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diff --git a/old/1732-h.htm.2021-01-27 b/old/1732-h.htm.2021-01-27 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa91967 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1732-h.htm.2021-01-27 @@ -0,0 +1,8748 @@ +<?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> + <title> + The Schoolmistress and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + 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%;} + 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 {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Schoolmistress 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 Schoolmistress and Other Stories + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Release Date: February 21, 2006 [EBook #1732] +Last Updated: September 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND OTHER *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS <br /> AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Anton Chekhov + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + FROM THE TALES OF CHEKHOV, VOLUME 9 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkschool"> THE SCHOOLMISTRESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> MISERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CHAMPAGNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> AFTER THE THEATRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A LADY’S STORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IN EXILE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE CATTLE-DEALERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SORROW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ON OFFICIAL DUTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A TRAGIC ACTOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> A TRANSGRESSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> SMALL FRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE REQUIEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> IN THE COACH-HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> PANIC FEARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE BET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE HEAD-GARDENER’S STORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE BEAUTIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="linkschool" id="linkschool"></a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + </h2> + <p> + AT half-past eight they drove out of the town. + </p> + <p> + The highroad was dry, a lovely April sun was shining warmly, but the snow + was still lying in the ditches and in the woods. Winter, dark, long, and + spiteful, was hardly over; spring had come all of a sudden. But neither + the warmth nor the languid transparent woods, warmed by the breath of + spring, nor the black flocks of birds flying over the huge puddles that + were like lakes, nor the marvelous fathomless sky, into which it seemed + one would have gone away so joyfully, presented anything new or + interesting to Marya Vassilyevna who was sitting in the cart. For thirteen + years she had been schoolmistress, and there was no reckoning how many + times during all those years she had been to the town for her salary; and + whether it were spring as now, or a rainy autumn evening, or winter, it + was all the same to her, and she always—invariably—longed for + one thing only, to get to the end of her journey as quickly as could be. + </p> + <p> + She felt as though she had been living in that part of the country for + ages and ages, for a hundred years, and it seemed to her that she knew + every stone, every tree on the road from the town to her school. Her past + was here, her present was here, and she could imagine no other future than + the school, the road to the town and back again, and again the school and + again the road.... + </p> + <p> + She had got out of the habit of thinking of her past before she became a + schoolmistress, and had almost forgotten it. She had once had a father and + mother; they had lived in Moscow in a big flat near the Red Gate, but of + all that life there was left in her memory only something vague and fluid + like a dream. Her father had died when she was ten years old, and her + mother had died soon after.... She had a brother, an officer; at first + they used to write to each other, then her brother had given up answering + her letters, he had got out of the way of writing. Of her old belongings, + all that was left was a photograph of her mother, but it had grown dim + from the dampness of the school, and now nothing could be seen but the + hair and the eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + When they had driven a couple of miles, old Semyon, who was driving, + turned round and said: + </p> + <p> + “They have caught a government clerk in the town. They have taken him + away. The story is that with some Germans he killed Alexeyev, the Mayor, + in Moscow.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you that?” + </p> + <p> + “They were reading it in the paper, in Ivan Ionov’s tavern.” + </p> + <p> + And again they were silent for a long time. Marya Vassilyevna thought of + her school, of the examination that was coming soon, and of the girl and + four boys she was sending up for it. And just as she was thinking about + the examination, she was overtaken by a neighboring landowner called Hanov + in a carriage with four horses, the very man who had been examiner in her + school the year before. When he came up to her he recognized her and + bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” he said to her. “You are driving home, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + This Hanov, a man of forty with a listless expression and a face that + showed signs of wear, was beginning to look old, but was still handsome + and admired by women. He lived in his big homestead alone, and was not in + the service; and people used to say of him that he did nothing at home but + walk up and down the room whistling, or play chess with his old footman. + People said, too, that he drank heavily. And indeed at the examination the + year before the very papers he brought with him smelt of wine and scent. + He had been dressed all in new clothes on that occasion, and Marya + Vassilyevna thought him very attractive, and all the while she sat beside + him she had felt embarrassed. She was accustomed to see frigid and + sensible examiners at the school, while this one did not remember a single + prayer, or know what to ask questions about, and was exceedingly courteous + and delicate, giving nothing but the highest marks. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to visit Bakvist,” he went on, addressing Marya Vassilyevna, + “but I am told he is not at home.” + </p> + <p> + They turned off the highroad into a by-road to the village, Hanov leading + the way and Semyon following. The four horses moved at a walking pace, + with effort dragging the heavy carriage through the mud. Semyon tacked + from side to side, keeping to the edge of the road, at one time through a + snowdrift, at another through a pool, often jumping out of the cart and + helping the horse. Marya Vassilyevna was still thinking about the school, + wondering whether the arithmetic questions at the examination would be + difficult or easy. And she felt annoyed with the Zemstvo board at which + she had found no one the day before. How unbusiness-like! Here she had + been asking them for the last two years to dismiss the watchman, who did + nothing, was rude to her, and hit the schoolboys; but no one paid any + attention. It was hard to find the president at the office, and when one + did find him he would say with tears in his eyes that he hadn’t a moment + to spare; the inspector visited the school at most once in three years, + and knew nothing whatever about his work, as he had been in the Excise + Duties Department, and had received the post of school inspector through + influence. The School Council met very rarely, and there was no knowing + where it met; the school guardian was an almost illiterate peasant, the + head of a tanning business, unintelligent, rude, and a great friend of the + watchman’s—and goodness knows to whom she could appeal with + complaints or inquiries.... + </p> + <p> + “He really is handsome,” she thought, glancing at Hanov. + </p> + <p> + The road grew worse and worse.... They drove into the wood. Here there was + no room to turn round, the wheels sank deeply in, water splashed and + gurgled through them, and sharp twigs struck them in the face. + </p> + <p> + “What a road!” said Hanov, and he laughed. + </p> + <p> + The schoolmistress looked at him and could not understand why this queer + man lived here. What could his money, his interesting appearance, his + refined bearing do for him here, in this mud, in this God-forsaken, dreary + place? He got no special advantages out of life, and here, like Semyon, + was driving at a jog-trot on an appalling road and enduring the same + discomforts. Why live here if one could live in Petersburg or abroad? And + one would have thought it would be nothing for a rich man like him to make + a good road instead of this bad one, to avoid enduring this misery and + seeing the despair on the faces of his coachman and Semyon; but he only + laughed, and apparently did not mind, and wanted no better life. He was + kind, soft, naive, and he did not understand this coarse life, just as at + the examination he did not know the prayers. He subscribed nothing to the + schools but globes, and genuinely regarded himself as a useful person and + a prominent worker in the cause of popular education. And what use were + his globes here? + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, Vassilyevna!” said Semyon. + </p> + <p> + The cart lurched violently and was on the point of upsetting; something + heavy rolled on to Marya Vassilyevna’s feet—it was her parcel of + purchases. There was a steep ascent uphill through the clay; here in the + winding ditches rivulets were gurgling. The water seemed to have gnawed + away the road; and how could one get along here! The horses breathed hard. + Hanov got out of his carriage and walked at the side of the road in his + long overcoat. He was hot. + </p> + <p> + “What a road!” he said, and laughed again. “It would soon smash up one’s + carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody obliges you to drive about in such weather,” said Semyon surlily. + “You should stay at home.” + </p> + <p> + “I am dull at home, grandfather. I don’t like staying at home.” + </p> + <p> + Beside old Semyon he looked graceful and vigorous, but yet in his walk + there was something just perceptible which betrayed in him a being already + touched by decay, weak, and on the road to ruin. And all at once there was + a whiff of spirits in the wood. Marya Vassilyevna was filled with dread + and pity for this man going to his ruin for no visible cause or reason, + and it came into her mind that if she had been his wife or sister she + would have devoted her whole life to saving him from ruin. His wife! Life + was so ordered that here he was living in his great house alone, and she + was living in a God-forsaken village alone, and yet for some reason the + mere thought that he and she might be close to one another and equals + seemed impossible and absurd. In reality, life was arranged and human + relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when + one thought about it one felt uncanny and one’s heart sank. + </p> + <p> + “And it is beyond all understanding,” she thought, “why God gives beauty, + this graciousness, and sad, sweet eyes to weak, unlucky, useless people—why + they are so charming.” + </p> + <p> + “Here we must turn off to the right,” said Hanov, getting into his + carriage. “Good-by! I wish you all things good!” + </p> + <p> + And again she thought of her pupils, of the examination, of the watchman, + of the School Council; and when the wind brought the sound of the + retreating carriage these thoughts were mingled with others. She longed to + think of beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness which would never + be.... + </p> + <p> + His wife? It was cold in the morning, there was no one to heat the stove, + the watchman disappeared; the children came in as soon as it was light, + bringing in snow and mud and making a noise: it was all so inconvenient, + so comfortless. Her