening), then he leaned his elbow on the edge of the + table and began screwing up his short-sighted eyes at the papers and the + inkstand. His eyes strayed over the table and rested on the gum-bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, what is gum made of?” he asked suddenly, putting the bottle to his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bykovsky took the bottle out of his hands and set it in its place and went + on: + </p> + <p> + “Secondly, you smoke. . . . That’s very bad. Though I smoke it does not + follow that you may. I smoke and know that it is stupid, I blame myself + and don’t like myself for it.” (“A clever teacher, I am!” he thought.) + “Tobacco is very bad for the health, and anyone who smokes dies earlier + than he should. It’s particularly bad for boys like you to smoke. Your + chest is weak, you haven’t reached your full strength yet, and smoking + leads to consumption and other illness in weak people. Uncle Ignat died of + consumption, you know. If he hadn’t smoked, perhaps he would have lived + till now.” + </p> + <p> + Seryozha looked pensively at the lamp, touched the lamp-shade with his + finger, and heaved a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Ignat played the violin splendidly!” he said. “His violin is at the + Grigoryevs’ now.” + </p> + <p> + Seryozha leaned his elbows on the edge of the table again, and sank into + thought. His white face wore a fixed expression, as though he were + listening or following a train of thought of his own; distress and + something like fear came into his big staring eyes. He was most likely + thinking now of death, which had so lately carried off his mother and + Uncle Ignat. Death carries mothers and uncles off to the other world, + while their children and violins remain upon the earth. The dead live + somewhere in the sky beside the stars, and look down from there upon the + earth. Can they endure the parting? + </p> + <p> + “What am I to say to him?” thought Yevgeny Petrovitch. “He’s not listening + to me. Obviously he does not regard either his misdoings or my arguments + as serious. How am I to drive it home?” + </p> + <p> + The prosecutor got up and walked about the study. + </p> + <p> + “Formerly, in my time, these questions were very simply settled,” he + reflected. “Every urchin who was caught smoking was thrashed. The cowardly + and faint-hearted did actually give up smoking, any who were somewhat more + plucky and intelligent, after the thrashing took to carrying tobacco in + the legs of their boots, and smoking in the barn. When they were caught in + the barn and thrashed again, they would go away to smoke by the river . . + . and so on, till the boy grew up. My mother used to give me money and + sweets not to smoke. Now that method is looked upon as worthless and + immoral. The modern teacher, taking his stand on logic, tries to make the + child form good principles, not from fear, nor from desire for distinction + or reward, but consciously.” + </p> + <p> + While he was walking about, thinking, Seryozha climbed up with his legs on + a chair sideways to the table, and began drawing. That he might not spoil + official paper nor touch the ink, a heap of half-sheets, cut on purpose + for him, lay on the table together with a blue pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Cook was chopping up cabbage to-day and she cut her finger,” he said, + drawing a little house and moving his eyebrows. “She gave such a scream + that we were all frightened and ran into the kitchen. Stupid thing! + Natalya Semyonovna told her to dip her finger in cold water, but she + sucked it . . . And how could she put a dirty finger in her mouth! That’s + not proper, you know, papa!” + </p> + <p> + Then he went on to describe how, while they were having dinner, a man with + a hurdy-gurdy had come into the yard with a little girl, who had danced + and sung to the music. + </p> + <p> + “He has his own train of thought!” thought the prosecutor. “He has a + little world of his own in his head, and he has his own ideas of what is + important and unimportant. To gain possession of his attention, it’s not + enough to imitate his language, one must also be able to think in the way + he does. He would understand me perfectly if I really were sorry for the + loss of the tobacco, if I felt injured and cried. . . . That’s why no one + can take the place of a mother in bringing up a child, because she can + feel, cry, and laugh together with the child. One can do nothing by logic + and morality. What more shall I say to him? What?” + </p> + <p> + And it struck Yevgeny Petrovitch as strange and absurd that he, an + experienced advocate, who spent half his life in the practice of reducing + people to silence, forestalling what they had to say, and punishing them, + was completely at a loss and did not know what to say to the boy. + </p> + <p> + “I say, give me your word of honour that you won’t smoke again,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Word of hon-nour!” carolled Seryozha, pressing hard on the pencil and + bending over the drawing. “Word of hon-nour!” + </p> + <p> + “Does he know what is meant by word of honour?” Bykovsky asked himself. + “No, I am a poor teacher of morality! If some schoolmaster or one of our + legal fellows could peep into my brain at this moment he would call me a + poor stick, and would very likely suspect me of unnecessary subtlety. . . + . But in school and in court, of course, all these wretched questions are + far more simply settled than at home; here one has to do with people whom + one loves beyond everything, and love is exacting and complicates the + question. If this boy were not my son, but my pupil, or a prisoner on his + trial, I should not be so cowardly, and my thoughts would not be racing + all over the place!” + </p> + <p> + Yevgeny Petrovitch sat down to the table and pulled one of Seryozha’s + drawings to him. In it there was a house with a crooked roof, and smoke + which came out of the chimney like a flash of lightning in zigzags up to + the very edge of the paper; beside the house stood a soldier with dots for + eyes and a bayonet that looked like the figure 4. + </p> + <p> + “A man can’t be taller than a house,” said the prosecutor. + </p> + <p> + Seryozha got on his knee, and moved about for some time to get comfortably + settled there. + </p> + <p> + “No, papa!” he said, looking at his drawing. “If you were to draw the + soldier small you would not see his eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Ought he to argue with him? From daily observation of his son the + prosecutor had become convinced that children, like savages, have their + own artistic standpoints and requirements peculiar to them, beyond the + grasp of grown-up people. Had he been attentively observed, Seryozha might + have struck a grown-up person as abnormal. He thought it possible and + reasonable to draw men taller than houses, and to represent in pencil, not + only objects, but even his sensations. Thus he would depict the sounds of + an orchestra in the form of smoke like spherical blurs, a whistle in the + form of a spiral thread. . . . To his mind sound was closely connected + with form and colour, so that when he painted letters he invariably + painted the letter L yellow, M red, A black, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Abandoning his drawing, Seryozha shifted about once more, got into a + comfortable attitude, and busied himself with his father’s beard. First he + carefully smoothed it, then he parted it and began combing it into the + shape of whiskers. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are like Ivan Stepanovitch,” he said, “and in a minute you will + be like our porter. Papa, why is it porters stand by doors? Is it to + prevent thieves getting in?” + </p> + <p> + The prosecutor felt the child’s breathing on his face, he was continually + touching his hair with his cheek, and there was a warm soft feeling in his + soul, as soft as though not only his hands but his whole soul were lying + on the velvet of Seryozha’s jacket. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the boy’s big dark eyes, and it seemed to him as though from + those wide pupils there looked out at him his mother and his wife and + everything that he had ever loved. + </p> + <p> + “To think of thrashing him . . .” he mused. “A nice task to devise a + punishment for him! How can we undertake to bring up the young? In old + days people were simpler and thought less, and so settled problems boldly. + But we think too much, we are eaten up by logic . . . . The more developed + a man is, the more he reflects and gives himself up to subtleties, the + more undecided and scrupulous he becomes, and the more timidity he shows + in taking action. How much courage and self-confidence it needs, when one + comes to look into it closely, to undertake to teach, to judge, to write a + thick book. . . .” + </p> + <p> + It struck ten. + </p> + <p> + “Come, boy, it’s bedtime,” said the prosecutor. “Say good-night and go.” + </p> + <p> + “No, papa,” said Seryozha, “I will stay a little longer. Tell me + something! Tell me a story. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, only after the story you must go to bed at once.” + </p> + <p> + Yevgeny Petrovitch on his free evenings was in the habit of telling + Seryozha stories. Like most people engaged in practical affairs, he did + not know a single poem by heart, and could not remember a single fairy + tale, so he had to improvise. As a rule he began with the stereotyped: “In + a certain country, in a certain kingdom,” then he heaped up all kinds of + innocent nonsense and had no notion as he told the beginning how the story + would go on, and how it would end. Scenes, characters, and situations were + taken at random, impromptu, and the plot and the moral came of itself as + it were, with no plan on the part of the story-teller. Seryozha was very + fond of this improvisation, and the prosecutor noticed that the simpler + and the less ingenious the plot, the stronger the impression it made on + the child. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Once upon a time, in + a certain country, in a certain kingdom, there lived an old, very old + emperor with a long grey beard, and . . . and with great grey moustaches + like this. Well, he lived in a glass palace which sparkled and glittered + in the sun, like a great piece of clear ice. The palace, my boy, stood in + a huge garden, in which there grew oranges, you know . . . bergamots, + cherries . . . tulips, roses, and lilies-of-the-valley were in flower in + it, and birds of different colours sang there. . . . Yes. . . . On the + trees there hung little glass bells, and, when the wind blew, they rang so + sweetly that one was never tired of hearing them. Glass gives a softer, + tenderer note than metals. . . . Well, what next? There were fountains in + the garden. . . . Do you remember you saw a fountain at Auntie Sonya’s + summer villa? Well, there were fountains just like that in the emperor’s + garden, only ever so much bigger, and the jets of water reached to the top + of the highest poplar.” + </p> + <p> + Yevgeny Petrovitch thought a moment, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “The old emperor had an only son and heir of his kingdom—a boy as + little as you. He was a good boy. He was never naughty, he went to bed + early, he never touched anything on the table, and altogether he was a + sensible boy. He had only one fault, he used to smoke. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Seryozha listened attentively, and looked into his father’s eyes without + blinking. The prosecutor went on, thinking: “What next?” He spun out a + long rigmarole, and ended like this: + </p> + <p> + “The emperor’s son fell ill with consumption through smoking, and died + when he was twenty. His infirm and sick old father was left without anyone + to help him. There was no one to govern the kingdom and defend the palace. + Enemies came, killed the old man, and destroyed the palace, and now there + are neither cherries, nor birds, nor little bells in the garden. . . . + That’s what happened.” + </p> + <p> + This ending struck Yevgeny Petrovitch as absurd and naïve, but the whole + story made an intense impression on Seryozha. Again his eyes were clouded + by mournfulness and something like fear; for a minute he looked pensively + at the dark window, shuddered, and said, in a sinking voice: + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to smoke any more. . . .” + </p> + <p> + When he had said good-night and gone away his father walked up and down + the room and smiled to himself. + </p> + <p> + “They would tell me it was the influence of beauty, artistic form,” he + meditated. “It may be so, but that’s no comfort. It’s not the right way, + all the same. . . . Why must morality and truth never be offered in their + crude form, but only with embellishments, sweetened and gilded like pills? + It’s not normal. . . . It’s falsification . . . deception . . . tricks . . + . .” + </p> + <p> + He thought of the jurymen to whom it was absolutely necessary to make a + “speech,” of the general public who absorb history only from legends and + historical novels, and of himself and how he had gathered an understanding + of life not from sermons and laws, but from fables, novels, poems. + </p> + <p> + “Medicine should be sweet, truth beautiful, and man has had this foolish + habit since the days of Adam . . . though, indeed, perhaps it is all + natural, and ought to be so. . . . There are many deceptions and delusions + in nature that serve a purpose.” + </p> + <p> + He set to work, but lazy, intimate thoughts still strayed through his mind + for a good while. Overhead the scales could no longer be heard, but the + inhabitant of the second storey was still pacing from one end of the room + to another. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CLASSICAL STUDENT + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>EFORE setting off + for his examination in Greek, Vanya kissed all the holy images. His + stomach felt as though it were upside down; there was a chill at his + heart, while the heart itself throbbed and stood still with terror before + the unknown. What would he get that day? A three or a two? Six times he + went to his mother for her blessing, and, as he went out, asked his aunt + to pray for him. On the way to school he gave a beggar two kopecks, in the + hope that those two kopecks would atone for his ignorance, and that, + please God, he would not get the numerals with those awful forties and + eighties. + </p> + <p> + He came back from the high school late, between four and five. He came in, + and noiselessly lay down on his bed. His thin face was pale. There were + dark rings round his red eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how did you get on? How were you marked?” asked his mother, going + to his bedside. + </p> + <p> + Vanya blinked, twisted his mouth, and burst into tears. His mother turned + pale, let her mouth fall open, and clasped her hands. The breeches she was + mending dropped out of her hands. + </p> + <p> + “What are you crying for? You’ve failed, then?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am plucked. . . . I got a two.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it would be so! I had a presentiment of it,” said his mother. + “Merciful God! How is it you have not passed? What is the reason of it? + What subject have you failed in?” + </p> + <p> + “In Greek. . . . Mother, I . . . They asked me the future of <i>phero</i>, + and I . . . instead of saying <i>oisomai</i> said <i>opsomai</i>. Then . . + . then there isn’t an accent, if the last syllable is long, and I . . . I + got flustered. . . . I forgot that the alpha was long in it . . . . I went + and put in the accent. Then Artaxerxov told me to give the list of the + enclitic particles. . . . I did, and I accidentally mixed in a pronoun . . + . and made a mistake . . . and so he gave me a two. . . . I am a miserable + person. . . . I was working all night. . . I’ve been getting up at four + o’clock all this week . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s not you but I who am miserable, you wretched boy! It’s I that am + miserable! You’ve worn me to a threadpaper, you Herod, you torment, you + bane of my life! I pay for you, you good-for-nothing rubbish; I’ve bent my + back toiling for you, I’m worried to death, and, I may say, I am unhappy, + and what do you care? How do you work?” + </p> + <p> + “I . . . I do work. All night. . . . You’ve seen it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I prayed to God to take me, but He won’t take me, a sinful woman . . . . + You torment! Other people have children like everyone else, and I’ve one + only and no sense, no comfort out of him. Beat you? I’d beat you, but + where am I to find the strength? Mother of God, where am I to find the + strength?” + </p> + <p> + The mamma hid her face in the folds of her blouse and broke into sobs. + Vanya wriggled with anguish and pressed his forehead against the wall. The + aunt came in. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s how it is. . . . Just what I expected,” she said, at once + guessing what was wrong, turning pale and clasping her hands. “I’ve been + depressed all the morning. . . . There’s trouble coming, I thought . . . + and here it’s come. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “The villain, the torment!” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you swearing at him?” cried the aunt, nervously pulling her + coffee-coloured kerchief off her head and turning upon the mother. “It’s + not his fault! It’s your fault! You are to blame! Why did you send him to + that high school? You are a fine lady! You want to be a lady? A-a-ah! I + dare say, as though you’ll turn into gentry! But if you had sent him, as I + told you, into business . . . to an office, like my Kuzya . . . here is + Kuzya getting five hundred a year. . . . Five hundred roubles is worth + having, isn’t it? And you are wearing yourself out, and wearing the boy + out with this studying, plague take it! He is thin, he coughs . . . just + look at him! He’s thirteen, and he looks no more than ten.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Nastenka, no, my dear! I haven’t thrashed him enough, the torment! He + ought to have been thrashed, that’s what it is! Ugh . . . Jesuit, Mahomet, + torment!” she shook her fist at her son. “You want a flogging, but I + haven’t the strength. They told me years ago when he was little, ‘Whip + him, whip him!’ I didn’t heed them, sinful woman as I am. And now I am + suffering for it. You wait a bit! I’ll flay you! Wait a bit . . . .” + </p> + <p> + The mamma shook her wet fist, and went weeping into her lodger’s room. The + lodger, Yevtihy Kuzmitch Kuporossov, was sitting at his table, reading + “Dancing Self-taught.” Yevtihy Kuzmitch was a man of intelligence and + education. He spoke through his nose, washed with a soap the smell of + which made everyone in the house sneeze, ate meat on fast days, and was on + the look-out for a bride of refined education, and so was considered the + cleverest of the lodgers. He sang tenor. + </p> + <p> + “My good friend,” began the mamma, dissolving into tears. “If you would + have the generosity—thrash my boy for me. . . . Do me the favour! + He’s failed in his examination, the nuisance of a boy! Would you believe + it, he’s failed! I can’t punish him, through the weakness of my + ill-health. . . . Thrash him for me, if you would be so obliging and + considerate, Yevtihy Kuzmitch! Have regard for a sick woman!” + </p> + <p> + Kuporossov frowned and heaved a deep sigh through his nose. He thought a + little, drummed on the table with his fingers, and sighing once more, went + to Vanya. + </p> + <p> + “You are being taught, so to say,” he began, “being educated, being given + a chance, you revolting young person! Why have you done it?” + </p> + <p> + He talked for a long time, made a regular speech. He alluded to science, + to light, and to darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, young person.” + </p> + <p> + When he had finished his speech, he took off his belt and took Vanya by + the hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the only way to deal with you,” he said. Vanya knelt down + submissively and thrust his head between the lodger’s knees. His prominent + pink ears moved up and down against the lodger’s new serge trousers, with + brown stripes on the outer seams. + </p> + <p> + Vanya did not utter a single sound. At the family council in the evening, + it was decided to send him into business. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANKA + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">V</span>ANKA ZHUKOV, a boy + of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed to Alyahin the + shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting till his master and + mistress and their workmen had gone to the midnight service, he took out + of his master’s cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, + spreading out a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, began writing. + Before forming the first letter he several times looked round fearfully at + the door and the windows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides + of which stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The + paper lay on the bench while he knelt before it. + </p> + <p> + “Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch,” he wrote, “I am writing you a + letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from God Almighty. + I have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me.” + </p> + <p> + Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his candle + was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch, + who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. He was a thin but + extraordinarily nimble and lively little old man of sixty-five, with an + everlastingly laughing face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the + servants’ kitchen, or made jokes with the cooks; at night, wrapped in an + ample sheepskin, he walked round the grounds and tapped with his little + mallet. Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and + his long body like a weasel’s, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel + was exceptionally polite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness + on strangers and his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. + Under his politeness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning. + No one knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one’s legs, to + slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. His hind legs had + been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he had been hanged, every + week he was thrashed till he was half dead, but he always revived. + </p> + <p> + At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing + up his eyes at the red windows of the church, stamping with his high felt + boots, and joking with the servants. His little mallet was hanging on his + belt. He was clasping his hands, shrugging with the cold, and, with an + aged chuckle, pinching first the housemaid, then the cook. + </p> + <p> + “How about a pinch of snuff?” he was saying, offering the women his + snuff-box. + </p> + <p> + The women would take a sniff and sneeze. Grandfather would be + indescribably delighted, go off into a merry chuckle, and cry: + </p> + <p> + “Tear it off, it has frozen on!” + </p> + <p> + They give the dogs a sniff of snuff too. Kashtanka sneezes, wriggles her + head, and walks away offended. Eel does not sneeze, from politeness, but + wags his tail. And the weather is glorious. The air is still, fresh, and + transparent. The night is dark, but one can see the whole village with its + white roofs and coils of smoke coming from the chimneys, the trees + silvered with hoar frost, the snowdrifts. The whole sky spangled with gay + twinkling stars, and the Milky Way is as distinct as though it had been + washed and rubbed with snow for a holiday. . . . + </p> + <p> + Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing: + </p> + <p> + “And yesterday I had a wigging. The master pulled me out into the yard by + my hair, and whacked me with a boot-stretcher because I accidentally fell + asleep while I was rocking their brat in the cradle. And a week ago the + mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began from the tail end, and + she took the herring and thrust its head in my face. The workmen laugh at + me and send me to the tavern for vodka, and tell me to steal the master’s + cucumbers for them, and the master beats me with anything that comes to + hand. And there is nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, for + dinner, porridge, and in the evening, bread again; but as for tea, or + soup, the master and mistress gobble it all up themselves. And I am put to + sleep in the passage, and when their wretched brat cries I get no sleep at + all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear grandfather, show the divine mercy, + take me away from here, home to the village. It’s more than I can bear. I + bow down to your feet, and will pray to God for you for ever, take me away + from here or I shall die.” + </p> + <p> + Vanka’s mouth worked, he rubbed his eyes with his black fist, and gave a + sob. + </p> + <p> + “I will powder your snuff for you,” he went on. “I will pray for you, and + if I do anything you can thrash me like Sidor’s goat. And if you think + I’ve no job, then I will beg the steward for Christ’s sake to let me clean + his boots, or I’ll go for a shepherd-boy instead of Fedka. Dear + grandfather, it is more than I can bear, it’s simply no life at all. I + wanted to run away to the village, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of + the frost. When I grow up big I will take care of you for this, and not + let anyone annoy you, and when you die I will pray for the rest of your + soul, just as for my mammy’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Moscow is a big town. It’s all gentlemen’s houses, and there are lots of + horses, but there are no sheep, and the dogs are not spiteful. The lads + here don’t go out with the star, and they don’t let anyone go into the + choir, and once I saw in a shop window fishing-hooks for sale, fitted + ready with the line and for all sorts of fish, awfully good ones, there + was even one hook that would hold a forty-pound sheat-fish. And I have + seen shops where there are guns of all sorts, after the pattern of the + master’s guns at home, so that I shouldn’t wonder if they are a hundred + roubles each. . . . And in the butchers’ shops there are grouse and + woodcocks and fish and hares, but the shopmen don’t say where they shoot + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear grandfather, when they have the Christmas tree at the big house, get + me a gilt walnut, and put it away in the green trunk. Ask the young lady + Olga Ignatyevna, say it’s for Vanka.” + </p> + <p> + Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. He remembered + how his grandfather always went into the forest to get the Christmas tree + for his master’s family, and took his grandson with him. It was a merry + time! Grandfather made a noise in his throat, the forest crackled with the + frost, and looking at them Vanka chortled too. Before chopping down the + Christmas tree, grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a pinch of + snuff, and laugh at frozen Vanka. . . . The young fir trees, covered with + hoar frost, stood motionless, waiting to see which of them was to die. + Wherever one looked, a hare flew like an arrow over the snowdrifts . . . . + Grandfather could not refrain from shouting: “Hold him, hold him . . . + hold him! Ah, the bob-tailed devil!” + </p> + <p> + When he had cut down the Christmas tree, grandfather used to drag it to + the big house, and there set to work to decorate it. . . . The young lady, + who was Vanka’s favourite, Olga Ignatyevna, was the busiest of all. When + Vanka’s mother Pelageya was alive, and a servant in the big house, Olga + Ignatyevna used to give him goodies, and having nothing better to do, + taught him to read and write, to count up to a hundred, and even to dance + a quadrille. When Pelageya died, Vanka had been transferred to the + servants’ kitchen to be with his grandfather, and from the kitchen to the + shoemaker’s in Moscow. + </p> + <p> + “Do come, dear grandfather,” Vanka went on with his letter. “For Christ’s + sake, I beg you, take me away. Have pity on an unhappy orphan like me; + here everyone knocks me about, and I am fearfully hungry; I can’t tell you + what misery it is, I am always crying. And the other day the master hit me + on the head with a last, so that I fell down. My life is wretched, worse + than any dog’s. . . . I send greetings to Alyona, one-eyed Yegorka, and + the coachman, and don’t give my concertina to anyone. I remain, your + grandson, Ivan Zhukov. Dear grandfather, do come.” + </p> + <p> + Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into an envelope + he had bought the day before for a kopeck. . . . After thinking a little, + he dipped the pen and wrote the address: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>To grandfather in the village.</i> +</pre> + <p> + Then he scratched his head, thought a little, and added: <i>Konstantin + Makaritch.</i> Glad that he had not been prevented from writing, he put on + his cap and, without putting on his little greatcoat, ran out into the + street as he was in his shirt. . . . + </p> + <p> + The shopmen at the butcher’s, whom he had questioned the day before, told + him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxes were carried + about all over the earth in mailcarts with drunken drivers and ringing + bells. Vanka ran to the nearest post-box, and thrust the precious letter + in the slit. . . . + </p> + <p> + An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep. . . . He + dreamed of the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging + his bare legs, and reading the letter to the cooks. . . . + </p> + <p> + By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INCIDENT + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ORNING. Brilliant + sunshine is piercing through the frozen lacework on the window-panes into + the nursery. Vanya, a boy of six, with a cropped head and a nose like a + button, and his sister Nina, a short, chubby, curly-headed girl of four, + wake up and look crossly at each other through the bars of their cots. + </p> + <p> + “Oo-oo-oo! naughty children!” grumbles their nurse. “Good people have had + their breakfast already, while you can’t get your eyes open.” + </p> + <p> + The sunbeams frolic over the rugs, the walls, and nurse’s skirts, and seem + inviting the children to join in their play, but they take no notice. They + have woken up in a bad humour. Nina pouts, makes a grimace, and begins to + whine: + </p> + <p> + “Brea-eakfast, nurse, breakfast!” + </p> + <p> + Vanya knits his brows and ponders what to pitch upon to howl over. He has + already begun screwing up his eyes and opening his mouth, but at that + instant the voice of mamma reaches them from the drawing-room, saying: + “Don’t forget to give the cat her milk, she has a family now!” + </p> + <p> + The children’s puckered countenances grow smooth again as they look at + each other in astonishment. Then both at once begin shouting, jump out of + their cots, and filling the air with piercing shrieks, run barefoot, in + their nightgowns, to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “The cat has puppies!” they cry. “The cat has got puppies!” + </p> + <p> + Under the bench in the kitchen there stands a small box, the one in which + Stepan brings coal when he lights the fire. The cat is peeping out of the + box. There is an expression of extreme exhaustion on her grey face; her + green eyes, with their narrow black pupils, have a languid, sentimental + look. From her face it is clear that the only thing lacking to complete + her happiness is the presence in the box of “him,” the father of her + children, to whom she had abandoned herself so recklessly! She wants to + mew, and opens her mouth wide, but nothing but a hiss comes from her + throat; the squealing of the kittens is audible. + </p> + <p> + The children squat on their heels before the box, and, motionless, holding + their breath, gaze at the cat. . . . They are surprised, impressed, and do + not hear nurse grumbling as she pursues them. The most genuine delight + shines in the eyes of both. + </p> + <p> + Domestic animals play a scarcely noticed but undoubtedly beneficial part + in the education and life of children. Which of us does not remember + powerful but magnanimous dogs, lazy lapdogs, birds dying in captivity, + dull-witted but haughty turkeys, mild old tabby cats, who forgave us when + we trod on their tails for fun and caused them agonising pain? I even + fancy, sometimes, that the patience, the fidelity, the readiness to + forgive, and the sincerity which are characteristic of our domestic + animals have a far stronger and more definite effect on the mind of a + child than the long exhortations of some dry, pale Karl Karlovitch, or the + misty expositions of a governess, trying to prove to children that water + is made up of hydrogen and oxygen. + </p> + <p> + “What little things!” says Nina, opening her eyes wide and going off into + a joyous laugh. “They are like mice!” + </p> + <p> + “One, two, three,” Vanya counts. “Three kittens. So there is one for you, + one for me, and one for somebody else, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Murrm . . . murrm . . .” purrs the mother, flattered by their attention. + “Murrm.” + </p> + <p> + After gazing at the kittens, the children take them from under the cat, + and begin squeezing them in their hands, then, not satisfied with this, + they put them in the skirts of their nightgowns, and run into the other + rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, the cat has got pups!” they shout. + </p> + <p> + Mamma is sitting in the drawing-room with some unknown gentleman. Seeing + the children unwashed, undressed, with their nightgowns held up high, she + is embarrassed, and looks at them severely. + </p> + <p> + “Let your nightgowns down, disgraceful children,” she says. “Go out of the + room, or I will punish you.” + </p> + <p> + But the children do not notice either mamma’s threats or the presence of a + stranger. They put the kittens down on the carpet, and go off into + deafening squeals. The mother walks round them, mewing imploringly. When, + a little afterwards, the children are dragged off to the nursery, dressed, + made to say their prayers, and given their breakfast, they are full of a + passionate desire to get away from these prosaic duties as quickly as + possible, and to run to the kitchen again. + </p> + <p> + Their habitual pursuits and games are thrown completely into the + background. + </p> + <p> + The kittens throw everything into the shade by making their appearance in + the world, and supply the great sensation of the day. If Nina or Vanya had + been offered forty pounds of sweets or ten thousand kopecks for each + kitten, they would have rejected such a barter without the slightest + hesitation. In spite of the heated protests of the nurse and the cook, the + children persist in sitting by the cat’s box in the kitchen, busy with the + kittens till dinner-time. Their faces are earnest and concentrated and + express anxiety. They are worried not so much by the present as by the + future of the kittens. They decide that one kitten shall remain at home + with the old cat to be a comfort to her mother, while the second shall go + to their summer villa, and the third shall live in the cellar, where there + are ever so many rats. + </p> + <p> + “But why don’t they look at us?” Nina wondered. “Their eyes are blind like + the beggars’.” + </p> + <p> + Vanya, too, is perturbed by this question. He tries to open one kitten’s + eyes, and spends a long time puffing and breathing hard over it, but his + operation is unsuccessful. They are a good deal troubled, too, by the + circumstance that the kittens obstinately refuse the milk and the meat + that is offered to them. Everything that is put before their little noses + is eaten by their grey mamma. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s build the kittens little houses,” Vanya suggests. “They shall live + in different houses, and the cat shall come and pay them visits. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Cardboard hat-boxes are put in the different corners of the kitchen and + the kittens are installed in them. But this division turns out to be + premature; the cat, still wearing an imploring and sentimental expression + on her face, goes the round of all the hat-boxes, and carries off her + children to their original position. + </p> + <p> + “The cat’s their mother,” observed Vanya, “but who is their father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, who is their father?” repeats Nina. + </p> + <p> + “They must have a father.” + </p> + <p> + Vanya and Nina are a long time deciding who is to be the kittens’ father, + and, in the end, their choice falls on a big dark-red horse without a + tail, which is lying in the store-cupboard under the stairs, together with + other relics of toys that have outlived their day. They drag him up out of + the store-cupboard and stand him by the box. + </p> + <p> + “Mind now!” they admonish him, “stand here and see they behave themselves + properly.” + </p> + <p> + All this is said and done in the gravest way, with an expression of + anxiety on their faces. Vanya and Nina refuse to recognise the existence + of any world but the box of kittens. Their joy knows no bounds. But they + have to pass through bitter, agonising moments, too. + </p> + <p> + Just before dinner, Vanya is sitting in his father’s study, gazing + dreamily at the table. A kitten is moving about by the lamp, on stamped + note paper. Vanya is watching its movements, and thrusting first a pencil, + then a match into its little mouth. . . . All at once, as though he has + sprung out of the floor, his father is beside the table. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this?” Vanya hears, in an angry voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s . . . it’s the kitty, papa. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it you; look what you have done, you naughty boy! You’ve + dirtied all my paper!” + </p> + <p> + To Vanya’s great surprise his papa does not share his partiality for the + kittens, and, instead of being moved to enthusiasm and delight, he pulls + Vanya’s ear and shouts: + </p> + <p> + “Stepan, take away this horrid thing.” + </p> + <p> + At dinner, too, there is a scene. . . . During the second course there is + suddenly the sound of a shrill mew. They begin to investigate its origin, + and discover a kitten under Nina’s pinafore. + </p> + <p> + “Nina, leave the table!” cries her father angrily. “Throw the kittens in + the cesspool! I won’t have the nasty things in the house! . . .” + </p> + <p> + Vanya and Nina are horrified. Death in the cesspool, apart from its + cruelty, threatens to rob the cat and the wooden horse of their children, + to lay waste the cat’s box, to destroy their plans for the future, that + fair future in which one cat will be a comfort to its old mother, another + will live in the country, while the third will catch rats in the cellar. + The children begin to cry and entreat that the kittens may be spared. + Their father consents, but on the condition that the children do not go + into the kitchen and touch the kittens. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, Vanya and Nina slouch about the rooms, feeling depressed. + The prohibition of visits to the kitchen has reduced them to dejection. + They refuse sweets, are naughty, and are rude to their mother. When their + uncle Petrusha comes in the evening, they draw him aside, and complain to + him of their father, who wanted to throw the kittens into the cesspool. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Petrusha, tell mamma to have the kittens taken to the nursery,” the + children beg their uncle, “do-o tell her.” + </p> + <p> + “There, there . . . very well,” says their uncle, waving them off. “All + right.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle Petrusha does not usually come alone. He is accompanied by Nero, a + big black dog of Danish breed, with drooping ears, and a tail as hard as a + stick. The dog is silent, morose, and full of a sense of his own dignity. + He takes not the slightest notice of the children, and when he passes them + hits them with his tail as though they were chairs. The children hate him + from the bottom of their hearts, but on this occasion, practical + considerations override sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Nina,” says Vanya, opening his eyes wide. “Let Nero be their + father, instead of the horse! The horse is dead and he is alive, you see.” + </p> + <p> + They are waiting the whole evening for the moment when papa will sit down + to his cards and it will be possible to take Nero to the kitchen without + being observed. . . . At last, papa sits down to cards, mamma is busy with + the samovar and not noticing the children. . . . + </p> + <p> + The happy moment arrives. + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” Vanya whispers to his sister. + </p> + <p> + But, at that moment, Stepan comes in and, with a snigger, announces: + </p> + <p> + “Nero has eaten the kittens, madam.” + </p> + <p> + Nina and Vanya turn pale and look at Stepan with horror. + </p> + <p> + “He really has . . .” laughs the footman, “he went to the box and gobbled + them up.” + </p> + <p> + The children expect that all the people in the house will be aghast and + fall upon the miscreant Nero. But they all sit calmly in their seats, and + only express surprise at the appetite of the huge dog. Papa and mamma + laugh. Nero walks about by the table, wags his tail, and licks his lips + complacently . . . the cat is the only one who is uneasy. With her tail in + the air she walks about the rooms, looking suspiciously at people and + mewing plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “Children, it’s past nine,” cries mamma, “it’s bedtime.” + </p> + <p> + Vanya and Nina go to bed, shed tears, and spend a long time thinking about + the injured cat, and the cruel, insolent, and unpunished Nero. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DAY IN THE COUNTRY + </h2> + <h3> + BETWEEN eight and nine o’clock in the morning. + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> dark + leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards the sun. Red zigzags + of lightning gleam here and there across it. There is a sound of far-away + rumbling. A warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs + up the dust. In a minute there will be a spurt of May rain and a real + storm will begin. + </p> + <p> + Fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, + looking for Terenty the cobbler. The white-haired, barefoot child is pale. + Her eyes are wide-open, her lips are trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle, where is Terenty?” she asks every one she meets. No one answers. + They are all preoccupied with the approaching storm and take refuge in + their huts. At last she meets Silanty Silitch, the sacristan, Terenty’s + bosom friend. He is coming along, staggering from the wind. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle, where is Terenty?” + </p> + <p> + “At the kitchen-gardens,” answers Silanty. + </p> + <p> + The beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens and there + finds Terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long + legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman’s tattered jacket, is standing + near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunken eyes at the dark + storm-cloud. On his long crane-like legs he sways in the wind like a + starling-cote. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Terenty!” the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. “Uncle, + darling!” + </p> + <p> + Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread + with a smile, such as come into people’s faces when they look at something + little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! servant of God, Fyokia,” he says, lisping tenderly, “where have you + come from?” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Terenty,” says Fyokia, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the + cobbler’s coat. “Brother Danilka has had an accident! Come along!” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . . What + sort of accident?” + </p> + <p> + “In the count’s copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he + can’t get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out!” + </p> + <p> + “How was it he put his hand in? What for?” + </p> + <p> + “He wanted to get a cuckoo’s egg out of the hole for me.” + </p> + <p> + “The day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble. . . .” Terenty + shook his head and spat deliberately. “Well, what am I to do with you now? + I must come . . . I must, may the wolf gobble you up, you naughty + children! Come, little orphan!” + </p> + <p> + Terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, + begins striding down the village street. He walks quickly without stopping + or looking from side to side, as though he were shoved from behind or + afraid of pursuit. Fyokla can hardly keep up with him. + </p> + <p> + They come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards the + count’s copse that lies dark blue in the distance. It is about a mile and + a half away. The clouds have by now covered the sun, and soon afterwards + there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. It grows dark. + </p> + <p> + “Holy, holy, holy . . .” whispers Fyokla, hurrying after Terenty. The + first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty road. A big + drop falls on Fyokla’s cheek and glides like a tear down her chin. + </p> + <p> + “The rain has begun,” mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust with his + bare, bony feet. “That’s fine, Fyokla, old girl. The grass and the trees + are fed by the rain, as we are by bread. And as for the thunder, don’t you + be frightened, little orphan. Why should it kill a little thing like you?” + </p> + <p> + As soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. The only sound is the patter + of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the parched road. + </p> + <p> + “We shall get soaked, Fyolka,” mutters Terenty. “There won’t be a dry spot + left on us. . . . Ho-ho, my girl! It’s run down my neck! But don’t be + frightened, silly. . . . The grass will be dry again, the earth will be + dry again, and we shall be dry again. There is the same sun for us all.” + </p> + <p> + A flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above their heads. + There is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to Fyokla that something + big, heavy, and round is rolling over the sky and tearing it open, exactly + over her head. + </p> + <p> + “Holy, holy, holy . . .” says Terenty, crossing himself. “Don’t be afraid, + little orphan! It is not from spite that it thunders.” + </p> + <p> + Terenty’s and Fyokla’s feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wet clay. It + is slippery and difficult to walk, but Terenty strides on more and more + rapidly. The weak little beggar-girl is breathless and ready to drop. + </p> + <p> + But at last they go into the count’s copse. The washed trees, stirred by a + gust of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. Terenty stumbles over + stumps and begins to slacken his pace. + </p> + <p> + “Whereabouts is Danilka?” he asks. “Lead me to him.” + </p> + <p> + Fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of a mile, + points to Danilka. Her brother, a little fellow of eight, with hair as red + as ochre and a pale sickly face, stands leaning against a tree, and, with + his head on one side, looking sideways at the sky. In one hand he holds + his shabby old cap, the other is hidden in an old lime tree. The boy is + gazing at the stormy sky, and apparently not thinking of his trouble. + Hearing footsteps and seeing the cobbler he gives a sickly smile and says: + </p> + <p> + “A terrible lot of thunder, Terenty. . . . I’ve never heard so much + thunder in all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is your hand?” + </p> + <p> + “In the hole. . . . Pull it out, please, Terenty!” + </p> + <p> + The wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed Danilka’s hand: he + could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. Terenty snaps off the + broken piece, and the boy’s hand, red and crushed, is released. + </p> + <p> + “It’s terrible how it’s thundering,” the boy says again, rubbing his hand. + “What makes it thunder, Terenty?” + </p> + <p> + “One cloud runs against the other,” answers the cobbler. The party come + out of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards the darkened road. + The thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling is heard far away beyond + the village. + </p> + <p> + “The ducks flew by here the other day, Terenty,” says Danilka, still + rubbing his hand. “They must be nesting in the Gniliya Zaimishtcha + marshes. . . . Fyolka, would you like me to show you a nightingale’s + nest?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t touch it, you might disturb them,” says Terenty, wringing the water + out of his cap. “The nightingale is a singing-bird, without sin. He has + had a voice given him in his throat, to praise God and gladden the heart + of man. It’s a sin to disturb him.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the sparrow?” + </p> + <p> + “The sparrow doesn’t matter, he’s a bad, spiteful bird. He is like a + pickpocket in his ways. He doesn’t like man to be happy. When Christ was + crucified it was the sparrow brought nails to the Jews, and called ‘alive! + alive!’” + </p> + <p> + A bright patch of blue appears in the sky. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” says Terenty. “An ant-heap burst open by the rain! They’ve been + flooded, the rogues!” + </p> + <p> + They bend over the ant-heap. The downpour has damaged it; the insects are + scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily trying to carry away + their drowned companions. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t be in such a taking, you won’t die of it!” says Terenty, + grinning. “As soon as the sun warms you, you’ll come to your senses again. + . . . It’s a lesson to you, you stupids. You won’t settle on low ground + another time.” + </p> + <p> + They go on. + </p> + <p> + “And here are some bees,” cries Danilka, pointing to the branch of a young + oak tree. + </p> + <p> + The drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch. There + are so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. Many of them + are settled on one another. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a swarm of bees,” Terenty informs them. “They were flying looking + for a home, and when the rain came down upon them they settled. If a swarm + is flying, you need only sprinkle water on them to make them settle. Now + if, say, you wanted to take the swarm, you would bend the branch with them + into a sack and shake it, and they all fall in.” + </p> + <p> + Little Fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. Her brother + looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it. + </p> + <p> + “Hey-hey!” laughs the cobbler. “Do you know where you got that from, + Fyokia, old girl? There are Spanish flies on some tree in the wood. The + rain has trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck —that’s + what has made the swelling.” + </p> + <p> + The sun appears from behind the clouds and floods the wood, the fields, + and the three friends with its warm light. The dark menacing cloud has + gone far away and taken the storm with it. The air is warm and fragrant. + There is a scent of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley. + </p> + <p> + “That herb is given when your nose bleeds,” says Terenty, pointing to a + woolly-looking flower. “It does good.” + </p> + <p> + They hear a whistle and a rumble, but not such a rumble as the + storm-clouds carried away. A goods train races by before the eyes of + Terenty, Danilka, and Fyokla. The engine, panting and puffing out black + smoke, drags more than twenty vans after it. Its power is tremendous. The + children are interested to know how an engine, not alive and without the + help of horses, can move and drag such weights, and Terenty undertakes to + explain it to them: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all the steam’s doing, children. . . . The steam does the work. . . + . You see, it shoves under that thing near the wheels, and it . . . you + see . . . it works. . . .” + </p> + <p> + They cross the railway line, and, going down from the embankment, walk + towards the river. They walk not with any object, but just at random, and + talk all the way. . . . Danilka asks questions, Terenty answers them. . . + . + </p> + <p> + Terenty answers all his questions, and there is no secret in Nature which + baffles him. He knows everything. Thus, for example, he knows the names of + all the wild flowers, animals, and stones. He knows what herbs cure + diseases, he has no difficulty in telling the age of a horse or a cow. + Looking at the sunset, at the moon, or the birds, he can tell what sort of + weather it will be next day. And indeed, it is not only Terenty who is so + wise. Silanty Silitch, the innkeeper, the market-gardener, the shepherd, + and all the villagers, generally speaking, know as much as he does. These + people have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the + river bank. Their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang + to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the + very trees, and wild herbs. + </p> + <p> + Danilka looks at Terenty and greedily drinks in every word. In spring, + before one is weary of the warmth and the monotonous green of the fields, + when everything is fresh and full of fragrance, who would not want to hear + about the golden may-beetles, about the cranes, about the gurgling + streams, and the corn mounting into ear? + </p> + <p> + The two of them, the cobbler and the orphan, walk about the fields, talk + unceasingly, and are not weary. They could wander about the world + endlessly. They walk, and in their talk of the beauty of the earth do not + notice the frail little beggar-girl tripping after them. She is breathless + and moves with a lagging step. There are tears in her eyes; she would be + glad to stop these inexhaustible wanderers, but to whom and where can she + go? She has no home or people of her own; whether she likes it or not, she + must walk and listen to their talk. + </p> + <p> + Towards midday, all three sit down on the river bank. Danilka takes out of + his bag a piece of bread, soaked and reduced to a mash, and they begin to + eat. Terenty says a prayer when he has eaten the bread, then stretches + himself on the sandy bank and falls asleep. While he is asleep, the boy + gazes at the water, pondering. He has many different things to think of. + He has just seen the storm, the bees, the ants, the train. Now, before his + eyes, fishes are whisking about. Some are two inches long and more, others + are no bigger than one’s nail. A viper, with its head held high, is + swimming from one bank to the other. + </p> + <p> + Only towards the evening our wanderers return to the village. The children + go for the night to a deserted barn, where the corn of the commune used to + be kept, while Terenty, leaving them, goes to the tavern. The children lie + huddled together on the straw, dozing. + </p> + <p> + The boy does not sleep. He gazes into the darkness, and it seems to him + that he is seeing all that he has seen in the day: the storm-clouds, the + bright sunshine, the birds, the fish, lanky Terenty. The number of his + impressions, together with exhaustion and hunger, are too much for him; he + is as hot as though he were on fire, and tosses from, side to side. He + longs to tell someone all that is haunting him now in the darkness and + agitating his soul, but there is no one to tell. Fyokla is too little and + could not understand. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell Terenty to-morrow,” thinks the boy. + </p> + <p> + The children fall asleep thinking of the homeless cobbler, and, in the + night, Terenty comes to them, makes the sign of the cross over them, and + puts bread under their heads. And no one sees his love. It is seen only by + the moon which floats in the sky and peeps caressingly through the holes + in the wall of the deserted barn. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOYS + </h2> + <h3> + “VOLODYA’S come!” someone shouted in the yard. + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“M</span>aster Volodya’s + here!” bawled Natalya the cook, running into the dining-room. “Oh, my + goodness!” + </p> + <p> + The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodya from hour + to hour, rushed to the windows. At the front door stood a wide sledge, + with three white horses in a cloud of steam. The sledge was empty, for + Volodya was already in the hall, untying his hood with red and chilly + fingers. His school overcoat, his cap, his snowboots, and the hair on his + temples were all white with frost, and his whole figure from head to foot + diffused such a pleasant, fresh smell of the snow that the very sight of + him made one want to shiver and say “brrr!” + </p> + <p> + His mother and aunt ran to kiss and hug him. Natalya plumped down at his + feet and began pulling off his snowboots, his sisters shrieked with + delight, the doors creaked and banged, and Volodya’s father, in his + waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, ran out into the hall with scissors in his + hand, and cried out in alarm: + </p> + <p> + “We were expecting you all yesterday? Did you come all right? Had a good + journey? Mercy on us! you might let him say ‘how do you do’ to his father! + I am his father after all!” + </p> + <p> + “Bow-wow!” barked the huge black dog, Milord, in a deep bass, tapping with + his tail on the walls and furniture. + </p> + <p> + For two minutes there was nothing but a general hubbub of joy. After the + first outburst of delight was over the Korolyovs noticed that there was, + besides their Volodya, another small person in the hall, wrapped up in + scarves and shawls and white with frost. He was standing perfectly still + in a corner, in the shadow of a big fox-lined overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Volodya darling, who is it?” asked his mother, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Volodya. “This is—let me introduce my friend Lentilov, a + schoolfellow in the second class. . . . I have brought him to stay with + us.” + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to hear it! You are very welcome,” the father said cordially. + “Excuse me, I’ve been at work without my coat. . . . Please come in! + Natalya, help Mr. Lentilov off with his things. Mercy on us, do turn that + dog out! He is unendurable!” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, Volodya and his friend Lentilov, somewhat dazed by + their noisy welcome, and still red from the outside cold, were sitting + down to tea. The winter sun, making its way through the snow and the + frozen tracery on the window-panes, gleamed on the samovar, and plunged + its pure rays in the tea-basin. The room was warm, and the boys felt as + though the warmth and the frost were struggling together with a tingling + sensation in their bodies. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Christmas will soon be here,” the father said in a pleasant + sing-song voice, rolling a cigarette of dark reddish tobacco. “It doesn’t + seem long since the summer, when mamma was crying at your going . . . and + here you are back again. . . . Time flies, my boy. Before you have time to + cry out, old age is upon you. Mr. Lentilov, take some more, please help + yourself! We don’t stand on ceremony!” + </p> + <p> + Volodya’s three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha (the eldest was eleven), + sat at the table and never took their eyes off the newcomer. + </p> + <p> + Lentilov was of the same height and age as Volodya, but not as round-faced + and fair-skinned. He was thin, dark, and freckled; his hair stood up like + a brush, his eyes were small, and his lips were thick. He was, in fact, + distinctly ugly, and if he had not been wearing the school uniform, he + might have been taken for the son of a cook. He seemed morose, did not + speak, and never once smiled. The little girls, staring at him, + immediately came to the conclusion that he must be a very clever and + learned person. He seemed to be thinking about something all the time, and + was so absorbed in his own thoughts, that, whenever he was spoken to, he + started, threw his head back, and asked to have the question repeated. + </p> + <p> + The little girls noticed that Volodya, who had always been so merry and + talkative, also said very little, did not smile at all, and hardly seemed + to be glad to be home. All the time they were at tea he only once + addressed his sisters, and then he said something so strange. He pointed + to the samovar and said: + </p> + <p> + “In California they don’t drink tea, but gin.” + </p> + <p> + He, too, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and, to judge by the looks + that passed between him and his friend Lentilov, their thoughts were the + same. + </p> + <p> + After tea, they all went into the nursery. The girls and their father took + up the work that had been interrupted by the arrival of the boys. They + were making flowers and frills for the Christmas tree out of paper of + different colours. It was an attractive and noisy occupation. Every fresh + flower was greeted by the little girls with shrieks of delight, even of + awe, as though the flower had dropped straight from heaven; their father + was in ecstasies too, and every now and then he threw the scissors on the + floor, in vexation at their bluntness. Their mother kept running into the + nursery with an anxious face, asking: + </p> + <p> + “Who has taken my scissors? Ivan Nikolaitch, have you taken my scissors + again?” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy on us! I’m not even allowed a pair of scissors!” their father would + respond in a lachrymose voice, and, flinging himself back in his chair, he + would pretend to be a deeply injured man; but a minute later, he would be + in ecstasies again. + </p> + <p> + On his former holidays Volodya, too, had taken part in the preparations + for the Christmas tree, or had been running in the yard to look at the + snow mountain that the watchman and the shepherd were building. But this + time Volodya and Lentilov took no notice whatever of the coloured paper, + and did not once go into the stable. They sat in the window and began + whispering to one another; then they opened an atlas and looked carefully + at a map. + </p> + <p> + “First to Perm . . .” Lentilov said, in an undertone, “from there to + Tiumen, then Tomsk . . . then . . . then . . . Kamchatka. There the + Samoyedes take one over Behring’s Straits in boats . . . . And then we are + in America. . . . There are lots of furry animals there. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “And California?” asked Volodya. + </p> + <p> + “California is lower down. . . . We’ve only to get to America and + California is not far off. . . . And one can get a living by hunting and + plunder.” + </p> + <p> + All day long Lentilov avoided the little girls, and seemed to look at them + with suspicion. In the evening he happened to be left alone with them for + five minutes or so. It was awkward to be silent. + </p> + <p> + He cleared his throat morosely, rubbed his left hand against his right, + looked sullenly at Katya and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Have you read Mayne Reid?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t. . . . I say, can you skate?” + </p> + <p> + Absorbed in his own reflections, Lentilov made no reply to this question; + he simply puffed out his cheeks, and gave a long sigh as though he were + very hot. He looked up at Katya once more and said: + </p> + <p> + “When a herd of bisons stampedes across the prairie the earth trembles, + and the frightened mustangs kick and neigh.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled impressively and added: + </p> + <p> + “And the Indians attack the trains, too. But worst of all are the + mosquitoes and the termites.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re something like ants, but with wings. They bite fearfully. Do you + know who I am?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lentilov.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I am Montehomo, the Hawk’s Claw, Chief of the Ever Victorious.” + </p> + <p> + Masha, the youngest, looked at him, then into the darkness out of window + and said, wondering: + </p> + <p> + “And we had lentils for supper yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + Lentilov’s incomprehensible utterances, and the way he was always + whispering with Volodya, and the way Volodya seemed now to be always + thinking about something instead of playing . . . all this was strange and + mysterious. And the two elder girls, Katya and Sonya, began to keep a + sharp look-out on the boys. At night, when the boys had gone to bed, the + girls crept to their bedroom door, and listened to what they were saying. + Ah, what they discovered! The boys were planning to run away to America to + dig for gold: they had everything ready for the journey, a pistol, two + knives, biscuits, a burning glass to serve instead of matches, a compass, + and four roubles in cash. They learned that the boys would have to walk + some thousands of miles, and would have to fight tigers and savages on the + road: then they would get gold and ivory, slay their enemies, become + pirates, drink gin, and finally marry beautiful maidens, and make a + plantation. + </p> + <p> + The boys interrupted each other in their excitement. Throughout the + conversation, Lentilov called himself “Montehomo, the Hawk’s Claw,” and + Volodya was “my pale-face brother!” + </p> + <p> + “Mind you don’t tell mamma,” said Katya, as they went back to bed. + “Volodya will bring us gold and ivory from America, but if you tell mamma + he won’t be allowed to go.” + </p> + <p> + The day before Christmas Eve, Lentilov spent the whole day poring over the + map of Asia and making notes, while Volodya, with a languid and swollen + face that looked as though it had been stung by a bee, walked about the + rooms and ate nothing. And once he stood still before the holy image in + the nursery, crossed himself, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Lord, forgive me a sinner; Lord, have pity on my poor unhappy mamma!” + </p> + <p> + In the evening he burst out crying. On saying good-night he gave his + father a long hug, and then hugged his mother and sisters. Katya and Sonya + knew what was the matter, but little Masha was puzzled, completely + puzzled. Every time she looked at Lentilov she grew thoughtful and said + with a sigh: + </p> + <p> + “When Lent comes, nurse says we shall have to eat peas and lentils.” + </p> + <p> + Early in the morning of Christmas Eve, Katya and Sonya slipped quietly out + of bed, and went to find out how the boys meant to run away to America. + They crept to their door. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t mean to go?” Lentilov was saying angrily. “Speak out: + aren’t you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear,” Volodya wept softly. “How can I go? I feel so unhappy about + mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “My pale-face brother, I pray you, let us set off. You declared you were + going, you egged me on, and now the time comes, you funk it!” + </p> + <p> + “I . . . I . . . I’m not funking it, but I . . . I . . . I’m sorry for + mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Say once and for all, are you going or are you not?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going, only . . . wait a little . . . I want to be at home a + little.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case I will go by myself,” Lentilov declared. “I can get on + without you. And you wanted to hunt tigers and fight! Since that’s how it + is, give me back my cartridges!” + </p> + <p> + At this Volodya cried so bitterly that his sisters could not help crying + too. Silence followed. + </p> + <p> + “So you are not coming?” Lentilov began again. + </p> + <p> + “I . . . I . . . I am coming!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, put on your things, then.” + </p> + <p> + And Lentilov tried to cheer Volodya up by singing the praises of America, + growling like a tiger, pretending to be a steamer, scolding him, and + promising to give him all the ivory and lions’ and tigers’ skins. + </p> + <p> + And this thin, dark boy, with his freckles and his bristling shock of + hair, impressed the little girls as an extraordinary remarkable person. He + was a hero, a determined character, who knew no fear, and he growled so + ferociously, that, standing at the door, they really might imagine there + was a tiger or lion inside. When the little girls went back to their room + and dressed, Katya’s eyes were full of tears, and she said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I feel so frightened!” + </p> + <p> + Everything was as usual till two o’clock, when they sat down to dinner. + Then it appeared that the boys were not in the house. They sent to the + servants’ quarters, to the stables, to the bailiff’s cottage. They were + not to be found. They sent into the village— they were not there. + </p> + <p> + At tea, too, the boys were still absent, and by supper-time Volodya’s + mother was dreadfully uneasy, and even shed tears. + </p> + <p> + Late in the evening they sent again to the village, they searched + everywhere, and walked along the river bank with lanterns. Heavens! what a + fuss there was! + </p> + <p> + Next day the police officer came, and a paper of some sort was written out + in the dining-room. Their mother cried. . . . + </p> + <p> + All of a sudden a sledge stopped at the door, with three white horses in a + cloud of steam. + </p> + <p> + “Volodya’s come,” someone shouted in the yard. + </p> + <p> + “Master Volodya’s here!” bawled Natalya, running into the dining-room. And + Milord barked his deep bass, “bow-wow.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed that the boys had been stopped in the Arcade, where they had + gone from shop to shop asking where they could get gunpowder. + </p> + <p> + Volodya burst into sobs as soon as he came into the hall, and flung + himself on his mother’s neck. The little girls, trembling, wondered with + terror what would happen next. They saw their father take Volodya and + Lentilov into his study, and there he talked to them a long while. + </p> + <p> + “Is this a proper thing to do?” their father said to them. “I only pray + they won’t hear of it at school, you would both be expelled. You ought to + be ashamed, Mr. Lentilov, really. It’s not at all the thing to do! You + began it, and I hope you will be punished by your parents. How could you? + Where did you spend the night?” + </p> + <p> + “At the station,” Lentilov answered proudly. + </p> + <p> + Then Volodya went to bed, and had a compress, steeped in vinegar, on his + forehead. + </p> + <p> + A telegram was sent off, and next day a lady, Lentilov’s mother, made her + appearance and bore off her son. + </p> + <p> + Lentilov looked morose and haughty to the end, and he did not utter a + single word at taking leave of the little girls. But he took Katya’s book + and wrote in it as a souvenir: “Montehomo, the Hawk’s Claw, Chief of the + Ever Victorious.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHROVE TUESDAY + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“P</span>AVEL VASSILITCH!” + cries Pelageya Ivanovna, waking her husband. “Pavel Vassilitch! You might + go and help Styopa with his lessons, he is sitting crying over his book. + He can’t understand something again!” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Vassilitch gets up, makes the sign of the cross over his mouth as he + yawns, and says softly: “In a minute, my love!” + </p> + <p> + The cat who has been asleep beside him gets up too, straightens out its + tail, arches its spine, and half-shuts its eyes. There is stillness. . . . + Mice can be heard scurrying behind the wall-paper. Putting on his boots + and his dressing-gown, Pavel Vassilitch, crumpled and frowning from + sleepiness, comes out of his bedroom into the dining-room; on his entrance + another cat, engaged in sniffing a marinade of fish in the window, jumps + down to the floor, and hides behind the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + “Who asked you to sniff that!” he says angrily, covering the fish with a + sheet of newspaper. “You are a pig to do that, not a cat. . . .” + </p> + <p> + From the dining-room there is a door leading into the nursery. There, at a + table covered with stains and deep scratches, sits Styopa, a high-school + boy in the second class, with a peevish expression of face and + tear-stained eyes. With his knees raised almost to his chin, and his hands + clasped round them, he is swaying to and fro like a Chinese idol and + looking crossly at a sum book. + </p> + <p> + “Are you working?” asks Pavel Vassilitch, sitting down to the table and + yawning. “Yes, my boy. . . . We have enjoyed ourselves, slept, and eaten + pancakes, and to-morrow comes Lenten fare, repentance, and going to work. + Every period of time has its limits. Why are your eyes so red? Are you + sick of learning your lessons? To be sure, after pancakes, lessons are + nasty to swallow. That’s about it.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you laughing at the child for?” Pelageya Ivanovna calls from the + next room. “You had better show him instead of laughing at him. He’ll get + a one again to-morrow, and make me miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it you don’t understand?” Pavel Vassilitch asks Styopa. + </p> + <p> + “Why this . . . division of fractions,” the boy answers crossly. “The + division of fractions by fractions. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “H’m . . . queer boy! What is there in it? There’s nothing to understand + in it. Learn the rules, and that’s all. . . . To divide a fraction by a + fraction you must multiply the numerator of the first fraction by the + denominator of the second, and that will be the numerator of the quotient. + . . . In this case, the numerator of the first fraction. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I know that without your telling me,” Styopa interrupts him, flicking a + walnut shell off the table. “Show me the proof.” + </p> + <p> + “The proof? Very well, give me a pencil. Listen. . . . Suppose we want to + divide seven eighths by two fifths. Well, the point of it is, my boy, that + it’s required to divide these fractions by each other. . . . Have they set + the samovar?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s time for tea. . . . It’s past seven. Well, now listen. We will look + at it like this. . . . Suppose we want to divide seven eighths not by two + fifths but by two, that is, by the numerator only. We divide it, what do + we get? + </p> + <p> + “Seven sixteenths.” + </p> + <p> + “Right. Bravo! Well, the trick of it is, my boy, that if we . . . so if we + have divided it by two then. . . . Wait a bit, I am getting muddled. I + remember when I was at school, the teacher of arithmetic was called + Sigismund Urbanitch, a Pole. He used to get into a muddle over every + lesson. He would begin explaining some theory, get in a tangle, and turn + crimson all over and race up and down the class-room as though someone + were sticking an awl in his back, then he would blow his nose half a dozen + times and begin to cry. But you know we were magnanimous to him, we + pretended not to see it. ‘What is it, Sigismund Urbanitch?’ we used to ask + him. ‘Have you got toothache?’ And what a set of young ruffians, regular + cut-throats, we were, but yet we were magnanimous, you know! There weren’t + any boys like you in my day, they were all great hulking fellows, great + strapping louts, one taller than another. For instance, in our third + class, there was Mamahin. My goodness, he was a solid chap! You know, a + regular maypole, seven feet high. When he moved, the floor shook; when he + brought his great fist down on your back, he would knock the breath out of + your body! Not only we boys, but even the teachers were afraid of him. So + this Mamahin used to . . .” + </p> + <p> + Pelageya Ivanovna’s footsteps are heard through the door. Pavel Vassilitch + winks towards the door and says: + </p> + <p> + “There’s mother coming. Let’s get to work. Well, so you see, my boy,” he + says, raising his voice. “This fraction has to be multiplied by that one. + Well, and to do that you have to take the numerator of the first fraction. + . .” + </p> + <p> + “Come to tea!” cries Pelageya Ivanovna. Pavel Vassilitch and his son + abandon arithmetic and go in to tea. Pelageya Ivanovna is already sitting + at the table with an aunt who never speaks, another aunt who is deaf and + dumb, and Granny Markovna, a midwife who had helped Styopa into the world. + The samovar is hissing and puffing out steam which throws flickering + shadows on the ceiling. The cats come in from the entry sleepy and + melancholy with their tails in the air. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Have some jam with your tea, Markovna,” says Pelageya Ivanovna, + addressing the midwife. “To-morrow the great fast begins. Eat well + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Markovna takes a heaped spoonful of jam hesitatingly as though it were a + powder, raises it to her lips, and with a sidelong look at Pavel + Vassilitch, eats it; at once her face is overspread with a sweet smile, as + sweet as the jam itself. + </p> + <p> + “The jam is particularly good,” she says. “Did you make it yourself, + Pelageya Ivanovna, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Who else is there to do it? I do everything myself. Styopotchka, + have I given you your tea too weak? Ah, you have drunk it already. Pass + your cup, my angel; let me give you some more.” + </p> + <p> + “So this Mamahin, my boy, could not bear the French master,” Pavel + Vassilitch goes on, addressing his son. “‘I am a nobleman,’ he used to + shout, ‘and I won’t allow a Frenchman to lord it over me! We beat the + French in 1812!’ Well, of course they used to thrash him for it . . . + thrash him dre-ead-fully, and sometimes when he saw they were meaning to + thrash him, he would jump out of window, and off he would go! Then for + five or six days afterwards he would not show himself at the school. His + mother would come to the head-master and beg him for God’s sake: ‘Be so + kind, sir, as to find my Mishka, and flog him, the rascal!’ And the + head-master would say to her: ‘Upon my word, madam, our five porters + aren’t a match for him!’” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, to think of such ruffians being born,” whispers Pelageya + Ivanovna, looking at her husband in horror. “What a trial for the poor + mother!” + </p> + <p> + A silence follows. Styopa yawns loudly, and scrutinises the Chinaman on + the tea-caddy whom he has seen a thousand times already. Markovna and the + two aunts sip tea carefully out of their saucers. The air is still and + stifling from the stove. . . . Faces and gestures betray the sloth and + repletion that comes when the stomach is full, and yet one must go on + eating. The samovar, the cups, and the table-cloth are cleared away, but + still the family sits on at the table. . . . Pelageya Ivanovna is + continually jumping up and, with an expression of alarm on her face, + running off into the kitchen, to talk to the cook about the supper. The + two aunts go on sitting in the same position immovably, with their arms + folded across their bosoms and doze, staring with their pewtery little + eyes at the lamp. Markovna hiccups every minute and asks: + </p> + <p> + “Why is it I have the hiccups? I don’t think I have eaten anything to + account for it . . . nor drunk anything either. . . . Hic!” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Vassilitch and Styopa sit side by side, with their heads touching, + and, bending over the table, examine a volume of the “Neva” for 1878. + </p> + <p> + “‘The monument of Leonardo da Vinci, facing the gallery of Victor Emmanuel + at Milan.’ I say! . . . After the style of a triumphal arch. . . . A + cavalier with his lady. . . . And there are little men in the distance. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + “That little man is like a schoolfellow of mine called Niskubin,” says + Styopa. + </p> + <p> + “Turn over. . . . ‘The proboscis of the common house-fly seen under the + microscope.’ So that’s a proboscis! I say—a fly. Whatever would a + bug look like under a microscope, my boy? Wouldn’t it be horrid!” + </p> + <p> + The old-fashioned clock in the drawing-room does not strike, but coughs + ten times huskily as though it had a cold. The cook, Anna, comes into the + dining-room, and plumps down at the master’s feet. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, for Christ’s sake, Pavel Vassilitch!” she says, getting up, + flushed all over. + </p> + <p> + “You forgive me, too, for Christ’s sake,” Pavel Vassilitch responds + unconcernedly. + </p> + <p> + In the same manner, Anna goes up to the other members of the family, + plumps down at their feet, and begs forgiveness. She only misses out + Markovna to whom, not being one of the gentry, she does not feel it + necessary to bow down. + </p> + <p> + Another half-hour passes in stillness and tranquillity. The “Neva” is by + now lying on the sofa, and Pavel Vassilitch, holding up his finger, + repeats by heart some Latin verses he has learned in his childhood. Styopa + stares at the finger with the wedding ring, listens to the unintelligible + words, and dozes; he rubs his eyelids with his fists, and they shut all + the tighter. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to bed . . .” he says, stretching and yawning. + </p> + <p> + “What, to bed?” says Pelageya Ivanovna. “What about supper before the + fast?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want any.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you crazy?” says his mother in alarm. “How can you go without your + supper before the fast? You’ll have nothing but Lenten food all through + the fast!” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Vassilitch is scared too. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, my boy,” he says. “For seven weeks mother will give you nothing + but Lenten food. You can’t miss the last supper before the fast.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, I am sleepy,” says Styopa peevishly. + </p> + <p> + “Since that is how it is, lay the supper quickly,” Pavel Vassilitch cries + in a fluster. “Anna, why are you sitting there, silly? Make haste and lay + the table.” + </p> + <p> + Pelageya Ivanovna clasps her hands and runs into the kitchen with an + expression as though the house were on fire. + </p> + <p> + “Make haste, make haste,” is heard all over the house. “Styopotchka is + sleepy. Anna! Oh dear me, what is one to do? Make haste.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later the table is laid. Again the cats, arching their + spines, and stretching themselves with their tails in the air, come into + the dining-room. . . . The family begin supper. . . . No one is hungry, + everyone’s stomach is overfull, but yet they must eat. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD HOUSE + </h2> + <h3> + <i>(A Story told by a Houseowner)</i> + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE old house had + to be pulled down that a new one might be built in its place. I led the + architect through the empty rooms, and between our business talk told him + various stories. The tattered wallpapers, the dingy windows, the dark + stoves, all bore the traces of recent habitation and evoked memories. On + that staircase, for instance, drunken men were once carrying down a dead + body when they stumbled and flew headlong downstairs together with the + coffin; the living were badly bruised, while the dead man looked very + serious, as though nothing had happened, and shook his head when they + lifted him up from the ground and put him back in the coffin. You see + those three doors in a row: in there lived young ladies who were always + receiving visitors, and so were better dressed than any other lodgers, and + could pay their rent regularly. The door at the end of the corridor leads + to the wash-house, where by day they washed clothes and at night made an + uproar and drank beer. And in that flat of three rooms everything is + saturated with bacteria and bacilli. It’s not nice there. Many lodgers + have died there, and I can positively assert that that flat was at some + time cursed by someone, and that together with its human lodgers there was + always another lodger, unseen, living in it. I remember particularly the + fate of one family. Picture to yourself an ordinary man, not remarkable in + any way, with a wife, a mother, and four children. His name was Putohin; + he was a copying clerk at a notary’s, and received thirty-five roubles a + month. He was a sober, religious, serious man. When he brought me his rent + for the flat he always apologised for being badly dressed; apologised for + being five days late, and when I gave him a receipt he would smile + good-humouredly and say: “Oh yes, there’s that too, I don’t like those + receipts.” He lived poorly but decently. In that middle room, the + grandmother used to be with the four children; there they used to cook, + sleep, receive their visitors, and even dance. This was Putohin’s own + room; he had a table in it, at which he used to work doing private jobs, + copying parts for the theatre, advertisements, and so on. This room on the + right was let to his lodger, Yegoritch, a locksmith—a steady fellow, + but given to drink; he was always too hot, and so used to go about in his + waistcoat and barefoot. Yegoritch used to mend locks, pistols, children’s + bicycles, would not refuse to mend cheap clocks and make skates for a + quarter-rouble, but he despised that work, and looked on himself as a + specialist in musical instruments. Amongst the litter of steel and iron on + his table there was always to be seen a concertina with a broken key, or a + trumpet with its sides bent in. He paid Putohin two and a half roubles for + his room; he was always at his work-table, and only came out to thrust + some piece of iron into the stove. + </p> + <p> + On the rare occasions when I went into that flat in the evening, this was + always the picture I came upon: Putohin would be sitting at his little + table, copying something; his mother and his wife, a thin woman with an + exhausted-looking face, were sitting near the lamp, sewing; Yegoritch + would be making a rasping sound with his file. And the hot, still + smouldering embers in the stove filled the room with heat and fumes; the + heavy air smelt of cabbage soup, swaddling-clothes, and Yegoritch. It was + poor and stuffy, but the working-class faces, the children’s little + drawers hung up along by the stove, Yegoritch’s bits of iron had yet an + air of peace, friendliness, content. . . . In the corridor outside the + children raced about with well-combed heads, merry and profoundly + convinced that everything was satisfactory in this world, and would be so + endlessly, that one had only to say one’s prayers every morning and at + bedtime. + </p> + <p> + Now imagine in the midst of that same room, two paces from the stove, the + coffin in which Putohin’s wife is lying. There is no husband whose wife + will live for ever, but there was something special about this death. + When, during the requiem service, I glanced at the husband’s grave face, + at his stern eyes, I thought: “Oho, brother!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to me that he himself, his children, the grandmother and + Yegoritch, were already marked down by that unseen being which lived with + them in that flat. I am a thoroughly superstitious man, perhaps, because I + am a houseowner and for forty years have had to do with lodgers. I believe + if you don’t win at cards from the beginning you will go on losing to the + end; when fate wants to wipe you and your family off the face of the + earth, it remains inexorable in its persecution, and the first misfortune + is commonly only the first of a long series. . . . Misfortunes are like + stones. One stone has only to drop from a high cliff for others to be set + rolling after it. In short, as I came away from the requiem service at + Putohin’s, I believed that he and his family were in a bad way. + </p> + <p> + And, in fact, a week afterwards the notary quite unexpectedly dismissed + Putohin, and engaged a young lady in his place. And would you believe it, + Putohin was not so much put out at the loss of his job as at being + superseded by a young lady and not by a man. Why a young lady? He so + resented this that on his return home he thrashed his children, swore at + his mother, and got drunk. Yegoritch got drunk, too, to keep him company. + </p> + <p> + Putohin brought me the rent, but did not apologise this time, though it + was eighteen days overdue, and said nothing when he took the receipt from + me. The following month the rent was brought by his mother; she only + brought me half, and promised to bring the remainder a week later. The + third month, I did not get a farthing, and the porter complained to me + that the lodgers in No. 23 were “not behaving like gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + These were ominous symptoms. + </p> + <p> + Picture this scene. A sombre Petersburg morning looks in at the dingy + windows. By the stove, the granny is pouring out the children’s tea. Only + the eldest, Vassya, drinks out of a glass, for the others the tea is + poured out into saucers. Yegoritch is squatting on his heels before the + stove, thrusting a bit of iron into the fire. His head is heavy and his + eyes are lustreless from yesterday’s drinking-bout; he sighs and groans, + trembles and coughs. + </p> + <p> + “He has quite put me off the right way, the devil,” he grumbles; “he + drinks himself and leads others into sin.” + </p> + <p> + Putohin sits in his room, on the bedstead from which the bedclothes and + the pillows have long ago disappeared, and with his hands straying in his + hair looks blankly at the floor at his feet. He is tattered, unkempt, and + ill. + </p> + <p> + “Drink it up, make haste or you will be late for school,” the old woman + urges on Vassya, “and it’s time for me, too, to go and scrub the floors + for the Jews. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The old woman is the only one in the flat who does not lose heart. She + thinks of old times, and goes out to hard dirty work. On Fridays she + scrubs the floors for the Jews at the crockery shop, on Saturdays she goes + out washing for shopkeepers, and on Sundays she is racing about the town + from morning to night, trying to find ladies who will help her. Every day + she has work of some sort; she washes and scrubs, and is by turns a + midwife, a matchmaker, or a beggar. It is true she, too, is not + disinclined to drown her sorrows, but even when she has had a drop she + does not forget her duties. In Russia there are many such tough old women, + and how much of its welfare rests upon them! + </p> + <p> + When he has finished his tea, Vassya packs up his books in a satchel and + goes behind the stove; his greatcoat ought to be hanging there beside his + granny’s clothes. A minute later he comes out from behind the stove and + asks: + </p> + <p> + “Where is my greatcoat?” + </p> + <p> + The grandmother and the other children look for the greatcoat together, + they waste a long time in looking for it, but the greatcoat has utterly + vanished. Where is it? The grandmother and Vassya are pale and frightened. + Even Yegoritch is surprised. Putohin is the only one who does not move. + Though he is quick to notice anything irregular or disorderly, this time + he makes a pretence of hearing and seeing nothing. That is suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “He’s sold it for drink,” Yegoritch declares. + </p> + <p> + Putohin says nothing, so it is the truth. Vassya is overcome with horror. + His greatcoat, his splendid greatcoat, made of his dead mother’s cloth + dress, with a splendid calico lining, gone for drink at the tavern! And + with the greatcoat is gone too, of course, the blue pencil that lay in the + pocket, and the note-book with “<i>Nota bene</i>” in gold letters on it! + There’s another pencil with india-rubber stuck into the note-book, and, + besides that, there are transfer pictures lying in it. + </p> + <p> + Vassya would like to cry, but to cry is impossible. If his father, who has + a headache, heard crying he would shout, stamp with his feet, and begin + fighting, and after drinking he fights horribly. Granny would stand up for + Vassya, and his father would strike granny too; it would end in Yegoritch + getting mixed up in it too, clutching at his father and falling on the + floor with him. The two would roll on the floor, struggling together and + gasping with drunken animal fury, and granny would cry, the children would + scream, the neighbours would send for the porter. No, better not cry. + </p> + <p> + Because he mustn’t cry, or give vent to his indignation aloud, Vassya + moans, wrings his hands and moves his legs convulsively, or biting his + sleeve shakes it with his teeth as a dog does a hare. His eyes are + frantic, and his face is distorted with despair. Looking at him, his + granny all at once takes the shawl off her head, and she too makes queer + movements with her arms and legs in silence, with her eyes fixed on a + point in the distance. And at that moment I believe there is a definite + certainty in the minds of the boy and the old woman that their life is + ruined, that there is no hope. . . . + </p> + <p> + Putohin hears no crying, but he can see it all from his room. When, half + an hour later, Vassya sets off to school, wrapped in his grandmother’s + shawl, he goes out with a face I will not undertake to describe, and walks + after him. He longs to call the boy, to comfort him, to beg his + forgiveness, to promise him on his word of honour, to call his dead mother + to witness, but instead of words, sobs break from him. It is a grey, cold + morning. When he reaches the town school Vassya untwists his granny’s + shawl, and goes into the school with nothing over his jacket for fear the + boys should say he looks like a woman. And when he gets home Putohin sobs, + mutters some incoherent words, bows down to the ground before his mother + and Yegoritch, and the locksmith’s table. Then, recovering himself a + little, he runs to me and begs me breathlessly, for God’s sake, to find + him some job. I give him hopes, of course. + </p> + <p> + “At last I am myself again,” he said. “It’s high time, indeed, to come to + my senses. I’ve made a beast of myself, and now it’s over.” + </p> + <p> + He is delighted and thanks me, while I, who have studied these gentry + thoroughly during the years I have owned the house, look at him, and am + tempted to say: + </p> + <p> + “It’s too late, dear fellow! You are a dead man already.” + </p> + <p> + From me, Putohin runs to the town school. There he paces up and down, + waiting till his boy comes out. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Vassya,” he says joyfully, when the boy at last comes out, “I have + just been promised a job. Wait a bit, I will buy you a splendid fur-coat. + . . . I’ll send you to the high school! Do you understand? To the high + school! I’ll make a gentleman of you! And I won’t drink any more. On my + honour I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + And he has intense faith in the bright future. But the evening comes on. + The old woman, coming back from the Jews with twenty kopecks, exhausted + and aching all over, sets to work to wash the children’s clothes. Vassya + is sitting doing a sum. Yegoritch is not working. Thanks to Putohin he has + got into the way of drinking, and is feeling at the moment an overwhelming + desire for drink. It’s hot and stuffy in the room. Steam rises in clouds + from the tub where the old woman is washing. + </p> + <p> + “Are we going?” Yegoritch asks surlily. + </p> + <p> + My lodger does not answer. After his excitement he feels insufferably + dreary. He struggles with the desire to drink, with acute depression and . + . . and, of course, depression gets the best of it. It is a familiar + story. + </p> + <p> + Towards night, Yegoritch and Putohin go out, and in the morning Vassya + cannot find granny’s shawl. + </p> + <p> + That is the drama that took place in that flat. After selling the shawl + for drink, Putohin did not come home again. Where he disappeared to I + don’t know. After he disappeared, the old woman first got drunk, then took + to her bed. She was taken to the hospital, the younger children were + fetched by relations of some sort, and Vassya went into the wash-house + here. In the day-time he handed the irons, and at night fetched the beer. + When he was turned out of the wash-house he went into the service of one + of the young ladies, used to run about at night on errands of some sort, + and began to be spoken of as “a dangerous customer.” + </p> + <p> + What has happened to him since I don’t know. + </p> + <p> + And in this room here a street musician lived for ten years. When he died + they found twenty thousand roubles in his feather bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN PASSION WEEK + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“G</span>o along, they are + ringing already; and mind, don’t be naughty in church or God will punish + you.” + </p> + <p> + My mother thrusts a few copper coins upon me, and, instantly forgetting + about me, runs into the kitchen with an iron that needs reheating. I know + well that after confession I shall not be allowed to eat or drink, and so, + before leaving the house, I force myself to eat a crust of white bread, + and to drink two glasses of water. It is quite spring in the street. The + roads are all covered with brownish slush, in which future paths are + already beginning to show; the roofs and side-walks are dry; the fresh + young green is piercing through the rotting grass of last year, under the + fences. In the gutters there is the merry gurgling and foaming of dirty + water, in which the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe. Chips, straws, the + husks of sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in the water, whirling + round and sticking in the dirty foam. Where, where are those chips + swimming to? It may well be that from the gutter they may pass into the + river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea into the ocean. I try + to imagine to myself that long terrible journey, but my fancy stops short + before reaching the sea. + </p> + <p> + A cabman drives by. He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, and does + not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of his cab. I + should like to join them, but think of confession, and the street urchins + begin to seem to me great sinners. + </p> + <p> + “They will be asked on the day of judgment: ‘Why did you play pranks and + deceive the poor cabman?’” I think. “They will begin to defend themselves, + but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fire everlasting. But + if they obey their parents, and give the beggars a kopeck each, or a roll, + God will have pity on them, and will let them into Paradise.” + </p> + <p> + The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine. There is not a soul in it. + I open the door irresolutely and go into the church. Here, in the twilight + which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no other time, I am overcome by + the sense of sinfulness and insignificance. What strikes the eye first of + all is a huge crucifix, and on one side of it the Mother of God, and on + the other, St. John the Divine. The candelabra and the candlestands are + draped in black mourning covers, the lamps glimmer dimly and faintly, and + the sun seems intentionally to pass by the church windows. The Mother of + God and the beloved disciple of Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze in + silence at the insufferable agony and do not observe my presence; I feel + that to them I am alien, superfluous, unnoticed, that I can be no help to + them by word or deed, that I am a loathsome, dishonest boy, only capable + of mischief, rudeness, and tale-bearing. I think of all the people I know, + and they all seem to me petty, stupid, and wicked, and incapable of + bringing one drop of relief to that intolerable sorrow which I now behold. + </p> + <p> + The twilight of the church grows darker and more gloomy. And the Mother of + God and St. John look lonely and forlorn to me. + </p> + <p> + Prokofy Ignatitch, a veteran soldier, the church verger’s assistant, is + standing behind the candle cupboard. Raising his eyebrows and stroking his + beard he explains in a half-whisper to an old woman: “Matins will be in + the evening to-day, directly after vespers. And they will ring for the + ‘hours’ to-morrow between seven and eight. Do you understand? Between + seven and eight.” + </p> + <p> + Between the two broad columns on the right, where the chapel of Varvara + the Martyr begins, those who are going to confess stand beside the screen, + awaiting their turn. And Mitka is there too— a ragged boy with his + head hideously cropped, with ears that jut out, and little spiteful eyes. + He is the son of Nastasya the charwoman, and is a bully and a ruffian who + snatches apples from the women’s baskets, and has more than once carried + off my knuckle-bones. He looks at me angrily, and I fancy takes a spiteful + pleasure in the fact that he, not I, will first go behind the screen. I + feel boiling over with resentment, I try not to look at him, and, at the + bottom of my heart, I am vexed that this wretched boy’s sins will soon be + forgiven. + </p> + <p> + In front of him stands a grandly dressed, beautiful lady, wearing a hat + with a white feather. She is noticeably agitated, is waiting in strained + suspense, and one of her cheeks is flushed red with excitement. + </p> + <p> + I wait for five minutes, for ten. . . . A well-dressed young man with a + long thin neck, and rubber goloshes, comes out from behind the screen. I + begin dreaming how, when I am grown up, I will buy goloshes exactly like + them. I certainly will! The lady shudders and goes behind the screen. It + is her turn. + </p> + <p> + In the crack, between the two panels of the screen, I can see the lady go + up to the lectern and bow down to the ground, then get up, and, without + looking at the priest, bow her head in anticipation. The priest stands + with his back to the screen, and so I can only see his grey curly head, + the chain of the cross on his chest, and his broad back. His face is not + visible. Heaving a sigh, and not looking at the lady, he begins speaking + rapidly, shaking his head, alternately raising and dropping his whispering + voice. The lady listens meekly as though conscious of guilt, answers + meekly, and looks at the floor. + </p> + <p> + “In what way can she be sinful?” I wonder, looking reverently at her + gentle, beautiful face. “God forgive her sins, God send her happiness.” + But now the priest covers her head with the stole. “And I, unworthy priest + . . .” I hear his voice, “. . . by His power given unto me, do forgive and + absolve thee from all thy sins. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The lady bows down to the ground, kisses the cross, and comes back. Both + her cheeks are flushed now, but her face is calm and serene and cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “She is happy now,” I think to myself, looking first at her and then at + the priest who had forgiven her sins. “But how happy the man must be who + has the right to forgive sins!” + </p> + <p> + Now it is Mitka’s turn, but a feeling of hatred for that young ruffian + suddenly boils up in me. I want to go behind the screen before him, I want + to be the first. Noticing my movement he hits me on the head with his + candle, I respond by doing the same, and, for half a minute, there is a + sound of panting, and, as it were, of someone breaking candles. . . . We + are separated. My foe goes timidly up to the lectern, and bows down to the + floor without bending his knees, but I do not see what happens after that; + the thought that my turn is coming after Mitka’s makes everything grow + blurred and confused before my eyes; Mitka’s protruding ears grow large, + and melt into his dark head, the priest sways, the floor seems to be + undulating. . . . + </p> + <p> + The priest’s voice is audible: “And I, unworthy priest . . .” + </p> + <p> + Now I too move behind the screen. I do not feel the ground under my feet, + it is as though I were walking on air. . . . I go up to the lectern which + is taller than I am. For a minute I have a glimpse of the indifferent, + exhausted face of the priest. But after that I see nothing but his sleeve + with its blue lining, the cross, and the edge of the lectern. I am + conscious of the close proximity of the priest, the smell of his cassock; + I hear his stern voice, and my cheek turned towards him begins to burn. . + . . I am so troubled that I miss a great deal that he says, but I answer + his questions sincerely in an unnatural voice, not my own. I think of the + forlorn figures of the Holy Mother and St. John the Divine, the crucifix, + my mother, and I want to cry and beg forgiveness. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” the priest asks me, covering my head with the soft + stole. + </p> + <p> + How light-hearted I am now, with joy in my soul! + </p> + <p> + I have no sins now, I am holy, I have the right to enter Paradise! I fancy + that I already smell like the cassock. I go from behind the screen to the + deacon to enter my name, and sniff at my sleeves. The dusk of the church + no longer seems gloomy, and I look indifferently, without malice, at + Mitka. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” the deacon asks. + </p> + <p> + “Fedya.” + </p> + <p> + “And your name from your father?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your papa’s name?” + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Petrovitch.” + </p> + <p> + “And your surname?” + </p> + <p> + I make no answer. + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly nine.” + </p> + <p> + When I get home I go to bed quickly, that I may not see them eating + supper; and, shutting my eyes, dream of how fine it would be to endure + martyrdom at the hands of some Herod or Dioskorus, to live in the desert, + and, like St. Serafim, feed the bears, live in a cell, and eat nothing but + holy bread, give my property to the poor, go on a pilgrimage to Kiev. I + hear them laying the table in the dining-room—they are going to have + supper, they will eat salad, cabbage pies, fried and baked fish. How + hungry I am! I would consent to endure any martyrdom, to live in the + desert without my mother, to feed bears out of my own hands, if only I + might first eat just one cabbage pie! + </p> + <p> + “Lord, purify me a sinner,” I pray, covering my head over. “Guardian + angel, save me from the unclean spirit.” + </p> + <p> + The next day, Thursday, I wake up with my heart as pure and clean as a + fine spring day. I go gaily and boldly into the church, feeling that I am + a communicant, that I have a splendid and expensive shirt on, made out of + a silk dress left by my grandmother. In the church everything has an air + of joy, happiness, and spring. The faces of the Mother of God and St. John + the Divine are not so sorrowful as yesterday. The faces of the + communicants are radiant with hope, and it seems as though all the past is + forgotten, all is forgiven. Mitka, too, has combed his hair, and is + dressed in his best. I look gaily at his protruding ears, and to show that + I have nothing against him, I say: + </p> + <p> + “You look nice to-day, and if your hair did not stand up so, and you + weren’t so poorly dressed, everybody would think that your mother was not + a washerwoman but a lady. Come to me at Easter, we will play + knuckle-bones.” + </p> + <p> + Mitka looks at me mistrustfully, and shakes his fist at me on the sly. + </p> + <p> + And the lady I saw yesterday looks lovely. She is wearing a light blue + dress, and a big sparkling brooch in the shape of a horse-shoe. I admire + her, and think that, when I am grown-up, I will certainly marry a woman + like that, but remembering that getting married is shameful, I leave off + thinking about it, and go into the choir where the deacon is already + reading the “hours.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHITEBROW + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> HUNGRY she-wolf + got up to go hunting. Her cubs, all three of them, were sound asleep, + huddled in a heap and keeping each other warm. She licked them and went + off. + </p> + <p> + It was already March, a month of spring, but at night the trees snapped + with the cold, as they do in December, and one could hardly put one’s + tongue out without its being nipped. The wolf-mother was in delicate + health and nervous; she started at the slightest sound, and kept hoping + that no one would hurt the little ones at home while she was away. The + smell of the tracks of men and horses, logs, piles of faggots, and the + dark road with horse-dung on it frightened her; it seemed to her that men + were standing behind the trees in the darkness, and that dogs were howling + somewhere beyond the forest. + </p> + <p> + She was no longer young and her scent had grown feebler, so that it + sometimes happened that she took the track of a fox for that of a dog, and + even at times lost her way, a thing that had never been in her youth. + Owing to the weakness of her health she no longer hunted calves and big + sheep as she had in old days, and kept her distance now from mares with + colts; she fed on nothing but carrion; fresh meat she tasted very rarely, + only in the spring when she would come upon a hare and take away her + young, or make her way into a peasant’s stall where there were lambs. + </p> + <p> + Some three miles from her lair there stood a winter hut on the posting + road. There lived the keeper Ignat, an old man of seventy, who was always + coughing and talking to himself; at night he was usually asleep, and by + day he wandered about the forest with a single-barrelled gun, whistling to + the hares. He must have worked among machinery in early days, for before + he stood still he always shouted to himself: “Stop the machine!” and + before going on: “Full speed!” He had a huge black dog of indeterminate + breed, called Arapka. When it ran too far ahead he used to shout to it: + “Reverse action!” Sometimes he used to sing, and as he did so staggered + violently, and often fell down (the wolf thought the wind blew him over), + and shouted: “Run off the rails!” + </p> + <p> + The wolf remembered that, in the summer and autumn, a ram and two ewes + were pasturing near the winter hut, and when she had run by not so long + ago she fancied that she had heard bleating in the stall. And now, as she + got near the place, she reflected that it was already March, and, by that + time, there would certainly be lambs in the stall. She was tormented by + hunger, she thought with what greediness she would eat a lamb, and these + thoughts made her teeth snap, and her eyes glitter in the darkness like + two sparks of light. + </p> + <p> + Ignat’s hut, his barn, cattle-stall, and well were surrounded by high + snowdrifts. All was still. Arapka was, most likely, asleep in the barn. + </p> + <p> + The wolf clambered over a snowdrift on to the stall, and began scratching + away the thatched roof with her paws and her nose. The straw was rotten + and decaying, so that the wolf almost fell through; all at once a smell of + warm steam, of manure, and of sheep’s milk floated straight to her + nostrils. Down below, a lamb, feeling the cold, bleated softly. Leaping + through the hole, the wolf fell with her four paws and chest on something + soft and warm, probably a sheep, and at the same moment, something in the + stall suddenly began whining, barking, and going off into a shrill little + yap; the sheep huddled against the wall, and the wolf, frightened, + snatched the first thing her teeth fastened on, and dashed away. . . . + </p> + <p> + She ran at her utmost speed, while Arapka, who by now had scented the + wolf, howled furiously, the frightened hens cackled, and Ignat, coming out + into the porch, shouted: “Full speed! Blow the whistle!” + </p> + <p> + And he whistled like a steam-engine, and then shouted: “Ho-ho-ho-ho!” and + all this noise was repeated by the forest echo. When, little by little, it + all died away, the wolf somewhat recovered herself, and began to notice + that the prey she held in her teeth and dragged along the snow was heavier + and, as it were, harder than lambs usually were at that season; and it + smelt somehow different, and uttered strange sounds. . . . The wolf + stopped and laid her burden on the snow, to rest and begin eating it, then + all at once she leapt back in disgust. It was not a lamb, but a black + puppy, with a big head and long legs, of a large breed, with a white patch + on his brow, like Arapka’s. Judging from his manners he was a simple, + ignorant, yard-dog. He licked his crushed and wounded back, and, as though + nothing was the matter, wagged his tail and barked at the wolf. She + growled like a dog, and ran away from him. He ran after her. She looked + round and snapped her teeth. He stopped in perplexity, and, probably + deciding that she was playing with him, craned his head in the direction + he had come from, and went off into a shrill, gleeful bark, as though + inviting his mother Arapka to play with him and the wolf. + </p> + <p> + It was already getting light, and when the wolf reached her home in the + thick aspen wood, each aspen tree could be seen distinctly, and the + woodcocks were already awake, and the beautiful male birds often flew up, + disturbed by the incautious gambols and barking of the puppy. + </p> + <p> + “Why does he run after me?” thought the wolf with annoyance. “I suppose he + wants me to eat him.” + </p> + <p> + She lived with her cubs in a shallow hole; three years before, a tall old + pine tree had been torn up by the roots in a violent storm, and the hole + had been formed by it. Now there were dead leaves and moss at the bottom, + and around it lay bones and bullocks’ horns, with which the little ones + played. They were by now awake, and all three of them, very much alike, + were standing in a row at the edge of their hole, looking at their + returning mother, and wagging their tails. Seeing them, the puppy stopped + a little way off, and stared at them for a very long time; seeing that + they, too, were looking very attentively at him, he began barking angrily, + as at strangers. + </p> + <p> + By now it was daylight and the sun had risen, the snow sparkled all + around, but still the puppy stood a little way off and barked. The cubs + sucked their mother, pressing her thin belly with their paws, while she + gnawed a horse’s bone, dry and white; she was tormented by hunger, her + head ached from the dog’s barking, and she felt inclined to fall on the + uninvited guest and tear him to pieces. + </p> + <p> + At last the puppy was hoarse and exhausted; seeing they were not afraid of + him, and not even attending to him, he began somewhat timidly approaching + the cubs, alternately squatting down and bounding a few steps forward. + Now, by daylight, it was easy to have a good look at him. . . . His white + forehead was big, and on it was a hump such as is only seen on very stupid + dogs; he had little, blue, dingy-looking eyes, and the expression of his + whole face was extremely stupid. When he reached the cubs he stretched out + his broad paws, laid his head upon them, and began: + </p> + <p> + “Mnya, myna . . . nga—nga—nga . . . !” + </p> + <p> + The cubs did not understand what he meant, but they wagged their tails. + Then the puppy gave one of the cubs a smack on its big head with his paw. + The cub, too, gave him a smack on the head. The puppy stood sideways to + him, and looked at him askance, wagging his tail, then dashed off, and ran + round several times on the frozen snow. The cubs ran after him, he fell on + his back and kicked up his legs, and all three of them fell upon him, + squealing with delight, and began biting him, not to hurt but in play. The + crows sat on the high pine tree, and looked down on their struggle, and + were much troubled by it. They grew noisy and merry. The sun was hot, as + though it were spring; and the woodcocks, continually flitting through the + pine tree that had been blown down by the storm, looked as though made of + emerald in the brilliant sunshine. + </p> + <p> + As a rule, wolf-mothers train their children to hunt by giving them prey + to play with; and now watching the cubs chasing the puppy over the frozen + snow and struggling with him, the mother thought: + </p> + <p> + “Let them learn.” + </p> + <p> + When they had played long enough, the cubs went into the hole and lay down + to sleep. The puppy howled a little from hunger, then he, too, stretched + out in the sunshine. And when they woke up they began playing again. + </p> + <p> + All day long, and in the evening, the wolf-mother was thinking how the + lamb had bleated in the cattle-shed the night before, and how it had smelt + of sheep’s milk, and she kept snapping her teeth from hunger, and never + left off greedily gnawing the old bone, pretending to herself that it was + the lamb. The cubs sucked their mother, and the puppy, who was hungry, ran + round them and sniffed at the snow. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll eat him . . .” the mother-wolf decided. + </p> + <p> + She went up to him, and he licked her nose and yapped at her, thinking + that she wanted to play with him. In the past she had eaten dogs, but the + dog smelt very doggy, and in the delicate state of her health she could + not endure the smell; she felt disgusted and walked away. . . . + </p> + <p> + Towards night it grew cold. The puppy felt depressed and went home. + </p> + <p> + When the wolf-cubs were fast asleep, their mother went out hunting again. + As on the previous night she was alarmed at every sound, and she was + frightened by the stumps, the logs, the dark juniper bushes, which stood + out singly, and in the distance were like human beings. She ran on the + ice-covered snow, keeping away from the road. . . . All at once she caught + a glimpse of something dark, far away on the road. She strained her eyes + and ears: yes, something really was walking on in front, she could even + hear the regular thud of footsteps. Surely not a badger? Cautiously + holding her breath, and keeping always to one side, she overtook the dark + patch, looked round, and recognised it. It was the puppy with the white + brow, going with a slow, lingering step homewards. + </p> + <p> + “If only he doesn’t hinder me again,” thought the wolf, and ran quickly on + ahead. + </p> + <p> + But the homestead was by now near. Again she clambered on to the + cattle-shed by the snowdrift. The gap she had made yesterday had been + already mended with straw, and two new rafters stretched across the roof. + The wolf began rapidly working with her legs and nose, looking round to + see whether the puppy were coming, but the smell of the warm steam and + manure had hardly reached her nose before she heard a gleeful burst of + barking behind her. It was the puppy. He leapt up to the wolf on the roof, + then into the hole, and, feeling himself at home in the warmth, + recognising his sheep, he barked louder than ever. . . . Arapka woke up in + the barn, and, scenting a wolf, howled, the hens began cackling, and by + the time Ignat appeared in the porch with his single-barrelled gun the + frightened wolf was already far away. + </p> + <p> + “Fuite!” whistled Ignat. “Fuite! Full steam ahead!” + </p> + <p> + He pulled the trigger—the gun missed fire; he pulled the trigger + again—again it missed fire; he tried a third time—and a great + blaze of flame flew out of the barrel and there was a deafening boom, + boom. It kicked him violently on the shoulder, and, taking his gun in one + hand and his axe in the other, he went to see what the noise was about. + </p> + <p> + A little later he went back to the hut. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” a pilgrim, who was staying the night at the hut and had + been awakened by the noise, asked in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right,” answered Ignat. “Nothing of consequence. Our Whitebrow + has taken to sleeping with the sheep in the warm. Only he hasn’t the sense + to go in at the door, but always tries to wriggle in by the roof. The + other night he tore a hole in the roof and went off on the spree, the + rascal, and now he has come back and scratched away the roof again.” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid dog.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there is a spring snapped in his brain. I do detest fools,” sighed + Ignat, clambering on to the stove. “Come, man of God, it’s early yet to + get up. Let us sleep full steam! . . .” + </p> + <p> + In the morning he called Whitebrow, smacked him hard about the ears, and + then showing him a stick, kept repeating to him: + </p> + <p> + “Go in at the door! Go in at the door! Go in at the door!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KASHTANKA + </h2> + <h3> + <i>(A Story)</i> + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + |<i>Misbehaviour</i> + </p> + <p> + A YOUNG dog, a reddish mongrel, between a dachshund and a “yard-dog,” very + like a fox in face, was running up and down the pavement looking uneasily + from side to side. From time to time she stopped and, whining and lifting + first one chilled paw and then another, tried to make up her mind how it + could have happened that she was lost. + </p> + <p> + She remembered very well how she had passed the day, and how, in the end, + she had found herself on this unfamiliar pavement. + </p> + <p> + The day had begun by her master Luka Alexandritch’s putting on his hat, + taking something wooden under his arm wrapped up in a red handkerchief, + and calling: “Kashtanka, come along!” + </p> + <p> + Hearing her name the mongrel had come out from under the work-table, where + she slept on the shavings, stretched herself voluptuously and run after + her master. The people Luka Alexandritch worked for lived a very long way + off, so that, before he could get to any one of them, the carpenter had + several times to step into a tavern to fortify himself. Kashtanka + remembered that on the way she had behaved extremely improperly. In her + delight that she was being taken for a walk she jumped about, dashed + barking after the trains, ran into yards, and chased other dogs. The + carpenter was continually losing sight of her, stopping, and angrily + shouting at her. Once he had even, with an expression of fury in his face, + taken her fox-like ear in his fist, smacked her, and said emphatically: + “Pla-a-ague take you, you pest!” + </p> + <p> + After having left the work where it had been bespoken, Luka Alexandritch + went into his sister’s and there had something to eat and drink; from his + sister’s he had gone to see a bookbinder he knew; from the bookbinder’s to + a tavern, from the tavern to another crony’s, and so on. In short, by the + time Kashtanka found herself on the unfamiliar pavement, it was getting + dusk, and the carpenter was as drunk as a cobbler. He was waving his arms + and, breathing heavily, muttered: + </p> + <p> + “In sin my mother bore me! Ah, sins, sins! Here now we are walking along + the street and looking at the street lamps, but when we die, we shall burn + in a fiery Gehenna. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Or he fell into a good-natured tone, called Kashtanka to him, and said to + her: “You, Kashtanka, are an insect of a creature, and nothing else. + Beside a man, you are much the same as a joiner beside a cabinet-maker. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + While he talked to her in that way, there was suddenly a burst of music. + Kashtanka looked round and saw that a regiment of soldiers was coming + straight towards her. Unable to endure the music, which unhinged her + nerves, she turned round and round and wailed. To her great surprise, the + carpenter, instead of being frightened, whining and barking, gave a broad + grin, drew himself up to attention, and saluted with all his five fingers. + Seeing that her master did not protest, Kashtanka whined louder than ever, + and dashed across the road to the opposite pavement. + </p> + <p> + When she recovered herself, the band was not playing and the regiment was + no longer there. She ran across the road to the spot where she had left + her master, but alas, the carpenter was no longer there. She dashed + forward, then back again and ran across the road once more, but the + carpenter seemed to have vanished into the earth. Kashtanka began sniffing + the pavement, hoping to find her master by the scent of his tracks, but + some wretch had been that way just before in new rubber goloshes, and now + all delicate scents were mixed with an acute stench of india-rubber, so + that it was impossible to make out anything. + </p> + <p> + Kashtanka ran up and down and did not find her master, and meanwhile it + had got dark. The street lamps were lighted on both sides of the road, and + lights appeared in the windows. Big, fluffy snowflakes were falling and + painting white the pavement, the horses’ backs and the cabmen’s caps, and + the darker the evening grew the whiter were all these objects. Unknown + customers kept walking incessantly to and fro, obstructing her field of + vision and shoving against her with their feet. (All mankind Kashtanka + divided into two uneven parts: masters and customers; between them there + was an essential difference: the first had the right to beat her, and the + second she had the right to nip by the calves of their legs.) These + customers were hurrying off somewhere and paid no attention to her. + </p> + <p> + When it got quite dark, Kashtanka was overcome by despair and horror. She + huddled up in an entrance and began whining piteously. The long day’s + journeying with Luka Alexandritch had exhausted her, her ears and her paws + were freezing, and, what was more, she was terribly hungry. Only twice in + the whole day had she tasted a morsel: she had eaten a little paste at the + bookbinder’s, and in one of the taverns she had found a sausage skin on + the floor, near the counter —that was all. If she had been a human + being she would have certainly thought: “No, it is impossible to live like + this! I must shoot myself!” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + |<i>A Mysterious Stranger</i> + </p> + <p> + But she thought of nothing, she simply whined. When her head and back were + entirely plastered over with the soft feathery snow, and she had sunk into + a painful doze of exhaustion, all at once the door of the entrance + clicked, creaked, and struck her on the side. She jumped up. A man + belonging to the class of customers came out. As Kashtanka whined and got + under his feet, he could not help noticing her. He bent down to her and + asked: + </p> + <p> + “Doggy, where do you come from? Have I hurt you? O, poor thing, poor + thing. . . . Come, don’t be cross, don’t be cross. . . . I am sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Kashtanka looked at the stranger through the snow-flakes that hung on her + eyelashes, and saw before her a short, fat little man, with a plump, + shaven face wearing a top hat and a fur coat that swung open. + </p> + <p> + “What are you whining for?” he went on, knocking the snow off her back + with his fingers. “Where is your master? I suppose you are lost? Ah, poor + doggy! What are we going to do now?” + </p> + <p> + Catching in the stranger’s voice a warm, cordial note, Kashtanka licked + his hand, and whined still more pitifully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you nice funny thing!” said the stranger. “A regular fox! Well, + there’s nothing for it, you must come along with me! Perhaps you will be + of use for something. . . . Well!” + </p> + <p> + He clicked with his lips, and made a sign to Kashtanka with his hand, + which could only mean one thing: “Come along!” Kashtanka went. + </p> + <p> + Not more than half an hour later she was sitting on the floor in a big, + light room, and, leaning her head against her side, was looking with + tenderness and curiosity at the stranger who was sitting at the table, + dining. He ate and threw pieces to her. . . . At first he gave her bread + and the green rind of cheese, then a piece of meat, half a pie and chicken + bones, while through hunger she ate so quickly that she had not time to + distinguish the taste, and the more she ate the more acute was the feeling + of hunger. + </p> + <p> + “Your masters don’t feed you properly,” said the stranger, seeing with + what ferocious greediness she swallowed the morsels without munching them. + “And how thin you are! Nothing but skin and bones. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Kashtanka ate a great deal and yet did not satisfy her hunger, but was + simply stupefied with eating. After dinner she lay down in the middle of + the room, stretched her legs and, conscious of an agreeable weariness all + over her body, wagged her tail. While her new master, lounging in an + easy-chair, smoked a cigar, she wagged her tail and considered the + question, whether it was better at the stranger’s or at the carpenter’s. + The stranger’s surroundings were poor and ugly; besides the easy-chairs, + the sofa, the lamps and the rugs, there was nothing, and the room seemed + empty. At the carpenter’s the whole place was stuffed full of things: he + had a table, a bench, a heap of shavings, planes, chisels, saws, a cage + with a goldfinch, a basin. . . . The stranger’s room smelt of nothing, + while there was always a thick fog in the carpenter’s room, and a glorious + smell of glue, varnish, and shavings. On the other hand, the stranger had + one great superiority—he gave her a great deal to eat and, to do him + full justice, when Kashtanka sat facing the table and looking wistfully at + him, he did not once hit or kick her, and did not once shout: “Go away, + damned brute!” + </p> + <p> + When he had finished his cigar her new master went out, and a minute later + came back holding a little mattress in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Hey, you dog, come here!” he said, laying the mattress in the corner near + the dog. “Lie down here, go to sleep!” + </p> + <p> + Then he put out the lamp and went away. Kashtanka lay down on the mattress + and shut her eyes; the sound of a bark rose from the street, and she would + have liked to answer it, but all at once she was overcome with unexpected + melancholy. She thought of Luka Alexandritch, of his son Fedyushka, and + her snug little place under the bench. . . . She remembered on the long + winter evenings, when the carpenter was planing or reading the paper + aloud, Fedyushka usually played with her. . . . He used to pull her from + under the bench by her hind legs, and play such tricks with her, that she + saw green before her eyes, and ached in every joint. He would make her + walk on her hind legs, use her as a bell, that is, shake her violently by + the tail so that she squealed and barked, and give her tobacco to sniff . + . . . The following trick was particularly agonising: Fedyushka would tie + a piece of meat to a thread and give it to Kashtanka, and then, when she + had swallowed it he would, with a loud laugh, pull it back again from her + stomach, and the more lurid were her memories the more loudly and + miserably Kashtanka whined. + </p> + <p> + But soon exhaustion and warmth prevailed over melancholy. She began to + fall asleep. Dogs ran by in her imagination: among them a shaggy old + poodle, whom she had seen that day in the street with a white patch on his + eye and tufts of wool by his nose. Fedyushka ran after the poodle with a + chisel in his hand, then all at once he too was covered with shaggy wool, + and began merrily barking beside Kashtanka. Kashtanka and he goodnaturedly + sniffed each other’s noses and merrily ran down the street. . . . + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + |<i>New and Very Agreeable Acquaintances</i> + </p> + <p> + When Kashtanka woke up it was already light, and a sound rose from the + street, such as only comes in the day-time. There was not a soul in the + room. Kashtanka stretched, yawned and, cross and ill-humoured, walked + about the room. She sniffed the corners and the furniture, looked into the + passage and found nothing of interest there. Besides the door that led + into the passage there was another door. After thinking a little Kashtanka + scratched on it with both paws, opened it, and went into the adjoining + room. Here on the bed, covered with a rug, a customer, in whom she + recognised the stranger of yesterday, lay asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Rrrrr . . .” she growled, but recollecting yesterday’s dinner, wagged her + tail, and began sniffing. + </p> + <p> + She sniffed the stranger’s clothes and boots and thought they smelt of + horses. In the bedroom was another door, also closed. Kashtanka scratched + at the door, leaned her chest against it, opened it, and was instantly + aware of a strange and very suspicious smell. Foreseeing an unpleasant + encounter, growling and looking about her, Kashtanka walked into a little + room with a dirty wall-paper and drew back in alarm. She saw something + surprising and terrible. A grey gander came straight towards her, hissing, + with its neck bowed down to the floor and its wings outspread. Not far + from him, on a little mattress, lay a white tom-cat; seeing Kashtanka, he + jumped up, arched his back, wagged his tail with his hair standing on end + and he, too, hissed at her. The dog was frightened in earnest, but not + caring to betray her alarm, began barking loudly and dashed at the cat . . + . . The cat arched his back more than ever, mewed and gave Kashtanka a + smack on the head with his paw. Kashtanka jumped back, squatted on all + four paws, and craning her nose towards the cat, went off into loud, + shrill barks; meanwhile the gander came up behind and gave her a painful + peck in the back. Kashtanka leapt up and dashed at the gander. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this?” They heard a loud angry voice, and the stranger came into + the room in his dressing-gown, with a cigar between his teeth. “What’s the + meaning of this? To your places!” + </p> + <p> + He went up to the cat, flicked him on his arched back, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Fyodor Timofeyitch, what’s the meaning of this? Have you got up a fight? + Ah, you old rascal! Lie down!” + </p> + <p> + And turning to the gander he shouted: “Ivan Ivanitch, go home!” + </p> + <p> + The cat obediently lay down on his mattress and closed his eyes. Judging + from the expression of his face and whiskers, he was displeased with + himself for having lost his temper and got into a fight. + </p> + <p> + Kashtanka began whining resentfully, while the gander craned his neck and + began saying something rapidly, excitedly, distinctly, but quite + unintelligibly. + </p> + <p> + “All right, all right,” said his master, yawning. “You must live in peace + and friendship.” He stroked Kashtanka and went on: “And you, redhair, + don’t be frightened. . . . They are capital company, they won’t annoy you. + Stay, what are we to call you? You can’t go on without a name, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger thought a moment and said: “I tell you what . . . you shall + be Auntie. . . . Do you understand? Auntie!” + </p> + <p> + And repeating the word “Auntie” several times he went out. Kashtanka sat + down and began watching. The cat sat motionless on his little mattress, + and pretended to be asleep. The gander, craning his neck and stamping, + went on talking rapidly and excitedly about something. Apparently it was a + very clever gander; after every long tirade, he always stepped back with + an air of wonder and made a show of being highly delighted with his own + speech. . . . Listening to him and answering “R-r-r-r,” Kashtanka fell to + sniffing the corners. In one of the corners she found a little trough in + which she saw some soaked peas and a sop of rye crusts. She tried the + peas; they were not nice; she tried the sopped bread and began eating it. + The gander was not at all offended that the strange dog was eating his + food, but, on the contrary, talked even more excitedly, and to show his + confidence went to the trough and ate a few peas himself. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + |<i>Marvels on a Hurdle</i> + </p> + <p> + A little while afterwards the stranger came in again, and brought a + strange thing with him like a hurdle, or like the figure II. On the + crosspiece on the top of this roughly made wooden frame hung a bell, and a + pistol was also tied to it; there were strings from the tongue of the + bell, and the trigger of the pistol. The stranger put the frame in the + middle of the room, spent a long time tying and untying something, then + looked at the gander and said: “Ivan Ivanitch, if you please!” + </p> + <p> + The gander went up to him and stood in an expectant attitude. + </p> + <p> + “Now then,” said the stranger, “let us begin at the very beginning. First + of all, bow and make a curtsey! Look sharp!” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch craned his neck, nodded in all directions, and scraped with + his foot. + </p> + <p> + “Right. Bravo. . . . Now die!” + </p> + <p> + The gander lay on his back and stuck his legs in the air. After performing + a few more similar, unimportant tricks, the stranger suddenly clutched at + his head, and assuming an expression of horror, shouted: “Help! Fire! We + are burning!” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch ran to the frame, took the string in his beak, and set the + bell ringing. + </p> + <p> + The stranger was very much pleased. He stroked the gander’s neck and said: + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, Ivan Ivanitch! Now pretend that you are a jeweller selling gold + and diamonds. Imagine now that you go to your shop and find thieves there. + What would you do in that case?” + </p> + <p> + The gander took the other string in his beak and pulled it, and at once a + deafening report was heard. Kashtanka was highly delighted with the bell + ringing, and the shot threw her into so much ecstasy that she ran round + the frame barking. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie, lie down!” cried the stranger; “be quiet!” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch’s task was not ended with the shooting. For a whole hour + afterwards the stranger drove the gander round him on a cord, cracking a + whip, and the gander had to jump over barriers and through hoops; he had + to rear, that is, sit on his tail and wave his legs in the air. Kashtanka + could not take her eyes off Ivan Ivanitch, wriggled with delight, and + several times fell to running after him with shrill barks. After + exhausting the gander and himself, the stranger wiped the sweat from his + brow and cried: + </p> + <p> + “Marya, fetch Havronya Ivanovna here!” + </p> + <p> + A minute later there was the sound of grunting. Kashtanka growled, assumed + a very valiant air, and to be on the safe side, went nearer to the + stranger. The door opened, an old woman looked in, and, saying something, + led in a black and very ugly sow. Paying no attention to Kashtanka’s + growls, the sow lifted up her little hoof and grunted good-humouredly. + Apparently it was very agreeable to her to see her master, the cat, and + Ivan Ivanitch. When she went up to the cat and gave him a light tap on the + stomach with her hoof, and then made some remark to the gander, a great + deal of good-nature was expressed in her movements, and the quivering of + her tail. Kashtanka realised at once that to growl and bark at such a + character was useless. + </p> + <p> + The master took away the frame and cried. “Fyodor Timofeyitch, if you + please!” + </p> + <p> + The cat stretched lazily, and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, + went up to the sow. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us begin with the Egyptian pyramid,” began the master. + </p> + <p> + He spent a long time explaining something, then gave the word of command, + “One . . . two . . . three!” At the word “three” Ivan Ivanitch flapped his + wings and jumped on to the sow’s back. . . . When, balancing himself with + his wings and his neck, he got a firm foothold on the bristly back, Fyodor + Timofeyitch listlessly and lazily, with manifest disdain, and with an air + of scorning his art and not caring a pin for it, climbed on to the sow’s + back, then reluctantly mounted on to the gander, and stood on his hind + legs. The result was what the stranger called the Egyptian pyramid. + Kashtanka yapped with delight, but at that moment the old cat yawned and, + losing his balance, rolled off the gander. Ivan Ivanitch lurched and fell + off too. The stranger shouted, waved his hands, and began explaining + something again. After spending an hour over the pyramid their + indefatigable master proceeded to teach Ivan Ivanitch to ride on the cat, + then began to teach the cat to smoke, and so on. + </p> + <p> + The lesson ended in the stranger’s wiping the sweat off his brow and going + away. Fyodor Timofeyitch gave a disdainful sniff, lay down on his + mattress, and closed his eyes; Ivan Ivanitch went to the trough, and the + pig was taken away by the old woman. Thanks to the number of her new + impressions, Kashranka hardly noticed how the day passed, and in the + evening she was installed with her mattress in the room with the dirty + wall-paper, and spent the night in the society of Fyodor Timofeyitch and + the gander. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + |<i>Talent! Talent!</i> + </p> + <p> + A month passed. + </p> + <p> + Kashtanka had grown used to having a nice dinner every evening, and being + called Auntie. She had grown used to the stranger too, and to her new + companions. Life was comfortable and easy. + </p> + <p> + Every day began in the same way. As a rule, Ivan Ivanitch was the first to + wake up, and at once went up to Auntie or to the cat, twisting his neck, + and beginning to talk excitedly and persuasively, but, as before, + unintelligibly. Sometimes he would crane up his head in the air and utter + a long monologue. At first Kashtanka thought he talked so much because he + was very clever, but after a little time had passed, she lost all her + respect for him; when he went up to her with his long speeches she no + longer wagged her tail, but treated him as a tiresome chatterbox, who + would not let anyone sleep and, without the slightest ceremony, answered + him with “R-r-r-r!” + </p> + <p> + Fyodor Timofeyitch was a gentleman of a very different sort. When he woke + he did not utter a sound, did not stir, and did not even open his eyes. He + would have been glad not to wake, for, as was evident, he was not greatly + in love with life. Nothing interested him, he showed an apathetic and + nonchalant attitude to everything, he disdained everything and, even while + eating his delicious dinner, sniffed contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + When she woke Kashtanka began walking about the room and sniffing the + corners. She and the cat were the only ones allowed to go all over the + flat; the gander had not the right to cross the threshold of the room with + the dirty wall-paper, and Hayronya Ivanovna lived somewhere in a little + outhouse in the yard and made her appearance only during the lessons. + Their master got up late, and immediately after drinking his tea began + teaching them their tricks. Every day the frame, the whip, and the hoop + were brought in, and every day almost the same performance took place. The + lesson lasted three or four hours, so that sometimes Fyodor Timofeyitch + was so tired that he staggered about like a drunken man, and Ivan Ivanitch + opened his beak and breathed heavily, while their master became red in the + face and could not mop the sweat from his brow fast enough. + </p> + <p> + The lesson and the dinner made the day very interesting, but the evenings + were tedious. As a rule, their master went off somewhere in the evening + and took the cat and the gander with him. Left alone, Auntie lay down on + her little mattress and began to feel sad. + </p> + <p> + Melancholy crept on her imperceptibly and took possession of her by + degrees, as darkness does of a room. It began with the dog’s losing every + inclination to bark, to eat, to run about the rooms, and even to look at + things; then vague figures, half dogs, half human beings, with + countenances attractive, pleasant, but incomprehensible, would appear in + her imagination; when they came Auntie wagged her tail, and it seemed to + her that she had somewhere, at some time, seen them and loved them. And as + she dropped asleep, she always felt that those figures smelt of glue, + shavings, and varnish. + </p> + <p> + When she had grown quite used to her new life, and from a thin, long + mongrel, had changed into a sleek, well-groomed dog, her master looked at + her one day before the lesson and said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s high time, Auntie, to get to business. You have kicked up your heels + in idleness long enough. I want to make an artiste of you. . . . Do you + want to be an artiste?” + </p> + <p> + And he began teaching her various accomplishments. At the first lesson he + taught her to stand and walk on her hind legs, which she liked extremely. + At the second lesson she had to jump on her hind legs and catch some + sugar, which her teacher held high above her head. After that, in the + following lessons she danced, ran tied to a cord, howled to music, rang + the bell, and fired the pistol, and in a month could successfully replace + Fyodor Timofeyitch in the “Egyptian Pyramid.” She learned very eagerly and + was pleased with her own success; running with her tongue out on the cord, + leaping through the hoop, and riding on old Fyodor Timofeyitch, gave her + the greatest enjoyment. She accompanied every successful trick with a + shrill, delighted bark, while her teacher wondered, was also delighted, + and rubbed his hands. + </p> + <p> + “It’s talent! It’s talent!” he said. “Unquestionable talent! You will + certainly be successful!” + </p> + <p> + And Auntie grew so used to the word talent, that every time her master + pronounced it, she jumped up as if it had been her name. + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + |<i>An Uneasy Night</i> + </p> + <p> + Auntie had a doggy dream that a porter ran after her with a broom, and she + woke up in a fright. + </p> + <p> + It was quite dark and very stuffy in the room. The fleas were biting. + Auntie had never been afraid of darkness before, but now, for some reason, + she felt frightened and inclined to bark. + </p> + <p> + Her master heaved a loud sigh in the next room, then soon afterwards the + sow grunted in her sty, and then all was still again. When one thinks + about eating one’s heart grows lighter, and Auntie began thinking how that + day she had stolen the leg of a chicken from Fyodor Timofeyitch, and had + hidden it in the drawing-room, between the cupboard and the wall, where + there were a great many spiders’ webs and a great deal of dust. Would it + not be as well to go now and look whether the chicken leg were still there + or not? It was very possible that her master had found it and eaten it. + But she must not go out of the room before morning, that was the rule. + Auntie shut her eyes to go to sleep as quickly as possible, for she knew + by experience that the sooner you go to sleep the sooner the morning + comes. But all at once there was a strange scream not far from her which + made her start and jump up on all four legs. It was Ivan Ivanitch, and his + cry was not babbling and persuasive as usual, but a wild, shrill, + unnatural scream like the squeak of a door opening. Unable to distinguish + anything in the darkness, and not understanding what was wrong, Auntie + felt still more frightened and growled: “R-r-r-r. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Some time passed, as long as it takes to eat a good bone; the scream was + not repeated. Little by little Auntie’s uneasiness passed off and she + began to doze. She dreamed of two big black dogs with tufts of last year’s + coat left on their haunches and sides; they were eating out of a big basin + some swill, from which there came a white steam and a most appetising + smell; from time to time they looked round at Auntie, showed their teeth + and growled: “We are not going to give you any!” But a peasant in a + fur-coat ran out of the house and drove them away with a whip; then Auntie + went up to the basin and began eating, but as soon as the peasant went out + of the gate, the two black dogs rushed at her growling, and all at once + there was again a shrill scream. + </p> + <p> + “K-gee! K-gee-gee!” cried Ivan Ivanitch. + </p> + <p> + Auntie woke, jumped up and, without leaving her mattress, went off into a + yelping bark. It seemed to her that it was not Ivan Ivanitch that was + screaming but someone else, and for some reason the sow again grunted in + her sty. + </p> + <p> + Then there was the sound of shuffling slippers, and the master came into + the room in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. The flickering + light danced over the dirty wall-paper and the ceiling, and chased away + the darkness. Auntie saw that there was no stranger in the room. Ivan + Ivanitch was sitting on the floor and was not asleep. His wings were + spread out and his beak was open, and altogether he looked as though he + were very tired and thirsty. Old Fyodor Timofeyitch was not asleep either. + He, too, must have been awakened by the scream. + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch, what’s the matter with you?” the master asked the gander. + “Why are you screaming? Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + The gander did not answer. The master touched him on the neck, stroked his + back, and said: “You are a queer chap. You don’t sleep yourself, and you + don’t let other people. . . .” + </p> + <p> + When the master went out, carrying the candle with him, there was darkness + again. Auntie felt frightened. The gander did not scream, but again she + fancied that there was some stranger in the room. What was most dreadful + was that this stranger could not be bitten, as he was unseen and had no + shape. And for some reason she thought that something very bad would + certainly happen that night. Fyodor Timofeyitch was uneasy too. + </p> + <p> + Auntie could hear him shifting on his mattress, yawning and shaking his + head. + </p> + <p> + Somewhere in the street there was a knocking at a gate and the sow grunted + in her sty. Auntie began to whine, stretched out her front-paws and laid + her head down upon them. She fancied that in the knocking at the gate, in + the grunting of the sow, who was for some reason awake, in the darkness + and the stillness, there was something as miserable and dreadful as in + Ivan Ivanitch’s scream. Everything was in agitation and anxiety, but why? + Who was the stranger who could not be seen? Then two dim flashes of green + gleamed for a minute near Auntie. It was Fyodor Timofeyitch, for the first + time of their whole acquaintance coming up to her. What did he want? + Auntie licked his paw, and not asking why he had come, howled softly and + on various notes. + </p> + <p> + “K-gee!” cried Ivan Ivanitch, “K-g-ee!” + </p> + <p> + The door opened again and the master came in with a candle. + </p> + <p> + The gander was sitting in the same attitude as before, with his beak open, + and his wings spread out, his eyes were closed. + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch!” his master called him. + </p> + <p> + The gander did not stir. His master sat down before him on the floor, + looked at him in silence for a minute, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch, what is it? Are you dying? Oh, I remember now, I + remember!” he cried out, and clutched at his head. “I know why it is! It’s + because the horse stepped on you to-day! My God! My God!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but she saw from his + face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful. She stretched out her + head towards the dark window, where it seemed to her some stranger was + looking in, and howled. + </p> + <p> + “He is dying, Auntie!” said her master, and wrung his hands. “Yes, yes, he + is dying! Death has come into your room. What are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing and shaking + his head. Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, and followed her + master into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and repeated several + times: “My God, what’s to be done?” + </p> + <p> + Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why she was + wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand, + watched every movement he made. Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely left his + little mattress, came into the master’s bedroom too, and began rubbing + himself against his feet. He shook his head as though he wanted to shake + painful thoughts out of it, and kept peeping suspiciously under the bed. + </p> + <p> + The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-stand into it, + and went to the gander again. + </p> + <p> + “Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!” he said tenderly, setting the saucer before him; + “drink, darling.” + </p> + <p> + But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes. His master bent + his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water, but the + gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever, and his head + remained lying in the saucer. + </p> + <p> + “No, there’s nothing to be done now,” sighed his master. “It’s all over. + Ivan Ivanitch is gone!” + </p> + <p> + And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when it rains, + trickled down his cheeks. Not understanding what was the matter, Auntie + and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and looked with horror at the + gander. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Ivan Ivanitch!” said the master, sighing mournfully. “And I was + dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, and would walk + with you on the green grass. Dear creature, my good comrade, you are no + more! How shall I do without you now?” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, that is, that + she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes, stretch out her + paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look at her with horror. + Apparently the same reflections were passing through the brain of Fyodor + Timofeyitch. Never before had the old cat been so morose and gloomy. + </p> + <p> + It began to get light, and the unseen stranger who had so frightened + Auntie was no longer in the room. When it was quite daylight, the porter + came in, took the gander, and carried him away. And soon afterwards the + old woman came in and took away the trough. + </p> + <p> + Auntie went into the drawing-room and looked behind the cupboard: her + master had not eaten the chicken bone, it was lying in its place among the + dust and spiders’ webs. But Auntie felt sad and dreary and wanted to cry. + She did not even sniff at the bone, but went under the sofa, sat down + there, and began softly whining in a thin voice. + </p> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + |<i>An Unsuccessful Début</i> + </p> + <p> + One fine evening the master came into the room with the dirty wall-paper, + and, rubbing his hands, said: + </p> + <p> + “Well. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He meant to say something more, but went away without saying it. Auntie, + who during her lessons had thoroughly studied his face and intonations, + divined that he was agitated, anxious and, she fancied, angry. Soon + afterwards he came back and said: + </p> + <p> + “To-day I shall take with me Auntie and F’yodor Timofeyitch. To-day, + Auntie, you will take the place of poor Ivan Ivanitch in the ‘Egyptian + Pyramid.’ Goodness knows how it will be! Nothing is ready, nothing has + been thoroughly studied, there have been few rehearsals! We shall be + disgraced, we shall come to grief!” + </p> + <p> + Then he went out again, and a minute later, came back in his fur-coat and + top hat. Going up to the cat he took him by the fore-paws and put him + inside the front of his coat, while Fyodor Timofeyitch appeared completely + unconcerned, and did not even trouble to open his eyes. To him it was + apparently a matter of absolute indifference whether he remained lying + down, or were lifted up by his paws, whether he rested on his mattress or + under his master’s fur-coat. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Auntie,” said her master. + </p> + <p> + Wagging her tail, and understanding nothing, Auntie followed him. A minute + later she was sitting in a sledge by her master’s feet and heard him, + shrinking with cold and anxiety, mutter to himself: + </p> + <p> + “We shall be disgraced! We shall come to grief!” + </p> + <p> + The sledge stopped at a big strange-looking house, like a soup-ladle + turned upside down. The long entrance to this house, with its three glass + doors, was lighted up with a dozen brilliant lamps. The doors opened with + a resounding noise and, like jaws, swallowed up the people who were moving + to and fro at the entrance. There were a great many people, horses, too, + often ran up to the entrance, but no dogs were to be seen. + </p> + <p> + The master took Auntie in his arms and thrust her in his coat, where + Fyodor Timofeyirch already was. It was dark and stuffy there, but warm. + For an instant two green sparks flashed at her; it was the cat, who opened + his eyes on being disturbed by his neighbour’s cold rough paws. Auntie + licked his ear, and, trying to settle herself as comfortably as possible, + moved uneasily, crushed him under her cold paws, and casually poked her + head out from under the coat, but at once growled angrily, and tucked it + in again. It seemed to her that she had seen a huge, badly lighted room, + full of monsters; from behind screens and gratings, which stretched on + both sides of the room, horrible faces looked out: faces of horses with + horns, with long ears, and one fat, huge countenance with a tail instead + of a nose, and two long gnawed bones sticking out of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + The cat mewed huskily under Auntie’s paws, but at that moment the coat was + flung open, the master said, “Hop!” and Fyodor Timofeyitch and Auntie + jumped to the floor. They were now in a little room with grey plank walls; + there was no other furniture in it but a little table with a looking-glass + on it, a stool, and some rags hung about the corners, and instead of a + lamp or candles, there was a bright fan-shaped light attached to a little + pipe fixed in the wall. Fyodor Timofeyitch licked his coat which had been + ruffled by Auntie, went under the stool, and lay down. Their master, still + agitated and rubbing his hands, began undressing. . . . He undressed as he + usually did at home when he was preparing to get under the rug, that is, + took off everything but his underlinen, then he sat down on the stool, + and, looking in the looking-glass, began playing the most surprising + tricks with himself. . . . First of all he put on his head a wig, with a + parting and with two tufts of hair standing up like horns, then he smeared + his face thickly with something white, and over the white colour painted + his eyebrows, his moustaches, and red on his cheeks. His antics did not + end with that. After smearing his face and neck, he began putting himself + into an extraordinary and incongruous costume, such as Auntie had never + seen before, either in houses or in the street. Imagine very full + trousers, made of chintz covered with big flowers, such as is used in + working-class houses for curtains and covering furniture, trousers which + buttoned up just under his armpits. One trouser leg was made of brown + chintz, the other of bright yellow. Almost lost in these, he then put on a + short chintz jacket, with a big scalloped collar, and a gold star on the + back, stockings of different colours, and green slippers. + </p> + <p> + Everything seemed going round before Auntie’s eyes and in her soul. The + white-faced, sack-like figure smelt like her master, its voice, too, was + the familiar master’s voice, but there were moments when Auntie was + tortured by doubts, and then she was ready to run away from the + parti-coloured figure and to bark. The new place, the fan-shaped light, + the smell, the transformation that had taken place in her master—all + this aroused in her a vague dread and a foreboding that she would + certainly meet with some horror such as the big face with the tail instead + of a nose. And then, somewhere through the wall, some hateful band was + playing, and from time to time she heard an incomprehensible roar. Only + one thing reassured her—that was the imperturbability of Fyodor + Timofeyitch. He dozed with the utmost tranquillity under the stool, and + did not open his eyes even when it was moved. + </p> + <p> + A man in a dress coat and a white waistcoat peeped into the little room + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Arabella has just gone on. After her—you.” + </p> + <p> + Their master made no answer. He drew a small box from under the table, sat + down, and waited. From his lips and his hands it could be seen that he was + agitated, and Auntie could hear how his breathing came in gasps. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur George, come on!” someone shouted behind the door. Their master + got up and crossed himself three times, then took the cat from under the + stool and put him in the box. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Auntie,” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + Auntie, who could make nothing out of it, went up to his hands, he kissed + her on the head, and put her beside Fyodor Timofeyitch. Then followed + darkness. . . . Auntie trampled on the cat, scratched at the walls of the + box, and was so frightened that she could not utter a sound, while the box + swayed and quivered, as though it were on the waves. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Here we are again!” her master shouted aloud: “here we are again!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie felt that after that shout the box struck against something hard + and left off swaying. There was a loud deep roar, someone was being + slapped, and that someone, probably the monster with the tail instead of a + nose, roared and laughed so loud that the locks of the box trembled. In + response to the roar, there came a shrill, squeaky laugh from her master, + such as he never laughed at home. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” he shouted, trying to shout above the roar. “Honoured friends! I + have only just come from the station! My granny’s kicked the bucket and + left me a fortune! There is something very heavy in the box, it must be + gold, ha! ha! I bet there’s a million here! We’ll open it and look. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The lock of the box clicked. The bright light dazzled Auntie’s eyes, she + jumped out of the box, and, deafened by the roar, ran quickly round her + master, and broke into a shrill bark. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” exclaimed her master. “Uncle Fyodor Timofeyitch! Beloved Aunt, dear + relations! The devil take you!” + </p> + <p> + He fell on his stomach on the sand, seized the cat and Auntie, and fell to + embracing them. While he held Auntie tight in his arms, she glanced round + into the world into which fate had brought her and, impressed by its + immensity, was for a minute dumbfounded with amazement and delight, then + jumped out of her master’s arms, and to express the intensity of her + emotions, whirled round and round on one spot like a top. This new world + was big and full of bright light; wherever she looked, on all sides, from + floor to ceiling there were faces, faces, faces, and nothing else. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie, I beg you to sit down!” shouted her master. Remembering what that + meant, Auntie jumped on to a chair, and sat down. She looked at her + master. His eyes looked at her gravely and kindly as always, but his face, + especially his mouth and teeth, were made grotesque by a broad immovable + grin. He laughed, skipped about, twitched his shoulders, and made a show + of being very merry in the presence of the thousands of faces. Auntie + believed in his merriment, all at once felt all over her that those + thousands of faces were looking at her, lifted up her fox-like head, and + howled joyously. + </p> + <p> + “You sit there, Auntie,” her master said to her, “while Uncle and I will + dance the Kamarinsky.” + </p> + <p> + Fyodor Timofeyitch stood looking about him indifferently, waiting to be + made to do something silly. He danced listlessly, carelessly, sullenly, + and one could see from his movements, his tail and his ears, that he had a + profound contempt for the crowd, the bright light, his master and himself. + When he had performed his allotted task, he gave a yawn and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Auntie!” said her master, “we’ll have first a song, and then a + dance, shall we?” + </p> + <p> + He took a pipe out of his pocket, and began playing. Auntie, who could not + endure music, began moving uneasily in her chair and howled. A roar of + applause rose from all sides. Her master bowed, and when all was still + again, went on playing. . . . Just as he took one very high note, someone + high up among the audience uttered a loud exclamation: + </p> + <p> + “Auntie!” cried a child’s voice, “why it’s Kashtanka!” + </p> + <p> + “Kashtanka it is!” declared a cracked drunken tenor. “Kashtanka! Strike me + dead, Fedyushka, it is Kashtanka. Kashtanka! here!” + </p> + <p> + Someone in the gallery gave a whistle, and two voices, one a boy’s and one + a man’s, called loudly: “Kashtanka! Kashtanka!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie started, and looked where the shouting came from. Two faces, one + hairy, drunken and grinning, the other chubby, rosy-cheeked and + frightened-looking, dazed her eyes as the bright light had dazed them + before. . . . She remembered, fell off the chair, struggled on the sand, + then jumped up, and with a delighted yap dashed towards those faces. There + was a deafening roar, interspersed with whistles and a shrill childish + shout: “Kashtanka! Kashtanka!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie leaped over the barrier, then across someone’s shoulders. She found + herself in a box: to get into the next tier she had to leap over a high + wall. Auntie jumped, but did not jump high enough, and slipped back down + the wall. Then she was passed from hand to hand, licked hands and faces, + kept mounting higher and higher, and at last got into the gallery. . . . + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —— +</pre> + <p> + Half an hour afterwards, Kashtanka was in the street, following the people + who smelt of glue and varnish. Luka Alexandritch staggered and + instinctively, taught by experience, tried to keep as far from the gutter + as possible. + </p> + <p> + “In sin my mother bore me,” he muttered. “And you, Kashtanka, are a thing + of little understanding. Beside a man, you are like a joiner beside a + cabinetmaker.” + </p> + <p> + Fedyushka walked beside him, wearing his father’s cap. Kashtanka looked at + their backs, and it seemed to her that she had been following them for + ages, and was glad that there had not been a break for a minute in her + life. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the little room with dirty wall-paper, the gander, Fyodor + Timofeyitch, the delicious dinners, the lessons, the circus, but all that + seemed to her now like a long, tangled, oppressive dream. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CHAMELEON + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE police + superintendent Otchumyelov is walking across the market square wearing a + new overcoat and carrying a parcel under his arm. A red-haired policeman + strides after him with a sieve full of confiscated gooseberries in his + hands. There is silence all around. Not a soul in the square. . . . The + open doors of the shops and taverns look out upon God’s world + disconsolately, like hungry mouths; there is not even a beggar near them. + </p> + <p> + “So you bite, you damned brute?” Otchumyelov hears suddenly. “Lads, don’t + let him go! Biting is prohibited nowadays! Hold him! ah . . . ah!” + </p> + <p> + There is the sound of a dog yelping. Otchumyelov looks in the direction of + the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs and looking about her, run + out of Pitchugin’s timber-yard. A man in a starched cotton shirt, with his + waistcoat unbuttoned, is chasing her. He runs after her, and throwing his + body forward falls down and seizes the dog by her hind legs. Once more + there is a yelping and a shout of “Don’t let go!” Sleepy countenances are + protruded from the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have sprung out + of the earth, is gathered round the timber-yard. + </p> + <p> + “It looks like a row, your honour . . .” says the policeman. + </p> + <p> + Otchumyelov makes a half turn to the left and strides towards the crowd. + </p> + <p> + He sees the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned waistcoat standing close + by the gate of the timber-yard, holding his right hand in the air and + displaying a bleeding finger to the crowd. On his half-drunken face there + is plainly written: “I’ll pay you out, you rogue!” and indeed the very + finger has the look of a flag of victory. In this man Otchumyelov + recognises Hryukin, the goldsmith. The culprit who has caused the + sensation, a white borzoy puppy with a sharp muzzle and a yellow patch on + her back, is sitting on the ground with her fore-paws outstretched in the + middle of the crowd, trembling all over. There is an expression of misery + and terror in her tearful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What’s it all about?” Otchumyelov inquires, pushing his way through the + crowd. “What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger . . . ? Who + was it shouted?” + </p> + <p> + “I was walking along here, not interfering with anyone, your honour,” + Hryukin begins, coughing into his fist. “I was talking about firewood to + Mitry Mitritch, when this low brute for no rhyme or reason bit my finger. + . . . You must excuse me, I am a working man. . . . Mine is fine work. I + must have damages, for I shan’t be able to use this finger for a week, may + be. . . . It’s not even the law, your honour, that one should put up with + it from a beast. . . . If everyone is going to be bitten, life won’t be + worth living. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. Very good,” says Otchumyelov sternly, coughing and raising his + eyebrows. “Very good. Whose dog is it? I won’t let this pass! I’ll teach + them to let their dogs run all over the place! It’s time these gentry were + looked after, if they won’t obey the regulations! When he’s fined, the + blackguard, I’ll teach him what it means to keep dogs and such stray + cattle! I’ll give him a lesson! . . . Yeldyrin,” cries the superintendent, + addressing the policeman, “find out whose dog this is and draw up a + report! And the dog must be strangled. Without delay! It’s sure to be mad. + . . . Whose dog is it, I ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy it’s General Zhigalov’s,” says someone in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “General Zhigalov’s, h’m. . . . Help me off with my coat, Yeldyrin . . . + it’s frightfully hot! It must be a sign of rain. . . . There’s one thing I + can’t make out, how it came to bite you?” Otchumyelov turns to Hryukin. + “Surely it couldn’t reach your finger. It’s a little dog, and you are a + great hulking fellow! You must have scratched your finger with a nail, and + then the idea struck you to get damages for it. We all know . . . your + sort! I know you devils!” + </p> + <p> + “He put a cigarette in her face, your honour, for a joke, and she had the + sense to snap at him. . . . He is a nonsensical fellow, your honour!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a lie, Squinteye! You didn’t see, so why tell lies about it? His + honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is telling lies and who is + telling the truth, as in God’s sight. . . . And if I am lying let the + court decide. It’s written in the law. . . . We are all equal nowadays. My + own brother is in the gendarmes . . . let me tell you. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t argue!” + </p> + <p> + “No, that’s not the General’s dog,” says the policeman, with profound + conviction, “the General hasn’t got one like that. His are mostly + setters.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that for a fact?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your honour.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, too. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, and this is + goodness knows what! No coat, no shape. . . . A low creature. And to keep + a dog like that! . . . where’s the sense of it. If a dog like that were to + turn up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you know what would happen? They would + not worry about the law, they would strangle it in a twinkling! You’ve + been injured, Hryukin, and we can’t let the matter drop. . . . We must + give them a lesson! It is high time . . . . !” + </p> + <p> + “Yet maybe it is the General’s,” says the policeman, thinking aloud. “It’s + not written on its face. . . . I saw one like it the other day in his + yard.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the General’s, that’s certain!” says a voice in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “H’m, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad . . . the wind’s + getting up. . . . I am cold. . . . You take it to the General’s, and + inquire there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them not to let it out + into the street. . . . It may be a valuable dog, and if every swine goes + sticking a cigar in its mouth, it will soon be ruined. A dog is a delicate + animal. . . . And you put your hand down, you blockhead. It’s no use your + displaying your fool of a finger. It’s your own fault. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Here comes the General’s cook, ask him. . . Hi, Prohor! Come here, my + dear man! Look at this dog. . . . Is it one of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “What an idea! We have never had one like that!” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no need to waste time asking,” says Otchumyelov. “It’s a stray + dog! There’s no need to waste time talking about it. . . . Since he says + it’s a stray dog, a stray dog it is. . . . It must be destroyed, that’s + all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not our dog,” Prohor goes on. “It belongs to the General’s brother, + who arrived the other day. Our master does not care for hounds. But his + honour is fond of them. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say his Excellency’s brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?” + inquires Otchumyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstatic smile. + “‘Well, I never! And I didn’t know! Has he come on a visit? + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I never. . . . He couldn’t stay away from his brother. . . . And + there I didn’t know! So this is his honour’s dog? Delighted to hear it. . + . . Take it. It’s not a bad pup. . . . A lively creature. . . . Snapped at + this fellow’s finger! Ha-ha-ha. . . . Come, why are you shivering? Rrr . . + . Rrrr. . . . The rogue’s angry . . . a nice little pup.” + </p> + <p> + Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the timber-yard with her. The + crowd laughs at Hryukin. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make you smart yet!” Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping himself + in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEPENDENTS + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>IHAIL PETROVITCH + ZOTOV, a decrepit and solitary old man of seventy, belonging to the + artisan class, was awakened by the cold and the aching in his old limbs. + It was dark in his room, but the little lamp before the ikon was no longer + burning. Zotov raised the curtain and looked out of the window. The clouds + that shrouded the sky were beginning to show white here and there, and the + air was becoming transparent, so it must have been nearly five, not more. + </p> + <p> + Zotov cleared his throat, coughed, and shrinking from the cold, got out of + bed. In accordance with years of habit, he stood for a long time before + the ikon, saying his prayers. He repeated “Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” the + Creed, and mentioned a long string of names. To whom those names belonged + he had forgotten years ago, and he only repeated them from habit. From + habit, too, he swept his room and entry, and set his fat little + four-legged copper samovar. If Zotov had not had these habits he would not + have known how to occupy his old age. + </p> + <p> + The little samovar slowly began to get hot, and all at once, unexpectedly, + broke into a tremulous bass hum. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ve started humming!” grumbled Zotov. “Hum away then, and bad luck + to you!” + </p> + <p> + At that point the old man appropriately recalled that, in the preceding + night, he had dreamed of a stove, and to dream of a stove is a sign of + sorrow. + </p> + <p> + Dreams and omens were the only things left that could rouse him to + reflection; and on this occasion he plunged with a special zest into the + considerations of the questions: What the samovar was humming for? and + what sorrow was foretold by the stove? The dream seemed to come true from + the first. Zotov rinsed out his teapot and was about to make his tea, when + he found there was not one teaspoonful left in the box. + </p> + <p> + “What an existence!” he grumbled, rolling crumbs of black bread round in + his mouth. “It’s a dog’s life. No tea! And it isn’t as though I were a + simple peasant: I’m an artisan and a house-owner. The disgrace!” + </p> + <p> + Grumbling and talking to himself, Zotov put on his overcoat, which was + like a crinoline, and, thrusting his feet into huge clumsy golosh-boots + (made in the year 1867 by a bootmaker called Prohoritch), went out into + the yard. The air was grey, cold, and sullenly still. The big yard, full + of tufts of burdock and strewn with yellow leaves, was faintly silvered + with autumn frost. Not a breath of wind nor a sound. The old man sat down + on the steps of his slanting porch, and at once there happened what + happened regularly every morning: his dog Lyska, a big, mangy, + decrepit-looking, white yard-dog, with black patches, came up to him with + its right eye shut. Lyska came up timidly, wriggling in a frightened way, + as though her paws were not touching the earth but a hot stove, and the + whole of her wretched figure was expressive of abjectness. Zotov pretended + not to notice her, but when she faintly wagged her tail, and, wriggling as + before, licked his golosh, he stamped his foot angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Be off! The plague take you!” he cried. “Con-found-ed bea-east!” + </p> + <p> + Lyska moved aside, sat down, and fixed her solitary eye upon her master. + </p> + <p> + “You devils!” he went on. “You are the last straw on my back, you Herods.” + </p> + <p> + And he looked with hatred at his shed with its crooked, overgrown roof; + there from the door of the shed a big horse’s head was looking out at him. + Probably flattered by its master’s attention, the head moved, pushed + forward, and there emerged from the shed the whole horse, as decrepit as + Lyska, as timid and as crushed, with spindly legs, grey hair, a pinched + stomach, and a bony spine. He came out of the shed and stood still, + hesitating as though overcome with embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Plague take you,” Zotov went on. “Shall I ever see the last of you, you + jail-bird Pharaohs! . . . I wager you want your breakfast!” he jeered, + twisting his angry face into a contemptuous smile. “By all means, this + minute! A priceless steed like you must have your fill of the best oats! + Pray begin! This minute! And I have something to give to the magnificent, + valuable dog! If a precious dog like you does not care for bread, you can + have meat.” + </p> + <p> + Zotov grumbled for half an hour, growing more and more irritated. In the + end, unable to control the anger that boiled up in him, he jumped up, + stamped with his goloshes, and growled out to be heard all over the yard: + </p> + <p> + “I am not obliged to feed you, you loafers! I am not some millionaire for + you to eat me out of house and home! I have nothing to eat myself, you + cursed carcases, the cholera take you! I get no pleasure or profit out of + you; nothing but trouble and ruin, Why don’t you give up the ghost? Are + you such personages that even death won’t take you? You can live, damn + you! but I don’t want to feed you! I have had enough of you! I don’t want + to!” + </p> + <p> + Zotov grew wrathful and indignant, and the horse and the dog listened. + Whether these two dependents understood that they were being reproached + for living at his expense, I don’t know, but their stomachs looked more + pinched than ever, and their whole figures shrivelled up, grew gloomier + and more abject than before. . . . Their submissive air exasperated Zotov + more than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Get away!” he shouted, overcome by a sort of inspiration. “Out of my + house! Don’t let me set eyes on you again! I am not obliged to keep all + sorts of rubbish in my yard! Get away!” + </p> + <p> + The old man moved with little hurried steps to the gate, opened it, and + picking up a stick from the ground, began driving out his dependents. The + horse shook its head, moved its shoulder-blades, and limped to the gate; + the dog followed him. Both of them went out into the street, and, after + walking some twenty paces, stopped at the fence. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it you!” Zotov threatened them. + </p> + <p> + When he had driven out his dependents he felt calmer, and began sweeping + the yard. From time to time he peeped out into the street: the horse and + the dog were standing like posts by the fence, looking dejectedly towards + the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Try how you can do without me,” muttered the old man, feeling as though a + weight of anger were being lifted from his heart. “Let somebody else look + after you now! I am stingy and ill-tempered. . . . It’s nasty living with + me, so you try living with other people . . . . Yes. . . .” + </p> + <p> + After enjoying the crushed expression of his dependents, and grumbling to + his heart’s content, Zotov went out of the yard, and, assuming a ferocious + air, shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Well, why are you standing there? Whom are you waiting for? Standing + right across the middle of the road and preventing the public from + passing! Go into the yard!” + </p> + <p> + The horse and the dog with drooping heads and a guilty air turned towards + the gate. Lyska, probably feeling she did not deserve forgiveness, whined + piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Stay you can, but as for food, you’ll get nothing from me! You may die, + for all I care!” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the sun began to break through the morning mist; its slanting + rays gilded over the autumn frost. There was a sound of steps and voices. + Zotov put back the broom in its place, and went out of the yard to see his + crony and neighbour, Mark Ivanitch, who kept a little general shop. On + reaching his friend’s shop, he sat down on a folding-stool, sighed + sedately, stroked his beard, and began about the weather. From the weather + the friends passed to the new deacon, from the deacon to the choristers; + and the conversation lengthened out. They did not notice as they talked + how time was passing, and when the shop-boy brought in a big teapot of + boiling water, and the friends proceeded to drink tea, the time flew as + quickly as a bird. Zotov got warm and felt more cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “I have a favour to ask of you, Mark Ivanitch,” he began, after the sixth + glass, drumming on the counter with his fingers. “If you would just be so + kind as to give me a gallon of oats again to-day. . . .” + </p> + <p> + From behind the big tea-chest behind which Mark Ivanitch was sitting came + the sound of a deep sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Do be so good,” Zotov went on; “never mind tea—don’t give it me + to-day, but let me have some oats. . . . I am ashamed to ask you, I have + wearied you with my poverty, but the horse is hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “I can give it you,” sighed the friend—“why not? But why the devil + do you keep those carcases?