abode consisted of one little room and the kitchen + close by. Her head ached every day after her work, and after dinner she + had heart-burn. She had to collect money from the school-children for wood + and for the watchman, and to give it to the school guardian, and then to + entreat him—that overfed, insolent peasant—for God’s sake to + send her wood. And at night she dreamed of examinations, peasants, + snowdrifts. And this life was making her grow old and coarse, making her + ugly, angular, and awkward, as though she were made of lead. She was + always afraid, and she would get up from her seat and not venture to sit + down in the presence of a member of the Zemstvo or the school guardian. + And she used formal, deferential expressions when she spoke of any one of + them. And no one thought her attractive, and life was passing drearily, + without affection, without friendly sympathy, without interesting + acquaintances. How awful it would have been in her position if she had + fallen in love! + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, Vassilyevna!” + </p> + <p> + Again a sharp ascent uphill.... + </p> + <p> + She had become a schoolmistress from necessity, without feeling any + vocation for it; and she had never thought of a vocation, of serving the + cause of enlightenment; and it always seemed to her that what was most + important in her work was not the children, nor enlightenment, but the + examinations. And what time had she for thinking of vocation, of serving + the cause of enlightenment? Teachers, badly paid doctors, and their + assistants, with their terribly hard work, have not even the comfort of + thinking that they are serving an idea or the people, as their heads are + always stuffed with thoughts of their daily bread, of wood for the fire, + of bad roads, of illnesses. It is a hard-working, an uninteresting life, + and only silent, patient cart-horses like Mary Vassilyevna could put up + with it for long; the lively, nervous, impressionable people who talked + about vocation and serving the idea were soon weary of it and gave up the + work. + </p> + <p> + Semyon kept picking out the driest and shortest way, first by a meadow, + then by the backs of the village huts; but in one place the peasants would + not let them pass, in another it was the priest’s land and they could not + cross it, in another Ivan Ionov had bought a plot from the landowner and + had dug a ditch round it. They kept having to turn back. + </p> + <p> + They reached Nizhneye Gorodistche. Near the tavern on the dung-strewn + earth, where the snow was still lying, there stood wagons that had brought + great bottles of crude sulphuric acid. There were a great many people in + the tavern, all drivers, and there was a smell of vodka, tobacco, and + sheepskins. There was a loud noise of conversation and the banging of the + swing-door. Through the wall, without ceasing for a moment, came the sound + of a concertina being played in the shop. Marya Vassilyevna sat down and + drank some tea, while at the next table peasants were drinking vodka and + beer, perspiring from the tea they had just swallowed and the stifling + fumes of the tavern. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Kuzma!” voices kept shouting in confusion. “What there!” “The Lord + bless us!” “Ivan Dementyitch, I can tell you that!” “Look out, old man!” + </p> + <p> + A little pock-marked man with a black beard, who was quite drunk, was + suddenly surprised by something and began using bad language. + </p> + <p> + “What are you swearing at, you there?” Semyon, who was sitting some way + off, responded angrily. “Don’t you see the young lady?” + </p> + <p> + “The young lady!” someone mimicked in another corner. + </p> + <p> + “Swinish crow!” + </p> + <p> + “We meant nothing...” said the little man in confusion. “I beg your + pardon. We pay with our money and the young lady with hers. Good-morning!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” answered the schoolmistress. + </p> + <p> + “And we thank you most feelingly.” + </p> + <p> + Marya Vassilyevna drank her tea with satisfaction, and she, too, began + turning red like the peasants, and fell to thinking again about firewood, + about the watchman.... + </p> + <p> + “Stay, old man,” she heard from the next table, “it’s the schoolmistress + from Vyazovye.... We know her; she’s a good young lady.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s all right!” + </p> + <p> + The swing-door was continually banging, some coming in, others going out. + Marya Vassilyevna sat on, thinking all the time of the same things, while + the concertina went on playing and playing. The patches of sunshine had + been on the floor, then they passed to the counter, to the wall, and + disappeared altogether; so by the sun it was past midday. The peasants at + the next table were getting ready to go. The little man, somewhat + unsteadily, went up to Marya Vassilyevna and held out his hand to her; + following his example, the others shook hands, too, at parting, and went + out one after another, and the swing-door squeaked and slammed nine times. + </p> + <p> + “Vassilyevna, get ready,” Semyon called to her. + </p> + <p> + They set off. And again they went at a walking pace. + </p> + <p> + “A little while back they were building a school here in their Nizhneye + Gorodistche,” said Semyon, turning round. “It was a wicked thing that was + done!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what?” + </p> + <p> + “They say the president put a thousand in his pocket, and the school + guardian another thousand in his, and the teacher five hundred.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole school only cost a thousand. It’s wrong to slander people, + grandfather. That’s all nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,... I only tell you what folks say.” + </p> + <p> + But it was clear that Semyon did not believe the schoolmistress. The + peasants did not believe her. They always thought she received too large a + salary, twenty-one roubles a month (five would have been enough), and that + of the money that she collected from the children for the firewood and the + watchman the greater part she kept for herself. The guardian thought the + same as the peasants, and he himself made a profit off the firewood and + received payments from the peasants for being a guardian—without the + knowledge of the authorities. + </p> + <p> + The forest, thank God! was behind them, and now it would be flat, open + ground all the way to Vyazovye, and there was not far to go now. They had + to cross the river and then the railway line, and then Vyazovye was in + sight. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you driving?” Marya Vassilyevna asked Semyon. “Take the road to + the right to the bridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, we can go this way as well. It’s not deep enough to matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind you don’t drown the horse.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Look, Hanov is driving to the bridge,” said Marya Vassilyevna, seeing the + four horses far away to the right. “It is he, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “It is. So he didn’t find Bakvist at home. What a pig-headed fellow he is. + Lord have mercy upon us! He’s driven over there, and what for? It’s fully + two miles nearer this way.” + </p> + <p> + They reached the river. In the summer it was a little stream easily + crossed by wading. It usually dried up in August, but now, after the + spring floods, it was a river forty feet in breadth, rapid, muddy, and + cold; on the bank and right up to the water there were fresh tracks of + wheels, so it had been crossed here. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” shouted Semyon angrily and anxiously, tugging violently at the + reins and jerking his elbows as a bird does its wings. “Go on!” + </p> + <p> + The horse went on into the water up to his belly and stopped, but at once + went on again with an effort, and Marya Vassilyevna was aware of a keen + chilliness in her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” she, too, shouted, getting up. “Go on!” + </p> + <p> + They got out on the bank. + </p> + <p> + “Nice mess it is, Lord have mercy upon us!” muttered Semyon, setting + straight the harness. “It’s a perfect plague with this Zemstvo....” + </p> + <p> + Her shoes and goloshes were full of water, the lower part of her dress and + of her coat and one sleeve were wet and dripping: the sugar and flour had + got wet, and that was worst of all, and Marya Vassilyevna could only clasp + her hands in despair and say: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Semyon, Semyon! How tiresome you are really!...” + </p> + <p> + The barrier was down at the railway crossing. A train was coming out of + the station. Marya Vassilyevna stood at the crossing waiting till it + should pass, and shivering all over with cold. Vyazovye was in sight now, + and the school with the green roof, and the church with its crosses + flashing in the evening sun: and the station windows flashed too, and a + pink smoke rose from the engine... and it seemed to her that everything + was trembling with cold. + </p> + <p> + Here was the train; the windows reflected the gleaming light like the + crosses on the church: it made her eyes ache to look at them. On the + little platform between two first-class carriages a lady was standing, and + Marya Vassilyevna glanced at her as she passed. Her mother! What a + resemblance! Her mother had had just such luxuriant hair, just such a brow + and bend of the head. And with amazing distinctness, for the first time in + those thirteen years, there rose before her mind a vivid picture of her + mother, her father, her brother, their flat in Moscow, the aquarium with + little fish, everything to the tiniest detail; she heard the sound of the + piano, her father’s voice; she felt as she had been then, young, + good-looking, well-dressed, in a bright warm room among her own people. A + feeling of joy and happiness suddenly came over her, she pressed her hands + to her temples in an ecstacy, and called softly, beseechingly: + </p> + <p> + “Mother!” + </p> + <p> + And she began crying, she did not know why. Just at that instant Hanov + drove up with his team of four horses, and seeing him she imagined + happiness such as she had never had, and smiled and nodded to him as an + equal and a friend, and it seemed to her that her happiness, her triumph, + was glowing in the sky and on all sides, in the windows and on the trees. + Her father and mother had never died, she had never been a schoolmistress, + it was a long, tedious, strange dream, and now she had awakened.... + </p> + <p> + “Vassilyevna, get in!” + </p> + <p> + And at once it all vanished. The barrier was slowly raised. Marya + Vassilyevna, shivering and numb with cold, got into the cart. The carriage + with the four horses crossed the railway line; Semyon followed it. The + signalman took off his cap. + </p> + <p> + “And here is Vyazovye. Here we are.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN + </h2> + <p> + A MEDICAL student called Mayer, and a pupil of the Moscow School of + Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture called Rybnikov, went one evening to + see their friend Vassilyev, a law student, and suggested that he should go + with them to S. Street. For a long time Vassilyev would not consent to go, + but in the end he put on his greatcoat and went with them. + </p> + <p> + He knew nothing of fallen women except by hearsay and from books, and he + had never in his life been in the houses in which they live. He knew that + there are immoral women who, under the pressure of fatal circumstances—environment, + bad education, poverty, and so on—are forced to sell their honor for + money. They know nothing of pure love, have no children, have no civil + rights; their mothers and sisters weep over them as though they were dead, + science treats of them as an evil, men address them with contemptuous + familiarity. But in spite of all that, they do not lose the semblance and + image of God. They all acknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. Of + the means that lead to salvation they can avail themselves to the fullest + extent. Society, it is true, will not forgive people their past, but in + the sight of God St. Mary of Egypt is no lower than the other saints. When + it had happened to Vassilyev in the street to recognize a fallen woman as + such, by her dress or her manners, or to see a picture of one in a comic + paper, he always remembered a story he had once read: a young man, pure + and self-sacrificing, loves a fallen woman and urges her to become his + wife; she, considering herself unworthy of such happiness, takes poison. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev lived in one of the side streets turning out of Tverskoy + Boulevard. When he came out of the house with his two friends it was about + eleven o’clock. The first snow had not long fallen, and all nature was + under the spell of the fresh snow. There was the smell of snow in the air, + the snow crunched softly under the feet; the earth, the roofs, the trees, + the seats on the boulevard, everything was soft, white, young, and this + made the houses look quite different from the day before; the street lamps + burned more brightly, the air was more transparent, the carriages rumbled + with a deeper note, and with the fresh, light, frosty air a feeling + stirred in the soul akin to the white, youthful, feathery snow. “Against + my will an unknown force,” hummed the medical student in his agreeable + tenor, “has led me to these mournful shores.” + </p> + <p> + “Behold the mill...” the artist seconded him, “in ruins now....” + </p> + <p> + “Behold the mill... in ruins now,” the medical student repeated, raising + his eyebrows and shaking his head mournfully. + </p> + <p> + He paused, rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the words, and then + sang aloud, so well that passers-by looked round: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here in old days when I was free, + Love, free, unfettered, greeted me.” + </pre> + <p> + The three of them went into a restaurant and, without taking off their + greatcoats, drank a couple of glasses of vodka each. Before drinking the + second glass, Vassilyev noticed a bit of cork in his vodka, raised the + glass to his eyes, and gazed into it for a long time, screwing up his + shortsighted eyes. The medical student did not understand his expression, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Come, why look at it? No philosophizing, please. Vodka is given us to be + drunk, sturgeon to be eaten, women to be visited, snow to be walked upon. + For one evening anyway live like a human being!” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t said anything...” said Vassilyev, laughing. “Am I refusing + to?” + </p> + <p> + There was a warmth inside him from the vodka. He looked with softened + feelings at his friends, admired them and envied them. In these strong, + healthy, cheerful people how wonderfully balanced everything is, how + finished and smooth is everything in their minds and souls! They sing, and + have a passion for the theatre, and draw, and talk a great deal, and + drink, and they don’t have headaches the day after; they are both poetical + and debauched, both soft and hard; they can work, too, and be indignant, + and laugh without reason, and talk nonsense; they are warm, honest, + self-sacrificing, and as men are in no way inferior to himself, Vassilyev, + who watched over every step he took and every word he uttered, who was + fastidious and cautious, and ready to raise every trifle to the level of a + problem. And he longed for one evening to live as his friends did, to open + out, to let himself loose from his own control. If vodka had to be drunk, + he would drink it, though his head would be splitting next morning. If he + were taken to the women he would go. He would laugh, play the fool, gaily + respond to the passing advances of strangers in the street.... + </p> + <p> + He went out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends—one in + a crushed broad-brimmed hat, with an affectation of artistic untidiness; + the other in a sealskin cap, a man not poor, though he affected to belong + to the Bohemia of learning. He liked the snow, the pale street lamps, the + sharp black tracks left in the first snow by the feet of the passers-by. + He liked the air, and especially that limpid, tender, naive, as it were + virginal tone, which can be seen in nature only twice in the year—when + everything is covered with snow, and in spring on bright days and + moonlight evenings when the ice breaks on the river. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Against my will an unknown force, + Has led me to these mournful shores,” + </pre> + <p> + he hummed in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + And the tune for some reason haunted him and his friends all the way, and + all three of them hummed it mechanically, not in time with one another. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev’s imagination was picturing how, in another ten minutes, he and + his friends would knock at a door; how by little dark passages and dark + rooms they would steal in to the women; how, taking advantage of the + darkness, he would strike a match, would light up and see the face of a + martyr and a guilty smile. The unknown, fair or dark, would certainly have + her hair down and be wearing a white dressing-jacket; she would be + panic-stricken by the light, would be fearfully confused, and would say: + “For God’s sake, what are you doing! Put it out!” It would all be + dreadful, but interesting and new. + </p> + + <p> + The friends turned out of Trubnoy Square into Gratchevka, and soon reached + the side street which Vassilyev only knew by reputation. Seeing two rows + of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide-open doors, and hearing + gay strains of pianos and violins, sounds which floated out from every + door and mingled in a strange chaos, as though an unseen orchestra were + tuning up in the darkness above the roofs, Vassilyev was surprised and + said: + </p> + <p> + “What a lot of houses!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nothing,” said the medical student. “In London there are ten times + as many. There are about a hundred thousand such women there.” + </p> + <p> + The cabmen were sitting on their boxes as calmly and indifferently as in + any other side street; the same passers-by were walking along the pavement + as in other streets. No one was hurrying, no one was hiding his face in + his coat-collar, no one shook his head reproachfully.... And in this + indifference to the noisy chaos of pianos and violins, to the bright + windows and wide-open doors, there was a feeling of something very open, + insolent, reckless, and devil-may-care. Probably it was as gay and noisy + at the slave-markets in their day, and people’s faces and movements showed + the same indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Let us begin from the beginning,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + The friends went into a narrow passage lighted by a lamp with a reflector. + When they opened the door a man in a black coat, with an unshaven face + like a flunkey’s, and sleepy-looking eyes, got up lazily from a yellow + sofa in the hall. The place smelt like a laundry with an odor of vinegar + in addition. A door from the hall led into a brightly lighted room. The + medical student and the artist stopped at this door and, craning their + necks, peeped into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Buona sera, signori, rigolleto—hugenotti—traviata!” began the + artist, with a theatrical bow. + </p> + <p> + “Havanna—tarakano—pistoleto!” said the medical student, + pressing his cap to his breast and bowing low. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev was standing behind them. He would have liked to make a + theatrical bow and say something silly, too, but he only smiled, felt an + awkwardness that was like shame, and waited impatiently for what would + happen next. + </p> + <p> + A little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, in a short + light-blue frock with a bunch of white ribbon on her bosom, appeared in + the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stand at the door?” she said. “Take off your coats and come + into the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + The medical student and the artist, still talking Italian, went into the + drawing-room. Vassilyev followed them irresolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, take off your coats!” the flunkey said sternly; “you can’t go + in like that.” + </p> + <p> + In the drawing-room there was, besides the girl, another woman, very stout + and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She was sitting near the + piano, laying out a game of patience on her lap. She took no notice + whatever of the visitors. + </p> + <p> + “Where are the other young ladies?” asked the medical student. + </p> + <p> + “They are having their tea,” said the fair girl. “Stepan,” she called, “go + and tell the young ladies some students have come!” + </p> + <p> + A little later a third young lady came into the room. She was wearing a + bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was painted thickly and + unskillfully, her brow was hidden under her hair, and there was an + unblinking, frightened stare in her eyes. As she came in, she began at + once singing some song in a coarse, powerful contralto. After her a fourth + appeared, and after her a fifth.... + </p> + <p> + In all this Vassilyev saw nothing new or interesting. It seemed to him + that that room, the piano, the looking-glass in its cheap gilt frame, the + bunch of white ribbon, the dress with the blue stripes, and the blank + indifferent faces, he had seen before and more than once. Of the darkness, + the silence, the secrecy, the guilty smile, of all that he had expected to + meet here and had dreaded, he saw no trace. + </p> + <p> + Everything was ordinary, prosaic, and uninteresting. Only one thing + faintly stirred his curiosity—the terrible, as it were intentionally + designed, bad taste which was visible in the cornices, in the absurd + pictures, in the dresses, in the bunch of ribbons. There was something + characteristic and peculiar in this bad taste. + </p> + <p> + “How poor and stupid it all is!” thought Vassilyev. “What is there in all + this trumpery I see now that can tempt a normal man and excite him to + commit the horrible sin of buying a human being for a rouble? I understand + any sin for the sake of splendor, beauty, grace, passion, taste; but what + is there here? What is there here worth sinning for? But... one mustn’t + think!” + </p> + <p> + “Beardy, treat me to some porter!” said the fair girl, addressing him. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev was at once overcome with confusion. + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “Only excuse me, madam, I.... I + won’t drink with you. I don’t drink.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later the friends went off into another house. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you ask for porter?” said the medical student angrily. “What a + millionaire! You have thrown away six roubles for no reason whatever—simply + waste!” + </p> + <p> + “If she wants it, why not let her have the pleasure?” said Vassilyev, + justifying himself. + </p> + <p> + “You did not give pleasure to her, but to the ‘Madam.’ They are told to + ask the visitors to stand them treat because it is a profit to the + keeper.” + </p> + <p> + “Behold the mill...” hummed the artist, “in ruins now....” + </p> + <p> + Going into the next house, the friends stopped in the hall and did not go + into the drawing-room. Here, as in the first house, a figure in a black + coat, with a sleepy face like a flunkey’s, got up from a sofa in the hall. + Looking at this flunkey, at his face and his shabby black coat, Vassilyev + thought: “What must an ordinary simple Russian have gone through before + fate flung him down as a flunkey here? Where had he been before and what + had he done? What was awaiting him? Was he married? Where was his mother, + and did she know that he was a servant here?” And Vassilyev could not help + particularly noticing the flunkey in each house. In one of the houses—he + thought it was the fourth—there was a little spare, frail-looking + flunkey with a watch-chain on his waistcoat. He was reading a newspaper, + and took no notice of them when they went in. Looking at his face + Vassilyev, for some reason, thought that a man with such a face might + steal, might murder, might bear false witness. But the face was really + interesting: a big forehead, gray eyes, a little flattened nose, thin + compressed lips, and a blankly stupid and at the same time insolent + expression like that of a young harrier overtaking a hare. Vassilyev + thought it would be nice to touch this man’s hair, to see whether it was + soft or coarse. It must be coarse like a dog’s. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + Having drunk two glasses of porter, the artist became suddenly tipsy and + grew unnaturally lively. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go to another!” he said peremptorily, waving his hands. “I will + take you to the best one.” + </p> + <p> + When he had brought his friends to the house which in his opinion was the + best, he declared his firm intention of dancing a quadrille. The medical + student grumbled something about their having to pay the musicians a + rouble, but agreed to be his <i>vis-a-vis</i>. They began dancing. + </p> + <p> + It was just as nasty in the best house as in the worst. Here there were + just the same looking-glasses and pictures, the same styles of coiffure + and dress. Looking round at the furnishing of the rooms and the costumes, + Vassilyev realized that this was not lack of taste, but something that + might be called the taste, and even the style, of S. Street, which could + not be found elsewhere—something intentional in its ugliness, not + accidental, but elaborated in the course of years. After he had been in + eight houses he was no longer surprised at the color of the dresses, at + the long trains, the gaudy ribbons, the sailor dresses, and the thick + purplish rouge on the cheeks; he saw that it all had to be like this, that + if a single one of the women had been dressed like a human being, or if + there had been one decent engraving on the wall, the general tone of the + whole street would have suffered. + </p> + <p> + “How unskillfully they sell themselves!” he thought. “How can they fail to + understand that vice is only alluring when it is beautiful and hidden, + when it wears the mask of virtue? Modest black dresses, pale faces, + mournful smiles, and darkness would be far more effective than this clumsy + tawdriness. Stupid things! If they don’t understand it of themselves, + their visitors might surely have taught them....” + </p> + <p> + A young lady in a Polish dress edged with white fur came up to him and sat + down beside him. + </p> + <p> + “You nice dark man, why aren’t you dancing?” she asked. “Why are you so + dull?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it is dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Treat me to some Lafitte. Then it won’t be dull.” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev made no answer. He was silent for a little, and then asked: + </p> + <p> + “What time do you get to sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “At six o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “And what time do you get up?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes at two and sometimes at three.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you do when you get up?” + </p> + <p> + “We have coffee, and at six o’clock we have dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you have for dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “Usually soup, beefsteak, and dessert. Our madam keeps the girls well. But + why do you ask all this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just to talk....” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev longed to talk to the young lady about many things. He felt an + intense desire to find out where she came from, whether her parents were + living, and whether they knew that she was here; how she had come into + this house; whether she were cheerful and satisfied, or sad and oppressed + by gloomy thoughts; whether she hoped some day to get out of her present + position.... But he could not think how to begin or in what shape to put + his questions so as not to seem impertinent. He thought for a long time, + and asked: + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Eighty,” the young lady jested, looking with a laugh at the antics of the + artist as he danced. + </p> + <p> + All at once she burst out laughing at something, and uttered a long + cynical sentence loud enough to be heard by everyone. Vassilyev was + aghast, and not knowing how to look, gave a constrained smile. He was the + only one who smiled; all the others, his friends, the musicians, the + women, did not even glance towards his neighbor, but seemed not to have + heard her. + </p> + <p> + “Stand me some Lafitte,” his neighbor said again. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev felt a repulsion for her white fur and for her voice, and walked + away from her. It seemed to him hot and stifling, and his heart began + throbbing slowly but violently, like a hammer—one! two! three! + </p> + <p> + “Let us go away!” he said, pulling the artist by his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little; let me finish.” + </p> + <p> + While the artist and the medical student were finishing the quadrille, to + avoid looking at the women, Vassilyev scrutinized the musicians. A + respectable-looking old man in spectacles, rather like Marshal Bazaine, + was playing the piano; a young man with a fair beard, dressed in the + latest fashion, was playing the violin. The young man had a face that did + not look stupid nor exhausted, but intelligent, youthful, and fresh. He + was dressed fancifully and with taste; he played with feeling. It was a + mystery how he and the respectable-looking old man had come here. How was + it they were not ashamed to sit here? What were they thinking about when + they looked at the women? + </p> + <p> + If the violin and the piano had been played by men in rags, looking + hungry, gloomy, drunken, with dissipated or stupid faces, then one could + have understood their presence, perhaps. As it was, Vassilyev could not + understand it at all. He recalled the story of the fallen woman he had + once read, and he thought now that that human figure with the guilty smile + had nothing in common with what he was seeing now. It seemed to him that + he was seeing not fallen women, but some different world quite apart, + alien to him and incomprehensible; if he had seen this world before on the + stage, or read of it in a book, he would not have believed in it.... + </p> + <p> + The woman with the white fur burst out laughing again and uttered a + loathsome sentence in a loud voice. A feeling of disgust took possession + of him. He flushed crimson and went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, we are coming too!” the artist shouted to him. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + “While we were dancing,” said the medical student, as they all three went + out into the street, “I had a conversation with my partner. We talked + about her first romance. He, the hero, was an accountant at Smolensk with + a wife and five children. She was seventeen, and she lived with her papa + and mamma, who sold soap and candles.” + </p> + <p> + “How did he win her heart?” asked Vassilyev. + </p> + <p> + “By spending fifty roubles on underclothes for her. What next!” + </p> + <p> + “So he knew how to get his partner’s story out of her,” thought Vassilyev + about the medical student. “But I don’t know how to.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, I am going home!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I don’t know how to behave here. Besides, I am bored, disgusted. + What is there amusing in it? If they were human beings—but they are + savages and animals. I am going; do as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Grisha, Grigory, darling...” said the artist in a tearful voice, + hugging Vassilyev, “come along! Let’s go to one more together and + damnation take them!... Please do, Grisha!” + </p> + <p> + They persuaded Vassilyev and led him up a staircase. In the carpet and the + gilt banisters, in the porter who opened the door, and in the panels that + decorated the hall, the same S. Street style was apparent, but carried to + a greater perfection, more imposing. + </p> + <p> + “I really will go home!” said Vassilyev as he was taking off his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, dear boy,” said the artist, and he kissed him on the neck. + “Don’t be tiresome.... Gri-gri, be a good comrade! We came together, we + will go back together. What a beast you are, really!” + </p> + <p> + “I can wait for you in the street. I think it’s loathsome, really!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Grisha.... If it is loathsome, you can observe it! Do you + understand? You can observe!” + </p> + <p> + “One must take an objective view of things,” said the medical student + gravely. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev went into the drawing-room and sat down. There were a number of + visitors in the room besides him and his friends: two infantry officers, a + bald, gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, two beardless youths from the + institute of land-surveying, and a very tipsy man who looked like an + actor. All the young ladies were taken up with these visitors and paid no + attention to Vassilyev. + </p> + <p> + Only one of them, dressed <i>a la Aida,</i> glanced sideways at him, + smiled, and said, yawning: “A dark one has come....” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev’s heart was throbbing and his face burned. He felt ashamed + before these visitors of his presence here, and he felt disgusted and + miserable. He was tormented by the thought that he, a decent and loving + man (such as he had hitherto considered himself), hated these women and + felt nothing but repulsion towards them. He felt pity neither for the + women nor the musicians nor the flunkeys. + </p> + <p> + “It is because I am not trying to understand them,” he thought. “They are + all more like animals than human beings, but of course they are human + beings all the same, they have souls. One must understand them and then + judge....” + </p> + <p> + “Grisha, don’t go, wait for us,” the artist shouted to him and + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The medical student disappeared soon after. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, one must make an effort to understand, one mustn’t be like this....” + Vassilyev went on thinking. + </p> + <p> + And he began gazing at each of the women with strained attention, looking + for a guilty smile. But either he did not know how to read their faces, or + not one of these women felt herself to be guilty; he read on every face + nothing but a blank expression of everyday vulgar boredom and complacency. + Stupid faces, stupid smiles, harsh, stupid voices, insolent movements, and + nothing else. Apparently each of them had in the past a romance with an + accountant based on underclothes for fifty roubles, and looked for no + other charm in the present but coffee, a dinner of three courses, wines, + quadrilles, sleeping till two in the afternoon.... + </p> + <p> + Finding no guilty smile, Vassilyev began to look whether there was not one + intelligent face. And his attention was caught by one pale, rather sleepy, + exhausted-looking face.... It was a dark woman, not very young, wearing a + dress covered with spangles; she was sitting in an easy-chair, looking at + the floor lost in thought. Vassilyev walked from one corner of the room to + the other, and, as though casually, sat down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I must begin with something trivial,” he thought, “and pass to what is + serious....” + </p> + <p> + “What a pretty dress you have,” and with his finger he touched the gold + fringe of her fichu. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is it?...” said the dark woman listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “What province do you come from?” + </p> + <p> + “I? From a distance.... From Tchernigov.” + </p> + <p> + “A fine province. It’s nice there.” + </p> + <p> + “Any place seems nice when one is not in it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pity I cannot describe nature,” thought Vassilyev. “I might touch + her by a description of nature in Tchernigov. No doubt she loves the place + if she has been born there.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you dull here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you go away from here if you are dull?” + </p> + <p> + “Where should I go to? Go begging or what?” + </p> + <p> + “Begging would be easier than living here.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that? Have you begged?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when I hadn’t the money to study. Even if I hadn’t anyone could + understand that. A beggar is anyway a free man, and you are a slave.” + </p> + <p> + The dark woman stretched, and watched with sleepy eyes the footman who was + bringing a trayful of glasses and seltzer water. + </p> + <p> + “Stand me a glass of porter,” she said, and yawned again. + </p> + <p> + “Porter,” thought Vassilyev. “And what if your brother or mother walked in + at this moment? What would you say? And what would they say? There would + be porter then, I imagine....” + </p> + <p> + All at once there was the sound of weeping. From the adjoining room, from + which the footman had brought the seltzer water, a fair man with a red + face and angry eyes ran in quickly. He was followed by the tall, stout + “madam,” who was shouting in a shrill voice: + </p> + <p> + “Nobody has given you leave to slap girls on the cheeks! We have visitors + better than you, and they don’t fight! Impostor!” + </p> + <p> + A hubbub arose. Vassilyev was frightened and turned pale. In the next room + there was the sound of bitter, genuine weeping, as though of someone + insulted. And he realized that there were real people living here who, + like people everywhere else, felt insulted, suffered, wept, and cried for + help. The feeling of oppressive hate and disgust gave way to an acute + feeling of pity and anger against the aggressor. He rushed into the room + where there was weeping. Across rows of bottles on a marble-top table he + distinguished a suffering face, wet with tears, stretched out his hands + towards that face, took a step towards the table, but at once drew back in + horror. The weeping girl was drunk. + </p> + <p> + As he made his way though the noisy crowd gathered about the fair man, his + heart sank and he felt frightened like a child; and it seemed to him that + in this alien, incomprehensible world people wanted to pursue him, to beat + him, to pelt him with filthy words.... He tore down his coat from the + hatstand and ran headlong downstairs. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + Leaning against the fence, he stood near the house waiting for his friends + to come out. The sounds of the pianos and violins, gay, reckless, + insolent, and mournful, mingled in the air in a sort of chaos, and this + tangle of sounds seemed again like an unseen orchestra tuning up on the + roofs. If one looked upwards into the darkness, the black background was + all spangled with white, moving spots: it was snow falling. As the + snowflakes came into the light they floated round lazily in the air like + down, and still more lazily fell to the ground. The snowflakes whirled + thickly round Vassilyev and hung upon his beard, his eyelashes, his + eyebrows.... The cabmen, the horses, and the passers-by were white. + </p> + <p> + “And how can the snow fall in this street!” thought Vassilyev. “Damnation + take these houses!” + </p> + <p> + His legs seemed to be giving way from fatigue, simply from having run down + the stairs; he gasped for breath as though he had been climbing uphill, + his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it. He was consumed by a + desire to get out of the street as quickly as possible and to go home, but + even stronger was his desire to wait for his companions and vent upon them + his oppressive feeling. + </p> + <p> + There was much he did not understand in these houses, the souls of ruined + women were a mystery to him as before; but it was clear to him that the + thing was far worse than could have been believed. If that sinful woman + who had poisoned herself was called fallen, it was difficult to find a + fitting name for all these who were dancing now to this tangle of sound + and uttering long, loathsome sentences. They were not on the road to ruin, + but ruined. + </p> + <p> + “There is vice,” he thought, “but neither consciousness of sin nor hope of + salvation. They are sold and bought, steeped in wine and abominations, + while they, like sheep, are stupid, indifferent, and don’t understand. My + God! My God!” + </p> + <p> + It was clear to him, too, that everything that is called human dignity, + personal rights, the Divine image and semblance, were defiled to their + very foundations—“to the very marrow,” as drunkards say—and + that not only the street and the stupid women were responsible for it. + </p> + <p> + A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and talking + gaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into Vassilyev’s face, + and said in a drunken voice: + </p> + <p> + “One of us! A bit on, old man? Aha-ha! Never mind, have a good time! Don’t + be down-hearted, old chap!” + </p> + <p> + He took Vassilyev by the shoulder and pressed his cold wet mustache + against his cheek, then he slipped, staggered, and, waving both hands, + cried: + </p> + <p> + “Hold on! Don’t upset!” + </p> + <p> + And laughing, he ran to overtake his companions. + </p> + <p> + Through the noise came the sound of the artist’s voice: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you dare to hit the women! I won’t let you, damnation take you! You + scoundrels!” + </p> + <p> + The medical student appeared in the doorway. He looked from side to side, + and seeing Vassilyev, said in an agitated voice: + </p> + <p> + “You here! I tell you it’s really impossible to go anywhere with Yegor! + What a fellow he is! I don’t understand him! He has got up a scene! Do you + hear? Yegor!” he shouted at the door. “Yegor!” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t allow you to hit women!” the artist’s piercing voice sounded from + above. Something heavy and lumbering rolled down the stairs. It was the + artist falling headlong. Evidently he had been pushed downstairs. + </p> + <p> + He picked himself up from the ground, shook his hat, and, with an angry + and indignant face, brandished his fist towards the top of the stairs and + shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Scoundrels! Torturers! Bloodsuckers! I won’t allow you to hit them! To + hit a weak, drunken woman! Oh, you brutes!...” + </p> + <p> + “Yegor!... Come, Yegor!...” the medical student began imploring him. “I + give you my word of honor I’ll never come with you again. On my word of + honor I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + Little by little the artist was pacified and the friends went homewards. + </p> + <p> + “Against my will an unknown force,” hummed the medical student, “has led + me to these mournful shores.” + </p> + <p> + “Behold the mill,” the artist chimed in a little later, “in ruins now. + What a lot of snow, Holy Mother! Grisha, why did you go? You are a funk, a + regular old woman.” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev walked behind his companions, looked at their backs, and + thought: + </p> + <p> + “One of two things: either we only fancy prostitution is an evil, and we + exaggerate it; or, if prostitution really is as great an evil as is + generally assumed, these dear friends of mine are as much slaveowners, + violators, and murderers, as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo, that are + described in the ‘Neva.’ Now they are singing, laughing, talking sense, + but haven’t they just been exploiting hunger, ignorance, and stupidity? + They have—I have been a witness of it. What is the use of their + humanity, their medicine, their painting? The science, art, and lofty + sentiments of these soul-destroyers remind me of the piece of bacon in the + story. Two brigands murdered a beggar in a forest; they began sharing his + clothes between them, and found in his wallet a piece of bacon. ‘Well + found,’ said one of them, ‘let us have a bit.’ ‘What do you mean? How can + you?’ cried the other in horror. ‘Have you forgotten that to-day is + Wednesday?’ And they would not eat it. After murdering a man, they came + out of the forest in the firm conviction that they were keeping the fast. + In the same way these men, after buying women, go their way imagining that + they are artists and men of science....” + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” he said sharply and angrily. “Why do you come here? Is it + possible—is it possible you don’t understand how horrible it is? + Your medical books tell you that every one of these women dies prematurely + of consumption or something; art tells you that morally they are dead even + earlier. Every one of them dies because she has in her time to entertain + five hundred men on an average, let us say. Each one of them is killed by + five hundred men. You are among those five hundred! If each of you in the + course of your lives visits this place or others like it two hundred and + fifty times, it follows that one woman is killed for every two of you! + Can’t you understand that? Isn’t it horrible to murder, two of you, three + of you, five of you, a foolish, hungry woman! Ah! isn’t it awful, my God!” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it would end like that,” the artist said frowning. “We ought not + to have gone with this fool and ass! You imagine you have grand notions in + your head now, ideas, don’t you? No, it’s the devil knows what, but not + ideas. You are looking at me now with hatred and repulsion, but I tell you + it’s better you should set up twenty more houses like those than look like + that. There’s more vice in your expression than in the whole street! Come + along, Volodya, let him go to the devil! He’s a fool and an ass, and + that’s all....” + </p> + <p> + “We human beings do murder each other,” said the medical student. “It’s + immoral, of course, but philosophizing doesn’t help it. Good-by!” + </p> + <p> + At Trubnoy Square the friends said good-by and parted. When he was left + alone, Vassilyev strode rapidly along the boulevard. He felt frightened of + the darkness, of the snow which was falling in heavy flakes on the ground, + and seemed as though it would cover up the whole world; he felt frightened + of the street lamps shining with pale light through the clouds of snow. + His soul was possessed by an unaccountable, faint-hearted terror. + Passers-by came towards him from time to time, but he timidly moved to one + side; it seemed to him that women, none but women, were coming from all + sides and staring at him.... + </p> + <p> + “It’s beginning,” he thought, “I am going to have a breakdown.” + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + At home he lay on his bed and said, shuddering all over: “They are alive! + Alive! My God, those women are alive!” + </p> + <p> + He encouraged his imagination in all sorts of ways to picture himself the + brother of a fallen woman, or her father; then a fallen woman herself, + with her painted cheeks; and it all moved him to horror. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that he must settle the question at once at all costs, + and that this question was not one that did not concern him, but was his + own personal problem. He made an immense effort, repressed his despair, + and, sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands, began thinking how + one could save all the women he had seen that day. The method for + attacking problems of all kinds was, as he was an educated man, well known + to him. And, however excited he was, he strictly adhered to that method. + He recalled the history of the problem and its literature, and for a + quarter of an hour he paced from one end of the room to the other trying + to remember all the methods practiced at the present time for saving + women. He had very many good friends and acquaintances who lived in + lodgings in Petersburg.... Among them were a good many honest and + self-sacrificing men. Some of them had attempted to save women.... + </p> + <p> + “All these not very numerous attempts,” thought Vassilyev, “can be divided + into three groups. Some, after buying the woman out of the brothel, took a + room for her, bought her a sewing-machine, and she became a semptress. And + whether he wanted to or not, after having bought her out he made her his + mistress; then when he had taken his degree, he went away and handed her + into the keeping of some other decent man as though she were a thing. And + the fallen woman remained a fallen woman. Others, after buying her out, + took a lodging apart for her, bought the inevitable sewing-machine, and + tried teaching her to read, preaching at her and giving her books. The + woman lived and sewed as long as it was interesting and a novelty to her, + then getting bored, began receiving men on the sly, or ran away and went + back where she could sleep till three o’clock, drink coffee, and have good + dinners. The third class, the most ardent and self-sacrificing, had taken + a bold, resolute step. They had married them. And when the insolent and + spoilt, or stupid and crushed animal became a wife, the head of a + household, and afterwards a mother, it turned her whole existence and + attitude to life upside down, so that it was hard to recognize the fallen + woman afterwards in the wife and the mother. Yes, marriage was the best + and perhaps the only means.