—tfoo!—Tell me that, please. It + would be all right if it were a useful horse, but—tfoo!— one + is ashamed to look at it. . . . And the dog’s nothing but a skeleton! Why + the devil do you keep them?” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do with them?” + </p> + <p> + “You know. Take them to Ignat the slaughterer—that is all there is + to do. They ought to have been there long ago. It’s the proper place for + them.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure, that is so! . . . I dare say! . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You live like a beggar and keep animals,” the friend went on. “I don’t + grudge the oats. . . . God bless you. But as to the future, brother . . . + I can’t afford to give regularly every day! There is no end to your + poverty! One gives and gives, and one doesn’t know when there will be an + end to it all.” + </p> + <p> + The friend sighed and stroked his red face. + </p> + <p> + “If you were dead that would settle it,” he said. “You go on living, and + you don’t know what for. . . . Yes, indeed! But if it is not the Lord’s + will for you to die, you had better go somewhere into an almshouse or a + refuge.” + </p> + <p> + “What for? I have relations. I have a great-niece. . . .” + </p> + <p> + And Zotov began telling at great length of his great-niece Glasha, + daughter of his niece Katerina, who lived somewhere on a farm. + </p> + <p> + “She is bound to keep me!” he said. “My house will be left to her, so let + her keep me; I’ll go to her. It’s Glasha, you know . . . Katya’s daughter; + and Katya, you know, was my brother Panteley’s stepdaughter. . . . You + understand? The house will come to her . . . . Let her keep me!” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure; rather than live, as you do, a beggar, I should have gone to + her long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go! As God’s above, I will go. It’s her duty.” + </p> + <p> + When an hour later the old friends were drinking a glass of vodka, Zotov + stood in the middle of the shop and said with enthusiasm: + </p> + <p> + “I have been meaning to go to her for a long time; I will go this very + day.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure; rather than hanging about and dying of hunger, you ought to + have gone to the farm long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go at once! When I get there, I shall say: Take my house, but keep + me and treat me with respect. It’s your duty! If you don’t care to, then + there is neither my house, nor my blessing for you! Good-bye, Ivanitch!” + </p> + <p> + Zotov drank another glass, and, inspired by the new idea, hurried home. + The vodka had upset him and his head was reeling, but instead of lying + down, he put all his clothes together in a bundle, said a prayer, took his + stick, and went out. Muttering and tapping on the stones with his stick, + he walked the whole length of the street without looking back, and found + himself in the open country. It was eight or nine miles to the farm. He + walked along the dry road, looked at the town herd lazily munching the + yellow grass, and pondered on the abrupt change in his life which he had + only just brought about so resolutely. He thought, too, about his + dependents. When he went out of the house, he had not locked the gate, and + so had left them free to go whither they would. + </p> + <p> + He had not gone a mile into the country when he heard steps behind him. He + looked round and angrily clasped his hands. The horse and Lyska, with + their heads drooping and their tails between their legs, were quietly + walking after him. + </p> + <p> + “Go back!” he waved to them. + </p> + <p> + They stopped, looked at one another, looked at him. He went on, they + followed him. Then he stopped and began ruminating. It was impossible to + go to his great-niece Glasha, whom he hardly knew, with these creatures; he + did not want to go back and shut them up, and, indeed, he could not shut + them up, because the gate was no use. + </p> + <p> + “To die of hunger in the shed,” thought Zotov. “Hadn’t I really better + take them to Ignat?” + </p> + <p> + Ignat’s hut stood on the town pasture-ground, a hundred paces from the + flagstaff. Though he had not quite made up his mind, and did not know what + to do, he turned towards it. His head was giddy and there was a darkness + before his eyes. . . . + </p> + <p> + He remembers little of what happened in the slaughterer’s yard. He has a + memory of a sickening, heavy smell of hides and the savoury steam of the + cabbage-soup Ignat was sipping when he went in to him. As in a dream he + saw Ignat, who made him wait two hours, slowly preparing something, + changing his clothes, talking to some women about corrosive sublimate; he + remembered the horse was put into a stand, after which there was the sound + of two dull thuds, one of a blow on the skull, the other of the fall of a + heavy body. When Lyska, seeing the death of her friend, flew at Ignat, + barking shrilly, there was the sound of a third blow that cut short the + bark abruptly. Further, Zotov remembers that in his drunken foolishness, + seeing the two corpses, he went up to the stand, and put his own forehead + ready for a blow. + </p> + <p> + And all that day his eyes were dimmed by a haze, and he could not even see + his own fingers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHO WAS TO BLAME? + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s my uncle Pyotr + Demyanitch, a lean, bilious collegiate councillor, exceedingly like a + stale smoked fish with a stick through it, was getting ready to go to the + high school, where he taught Latin, he noticed that the corner of his + grammar was nibbled by mice. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Praskovya,” he said, going into the kitchen and addressing the + cook, “how is it we have got mice here? Upon my word! yesterday my top hat + was nibbled, to-day they have disfigured my Latin grammar . . . . At this + rate they will soon begin eating my clothes! + </p> + <p> + “What can I do? I did not bring them in!” answered Praskovya. + </p> + <p> + “We must do something! You had better get a cat, hadn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a cat, but what good is it?” + </p> + <p> + And Praskovya pointed to the corner where a white kitten, thin as a match, + lay curled up asleep beside a broom. + </p> + <p> + “Why is it no good?” asked Pyotr Demyanitch. + </p> + <p> + “It’s young yet, and foolish. It’s not two months old yet.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . Then it must be trained. It had much better be learning + instead of lying there.” + </p> + <p> + Saying this, Pyotr Demyanitch sighed with a careworn air and went out of + the kitchen. The kitten raised his head, looked lazily after him, and shut + his eyes again. + </p> + <p> + The kitten lay awake thinking. Of what? Unacquainted with real life, + having no store of accumulated impressions, his mental processes could + only be instinctive, and he could but picture life in accordance with the + conceptions that he had inherited, together with his flesh and blood, from + his ancestors, the tigers (<i>vide</i> Darwin). His thoughts were of the + nature of day-dreams. His feline imagination pictured something like the + Arabian desert, over which flitted shadows closely resembling Praskovya, + the stove, the broom. In the midst of the shadows there suddenly appeared + a saucer of milk; the saucer began to grow paws, it began moving and + displayed a tendency to run; the kitten made a bound, and with a thrill of + blood-thirsty sensuality thrust his claws into it. + </p> + <p> + When the saucer had vanished into obscurity a piece of meat appeared, + dropped by Praskovya; the meat ran away with a cowardly squeak, but the + kitten made a bound and got his claws into it. . . . Everything that rose + before the imagination of the young dreamer had for its starting-point + leaps, claws, and teeth. . . The soul of another is darkness, and a cat’s + soul more than most, but how near the visions just described are to the + truth may be seen from the following fact: under the influence of his + day-dreams the kitten suddenly leaped up, looked with flashing eyes at + Praskovya, ruffled up his coat, and making one bound, thrust his claws + into the cook’s skirt. Obviously he was born a mouse catcher, a worthy son + of his bloodthirsty ancestors. Fate had destined him to be the terror of + cellars, store-rooms and cornbins, and had it not been for education . . . + we will not anticipate, however. + </p> + <p> + On his way home from the high school, Pyotr Demyanitch went into a general + shop and bought a mouse-trap for fifteen kopecks. At dinner he fixed a + little bit of his rissole on the hook, and set the trap under the sofa, + where there were heaps of the pupils’ old exercise-books, which Praskovya + used for various domestic purposes. At six o’clock in the evening, when + the worthy Latin master was sitting at the table correcting his pupils’ + exercises, there was a sudden “klop!” so loud that my uncle started and + dropped his pen. He went at once to the sofa and took out the trap. A neat + little mouse, the size of a thimble, was sniffing the wires and trembling + with fear. + </p> + <p> + “Aha,” muttered Pyotr Demyanitch, and he looked at the mouse malignantly, + as though he were about to give him a bad mark. “You are cau—aught, + wretch! Wait a bit! I’ll teach you to eat my grammar!” + </p> + <p> + Having gloated over his victim, Poytr Demyanitch put the mouse-trap on the + floor and called: + </p> + <p> + “Praskovya, there’s a mouse caught! Bring the kitten here! + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming,” responded Praskovya, and a minute later she came in with the + descendant of tigers in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Capital!” said Pyotr Demyanitch, rubbing his hands. “We will give him a + lesson. . . . Put him down opposite the mouse-trap . . . that’s it. . . . + Let him sniff it and look at it. . . . That’s it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The kitten looked wonderingly at my uncle, at his arm-chair, sniffed the + mouse-trap in bewilderment, then, frightened probably by the glaring + lamplight and the attention directed to him, made a dash and ran in terror + to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” shouted my uncle, seizing him by the tail, “stop, you rascal! He’s + afraid of a mouse, the idiot! Look! It’s a mouse! Look! Well? Look, I tell + you!” + </p> + <p> + Pyotr Demyanitch took the kitten by the scruff of the neck and pushed him + with his nose against the mouse-trap. + </p> + <p> + “Look, you carrion! Take him and hold him, Praskovya. . . . Hold him + opposite the door of the trap. . . . When I let the mouse out, you let him + go instantly. . . . Do you hear? . . . Instantly let go! Now!” + </p> + <p> + My uncle assumed a mysterious expression and lifted the door of the trap. + . . . The mouse came out irresolutely, sniffed the air, and flew like an + arrow under the sofa. . . . The kitten on being released darted under the + table with his tail in the air. + </p> + <p> + “It has got away! got away!” cried Pyotr Demyanitch, looking ferocious. + “Where is he, the scoundrel? Under the table? You wait. . .” + </p> + <p> + My uncle dragged the kitten from under the table and shook him in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Wretched little beast,” he muttered, smacking him on the ear. “Take that, + take that! Will you shirk it next time? Wr-r-r-etch. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Next day Praskovya heard again the summons. + </p> + <p> + “Praskovya, there is a mouse caught! Bring the kitten here!” + </p> + <p> + After the outrage of the previous day the kitten had taken refuge under + the stove and had not come out all night. When Praskovya pulled him out + and, carrying him by the scruff of the neck into the study, set him down + before the mouse-trap, he trembled all over and mewed piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let him feel at home first,” Pyotr Demyanitch commanded. “Let him + look and sniff. Look and learn! Stop, plague take you!” he shouted, + noticing that the kitten was backing away from the mouse-trap. “I’ll + thrash you! Hold him by the ear! That’s it. . . . Well now, set him down + before the trap. . . .” + </p> + <p> + My uncle slowly lifted the door of the trap . . . the mouse whisked under + the very nose of the kitten, flung itself against Praskovya’s hand and + fled under the cupboard; the kitten, feeling himself free, took a + desperate bound and retreated under the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “He’s let another mouse go!” bawled Pyotr Demyanitch. “Do you call that a + cat? Nasty little beast! Thrash him! thrash him by the mousetrap!” + </p> + <p> + When the third mouse had been caught, the kitten shivered all over at the + sight of the mousetrap and its inmate, and scratched Praskovya’s hand. . . + . After the fourth mouse my uncle flew into a rage, kicked the kitten, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Take the nasty thing away! Get rid of it! Chuck it away! It’s no earthly + use!” + </p> + <p> + A year passed, the thin, frail kitten had turned into a solid and + sagacious tom-cat. One day he was on his way by the back yards to an + amatory interview. He had just reached his destination when he suddenly + heard a rustle, and thereupon caught sight of a mouse which ran from a + water-trough towards a stable; my hero’s hair stood on end, he arched his + back, hissed, and trembling all over, took to ignominious flight. + </p> + <p> + Alas! sometimes I feel myself in the ludicrous position of the flying cat. + Like the kitten, I had in my day the honour of being taught Latin by my + uncle. Now, whenever I chance to see some work of classical antiquity, + instead of being moved to eager enthusiasm, I begin recalling, <i>ut + consecutivum</i>, the irregular verbs, the sallow grey face of my uncle, + the ablative absolute. . . . I turn pale, my hair stands up on my head, + and, like the cat, I take to ignominious flight. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRD MARKET + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE is a small + square near the monastery of the Holy Birth which is called Trubnoy, or + simply Truboy; there is a market there on Sundays. Hundreds of sheepskins, + wadded coats, fur caps, and chimneypot hats swarm there, like crabs in a + sieve. There is the sound of the twitter of birds in all sorts of keys, + recalling the spring. If the sun is shining, and there are no clouds in + the sky, the singing of the birds and the smell of hay make a more vivid + impression, and this reminder of spring sets one thinking and carries + one’s fancy far, far away. Along one side of the square there stands a + string of waggons. The waggons are loaded, not with hay, not with + cabbages, nor with beans, but with goldfinches, siskins, larks, blackbirds + and thrushes, bluetits, bullfinches. All of them are hopping about in + rough, home-made cages, twittering and looking with envy at the free + sparrows. The goldfinches cost five kopecks, the siskins are rather more + expensive, while the value of the other birds is quite indeterminate. + </p> + <p> + “How much is a lark?” + </p> + <p> + The seller himself does not know the value of a lark. He scratches his + head and asks whatever comes into it, a rouble, or three kopecks, + according to the purchaser. There are expensive birds too. A faded old + blackbird, with most of its feathers plucked out of its tail, sits on a + dirty perch. He is dignified, grave, and motionless as a retired general. + He has waved his claw in resignation to his captivity long ago, and looks + at the blue sky with indifference. Probably, owing to this indifference, + he is considered a sagacious bird. He is not to be bought for less than + forty kopecks. Schoolboys, workmen, young men in stylish greatcoats, and + bird-fanciers in incredibly shabby caps, in ragged trousers that are + turned up at the ankles, and look as though they had been gnawed by mice, + crowd round the birds, splashing through the mud. The young people and the + workmen are sold hens for cocks, young birds for old ones. . . . They know + very little about birds. But there is no deceiving the bird-fancier. He + sees and understands his bird from a distance. + </p> + <p> + “There is no relying on that bird,” a fancier will say, looking into a + siskin’s beak, and counting the feathers on its tail. “He sings now, it’s + true, but what of that? I sing in company too. No, my boy, shout, sing to + me without company; sing in solitude, if you can. . . . You give me that + one yonder that sits and holds its tongue! Give me the quiet one! That one + says nothing, so he thinks the more. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Among the waggons of birds there are some full of other live creatures. + Here you see hares, rabbits, hedgehogs, guinea-pigs, polecats. A hare sits + sorrowfully nibbling the straw. The guinea-pigs shiver with cold, while + the hedgehogs look out with curiosity from under their prickles at the + public. + </p> + <p> + “I have read somewhere,” says a post-office official in a faded overcoat, + looking lovingly at the hare, and addressing no one in particular, “I have + read that some learned man had a cat and a mouse and a falcon and a + sparrow, who all ate out of one bowl.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very possible, sir. The cat must have been beaten, and the falcon, + I dare say, had all its tail pulled out. There’s no great cleverness in + that, sir. A friend of mine had a cat who, saving your presence, used to + eat his cucumbers. He thrashed her with a big whip for a fortnight, till + he taught her not to. A hare can learn to light matches if you beat it. + Does that surprise you? It’s very simple! It takes the match in its mouth + and strikes it. An animal is like a man. A man’s made wiser by beating, + and it’s the same with a beast.” + </p> + <p> + Men in long, full-skirted coats move backwards and forwards in the crowd + with cocks and ducks under their arms. The fowls are all lean and hungry. + Chickens poke their ugly, mangy-looking heads out of their cages and peck + at something in the mud. Boys with pigeons stare into your face and try to + detect in you a pigeon-fancier. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed! It’s no use talking to you,” someone shouts angrily. “You + should look before you speak! Do you call this a pigeon? It is an eagle, + not a pigeon!” + </p> + <p> + A tall thin man, with a shaven upper lip and side whiskers, who looks like + a sick and drunken footman, is selling a snow-white lap-dog. The old + lap-dog whines. + </p> + <p> + “She told me to sell the nasty thing,” says the footman, with a + contemptuous snigger. “She is bankrupt in her old age, has nothing to eat, + and here now is selling her dogs and cats. She cries, and kisses them on + their filthy snouts. And then she is so hard up that she sells them. ‘Pon + my soul, it is a fact! Buy it, gentlemen! The money is wanted for coffee.” + </p> + <p> + But no one laughs. A boy who is standing by screws up one eye and looks at + him gravely with compassion. + </p> + <p> + The most interesting of all is the fish section. Some dozen peasants are + sitting in a row. Before each of them is a pail, and in each pail there is + a veritable little hell. There, in the thick, greenish water are swarms of + little carp, eels, small fry, water-snails, frogs, and newts. Big + water-beetles with broken legs scurry over the small surface, clambering + on the carp, and jumping over the frogs. The creatures have a strong hold + on life. The frogs climb on the beetles, the newts on the frogs. The dark + green tench, as more expensive fish, enjoy an exceptional position; they + are kept in a special jar where they can’t swim, but still they are not so + cramped. . . . + </p> + <p> + “The carp is a grand fish! The carp’s the fish to keep, your honour, + plague take him! You can keep him for a year in a pail and he’ll live! + It’s a week since I caught these very fish. I caught them, sir, in + Pererva, and have come from there on foot. The carp are two kopecks each, + the eels are three, and the minnows are ten kopecks the dozen, plague take + them! Five kopecks’ worth of minnows, sir? Won’t you take some worms?” + </p> + <p> + The seller thrusts his coarse rough fingers into the pail and pulls out of + it a soft minnow, or a little carp, the size of a nail. Fishing lines, + hooks, and tackle are laid out near the pails, and pond-worms glow with a + crimson light in the sun. + </p> + <p> + An old fancier in a fur cap, iron-rimmed spectacles, and goloshes that + look like two dread-noughts, walks about by the waggons of birds and pails + of fish. He is, as they call him here, “a type.” He hasn’t a farthing to + bless himself with, but in spite of that he haggles, gets excited, and + pesters purchasers with advice. He has thoroughly examined all the hares, + pigeons, and fish; examined them in every detail, fixed the kind, the age, + and the price of each one of them a good hour ago. He is as interested as + a child in the goldfinches, the carp, and the minnows. Talk to him, for + instance, about thrushes, and the queer old fellow will tell you things + you could not find in any book. He will tell you them with enthusiasm, + with passion, and will scold you too for your ignorance. Of goldfinches + and bullfinches he is ready to talk endlessly, opening his eyes wide and + gesticulating violently with his hands. He is only to be met here at the + market in the cold weather; in the summer he is somewhere in the country, + catching quails with a bird-call and angling for fish. + </p> + <p> + And here is another “type,” a very tall, very thin, close-shaven gentleman + in dark spectacles, wearing a cap with a cockade, and looking like a + scrivener of by-gone days. He is a fancier; he is a man of decent + position, a teacher in a high school, and that is well known to the <i>habitués</i> + of the market, and they treat him with respect, greet him with bows, and + have even invented for him a special title: “Your Scholarship.” At Suharev + market he rummages among the books, and at Trubnoy looks out for good + pigeons. + </p> + <p> + “Please, sir!” the pigeon-sellers shout to him, “Mr. Schoolmaster, your + Scholarship, take notice of my tumblers! your Scholarship!” + </p> + <p> + “Your Scholarship!” is shouted at him from every side. + </p> + <p> + “Your Scholarship!” an urchin repeats somewhere on the boulevard. + </p> + <p> + And his “Scholarship,” apparently quite accustomed to his title, grave and + severe, takes a pigeon in both hands, and lifting it above his head, + begins examining it, and as he does so frowns and looks graver than ever, + like a conspirator. + </p> + <p> + And Trubnoy Square, that little bit of Moscow where animals are so + tenderly loved, and where they are so tortured, lives its little life, + grows noisy and excited, and the business-like or pious people who pass by + along the boulevard cannot make out what has brought this crowd of people, + this medley of caps, fur hats, and chimneypots together; what they are + talking about there, what they are buying and selling. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ADVENTURE + </h2> + <h3> + <i>(A Driver’s Story)</i> + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was in that wood + yonder, behind the creek, that it happened, sir. My father, the kingdom of + Heaven be his, was taking five hundred roubles to the master; in those + days our fellows and the Shepelevsky peasants used to rent land from the + master, so father was taking money for the half-year. He was a God-fearing + man, he used to read the scriptures, and as for cheating or wronging + anyone, or defrauding —God forbid, and the peasants honoured him + greatly, and when someone had to be sent to the town about taxes or + such-like, or with money, they used to send him. He was a man above the + ordinary, but, not that I’d speak ill of him, he had a weakness. He was + fond of a drop. There was no getting him past a tavern: he would go in, + drink a glass, and be completely done for! He was aware of this weakness + in himself, and when he was carrying public money, that he might not fall + asleep or lose it by some chance, he always took me or my sister Anyutka + with him. + </p> + <p> + To tell the truth, all our family have a great taste for vodka. I can read + and write, I served for six years at a tobacconist’s in the town, and I + can talk to any educated gentleman, and can use very fine language, but, + it is perfectly true, sir, as I read in a book, that vodka is the blood of + Satan. Through vodka my face has darkened. And there is nothing seemly + about me, and here, as you may see, sir, I am a cab-driver like an + ignorant, uneducated peasant. + </p> + <p> + And so, as I was telling you, father was taking the money to the master, + Anyutka was going with him, and at that time Anyutka was seven or maybe + eight—a silly chit, not that high. He got as far as Kalantchiko + successfully, he was sober, but when he reached Kalantchiko and went into + Moiseika’s tavern, this same weakness of his came upon him. He drank three + glasses and set to bragging before people: + </p> + <p> + “I am a plain humble man,” he says, “but I have five hundred roubles in my + pocket; if I like,” says he, “I could buy up the tavern and all the + crockery and Moiseika and his Jewess and his little Jews. I can buy it all + out and out,” he said. That was his way of joking, to be sure, but then he + began complaining: “It’s a worry, good Christian people,” said he, “to be + a rich man, a merchant, or anything of that kind. If you have no money you + have no care, if you have money you must watch over your pocket the whole + time that wicked men may not rob you. It’s a terror to live in the world + for a man who has a lot of money.” + </p> + <p> + The drunken people listened of course, took it in, and made a note of it. + And in those days they were making a railway line at Kalantchiko, and + there were swarms and swarms of tramps and vagabonds of all sorts like + locusts. Father pulled himself up afterwards, but it was too late. A word + is not a sparrow, if it flies out you can’t catch it. They drove, sir, by + the wood, and all at once there was someone galloping on horseback behind + them. Father was not of the chicken-hearted brigade—that I couldn’t + say—but he felt uneasy; there was no regular road through the wood, + nothing went that way but hay and timber, and there was no cause for + anyone to be galloping there, particularly in working hours. One wouldn’t + be galloping after any good. + </p> + <p> + “It seems as though they are after someone,” said father to Anyutka, “they + are galloping so furiously. I ought to have kept quiet in the tavern, a + plague on my tongue. Oy, little daughter, my heart misgives me, there is + something wrong!” + </p> + <p> + He did not spend long in hesitation about his dangerous position, and he + said to my sister Anyutka: + </p> + <p> + “Things don’t look very bright, they really are in pursuit. Anyway, + Anyutka dear, you take the money, put it away in your skirts, and go and + hide behind a bush. If by ill-luck they attack me, you run back to mother, + and give her the money. Let her take it to the village elder. Only mind + you don’t let anyone see you; keep to the wood and by the creek, that no + one may see you. Run your best and call on the merciful God. Christ be + with you!” + </p> + <p> + Father thrust the parcel of notes on Anyutka, and she looked out the + thickest of the bushes and hid herself. Soon after, three men on horseback + galloped up to father. One a stalwart, big-jawed fellow, in a crimson + shirt and high boots, and the other two, ragged, shabby fellows, navvies + from the line. As my father feared, so it really turned out, sir. The one + in the crimson shirt, the sturdy, strong fellow, a man above the ordinary, + left his horse, and all three made for my father. + </p> + <p> + “Halt you, so-and-so! Where’s the money!” + </p> + <p> + “What money? Go to the devil!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the money you are taking the master for the rent. Hand it over, you + bald devil, or we will throttle you, and you’ll die in your sins.” + </p> + <p> + And they began to practise their villainy on father, and, instead of + beseeching them, weeping, or anything of the sort, father got angry and + began to reprove them with the greatest severity. + </p> + <p> + “What are you pestering me for?” said he. “You are a dirty lot. There is + no fear of God in you, plague take you! It’s not money you want, but a + beating, to make your backs smart for three years after. Be off, + blockheads, or I shall defend myself. I have a revolver that takes six + bullets, it’s in my bosom!” + </p> + <p> + But his words did not deter the robbers, and they began beating him with + anything they could lay their hands on. + </p> + <p> + They looked through everything in the cart, searched my father thoroughly, + even taking off his boots; when they found that beating father only made + him swear at them the more, they began torturing him in all sorts of ways. + All the time Anyutka was sitting behind the bush, and she saw it all, poor + dear. When she saw father lying on the ground and gasping, she started off + and ran her hardest through the thicket and the creek towards home. She + was only a little girl, with no understanding; she did not know the way, + just ran on not knowing where she was going. It was some six miles to our + home. Anyone else might have run there in an hour, but a little child, as + we all know, takes two steps back for one forwards, and indeed it is not + everyone who can run barefoot through the prickly bushes; you want to be + used to it, too, and our girls used always to be crowding together on the + stove or in the yard, and were afraid to run in the forest. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening Anyutka somehow reached a habitation, she looked, it was a + hut. It was the forester’s hut, in the Crown forest; some merchants were + renting it at the time and burning charcoal. She knocked. A woman, the + forester’s wife, came out to her. Anyutka, first of all, burst out crying, + and told her everything just as it was, and even told her about the money. + The forester’s wife was full of pity for her. + </p> + <p> + “My poor little dear! Poor mite, God has preserved you, poor little one! + My precious! Come into the hut, and I will give you something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + She began to make up to Anyutka, gave her food and drink, and even wept + with her, and was so attentive to her that the girl, only think, gave her + the parcel of notes. + </p> + <p> + “I will put it away, darling, and to-morrow morning I will give it you + back and take you home, dearie.” + </p> + <p> + The woman took the money, and put Anyutka to sleep on the stove where at + the time the brooms were drying. And on the same stove, on the brooms, the + forester’s daughter, a girl as small as our Anyutka, was asleep. And + Anyutka used to tell us afterwards that there was such a scent from the + brooms, they smelt of honey! Anyutka lay down, but she could not get to + sleep, she kept crying quietly; she was sorry for father, and terrified. + But, sir, an hour or two passed, and she saw those very three robbers who + had tortured father walk into the hut; and the one in the crimson shirt, + with big jaws, their leader, went up to the woman and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, wife, we have simply murdered a man for nothing. To-day we killed a + man at dinner-time, we killed him all right, but not a farthing did we + find.” + </p> + <p> + So this fellow in the crimson shirt turned out to be the forester, the + woman’s husband. + </p> + <p> + “The man’s dead for nothing,” said his ragged companions. “In vain we have + taken a sin on our souls.” + </p> + <p> + The forester’s wife looked at all three and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What are you laughing at, silly?” + </p> + <p> + “I am laughing because I haven’t murdered anyone, and I have not taken any + sin on my soul, but I have found the money.” + </p> + <p> + “What money? What nonsense are you talking!” + </p> + <p> + “Here, look whether I am talking nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + The forester’s wife untied the parcel and, wicked woman, showed them the + money. Then she described how Anyutka had come, what she had said, and so + on. The murderers were delighted and began to divide the money between + them, they almost quarrelled, then they sat down to the table, you know, + to drink. And Anyutka lay there, poor child, hearing every word and + shaking like a Jew in a frying-pan. What was she to do? And from their + words she learned that father was dead and lying across the road, and she + fancied, in her foolishness, that the wolves and the dogs would eat + father, and that our horse had gone far away into the forest, and would be + eaten by wolves too, and that she, Anyutka herself, would be put in prison + and beaten, because she had not taken care of the money. The robbers got + drunk and sent the woman for vodka. They gave her five roubles for vodka + and sweet wine. They set to singing and drinking on other people’s money. + They drank and drank, the dogs, and sent the woman off again that they + might drink beyond all bounds. + </p> + <p> + “We will keep it up till morning,” they cried. “We have plenty of money + now, there is no need to spare! Drink, and don’t drink away your wits.” + </p> + <p> + And so at midnight, when they were all fairly fuddled, the woman ran off + for vodka the third time, and the forester strode twice up and down the + cottage, and he was staggering. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, lads,” he said, “we must make away with the girl, too! If we + leave her, she will be the first to bear witness against us.” + </p> + <p> + They talked it over and discussed it, and decided that Anyutka must not be + left alive, that she must be killed. Of course, to murder an innocent + child’s a fearful thing, even a man drunken or crazy would not take such a + job on himself. They were quarrelling for maybe an hour which was to kill + her, one tried to put it on the other, they almost fought again, and no + one would agree to do it; then they cast lots. It fell to the forester. He + drank another full glass, cleared his throat, and went to the outer room + for an axe. + </p> + <p> + But Anyutka was a sharp wench. For all she was so simple, she thought of + something that, I must say, not many an educated man would have thought + of. Maybe the Lord had compassion on her, and gave her sense for the + moment, or perhaps it was the fright sharpened her wits, anyway when it + came to the test it turned out that she was cleverer than anyone. She got + up stealthily, prayed to God, took the little sheepskin, the one the + forester’s wife had put over her, and, you understand, the forester’s + little daughter, a girl of the same age as herself, was lying on the stove + beside her. She covered this girl with the sheepskin, and took the woman’s + jacket off her and threw it over herself. Disguised herself, in fact. She + put it over her head, and so walked across the hut by the drunken men, and + they thought it was the forester’s daughter, and did not even look at her. + Luckily for her the woman was not in the hut, she had gone for vodka, or + maybe she would not have escaped the axe, for a woman’s eyes are as + far-seeing as a buzzard’s. A woman’s eyes are sharp. + </p> + <p> + Anyutka came out of the hut, and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. + All night she was lost in the forest, but towards morning she came out to + the edge and ran along the road. By the mercy of God she met the clerk + Yegor Danilitch, the kingdom of Heaven be his. He was going along with his + hooks to catch fish. Anyutka told him all about it. He went back quicker + than he came—thought no more of the fish—gathered the peasants + together in the village, and off they went to the forester’s. + </p> + <p> + They got there, and all the murderers were lying side by side, dead drunk, + each where he had fallen; the woman, too, was drunk. First thing they + searched them; they took the money and then looked on the stove—the + Holy Cross be with us! The forester’s child was lying on the brooms, under + the sheepskin, and her head was in a pool of blood, chopped off by the + axe. They roused the peasants and the woman, tied their hands behind them, + and took them to the district court; the woman howled, but the forester + only shook his head and asked: + </p> + <p> + “You might give me a drop, lads! My head aches!” + </p> + <p> + Afterwards they were tried in the town in due course, and punished with + the utmost rigour of the law. + </p> + <p> + So that’s what happened, sir, beyond the forest there, that lies behind + the creek. Now you can scarcely see it, the sun is setting red behind it. + I have been talking to you, and the horses have stopped, as though they + were listening too. Hey there, my beauties! Move more briskly, the good + gentleman will give us something extra. Hey, you darlings! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FISH + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> SUMMER morning. + The air is still; there is no sound but the churring of a grasshopper on + the river bank, and somewhere the timid cooing of a turtle-dove. Feathery + clouds stand motionless in the sky, looking like snow scattered about. . . + . Gerassim, the carpenter, a tall gaunt peasant, with a curly red head and + a face overgrown with hair, is floundering about in the water under the + green willow branches near an unfinished bathing shed. . . . He puffs and + pants and, blinking furiously, is trying to get hold of something under + the roots of the willows. His face is covered with perspiration. A couple + of yards from him, Lubim, the carpenter, a young hunchback with a + triangular face and narrow Chinese-looking eyes, is standing up to his + neck in water. Both Gerassim and Lubim are in shirts and linen breeches. + Both are blue with cold, for they have been more than an hour already in + the water. + </p> + <p> + “But why do you keep poking with your hand?” cries the hunchback Lubim, + shivering as though in a fever. “You blockhead! Hold him, hold him, or + else he’ll get away, the anathema! Hold him, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t get away. . . . Where can he get to? He’s under a root,” says + Gerassim in a hoarse, hollow bass, which seems to come not from his + throat, but from the depths of his stomach. “He’s slippery, the beggar, + and there’s nothing to catch hold of.” + </p> + <p> + “Get him by the gills, by the gills!” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no seeing his gills. . . . Stay, I’ve got hold of something . . . + . I’ve got him by the lip. . . He’s biting, the brute!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pull him out by the lip, don’t—or you’ll let him go! Take him + by the gills, take him by the gills. . . . You’ve begun poking with your + hand again! You are a senseless man, the Queen of Heaven forgive me! Catch + hold!” + </p> + <p> + “Catch hold!” Gerassim mimics him. “You’re a fine one to give orders . . . + . You’d better come and catch hold of him yourself, you hunchback devil. . + . . What are you standing there for?” + </p> + <p> + “I would catch hold of him if it were possible. But can I stand by the + bank, and me as short as I am? It’s deep there.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter if it is deep. . . . You must swim.” + </p> + <p> + The hunchback waves his arms, swims up to Gerassim, and catches hold of + the twigs. At the first attempt to stand up, he goes into the water over + his head and begins blowing up bubbles. + </p> + <p> + “I told you it was deep,” he says, rolling his eyes angrily. “Am I to sit + on your neck or what?” + </p> + <p> + “Stand on a root . . . there are a lot of roots like a ladder.” The + hunchback gropes for a root with his heel, and tightly gripping several + twigs, stands on it. . . . Having got his balance, and established himself + in his new position, he bends down, and trying not to get the water into + his mouth, begins fumbling with his right hand among the roots. Getting + entangled among the weeds and slipping on the mossy roots he finds his + hand in contact with the sharp pincers of a crayfish. + </p> + <p> + “As though we wanted to see you, you demon!” says Lubim, and he angrily + flings the crayfish on the bank. + </p> + <p> + At last his hand feels Gerassim’ s arm, and groping its way along it comes + to something cold and slimy. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is!” says Lubim with a grin. “A fine fellow! Move your fingers, + I’ll get him directly . . . by the gills. Stop, don’t prod me with your + elbow. . . . I’ll have him in a minute, in a minute, only let me get hold + of him. . . . The beggar has got a long way under the roots, there is + nothing to get hold of. . . . One can’t get to the head . . . one can only + feel its belly . . . . kill that gnat on my neck—it’s stinging! I’ll + get him by the gills, directly . . . . Come to one side and give him a + push! Poke him with your finger!” + </p> + <p> + The hunchback puffs out his cheeks, holds his breath, opens his eyes wide, + and apparently has already got his fingers in the gills, but at that + moment the twigs to which he is holding on with his left hand break, and + losing his balance he plops into the water! Eddies race away from the bank + as though frightened, and little bubbles come up from the spot where he + has fallen in. The hunchback swims out and, snorting, clutches at the + twigs. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be drowned next, you stupid, and I shall have to answer for you,” + wheezes Gerassim. “Clamber out, the devil take you! I’ll get him out + myself.” + </p> + <p> + High words follow. . . . The sun is baking hot. The shadows begin to grow + shorter and to draw in on themselves, like the horns of a snail. . . . The + high grass warmed by the sun begins to give out a strong, heavy smell of + honey. It will soon be midday, and Gerassim and Lubim are still + floundering under the willow tree. The husky bass and the shrill, frozen + tenor persistently disturb the stillness of the summer day. + </p> + <p> + “Pull him out by the gills, pull him out! Stay, I’ll push him out! Where + are you shoving your great ugly fist? Poke him with your finger—you + pig’s face! Get round by the side! get to the left, to the left, there’s a + big hole on the right! You’ll be a supper for the water-devil! Pull it by + the lip!” + </p> + <p> + There is the sound of the flick of a whip. . . . A herd of cattle, driven + by Yefim, the shepherd, saunter lazily down the sloping bank to drink. The + shepherd, a decrepit old man, with one eye and a crooked mouth, walks with + his head bowed, looking at his feet. The first to reach the water are the + sheep, then come the horses, and last of all the cows. + </p> + <p> + “Push him from below!” he hears Lubim’s voice. “Stick your finger in! Are + you deaf, fellow, or what? Tfoo!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you after, lads?” shouts Yefim. + </p> + <p> + “An eel-pout! We can’t get him out! He’s hidden under the roots. Get round + to the side! To the side!” + </p> + <p> + For a minute Yefim screws up his eye at the fishermen, then he takes off + his bark shoes, throws his sack off his shoulders, and takes off his + shirt. He has not the patience to take off his breeches, but, making the + sign of the cross, he steps into the water, holding out his thin dark arms + to balance himself. . . . For fifty paces he walks along the slimy bottom, + then he takes to swimming. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, lads!” he shouts. “Wait! Don’t be in a hurry to pull him + out, you’ll lose him. You must do it properly!” + </p> + <p> + Yefim joins the carpenters and all three, shoving each other with their + knees and their elbows, puffing and swearing at one another, bustle about + the same spot. Lubim, the hunchback, gets a mouthful of water, and the air + rings with his hard spasmodic coughing. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the shepherd?” comes a shout from the bank. “Yefim! Shepherd! + Where are you? The cattle are in the garden! Drive them out, drive them + out of the garden! Where is he, the old brigand?” + </p> + <p> + First men’s voices are heard, then a woman’s. The master himself, Andrey + Andreitch, wearing a dressing-gown made of a Persian shawl and carrying a + newspaper in his hand, appears from behind the garden fence. He looks + inquiringly towards the shouts which come from the river, and then trips + rapidly towards the bathing shed. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this? Who’s shouting?” he asks sternly, seeing through the + branches of the willow the three wet heads of the fishermen. “What are you + so busy about there?” + </p> + <p> + “Catching a fish,” mutters Yefim, without raising his head. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it to you! The beasts are in the garden and he is fishing! . . + . When will that bathing shed be done, you devils? You’ve been at work two + days, and what is there to show for it?” + </p> + <p> + “It . . . will soon be done,” grunts Gerassim; summer is long, you’ll have + plenty of time to wash, your honour. . . . Pfrrr! . . . We can’t manage + this eel-pout here anyhow. . . . He’s got under a root and sits there as + if he were in a hole and won’t budge one way or another . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “An eel-pout?” says the master, and his eyes begin to glisten. “Get him + out quickly then.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll give us half a rouble for it presently if we oblige you . . . . A + huge eel-pout, as fat as a merchant’s wife. . . . It’s worth half a + rouble, your honour, for the trouble. . . . Don’t squeeze him, Lubim, + don’t squeeze him, you’ll spoil him! Push him up from below! Pull the root + upwards, my good man . . . what’s your name? Upwards, not downwards, you + brute! Don’t swing your legs!” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes pass, ten. . . . The master loses all patience. + </p> + <p> + “Vassily!” he shouts, turning towards the garden. “Vaska! Call Vassily to + me!” + </p> + <p> + The coachman Vassily runs up. He is chewing something and breathing hard. + </p> + <p> + “Go into the water,” the master orders him. “Help them to pull out that + eel-pout. They can’t get him out.” + </p> + <p> + Vassily rapidly undresses and gets into the water. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute. . . . I’ll get him in a minute,” he mutters. “Where’s the + eel-pout? We’ll have him out in a trice! You’d better go, Yefim. An old + man like you ought to be minding his own business instead of being here. + Where’s that eel-pout? I’ll have him in a minute . . . . Here he is! Let + go.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good of saying that? We know all about that! You get it out!” + </p> + <p> + But there is no getting it out like this! One must get hold of it by the + head.” + </p> + <p> + “And the head is under the root! We know that, you fool!” + </p> + <p> + “Now then, don’t talk or you’ll catch it! You dirty cur!” + </p> + <p> + “Before the master to use such language,” mutters Yefim. “You won’t get + him out, lads! He’s fixed himself much too cleverly!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, I’ll come directly,” says the master, and he begins + hurriedly undressing. “Four fools, and can’t get an eel-pout!” + </p> + <p> + When he is undressed, Andrey Andreitch gives himself time to cool and gets + into the water. But even his interference leads to nothing. + </p> + <p> + “We must chop the root off,” Lubim decides at last. “Gerassim, go and get + an axe! Give me an axe!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t chop your fingers off,” says the master, when the blows of the axe + on the root under water are heard. “Yefim, get out of this! Stay, I’ll get + the eel-pout. . . . You’ll never do it.” + </p> + <p> + The root is hacked a little. They partly break it off, and Andrey + Andreitch, to his immense satisfaction, feels his fingers under the gills + of the fish. + </p> + <p> + “I’m pulling him out, lads! Don’t crowd round . . . stand still . . . . I + am pulling him out!” + </p> + <p> + The head of a big eel-pout, and behind it its long black body, nearly a + yard long, appears on the surface of the water. The fish flaps its tail + heavily and tries to tear itself away. + </p> + <p> + “None of your nonsense, my boy! Fiddlesticks! I’ve got you! Aha!” + </p> + <p> + A honied smile overspreads all the faces. A minute passes in silent + contemplation. + </p> + <p> + “A famous eel-pout,” mutters Yefim, scratching under his shoulder-blades. + “I’ll be bound it weighs ten pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Mm! . . . Yes,” the master assents. “The liver is fairly swollen! It + seems to stand out! A-ach!” + </p> + <p> + The fish makes a sudden, unexpected upward movement with its tail and the + fishermen hear a loud splash . . . they all put out their hands, but it is + too late; they have seen the last of the eel-pout. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ART + </h2> + <h3> + A GLOOMY winter morning. + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the smooth and + glittering surface of the river Bystryanka, sprinkled here and there with + snow, stand two peasants, scrubby little Seryozhka and the church beadle, + Matvey. Seryozhka, a short-legged, ragged, mangy-looking fellow of thirty, + stares angrily at the ice. Tufts of wool hang from his shaggy sheepskin + like a mangy dog. In his hands he holds a compass made of two pointed + sticks. Matvey, a fine-looking old man in a new sheepskin and high felt + boots, looks with mild blue eyes upwards where on the high sloping bank a + village nestles picturesquely. In his hands there is a heavy crowbar. + </p> + <p> + “Well, are we going to stand like this till evening with our arms folded?” + says Seryozhka, breaking the silence and turning his angry eyes on Matvey. + “Have you come here to stand about, old fool, or to work?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you . . . er . . . show me . . .” Matvey mutters, blinking mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Show you. . . . It’s always me: me to show you, and me to do it. They + have no sense of their own! Mark it out with the compasses, that’s what’s + wanted! You can’t break the ice without marking it out. Mark it! Take the + compass.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey takes the compasses from Seryozhka’s hands, and, shuffling heavily + on the same spot and jerking with his elbows in all directions, he begins + awkwardly trying to describe a circle on the ice. Seryozhka screws up his + eyes contemptuously and obviously enjoys his awkwardness and incompetence. + </p> + <p> + “Eh-eh-eh!” he mutters angrily. “Even that you can’t do! The fact is you + are a stupid peasant, a wooden-head! You ought to be grazing geese and not + making a Jordan! Give the compasses here! Give them here, I say!” + </p> + <p> + Seryozhka snatches the compasses out of the hands of the perspiring + Matvey, and in an instant, jauntily twirling round on one heel, he + describes a circle on the ice. The outline of the new Jordan is ready now, + all that is left to do is to break the ice. . . + </p> + <p> + But before proceeding to the work Seryozhka spends a long time in airs and + graces, whims and reproaches. . . + </p> + <p> + “I am not obliged to work for you! You are employed in the church, you do + it!” + </p> + <p> + He obviously enjoys the peculiar position in which he has been placed by + the fate that has bestowed on him the rare talent of surprising the whole + parish once a year by his art. Poor mild Matvey has to listen to many + venomous and contemptuous words from him. Seryozhka sets to work with + vexation, with anger. He is lazy. He has hardly described the circle when + he is already itching to go up to the village to drink tea, lounge about, + and babble. . . + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be back directly,” he says, lighting his cigarette, “and meanwhile + you had better bring something to sit on and sweep up, instead of standing + there counting the crows.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey is left alone. The air is grey and harsh but still. The white + church peeps out genially from behind the huts scattered on the river + bank. Jackdaws are incessantly circling round its golden crosses. On one + side of the village where the river bank breaks off and is steep a hobbled + horse is standing at the very edge, motionless as a stone, probably asleep + or deep in thought. + </p> + <p> + Matvey, too, stands motionless as a statue, waiting patiently. The + dreamily brooding look of the river, the circling of the jackdaws, and the + sight of the horse make him drowsy. One hour passes, a second, and still + Seryozhka does not come. The river has long been swept and a box brought + to sit on, but the drunken fellow does not appear. Matvey waits and merely + yawns. The feeling of boredom is one of which he knows nothing. If he were + told to stand on the river for a day, a month, or a year he would stand + there. + </p> + <p> + At last Seryozhka comes into sight from behind the huts. He walks with a + lurching gait, scarcely moving. He is too lazy to go the long way round, + and he comes not by the road, but prefers a short cut in a straight line + down the bank, and sticks in the snow, hangs on to the bushes, slides on + his back as he comes—and all this slowly, with pauses. + </p> + <p> + “What are you about?” he cries, falling on Matvey at once. “Why are you + standing there doing nothing! When are you going to break the ice?” + </p> + <p> + Matvey crosses himself, takes the crowbar in both hands, and begins + breaking the ice, carefully keeping to the circle that has been drawn. + Seryozhka sits down on the box and watches the heavy clumsy movements of + his assistant. + </p> + <p> + “Easy at the edges! Easy there!” he commands. “If you can’t do it + properly, you shouldn’t undertake it, once you have undertaken it you + should do it. You!” + </p> + <p> + A crowd collects on the top of the bank. At the sight of the spectators + Seryozhka becomes even more excited. + </p> + <p> + “I declare I am not going to do it . . .” he says, lighting a stinking + cigarette and spitting on the ground. “I should like to see how you get on + without me. Last year at Kostyukovo, Styopka Gulkov undertook to make a + Jordan as I do. And what did it amount to—it was a laughing-stock. + The Kostyukovo folks came to ours —crowds and crowds of them! The + people flocked from all the villages.” + </p> + <p> + “Because except for ours there is nowhere a proper Jordan . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Work, there is no time for talking. . . . Yes, old man . . . you won’t + find another Jordan like it in the whole province. The soldiers say you + would look in vain, they are not so good even in the towns. Easy, easy!” + </p> + <p> + Matvey puffs and groans. The work is not easy. The ice is firm and thick; + and he has to break it and at once take the pieces away that the open + space may not be blocked up. + </p> + <p> + But, hard as the work is and senseless as Seryozhka’s commands are, by + three o’clock there is a large circle of dark water in the Bystryanka. + </p> + <p> + “It was better last year,” says Seryozhka angrily. “You can’t do even + that! Ah, dummy! To keep such fools in the temple of God! Go and bring a + board to make the pegs! Bring the ring, you crow! And er . . . get some + bread somewhere . . . and some cucumbers, or something.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey goes off and soon afterwards comes back, carrying on his shoulders + an immense wooden ring which had been painted in previous years in + patterns of various colours. In the centre of the ring is a red cross, at + the circumference holes for the pegs. Seryozhka takes the ring and covers + the hole in the ice with it. + </p> + <p> + “Just right . . . it fits. . . . We have only to renew the paint and it + will be first-rate. . . . Come, why are you standing still? Make the + lectern. Or—er—go and get logs to make the cross . . .” + </p> + <p> + Matvey, who has not tasted food or drink all day, trudges up the hill + again. Lazy as Seryozhka is, he makes the pegs with his own hands. He + knows that those pegs have a miraculous power: whoever gets hold of a peg + after the blessing of the water will be lucky for the whole year. Such + work is really worth doing. + </p> + <p> + But the real work begins the following day. Then Seryozhka displays + himself before the ignorant Matvey in all the greatness of his talent. + There is no end to his babble, his fault-finding, his whims and fancies. + If Matvey nails two big pieces of wood to make a cross, he is dissatisfied + and tells him to do it again. If Matvey stands still, Seryozhka asks him + angrily why he does not go; if he moves, Seryozhka shouts to him not to go + away but to do his work. He is not satisfied with his tools, with the + weather, or with his own talent; nothing pleases him. + </p> + <p> + Matvey saws out a great piece of ice for a lectern. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you broken off the corner?” cries Seryozhka, and glares at him + furiously. “Why have you broken off the corner? I ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, for Christ’s sake.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it over again!” + </p> + <p> + Matvey saws again . . . and there is no end to his sufferings. A lectern + is to stand by the hole in the ice that is covered by the painted ring; on + the lectern is to be carved the cross and the open gospel. But that is not + all. Behind the lectern there is to be a high cross to be seen by all the + crowd and to glitter in the sun as though sprinkled with diamonds and + rubies. On the cross is to be a dove carved out of ice. The path from the + church to the Jordan is to be strewn with branches of fir and juniper. All + this is their task. + </p> + <p> + First of all Seryozhka sets to work on the lectern. He works with a file, + a chisel, and an awl. He is perfectly successful in the cross on the + lectern, the gospel, and the drapery that hangs down from the lectern. Then + he begins on the dove. While he is trying to carve an expression of + meekness and humility on the face of the dove, Matvey, lumbering about + like a bear, is coating with ice the cross he has made of wood. He takes + the cross and dips it in the hole. Waiting till the water has frozen on + the cross he dips it in a second time, and so on till the cross is covered + with a thick layer of ice. It is a difficult job, calling for a great deal + of strength and patience. + </p> + <p> + But now the delicate work is finished. Seryozhka races about the village + like one possessed. He swears and vows he will go at once to the river and + smash all his work. He is looking for suitable paints. + </p> + <p> + His pockets are full of ochre, dark blue, red lead, and verdigris; without + paying a farthing he rushes headlong from one shop to another. The shop is + next door to the tavern. Here he has a drink; with a wave of his hand he + darts off without paying. At one hut he gets beetroot leaves, at another + an onion skin, out of which he makes a yellow colour. He swears, shoves, + threatens, and not a soul murmurs! They all smile at him, they sympathise + with him, call him Sergey Nikititch; they all feel that his art is not his + personal affair but something that concerns them all, the whole people. + One creates, the others help him. Seryozhka in himself is a nonentity, a + sluggard, a drunkard, and a wastrel, but when he has his red lead or + compasses in his hand he is at once something higher, a servant of God. + </p> + <p> + Epiphany morning comes. The precincts of the church and both banks of the + river for a long distance are swarming with people. Everything that makes + up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats. Seryozhka is + meekly moving about near the mats, trying to control his emotion. He sees + thousands of people. There are many here from other parishes; these people + have come many a mile on foot through the frost and the snow merely to see + his celebrated Jordan. Matvey, who had finished his coarse, rough work, is + by now back in the church, there is no sight, no sound of him; he is + already forgotten . . . . The weather is lovely. . . . There is not a + cloud in the sky. The sunshine is dazzling. + </p> + <p> + The church bells ring out on the hill . . . Thousands of heads are bared, + thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signs of the cross! + </p> + <p> + And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience. But + now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half an hour later + a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry and among the people. + Banners are borne out of the church one after the other, while the bells + peal in joyous haste. Seryozhka, trembling, pulls away the mat . . . and + the people behold something extraordinary. The lectern, the wooden ring, + the pegs, and the cross in the ice are iridescent with thousands of + colors. The cross and the dove glitter so dazzlingly that it hurts the + eyes to look at them. Merciful God, how fine it is! A murmur of wonder and + delight runs through the crowd; the bells peal more loudly still, the day + grows brighter; the banners oscillate and move over the crowd as over the + waves. The procession, glittering with the settings of the ikons and the + vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down the road and turns towards the + Jordan. Hands are waved to the belfry for the ringing to cease, and the + blessing of the water begins. The priests conduct the service slowly, + deliberately, evidently trying to prolong the ceremony and the joy of + praying all gathered together. There is perfect stillness. + </p> + <p> + But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with an extraordinary + din. Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loud exclamations of + delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs. Seryozhka listens to this + uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, and the lazy fellow’s soul + is filled with a sense of glory and triumph. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SWEDISH MATCH + </h2> + <h3> + <i>(The Story of a Crime)</i> + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N the morning of + October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented himself at the office + of the police superintendent of the 2nd division of the S. district, and + announced that his employer, a retired cornet of the guards, called Mark + Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The young man was pale and + extremely agitated as he made this announcement. His hands trembled and + there was a look of horror in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “To whom have I the honour of speaking?” the superintendent asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Psyekov, Klyauzov’s steward. Agricultural and engineering expert.” + </p> + <p> + The police superintendent, on reaching the spot with Psyekov and the + necessary witnesses, found the position as follows. + </p> + <p> + Masses of people were crowding about the lodge in which Klyauzov lived. + The news of the event had flown round the neighbourhood with the rapidity + of lightning, and, thanks to its being a holiday, the people were flocking + to the lodge from all the neighbouring villages. There was a regular + hubbub of talk. Pale and tearful faces were to be seen here and there. The + door into Klyauzov’s bedroom was found to be locked. The key was in the + lock on the inside. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently the criminals made their way in by the window” Psyekov + observed, as they examined the door. + </p> + <p> + They went into the garden into which the bedroom window looked. The window + had a gloomy, ominous air. It was covered by a faded green curtain. One + corner of the curtain was slightly turned back, which made it possible to + peep into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Has anyone of you looked in at the window?” inquired the superintendent. + </p> + <p> + “No, your honour,” said Yefrem, the gardener, a little, grey-haired old + man with the face of a veteran non-commissioned officer. “No one feels + like looking when they are shaking in every limb!” + </p> + <p> + “Ech, Mark Ivanitch! Mark Ivanitch!” sighed the superintendent, as he + looked at the window. “I told you that you would come to a bad end! I told + you, poor dear—you wouldn’t listen! Dissipation leads to no good!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s thanks to Yefrem,” said Psyekov. “We should never have guessed it + but for him. It was he who first thought that something was wrong. He came + to me this morning and said: ‘Why is it our master hasn’t waked up for so + long? He hasn’t been out of his bedroom for a whole week! When he said + that to me I was struck all of a heap . . . . The thought flashed through + my mind at once. He hasn’t made an appearance since Saturday of last week, + and to-day’s Sunday. Seven days is no joke!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, poor man,” the superintendent sighed again. “A clever fellow, + well-educated, and so good-hearted. There was no one like him, one may + say, in company. But a rake; the kingdom of heaven be his! I’m not + surprised at anything with him! Stepan,” he said, addressing one of the + witnesses, “ride off this minute to my house and send Andryushka to the + police captain’s, let him report to him. Say Mark Ivanitch has been + murdered! Yes, and run to the inspector—why should he sit in comfort + doing nothing? Let him come here. And you go yourself as fast as you can + to the examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, and tell him to come + here. Wait a bit, I will write him a note.” + </p> + <p> + The police superintendent stationed watchmen round the lodge, and went off + to the steward’s to have tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a stool, + carefully nibbling lumps of sugar, and sipping tea as hot as a red-hot + coal. + </p> + <p> + “There it is! . . .” he said to Psyekov, “there it is! . . . a gentleman, + and a well-to-do one, too . . . a favourite of the gods, one may say, to + use Pushkin’s expression, and what has he made of it? Nothing! He gave + himself up to drinking and debauchery, and . . . here now . . . he has + been murdered!” + </p> + <p> + Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolay Yermolaitch + Tchubikov (that was the magistrate’s name), a tall, thick-set old man of + sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century. He was known to + the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to + his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall young + man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action + with him. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible, gentlemen?” Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov’s room + and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. “Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch? + Murdered? No, it’s impossible! Imposs-i-ble!” + </p> + <p> + “There it is,” sighed the superintendent + </p> + <p> + “Merciful heavens! Why I saw him only last Friday. At the fair at + Tarabankovo! Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka with him!” + </p> + <p> + “There it is,” the superintendent sighed once more. + </p> + <p> + They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of tea each, and + went to the lodge. + </p> + <p> + “Make way!” the police inspector shouted to the crowd. + </p> + <p> + On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all set to work + to inspect the door into the bedroom. The door turned out to be made of + deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tampered with. No special + traces that might have served as evidence could be found. They proceeded + to break open the door. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire,” said the + examining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, the door + yielded to the axe and the chisel. “I ask this in the interests of the + investigation. . . . Inspector, admit no one!” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened the door + and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room. The following + spectacle met their eyes. In the solitary window stood a big wooden + bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On the rumpled feather bed lay + a creased and crumpled quilt. A pillow, in a cotton pillow case—also + much creased, was on the floor. On a little table beside the bed lay a + silver watch, and silver coins to the value of twenty kopecks. Some + sulphur matches lay there too. Except the bed, the table, and a solitary + chair, there was no furniture in the room. Looking under the bed, the + superintendent saw two dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a jar of + vodka. Under the table lay one boot, covered with dust. Taking a look + round the room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed crimson. + </p> + <p> + “The blackguards!” he muttered, clenching his fists. + </p> + <p> + “And where is Mark Ivanitch?” Dyukovsky asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you not to put your spoke in,” Tchubikov answered roughly. “Kindly + examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf + Kuzmitch,” he added to the police superintendent, dropping his voice. “In + 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . . . The murder + of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same. The blackguards murdered + him, and dragged the dead body out of the window.” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and cautiously + pushed the window. The window opened. + </p> + <p> + “It opens, so it was not fastened. . . . H’m there are traces on the + window-sill. Do you see? Here is the trace of a knee. . . . Some one + climbed out. . . . We shall have to inspect the window thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing special to be observed on the floor,” said Dyukovsky. + “No stains, nor scratches. The only thing I have found is a used Swedish + match. Here it is. As far as I remember, Mark Ivanitch didn’t smoke; in a + general way he used sulphur ones, never Swedish matches. This match may + serve as a clue. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hold your tongue, please!” cried Tchubikov, with a wave of his hand. + “He keeps on about his match! I can’t stand these excitable people! + Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine the bed!” + </p> + <p> + On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported: + </p> + <p> + “There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor are there any + fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth. A liquid, having the + smell of beer and also the taste of it, has been spilt on the quilt. . . . + The general appearance of the bed gives grounds for supposing there has + been a struggle.” + </p> + <p> + “I know there was a struggle without your telling me! No one asked you + whether there was a struggle. Instead of looking out for a struggle you + had better be . . .” + </p> + <p> + “One boot is here, the other one is not on the scene.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, they must have strangled him while he was taking off his boots. He + hadn’t time to take the second boot off when . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “He’s off again! . . . And how do you know that he was strangled?” + </p> + <p> + “There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is very much + crumpled, and has been flung to a distance of six feet from the bed.” + </p> + <p> + “He argues, the chatterbox! We had better go into the garden. You had + better look in the garden instead of rummaging about here. . . . I can do + that without your help.” + </p> + <p> + When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspection of + the grass. The grass had been trampled down under the windows. The clump + of burdock against the wall under the window turned out to have been + trodden on too. Dyukovsky succeeded in finding on it some broken shoots, + and a little bit of wadding. On the topmost burrs, some fine threads of + dark blue wool were found. + </p> + <p> + “What was the colour of his last suit? Dyukovsky asked Psyekov. + </p> + <p> + “It was yellow, made of canvas.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital! Then it was they who were in dark blue. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Some of the burrs were cut off and carefully wrapped up in paper. At that + moment Artsybashev-Svistakovsky, the police captain, and Tyutyuev, the + doctor, arrived. The police captain greeted the others, and at once + proceeded to satisfy his curiosity; the doctor, a tall and extremely lean + man with sunken eyes, a long nose, and a sharp chin, greeting no one and + asking no questions, sat down on a stump, heaved a sigh and said: + </p> + <p> + “The Serbians are in a turmoil again! I can’t make out what they want! Ah, + Austria, Austria! It’s your doing!” + </p> + <p> + The inspection of the window from outside yielded absolutely no result; + the inspection of the grass and surrounding bushes furnished many valuable + clues. Dyukovsky succeeded, for instance, in detecting a long, dark streak + in the grass, consisting of stains, and stretching from the window for a + good many yards into the garden. The streak ended under one of the lilac + bushes in a big, brownish stain. Under the same bush was found a boot, + which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “This is an old stain of blood,” said Dyukovsky, examining the stain. + </p> + <p> + At the word “blood,” the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance at + the stain. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s blood,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Then he wasn’t strangled since there’s blood,” said Tchubikov, looking + malignantly at Dyukovsky. + </p> + <p> + “He was strangled in the bedroom, and here, afraid he would come to, they + stabbed him with something sharp. The stain under the bush shows that he + lay there for a comparatively long time, while they were trying to find + some way of carrying him, or something to carry him on out of the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and the boot?” + </p> + <p> + “That boot bears out my contention that he was murdered while he was + taking off his boots before going to bed. He had taken off one boot, the + other, that is, this boot he had only managed to get half off. While he + was being dragged and shaken the boot that was only half on came off of + itself. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What powers of deduction! Just look at him!” Tchubikov jeered. “He brings + it all out so pat! And when will you learn not to put your theories + forward? You had better take a little of the grass for analysis instead of + arguing!” + </p> + <p> + After making the inspection and taking a plan of the locality they went + off to the steward’s to write a report and have lunch. At lunch they + talked. + </p> + <p> + “Watch, money, and everything else . . . are untouched,” Tchubikov began + the conversation. “It is as clear as twice two makes four that the murder + was committed not for mercenary motives.” + </p> + <p> + “It was committed by a man of the educated class,” Dyukovsky put in. + </p> + <p> + “From what do you draw that conclusion?” + </p> + <p> + “I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here have not + learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landowners and not by + all of them. He was murdered, by the way, not by one but by three, at + least: two held him while the third strangled him. Klyauzov was strong and + the murderers must have known that.” + </p> + <p> + “What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots. He was taking + off his boots, so he was not asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no good making things up! You had better eat your lunch!” + </p> + <p> + “To my thinking, your honour,” said Yefrem, the gardener, as he set the + samovar on the table, “this vile deed was the work of no other than + Nikolashka.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite possible,” said Psyekov. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s this Nikolashka?” + </p> + <p> + “The master’s valet, your honour,” answered Yefrem. “Who else should it be + if not he? He’s a ruffian, your honour! A drunkard, and such a dissipated + fellow! May the Queen of Heaven never bring the like again! He always used + to fetch vodka for the master, he always used to put the master to bed. . + . . Who should it be if not he? And what’s more, I venture to bring to + your notice, your honour, he boasted once in a tavern, the rascal, that he + would murder his master. It’s all on account of Akulka, on account of a + woman. . . . He had a soldier’s wife. . . . The master took a fancy to her + and got intimate with her, and he . . . was angered by it, to be sure. + He’s lolling about in the kitchen now, drunk. He’s crying . . . making out + he is grieving over the master . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly,” said Psyekov. “She is + a soldier’s wife, a peasant woman, but . . . Mark Ivanitch might well call + her Nana. There is something in her that does suggest Nana . . . + fascinating . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen her . . . I know . . .” said the examining magistrate, + blowing his nose in a red handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky blushed and dropped his eyes. The police superintendent drummed + on his saucer with his fingers. The police captain coughed and rummaged in + his portfolio for something. On the doctor alone the mention of Akulka and + Nana appeared to produce no impression. Tchubikov ordered Nikolashka to be + fetched. Nikolashka, a lanky young man with a long pock-marked nose and a + hollow chest, wearing a reefer jacket that had been his master’s, came + into Psyekov’s room and bowed down to the ground before Tchubikov. His + face looked sleepy and showed traces of tears. He was drunk and could + hardly stand up. + </p> + <p> + “Where is your master?” Tchubikov asked him. + </p> + <p> + “He’s murdered, your honour.” + </p> + <p> + As he said this Nikolashka blinked and began to cry. + </p> + <p> + “We know that he is murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body?” + </p> + <p> + “They say it was dragged out of window and buried in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m . . . the results of the investigation are already known in the + kitchen then. . . . That’s bad. My good fellow, where were you on the + night when your master was killed? On Saturday, that is?” + </p> + <p> + Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say, your honour,” he said. “I was drunk and I don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + “An alibi!” whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And why is it there’s blood under your master’s window!” + </p> + <p> + Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered. + </p> + <p> + “Think a little quicker,” said the police captain. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute. That blood’s from a trifling matter, your honour. I killed a + hen; I cut her throat very simply in the usual way, and she fluttered out + of my hands and took and ran off. . . .That’s what the blood’s from.” + </p> + <p> + Yefrem testified that Nikolashka really did kill a hen every evening and + killed it in all sorts of places, and no one had seen the half-killed hen + running about the garden, though of course it could not be positively + denied that it had done so. + </p> + <p> + “An alibi,” laughed Dyukovsky, “and what an idiotic alibi.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you had relations with Akulka?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have sinned.” + </p> + <p> + “And your master carried her off from you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not at all. It was this gentleman here, Mr. Psyekov, Ivan Mihalitch, + who enticed her from me, and the master took her from Ivan Mihalitch. + That’s how it was.” + </p> + <p> + Psyekov looked confused and began rubbing his left eye. Dyukovsky fastened + his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started. He saw on the + steward’s legs dark blue trousers which he had not previously noticed. The + trousers reminded him of the blue threads found on the burdock. Tchubikov + in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psyekov. + </p> + <p> + “You can go!” he said to Nikolashka. “And now allow me to put one question + to you, Mr. Psyekov. You were here, of course, on the Saturday of last + week? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at ten o’clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch.” + </p> + <p> + “And afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table. + </p> + <p> + “Afterwards . . . afterwards . . . I really don’t remember,” he muttered. + “I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . . I can’t remember where + and when I went to bed. . . . Why do you all look at me like that? As + though I had murdered him!” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you wake up?” + </p> + <p> + “I woke up in the servants’ kitchen on the stove . . . . They can all + confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can’t say. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh well, not particularly.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she leave you for Klyauzov?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some tea, + Yevgraf Kuzmitch?” + </p> + <p> + There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for some five + minutes. Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyes on + Psyekov’s face, which gradually turned pale. The silence was broken by + Tchubikov. + </p> + <p> + “We must go to the big house,” he said, “and speak to the deceased’s + sister, Marya Ivanovna. She may give us some evidence.” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then went off + to the big house. They found Klyauzov’s sister, a maiden lady of five and + forty, on her knees before a high family shrine of ikons. When she saw + portfolios and caps adorned with cockades in her visitors’ hands, she + turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions, so + to say,” the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. “We have come to you + with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . . There is a + suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered. God’s will, you + know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsar nor ploughman. Can you + not assist us with some fact, something that will throw light?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do not ask me!” said Marya Ivanovna, turning whiter still, and hiding + her face in her hands. “I can tell you nothing! Nothing! I implore you! I + can say nothing . . . What can I do? Oh, no, no . . . not a word . . . of + my brother! I would rather die than speak!” + </p> + <p> + Marya Ivanovna burst into tears and went away into another room. The + officials looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a + retreat. + </p> + <p> + “A devil of a woman!” said Dyukovsky, swearing as they went out of the big + house. “Apparently she knows something and is concealing it. And there is + something peculiar in the maid-servant’s expression too. . . . You wait a + bit, you devils! We will get to the bottom of it all!” + </p> + <p> + In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home by the light + of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summing up in their + minds the incidents of the day. Both were exhausted and sat silent. + Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite of his talkativeness, + Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to the old man. Towards the end of + the journey, however, the young man could endure the silence no longer, + and began: + </p> + <p> + “That Nikolashka has had a hand in the business,” he said, “<i>non + dubitandum est</i>. One can see from his mug too what sort of a chap he + is. . . . His alibi gives him away hand and foot. There is no doubt either + that he was not the instigator of the crime. He was only the stupid hired + tool. Do you agree? The discreet Psyekov plays a not unimportant part in + the affair too. His blue trousers, his embarrassment, his lying on the + stove from fright after the murder, his alibi, and Akulka.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep it up, you’re in your glory! According to you, if a man knows Akulka + he is the murderer. Ah, you hot-head! You ought to be sucking your bottle + instead of investigating cases! You used to be running after Akulka too, + does that mean that you had a hand in this business?” + </p> + <p> + “Akulka was a cook in your house for a month, too, but . . . I don’t say + anything. On that Saturday night I was playing cards with you, I saw you, + or I should be after you too. The woman is not the point, my good sir. The + point is the nasty, disgusting, mean feeling. . . . The discreet young man + did not like to be cut out, do you see. Vanity, do you see. . . . He + longed to be revenged. Then . . . His thick lips are a strong indication + of sensuality. Do you remember how he smacked his lips when he compared + Akulka to Nana? That he is burning with passion, the scoundrel, is beyond + doubt! And so you have wounded vanity and unsatisfied passion. That’s + enough to lead to murder. Two of them are in our hands, but who is the + third? Nikolashka and Psyekov held him. Who was it smothered him? Psyekov + is timid, easily embarrassed, altogether a coward. People like Nikolashka + are not equal to smothering with a pillow, they set to work with an axe or + a mallet. . . . Some third person must have smothered him, but who?” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky pulled his cap over his eyes, and pondered. He was silent till + the waggonette had driven up to the examining magistrate’s house. + </p> + <p> + “Eureka!” he said, as he went into the house, and took off his overcoat. + “Eureka, Nikolay Yermolaitch! I can’t understand how it is it didn’t occur + to me before. Do you know who the third is?” + </p> + <p> + “Do leave off, please! There’s supper ready. Sit down to supper!” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov and Dyukovsky sat down to supper. Dyukovsky poured himself out a + wine-glassful of vodka, got up, stretched, and with sparkling eyes, said: + </p> + <p> + “Let me tell you then that the third person who collaborated with the + scoundrel Psyekov and smothered him was a woman! Yes! I am speaking of the + murdered man’s sister, Marya Ivanovna!” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov coughed over his vodka and fastened his eyes on Dyukovsky. + </p> + <p> + “Are you . . . not quite right? Is your head . . . not quite right? Does + it ache?” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well. Very good, suppose I have gone out of my mind, but how + do you explain her confusion on our arrival? How do you explain her + refusal to give information? Admitting that that is trivial—very + good! All right!—but think of the terms they were on! She detested + her brother! She is an Old Believer, he was a profligate, a godless fellow + . . . that is what has bred hatred between them! They say he succeeded in + persuading her that he was an angel of Satan! He used to practise + spiritualism in her presence!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you understand? She’s an Old Believer, she murdered him through + fanaticism! She has not merely slain a wicked man, a profligate, she has + freed the world from Antichrist—and that she fancies is her merit, + her religious achievement! Ah, you don’t know these old maids, these Old + Believers! You should read Dostoevsky! And what does Lyeskov say . . . and + Petchersky! It’s she, it’s she, I’ll stake my life on it. She smothered + him! Oh, the fiendish woman! Wasn’t she, perhaps, standing before the + ikons when we went in to put us off the scent? ‘I’ll stand up and say my + prayers,’ she said to herself, ‘they will think I am calm and don’t expect + them.’ That’s the method of all novices in crime. Dear Nikolay + Yermolaitch! My dear man! Do hand this case over to me! Let me go through + with it to the end! My dear fellow! I have begun it, and I will carry it + through to the end.” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov shook his head and frowned. + </p> + <p> + “I am equal to sifting difficult cases myself,” he said. “And it’s your + place not to put yourself forward. Write what is dictated to you, that is + your business!” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky flushed crimson, walked out, and slammed the door. + </p> + <p> + “A clever fellow, the rogue,” Tchubikov muttered, looking after him. + “Ve-ery clever! Only inappropriately hasty. I shall have to buy him a + cigar-case at the fair for a present.” + </p> + <p> + Next morning a lad with a big head and a hare lip came from Klyauzovka. He + gave his name as the shepherd Danilko, and furnished a very interesting + piece of information. + </p> + <p> + “I had had a drop,” said he. “I stayed on till midnight at my crony’s. As + I was going home, being drunk, I got into the river for a bathe. I was + bathing and what do I see! Two men coming along the dam carrying something + black. ‘Tyoo!’ I shouted at them. They were scared, and cut along as fast + as they could go into the Makarev kitchen-gardens. Strike me dead, if it + wasn’t the master they were carrying!” + </p> + <p> + Towards evening of the same day Psyekov and Nikolashka were arrested and + taken under guard to the district town. In the town they were put in the + prison tower. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>welve days passed. + </p> + <p> + It was morning. The examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, was sitting + at a green table at home, looking through the papers, relating to the + “Klyauzov case”; Dyukovsky was pacing up and down the room restlessly, + like a wolf in a cage. + </p> + <p> + “You are convinced of the guilt of Nikolashka and Psyekov,” he said, + nervously pulling at his youthful beard. “Why is it you refuse to be + convinced of the guilt of Marya Ivanovna? Haven’t you evidence enough?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that I don’t believe in it. I am convinced of it, but somehow + I can’t believe it. . . . There is no real evidence. It’s all theoretical, + as it were. . . . Fanaticism and one thing and another. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “And you must have an axe and bloodstained sheets! . . . You lawyers! + Well, I will prove it to you then! Do give up your slip-shod attitude to + the psychological aspect of the case. Your Marya Ivanovna ought to be in + Siberia! I’ll prove it. If theoretical proof is not enough for you, I have + something material. . . . It will show you how right my theory is! Only + let me go about a little!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “The Swedish match! Have you forgotten? I haven’t forgotten it! I’ll find + out who struck it in the murdered man’s room! It was not struck by + Nikolashka, nor by Psyekov, neither of whom turned out to have matches + when searched, but a third person, that is Marya Ivanovna. And I will + prove it! . . . Only let me drive about the district, make some inquiries. + . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well, sit down. . . . Let us proceed to the examination.” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into the papers. + </p> + <p> + “Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!” cried the examining magistrate. + </p> + <p> + Nikolashka was brought in. He was pale and thin as a chip. He was + trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Tetchov!” began Tchubikov. “In 1879 you were convicted of theft and + condemned to a term of imprisonment. In 1882 you were condemned for theft + a second time, and a second time sent to prison . . . We know all about + it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + A look of surprise came up into Nikolashka’s face. The examining + magistrate’s omniscience amazed him, but soon wonder was replaced by an + expression of extreme distress. He broke into sobs, and asked leave to go + to wash, and calm himself. He was led out. + </p> + <p> + “Bring in Psyekov!” said the examining magistrate. + </p> + <p> + Psyekov was led in. The young man’s face had greatly changed during those + twelve days. He was thin, pale, and wasted. There was a look of apathy in + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Psyekov,” said Tchubikov. “I hope that to-day you will be + sensible and not persist in lying as on other occasions. All this time you + have denied your participation in the murder of Klyauzov, in spite of the + mass of evidence against you. It is senseless. Confession is some + mitigation of guilt. To-day I am talking to you for the last time. If you + don’t confess to-day, to-morrow it will be too late. Come, tell us. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing, and I don’t know your evidence,” whispered Psyekov. + </p> + <p> + “That’s useless! Well then, allow me to tell you how it happened. On + Saturday evening, you were sitting in Klyauzov’s bedroom drinking vodka + and beer with him.” (Dyukovsky riveted his eyes on Psyekov’s face, and did + not remove them during the whole monologue.) “Nikolay was waiting upon + you. Between twelve and one Mark Ivanitch told you he wanted to go to bed. + He always did go to bed at that time. While he was taking off his boots + and giving you some instructions regarding the estate, Nikolay and you at + a given signal seized your intoxicated master and flung him back upon the + bed. One of you sat on his feet, the other on his head. At that moment the + lady, you know who, in a black dress, who had arranged with you beforehand + the part she would take in the crime, came in from the passage. She picked + up the pillow, and proceeded to smother him with it. During the struggle, + the light went out. The woman took a box of Swedish matches out of her + pocket and lighted the candle. Isn’t that right? I see from your face that + what I say is true. Well, to proceed. . . . Having smothered him, and + being convinced that he had ceased to breathe, Nikolay and you dragged him + out of window and put him down near the burdocks. Afraid that he might + regain consciousness, you struck him with something sharp. Then you + carried him, and laid him for some time under a lilac bush. After resting + and considering a little, you carried him . . . lifted him over the + hurdle. . . . Then went along the road. . . Then comes the dam; near the + dam you were frightened by a peasant. But what is the matter with you?” + </p> + <p> + Psyekov, white as a sheet, got up, staggering. + </p> + <p> + “I am suffocating!” he said. “Very well. . . . So be it. . . . Only I must + go. . . . Please.” + </p> + <p> + Psyekov was led out. + </p> + <p> + “At last he has admitted it!” said Tchubikov, stretching at his ease. “He + has given himself away! How neatly I caught him there.” + </p> + <p> + “And he didn’t deny the woman in black!” said Dyukovsky, laughing. “I am + awfully worried over that Swedish match, though! I can’t endure it any + longer. Good-bye! I am going!” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky put on his cap and went off. Tchubikov began interrogating + Akulka. + </p> + <p> + Akulka declared that she knew nothing about it. . . . + </p> + <p> + “I have lived with you and with nobody else!” she said. + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock in the evening Dyukovsky returned. He was more excited than + ever. His hands trembled so much that he could not unbutton his overcoat. + His cheeks were burning. It was evident that he had not come back without + news. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Veni, vidi, vici!</i>” he cried, dashing into Tchubikov’s room and + sinking into an arm-chair. “I vow on my honour, I begin to believe in my + own genius. Listen, damnation take us! Listen and wonder, old friend! It’s + comic and it’s sad. You have three in your grasp already . . . haven’t + you? I have found a fourth murderer, or rather murderess, for it is a + woman! And what a woman! I would have given ten years of my life merely to + touch her shoulders. But . . . listen. I drove to Klyauzovka and proceeded + to describe a spiral round it. On the way I visited all the shopkeepers + and innkeepers, asking for Swedish matches. Everywhere I was told ‘No.’ I + have been on my round up to now. Twenty times I lost hope, and as many + times regained it. I have been on the go all day long, and only an hour + ago came upon what I was looking for. A couple of miles from here they + gave me a packet of a dozen boxes of matches. One box was missing . . . I + asked at once: ‘Who bought that box?’ ‘So-and-so. She took a fancy to + them. . . They crackle.’ My dear fellow! Nikolay Yermolaitch! What can + sometimes be done by a man who has been expelled from a seminary and + studied Gaboriau is beyond all conception! From to-day I shall began to + respect myself! . . . Ough. . . . Well, let us go!” + </p> + <p> + “Go where?” + </p> + <p> + “To her, to the fourth. . . . We must make haste, or . . . I shall explode + with impatience! Do you know who she is? You will never guess. The young + wife of our old police superintendent, Yevgraf Kuzmitch, Olga Petrovna; + that’s who it is! She bought that box of matches!” + </p> + <p> + “You . . . you. . . . Are you out of your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very natural! In the first place she smokes, and in the second she + was head over ears in love with Klyauzov. He rejected her love for the + sake of an Akulka. Revenge. I remember now, I once came upon them behind + the screen in the kitchen. She was cursing him, while he was smoking her + cigarette and puffing the smoke into her face. But do come along; make + haste, for it is getting dark already . . . . Let us go!” + </p> + <p> + “I have not gone so completely crazy yet as to disturb a respectable, + honourable woman at night for the sake of a wretched boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Honourable, respectable. . . . You are a rag then, not an examining + magistrate! I have never ventured to abuse you, but now you force me to + it! You rag! you old fogey! Come, dear Nikolay Yermolaitch, I entreat + you!” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate waved his hand in refusal and spat in disgust. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you! I beg you, not for my own sake, but in the interests of + justice! I beseech you, indeed! Do me a favour, if only for once in your + life!” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky fell on his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Yermolaitch, do be so good! Call me a scoundrel, a worthless + wretch if I am in error about that woman! It is such a case, you know! It + is a case! More like a novel than a case. The fame of it will be all over + Russia. They will make you examining magistrate for particularly important + cases! Do understand, you unreasonable old man!” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate frowned and irresolutely put out his hand towards + his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the devil take you!” he said, “let us go.” + </p> + <p> + It was already dark when the examining magistrate’s waggonette rolled up + to the police superintendent’s door. + </p> + <p> + “What brutes we are!” said Tchubikov, as he reached for the bell. “We are + disturbing people.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, never mind, don’t be frightened. We will say that one of the + springs has broken.” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov and Dyukovsky were met in the doorway by a tall, plump woman of + three and twenty, with eyebrows as black as pitch and full red lips. It + was Olga Petrovna herself. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, how very nice,” she said, smiling all over her face. “You are just in + time for supper. My Yevgraf Kuzmitch is not at home. . . . He is staying + at the priest’s. But we can get on without him. Sit down. Have you come + from an inquiry?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . We have broken one of our springs, you know,” began Tchubikov, + going into the drawing-room and sitting down in an easy-chair. + </p> + <p> + “Take her by surprise at once and overwhelm her,” Dyukovsky whispered to + him. + </p> + <p> + “A spring .. . er . . . yes. . . . We just drove up. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Overwhelm her, I tell you! She will guess if you go drawing it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do as you like, but spare me,” muttered Tchubikov, getting up and + walking to the window. “I can’t! You cooked the mess, you eat it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the spring,” Dyukovsky began, going up to the superintendent’s wife + and wrinkling his long nose. “We have not come in to . . . er-er-er . . . + supper, nor to see Yevgraf Kuzmitch. We have come to ask you, madam, where + is Mark Ivanovitch whom you have murdered?” + </p> + <p> + “What? What Mark Ivanovitch?” faltered the superintendent’s wife, and her + full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson. “I . . . + don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov? We know all about + it!” + </p> + <p> + “Through whom?” the superintendent’s wife asked slowly, unable to face + Dyukovsky’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Kindly inform us where he is!” + </p> + <p> + “But how did you find out? Who told you?” + </p> + <p> + “We know all about it. I insist in the name of the law.” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate, encouraged by the lady’s confusion, went up to + her. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us and we will go away. Otherwise we . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with him?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the object of such questions, madam? We ask you for information. + You are trembling, confused. . . . Yes, he has been murdered, and if you + will have it, murdered by you! Your accomplices have betrayed you!” + </p> + <p> + The police superintendent’s wife turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” she said quietly, wringing her hands. “He is hidden in the + bath-house. Only for God’s sake, don’t tell my husband! I implore you! It + would be too much for him.” + </p> + <p> + The superintendent’s wife took a big key from the wall, and led her + visitors through the kitchen and the passage into the yard. It was dark in + the yard. There was a drizzle of fine rain. The superintendent’s wife went + on ahead. Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her through the long grass, + breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, which made a squelching + sound under their feet. It was a big yard. Soon there were no more pools + of slops, and their feet felt ploughed land. In the darkness they saw the + silhouette of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked + chimney. + </p> + <p> + “This is the bath-house,” said the superintendent’s wife, “but, I implore + you, do not tell anyone.” + </p> + <p> + Going up to the bath-house, Tchubikov and Dyukovsky saw a large padlock on + the door. + </p> + <p> + “Get ready your candle-end and matches,” Tchubikov whispered to his + assistant. + </p> + <p> + The superintendent’s wife unlocked the padlock and let the visitors into + the bath-house. Dyukovsky struck a match and lighted up the entry. In the + middle of it stood a table. On the table, beside a podgy little samovar, + was a soup tureen with some cold cabbage-soup in it, and a dish with + traces of some sauce on it. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” + </p> + <p> + They went into the next room, the bath-room. There, too, was a table. On + the table there stood a big dish of ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives + and forks. + </p> + <p> + “But where is he . . . where’s the murdered man?” + </p> + <p> + “He is on the top shelf,” whispered the superintendent’s wife, turning + paler than ever and trembling. + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky took the candle-end in his hand and climbed up to the upper + shelf. There he saw a long, human body, lying motionless on a big feather + bed. The body emitted a faint snore. . . . + </p> + <p> + “They have made fools of us, damn it all!” Dyukovsky cried. “This is not + he! It is some living blockhead lying here. Hi! who are you, damnation + take you!” + </p> + <p> + The body drew in its breath with a whistling sound and moved. Dyukovsky + prodded it with his elbow. It lifted up its arms, stretched, and raised + its head. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that poking?” a hoarse, ponderous bass voice inquired. “What do + you want?” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered a + shriek. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, in the + pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted and pointed + insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov. + </p> + <p> + “You. . . . Mark . . . Ivanitch! Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered. + </p> + <p> + “It is I, yes. . . . And it’s you, Dyukovsky! What the devil do you want + here? And whose ugly mug is that down there? Holy Saints, it’s the + examining magistrate! How in the world did you come here?” + </p> + <p> + Klyauzov hurriedly got down and embraced Tchubikov. Olga Petrovna whisked + out of the door. + </p> + <p> + “However did you come? Let’s have a drink!—dash it all! + Tra-ta-ti-to-tom . . . . Let’s have a drink! Who brought you here, though? + How did you get to know I was here? It doesn’t matter, though! Have a + drink!” + </p> + <p> + Klyauzov lighted the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is, I don’t understand you,” said the examining magistrate, + throwing out his hands. “Is it you, or not you?” + </p> + <p> + “Stop that. . . . Do you want to give me a sermon? Don’t trouble yourself! + Dyukovsky boy, drink up your vodka! Friends, let us pass the . . . What + are you staring at . . . ? Drink!” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, I can’t understand,” said the examining magistrate, + mechanically drinking his vodka. “Why are you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t I be here, if I am comfortable here?” + </p> + <p> + Klyauzov sipped his vodka and ate some ham. + </p> + <p> + “I am staying with the superintendent’s wife, as you see. In the wilds + among the ruins, like some house goblin. Drink! I felt sorry for her, you + know, old man! I took pity on her, and, well, I am living here in the + deserted bath-house, like a hermit. . . . I am well fed. Next week I am + thinking of moving on. . . . I’ve had enough of it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Inconceivable!” said Dyukovsky. + </p> + <p> + “What is there inconceivable in it?” + </p> + <p> + “Inconceivable! For God’s sake, how did your boot get into the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “What boot?” + </p> + <p> + “We found one of your boots in the bedroom and the other in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want to know that for? It is not your business. But do + drink, dash it all. Since you have waked me up, you may as well drink! + There’s an interesting tale about that boot, my boy. I didn’t want to come + to Olga’s. I didn’t feel inclined, you know, I’d had a drop too much. . . + . She came under the window and began scolding me. . . . You know how + women . . . as a rule. Being drunk, I up and flung my boot at her. Ha-ha! + . . . ‘Don’t scold,’ I said. She clambered in at the window, lighted the + lamp, and gave me a good drubbing, as I was drunk. I have plenty to eat + here. . . . Love, vodka, and good things! But where are you off to? + Tchubikov, where are you off to?” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of the + bath-house. Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging. Both got into + the waggonette in silence and drove off. Never had the road seemed so long + and dreary. Both were silent. Tchubikov was shaking with anger all the + way. Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar as though he were afraid the + darkness and the drizzling rain might read his shame on his face. + </p> + <p> + On getting home the examining magistrate found the doctor, Tyutyuev, + there. The doctor was sitting at the table and heaving deep sighs as he + turned over the pages of the <i>Neva</i>. + </p> + <p> + “The things that are going on in the world,” he said, greeting the + examining magistrate with a melancholy smile. “Austria is at it again . . + . and Gladstone, too, in a way. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Tchubikov flung his hat under the table and began to tremble. + </p> + <p> + “You devil of a skeleton! Don’t bother me! I’ve told you a thousand times + over, don’t bother me with your politics! It’s not the time for politics! + And as for you,” he turned upon Dyukovsky and shook his fist at him, “as + for you. . . . I’ll never forget it, as long as I live!” + </p> + <p> + “But the Swedish match, you know! How could I tell. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Choke yourself with your match! Go away and don’t irritate me, or + goodness knows what I shall do to you. Don’t let me set eyes on you.” + </p> + <p> + Dyukovsky heaved a sigh, took his hat, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and get drunk!” he decided, as he went out of the gate, and he + sauntered dejectedly towards the tavern. + </p> + <p> + When the superintendent’s wife got home from the bath-house she found her + husband in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “What did the examining magistrate come about?” asked her husband. + </p> + <p> + “He came to say that they had found Klyauzov. Only fancy, they found him + staying with another man’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mark Ivanitch, Mark Ivanitch!” sighed the police superintendent, + turning up his eyes. “I told you that dissipation would lead to no good! I + told you so—you wouldn’t heed me!” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cook’s Wedding and Other Stories +by Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COOK’S WEDDING AND OTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 13417-h.htm or 13417-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/4/1/13417/ + + +Etext produced by James Rusk + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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