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is impossible!” Vassilyev said aloud, and he sank upon his bed. + “I, to begin with, could not marry one! To do that one must be a saint and + be unable to feel hatred or repulsion. But supposing that I, the medical + student, and the artist mastered ourselves and did marry them—suppose + they were all married. What would be the result? The result would be that + while here in Moscow they were being married, some Smolensk accountant + would be debauching another lot, and that lot would be streaming here to + fill the vacant places, together with others from Saratov, + Nizhni-Novgorod, Warsaw.... And what is one to do with the hundred + thousand in London? What’s one to do with those in Hamburg?” + </p> + <p> + The lamp in which the oil had burnt down began to smoke. Vassilyev did not + notice it. He began pacing to and fro again, still thinking. Now he put + the question differently: what must be done that fallen women should not + be needed? For that, it was essential that the men who buy them and do + them to death should feel all the immorality of their share in enslaving + them and should be horrified. One must save the men. + </p> + <p> + “One won’t do anything by art and science, that is clear...” thought + Vassilyev. “The only way out of it is missionary work.” + </p> + <p> + And he began to dream how he would the next evening stand at the corner of + the street and say to every passer-by: “Where are you going and what for? + Have some fear of God!” + </p> + <p> + He would turn to the apathetic cabmen and say to them: “Why are you + staying here? Why aren’t you revolted? Why aren’t you indignant? I suppose + you believe in God and know that it is a sin, that people go to hell for + it? Why don’t you speak? It is true that they are strangers to you, but + you know even they have fathers, brothers like yourselves....” + </p> + <p> + One of Vassilyev’s friends had once said of him that he was a talented + man. There are all sorts of talents—talent for writing, talent for + the stage, talent for art; but he had a peculiar talent—a talent for + <i>humanity</i>. He possessed an extraordinarily fine delicate scent for + pain in general. As a good actor reflects in himself the movements and + voice of others, so Vassilyev could reflect in his soul the sufferings of + others. When he saw tears, he wept; beside a sick man, he felt sick + himself and moaned; if he saw an act of violence, he felt as though he + himself were the victim of it, he was frightened as a child, and in his + fright ran to help. The pain of others worked on his nerves, excited him, + roused him to a state of frenzy, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Whether this friend were right I don’t know, but what Vassilyev + experienced when he thought this question was settled was something like + inspiration. He cried and laughed, spoke aloud the words that he should + say next day, felt a fervent love for those who would listen to him and + would stand beside him at the corner of the street to preach; he sat down + to write letters, made vows to himself.... + </p> + <p> + All this was like inspiration also from the fact that it did not last + long. Vassilyev was soon tired. The cases in London, in Hamburg, in + Warsaw, weighed upon him by their mass as a mountain weighs upon the + earth; he felt dispirited, bewildered, in the face of this mass; he + remembered that he had not a gift for words, that he was cowardly and + timid, that indifferent people would not be willing to listen and + understand him, a law student in his third year, a timid and insignificant + person; that genuine missionary work included not only teaching but + deeds... + </p> + <p> + When it was daylight and carriages were already beginning to rumble in the + street, Vassilyev was lying motionless on the sofa, staring into space. He + was no longer thinking of the women, nor of the men, nor of missionary + work. His whole attention was turned upon the spiritual agony which was + torturing him. It was a dull, vague, undefined anguish akin to misery, to + an extreme form of terror and to despair. He could point to the place + where the pain was, in his breast under his heart; but he could not + compare it with anything. In the past he had had acute toothache, he had + had pleurisy and neuralgia, but all that was insignificant compared with + this spiritual anguish. In the presence of that pain life seemed + loathsome. The dissertation, the excellent work he had written already, + the people he loved, the salvation of fallen women—everything that + only the day before he had cared about or been indifferent to, now when he + thought of them irritated him in the same way as the noise of the + carriages, the scurrying footsteps of the waiters in the passage, the + daylight.... If at that moment someone had performed a great deed of mercy + or had committed a revolting outrage, he would have felt the same + repulsion for both actions. Of all the thoughts that strayed through his + mind only two did not irritate him: one was that at every moment he had + the power to kill himself, the other that this agony would not last more + than three days. This last he knew by experience. + </p> + <p> + After lying for a while he got up and, wringing his hands, walked about + the room, not as usual from corner to corner, but round the room beside + the walls. As he passed he glanced at himself in the looking-glass. His + face looked pale and sunken, his temples looked hollow, his eyes were + bigger, darker, more staring, as though they belonged to someone else, and + they had an expression of insufferable mental agony. + </p> + <p> + At midday the artist knocked at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Grigory, are you at home?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Getting no answer, he stood for a minute, pondered, and answered himself + in Little Russian: “Nay. The confounded fellow has gone to the + University.” + </p> + <p> + And he went away. Vassilyev lay down on the bed and, thrusting his head + under the pillow, began crying with agony, and the more freely his tears + flowed the more terrible his mental anguish became. As it began to get + dark, he thought of the agonizing night awaiting him, and was overcome by + a horrible despair. He dressed quickly, ran out of his room, and, leaving + his door wide open, for no object or reason, went out into the street. + Without asking himself where he should go, he walked quickly along Sadovoy + Street. + </p> + <p> + Snow was falling as heavily as the day before; it was thawing. Thrusting + his hands into his sleeves, shuddering and frightened at the noises, at + the trambells, and at the passers-by, Vassilyev walked along Sadovoy + Street as far as Suharev Tower; then to the Red Gate; from there he turned + off to Basmannya Street. He went into a tavern and drank off a big glass + of vodka, but that did not make him feel better. When he reached Razgulya + he turned to the right, and strode along side streets in which he had + never been before in his life. He reached the old bridge by which the + Yauza runs gurgling, and from which one can see long rows of lights in the + windows of the Red Barracks. To distract his spiritual anguish by some new + sensation or some other pain, Vassilyev, not knowing what to do, crying + and shuddering, undid his greatcoat and jacket and exposed his bare chest + to the wet snow and the wind. But that did not lessen his suffering + either. Then he bent down over the rail of the bridge and looked down into + the black, yeasty Yauza, and he longed to plunge down head foremost; not + from loathing for life, not for the sake of suicide, but in order to + bruise himself at least, and by one pain to ease the other. But the black + water, the darkness, the deserted banks covered with snow were terrifying. + He shivered and walked on. He walked up and down by the Red Barracks, then + turned back and went down to a copse, from the copse back to the bridge + again. + </p> + <p> + “No, home, home!” he thought. “At home I believe it’s better...” + </p> + <p> + And he went back. When he reached home he pulled off his wet coat and cap, + began pacing round the room, and went on pacing round and round without + stopping till morning. + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + When next morning the artist and the medical student went in to him, he + was moving about the room with his shirt torn, biting his hands and + moaning with pain. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake!” he sobbed when he saw his friends, “take me where you + please, do what you can; but for God’s sake, save me quickly! I shall kill + myself!” + </p> + <p> + The artist turned pale and was helpless. The medical student, too, almost + shed tears, but considering that doctors ought to be cool and composed in + every emergency said coldly: + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nervous breakdown. But it’s nothing. Let us go at once to the + doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you like, only for God’s sake, make haste!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t excite yourself. You must try and control yourself.” + </p> + <p> + The artist and the medical student with trembling hands put Vassilyev’s + coat and hat on and led him out into the street. + </p> + <p> + “Mihail Sergeyitch has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a long + time,” the medical student said on the way. “He is a very nice man and + thoroughly good at his work. He took his degree in 1882, and he has an + immense practice already. He treats students as though he were one + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Make haste, make haste!...” Vassilyev urged. + </p> + <p> + Mihail Sergeyitch, a stout, fair-haired doctor, received the friends with + politeness and frigid dignity, and smiled only on one side of his face. + </p> + <p> + “Rybnikov and Mayer have spoken to me of your illness already,” he said. + “Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, I beg....” + </p> + <p> + He made Vassilyev sit down in a big armchair near the table, and moved a + box of cigarettes towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Now then!” he began, stroking his knees. “Let us get to work.... How old + are you?” + </p> + <p> + He asked questions and the medical student answered them. He asked whether + Vassilyev’s father had suffered from certain special diseases, whether he + drank to excess, whether he were remarkable for cruelty or any + peculiarities. He made similar inquiries about his grandfather, mother, + sisters, and brothers. On learning that his mother had a beautiful voice + and sometimes acted on the stage, he grew more animated at once, and + asked: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, but don’t you remember, perhaps, your mother had a passion for + the stage?” + </p> + <p> + Twenty minutes passed. Vassilyev was annoyed by the way the doctor kept + stroking his knees and talking of the same thing. + </p> + <p> + “So far as I understand your questions, doctor,” he said, “you want to + know whether my illness is hereditary or not. It is not.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor proceeded to ask Vassilyev whether he had had any secret vices + as a boy, or had received injuries to his head; whether he had had any + aberrations, any peculiarities, or exceptional propensities. Half the + questions usually asked by doctors of their patients can be left + unanswered without the slightest ill effect on the health, but Mihail + Sergeyitch, the medical student, and the artist all looked as though if + Vassilyev failed to answer one question all would be lost. As he received + answers, the doctor for some reason noted them down on a slip of paper. On + learning that Vassilyev had taken his degree in natural science, and was + now studying law, the doctor pondered. + </p> + <p> + “He wrote a first-rate piece of original work last year,...” said the + medical student. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, but don’t interrupt me; you prevent me from + concentrating,” said the doctor, and he smiled on one side of his face. + “Though, of course, that does enter into the diagnosis. Intense + intellectual work, nervous exhaustion.... Yes, yes.... And do you drink + vodka?” he said, addressing Vassilyev. + </p> + <p> + “Very rarely.” + </p> + <p> + Another twenty minutes passed. The medical student began telling the + doctor in a low voice his opinion as to the immediate cause of the attack, + and described how the day before yesterday the artist, Vassilyev, and he + had visited S. Street. + </p> + <p> + The indifferent, reserved, and frigid tone in which his friends and the + doctor spoke of the women and that miserable street struck Vassilyev as + strange in the extreme.... + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, tell me one thing only,” he said, controlling himself so as not + to speak rudely. “Is prostitution an evil or not?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, who disputes it?” said the doctor, with an expression + that suggested that he had settled all such questions for himself long + ago. “Who disputes it?” + </p> + <p> + “You are a mental doctor, aren’t you?” Vassilyev asked curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a mental doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps all of you are right!” said Vassilyev, getting up and beginning + to walk from one end of the room to the other. “Perhaps! But it all seems + marvelous to me! That I should have taken my degree in two faculties you + look upon as a great achievement; because I have written a work which in + three years will be thrown aside and forgotten, I am praised up to the + skies; but because I cannot speak of fallen women as unconcernedly as of + these chairs, I am being examined by a doctor, I am called mad, I am + pitied!” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev for some reason felt all at once unutterably sorry for himself, + and his companions, and all the people he had seen two days before, and + for the doctor; he burst into tears and sank into a chair. + </p> + <p> + His friends looked inquiringly at the doctor. The latter, with the air of + completely comprehending the tears and the despair, of feeling himself a + specialist in that line, went up to Vassilyev and, without a word, gave + him some medicine to drink; and then, when he was calmer, undressed him + and began to investigate the degree of sensibility of the skin, the reflex + action of the knees, and so on. + </p> + <p> + And Vassilyev felt easier. When he came out from the doctor’s he was + beginning to feel ashamed; the rattle of the carriages no longer irritated + him, and the load at his heart grew lighter and lighter as though it were + melting away. He had two prescriptions in his hand: one was for bromide, + one was for morphia.... He had taken all these remedies before. + </p> + <p> + In the street he stood still and, saying good-by to his friends, dragged + himself languidly to the University. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MISERY + </h2> + <h3> + “To whom shall I tell my grief?” + </h3> + <p> + THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about + the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft + layer on roofs, horses’ backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the + sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without + stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular + snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it + necessary to shake it off.... His little mare is white and motionless too. + Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like + straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. + She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the + plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full + of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to + think. + </p> + <p> + It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the + yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of + evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps + changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier. + </p> + <p> + “Sledge to Vyborgskaya!” Iona hears. “Sledge!” + </p> + <p> + Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a + military overcoat with a hood over his head. + </p> + <p> + “To Vyborgskaya,” repeats the officer. “Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!” + </p> + <p> + In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow + flying from the horse’s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the + sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a + swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his + whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and + hesitatingly sets of.... + </p> + <p> + “Where are you shoving, you devil?” Iona immediately hears shouts from the + dark mass shifting to and fro before him. “Where the devil are you going? + Keep to the r-right!” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know how to drive! Keep to the right,” says the officer + angrily. + </p> + <p> + A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the + road and brushing the horse’s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily + and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he + were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like + one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there. + </p> + <p> + “What rascals they all are!” says the officer jocosely. “They are simply + doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse’s feet. + They must be doing it on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips.... Apparently he means to say + something, but nothing comes but a sniff. + </p> + <p> + “What?” inquires the officer. + </p> + <p> + Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: “My + son... er... my son died this week, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! What did he die of?” + </p> + <p> + Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says: + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell! It must have been from fever.... He lay three days in the + hospital and then he died.... God’s will.” + </p> + <p> + “Turn round, you devil!” comes out of the darkness. “Have you gone + cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!” + </p> + <p> + “Drive on! drive on!...” says the officer. “We shan’t get there till + to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!” + </p> + <p> + The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy + grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but + the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. + Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and + again sits huddled up on the box.... Again the wet snow paints him and his + horse white. One hour passes, and then another.... + </p> + <p> + Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, + railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their + goloshes. + </p> + <p> + “Cabby, to the Police Bridge!” the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. + “The three of us,... twenty kopecks!” + </p> + <p> + Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a + fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or + whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a + fare.... The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, + go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question + remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? + After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the + conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest. + </p> + <p> + “Well, drive on,” says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling + himself and breathing down Iona’s neck. “Cut along! What a cap you’ve got, + my friend! You wouldn’t find a worse one in all Petersburg....” + </p> + <p> + “He-he!... he-he!...” laughs Iona. “It’s nothing to boast of!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like + this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?” + </p> + <p> + “My head aches,” says one of the tall ones. “At the Dukmasovs’ yesterday + Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t make out why you talk such stuff,” says the other tall one + angrily. “You lie like a brute.” + </p> + <p> + “Strike me dead, it’s the truth!...” + </p> + <p> + “It’s about as true as that a louse coughs.” + </p> + <p> + “He-he!” grins Iona. “Me-er-ry gentlemen!” + </p> + <p> + “Tfoo! the devil take you!” cries the hunchback indignantly. “Will you get + on, you old plague, or won’t you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one + with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.” + </p> + <p> + Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the + hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the + feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his + heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately + whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall + companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round + at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and + says: + </p> + <p> + “This week... er... my... er... son died!” + </p> + <p> + “We shall all die,...” says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips + after coughing. “Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot + stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you give him a little encouragement... one in the neck!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear, you old plague? I’ll make you smart. If one stands on + ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old + dragon? Or don’t you care a hang what we say?” + </p> + <p> + And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck. + </p> + <p> + “He-he!...” he laughs. “Merry gentlemen.... God give you health!” + </p> + <p> + “Cabman, are you married?” asks one of the tall ones. + </p> + <p> + “I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp + earth.... He-ho-ho!.... The grave that is!... Here my son’s dead and I am + alive.... It’s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door.... + Instead of coming for me it went for my son....” + </p> + <p> + And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the + hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have + arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long + while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is + alone and again there is silence for him.... The misery which has been for + a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than + ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona’s eyes stray restlessly + among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not + find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds + flit by heedless of him and his misery.... His misery is immense, beyond + all bounds. If Iona’s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it + would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has + found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not + have found it with a candle by daylight.... + </p> + <p> + Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address + him. + </p> + <p> + “What time will it be, friend?” he asks. + </p> + <p> + “Going on for ten.... Why have you stopped here? Drive on!” + </p> + <p> + Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up + to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five + minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he + feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.... He can bear it no longer. + </p> + <p> + “Back to the yard!” he thinks. “To the yard!” + </p> + <p> + And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. + An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the + stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is + full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, + scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early.... + </p> + <p> + “I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,” he thinks. “That’s + why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work,... who has had + enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at + ease....” + </p> + <p> + In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, + and makes for the water-bucket. + </p> + <p> + “Want a drink?” Iona asks him. + </p> + <p> + “Seems so.” + </p> + <p> + “May it do you good.... But my son is dead, mate.... Do you hear? This + week in the hospital.... It’s a queer business....” + </p> + <p> + Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. + The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man + sighs and scratches himself.... Just as the young man had been thirsty for + water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and + he has not really talked to anybody yet.... He wants to talk of it + properly, with deliberation.... He wants to tell how his son was taken + ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.... He + wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his + son’s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country.... And he + wants to talk about her too.... Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His + listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament.... It would be even better + to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the + first word. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go out and have a look at the mare,” Iona thinks. “There is always + time for sleep.... You’ll have sleep enough, no fear....” + </p> + <p> + He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. + He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.... He cannot think + about his son when he is alone.... To talk about him with someone is + possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish.... + </p> + <p> + “Are you munching?” Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. “There, + munch away, munch away.... Since we have not earned enough for oats, we + will eat hay.... Yes,... I have grown too old to drive.... My son ought to + be driving, not I.... He was a real cabman.... He ought to have lived....” + </p> + <p> + Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on: + </p> + <p> + “That’s how it is, old girl.... Kuzma Ionitch is gone.... He said good-by + to me.... He went and died for no reason.... Now, suppose you had a little + colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. ... And all at once + that same little colt went and died.... You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?...” + </p> + <p> + The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands. Iona + is carried away and tells her all about it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAMPAGNE + </h2> + <h3> + A WAYFARER’S STORY + </h3> + <p> + IN the year in which my story begins I had a job at a little station on + one of our southwestern railways. Whether I had a gay or a dull life at + the station you can judge from the fact that for fifteen miles round there + was not one human habitation, not one woman, not one decent tavern; and in + those days I was young, strong, hot-headed, giddy, and foolish. The only + distraction I could possibly find was in the windows of the passenger + trains, and in the vile vodka which the Jews drugged with thorn-apple. + Sometimes there would be a glimpse of a woman’s head at a carriage window, + and one would stand like a statue without breathing and stare at it until + the train turned into an almost invisible speck; or one would drink all + one could of the loathsome vodka till one was stupefied and did not feel + the passing of the long hours and days. Upon me, a native of the north, + the steppe produced the effect of a deserted Tatar cemetery. In the summer + the steppe with its solemn calm, the monotonous chur of the grasshoppers, + the transparent moonlight from which one could not hide, reduced me to + listless melancholy; and in the winter the irreproachable whiteness of the + steppe, its cold distance, long nights, and howling wolves oppressed me + like a heavy nightmare. There were several people living at the station: + my wife and I, a deaf and scrofulous telegraph clerk, and three watchmen. + My assistant, a young man who was in consumption, used to go for treatment + to the town, where he stayed for months at a time, leaving his duties to + me together with the right of pocketing his salary. I had no children, no + cake would have tempted visitors to come and see me, and I could only + visit other officials on the line, and that no oftener than once a month. + </p> + <p> + I remember my wife and I saw the New Year in. We sat at table, chewed + lazily, and heard the deaf telegraph clerk monotonously tapping on his + apparatus in the next room. I had already drunk five glasses of drugged + vodka, and, propping my heavy head on my fist, thought of my overpowering + boredom from which there was no escape, while my wife sat beside me and + did not take her eyes off me. She looked at me as no one can look but a + woman who has nothing in this world but a handsome husband. She loved me + madly, slavishly, and not merely my good looks, or my soul, but my sins, + my ill-humor and boredom, and even my cruelty when, in drunken fury, not + knowing how to vent my ill-humor, I tormented her with reproaches. + </p> + <p> + In spite of the boredom which was consuming me, we were preparing to see + the New Year in with exceptional festiveness, and were awaiting midnight + with some impatience. The fact is, we had in reserve two bottles of + champagne, the real thing, with the label of Veuve Clicquot; this treasure + I had won the previous autumn in a bet with the station-master of D. when + I was drinking with him at a christening. It sometimes happens during a + lesson in mathematics, when the very air is still with boredom, a + butterfly flutters into the class-room; the boys toss their heads and + begin watching its flight with interest, as though they saw before them + not a butterfly but something new and strange; in the same way ordinary + champagne, chancing to come into our dreary station, roused us. We sat in + silence looking alternately at the clock and at the bottles. + </p> + <p> + When the hands pointed to five minutes to twelve I slowly began uncorking + a bottle. I don’t know whether I was affected by the vodka, or whether the + bottle was wet, but all I remember is that when the cork flew up to the + ceiling with a bang, my bottle slipped out of my hands and fell on the + floor. Not more than a glass of the wine was spilt, as I managed to catch + the bottle and put my thumb over the foaming neck. + </p> + <p> + “Well, may the New Year bring you happiness!” I said, filling two glasses. + “Drink!” + </p> + <p> + My wife took her glass and fixed her frightened eyes on me. Her face was + pale and wore a look of horror. + </p> + <p> + “Did you drop the bottle?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what of that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s unlucky,” she said, putting down her glass and turning paler still. + “It’s a bad omen. It means that some misfortune will happen to us this + year.” + </p> + <p> + “What a silly thing you are,” I sighed. “You are a clever woman, and yet + you talk as much nonsense as an old nurse. Drink.” + </p> + <p> + “God grant it is nonsense, but... something is sure to happen! You’ll + see.” + </p> + <p> + She did not even sip her glass, she moved away and sank into thought. I + uttered a few stale commonplaces about superstition, drank half a bottle, + paced up and down, and then went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Outside there was the still frosty night in all its cold, inhospitable + beauty. The moon and two white fluffy clouds beside it hung just over the + station, motionless as though glued to the spot, and looked as though + waiting for something. A faint transparent light came from them and + touched the white earth softly, as though afraid of wounding her modesty, + and lighted up everything—the snowdrifts, the embankment.... It was + still. + </p> + <p> + I walked along the railway embankment. + </p> + <p> + “Silly woman,” I thought, looking at the sky spangled with brilliant + stars. “Even if one admits that omens sometimes tell the truth, what evil + can happen to us? The misfortunes we have endured already, and which are + facing us now, are so great that it is difficult to imagine anything + worse. What further harm can you do a fish which has been caught and fried + and served up with sauce?” + </p> + <p> + A poplar covered with hoar frost looked in the bluish darkness like a + giant wrapt in a shroud. It looked at me sullenly and dejectedly, as + though like me it realized its loneliness. I stood a long while looking at + it. + </p> + <p> + “My youth is thrown away for nothing, like a useless cigarette end,” I + went on musing. “My parents died when I was a little child; I was expelled + from the high school, I was born of a noble family, but I have received + neither education nor breeding, and I have no more knowledge than the + humblest mechanic. I have no refuge, no relations, no friends, no work I + like. I am not fitted for anything, and in the prime of my powers I am + good for nothing but to be stuffed into this little station; I have known + nothing but trouble and failure all my life. What can happen worse?” + </p> + <p> + Red lights came into sight in the distance. A train was moving towards me. + The slumbering steppe listened to the sound of it. My thoughts were so + bitter that it seemed to me that I was thinking aloud and that the moan of + the telegraph wire and the rumble of the train were expressing my + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “What can happen worse? The loss of my wife?” I wondered. “Even that is + not terrible. It’s no good hiding it from my conscience: I don’t love my + wife. I married her when I was only a wretched boy; now I am young and + vigorous, and she has gone off and grown older and sillier, stuffed from + her head to her heels with conventional ideas. What charm is there in her + maudlin love, in her hollow chest, in her lusterless eyes? I put up with + her, but I don’t love her. What can happen? My youth is being wasted, as + the saying is, for a pinch of snuff. Women flit before my eyes only in the + carriage windows, like falling stars. Love I never had and have not. My + manhood, my courage, my power of feeling are going to ruin.... Everything + is being thrown away like dirt, and all my wealth here in the steppe is + not worth a farthing.” + </p> + <p> + The train rushed past me with a roar and indifferently cast the glow of + its red lights upon me. I saw it stop by the green lights of the station, + stop for a minute and rumble off again. After walking a mile and a half I + went back. Melancholy thoughts haunted me still. Painful as it was to me, + yet I remember I tried as it were to make my thoughts still gloomier and + more melancholy. You know people who are vain and not very clever have + moments when the consciousness that they are miserable affords them + positive satisfaction, and they even coquet with their misery for their + own entertainment. There was a great deal of truth in what I thought, but + there was also a great deal that was absurd and conceited, and there was + something boyishly defiant in my question: “What could happen worse?” + </p> + <p> + “And what is there to happen?” I asked myself. “I think I have endured + everything. I’ve been ill, I’ve lost money, I get reprimanded by my + superiors every day, and I go hungry, and a mad wolf has run into the + station yard. What more is there? I have been insulted, humiliated,... and + I have insulted others in my time. I have not been a criminal, it is true, + but I don’t think I am capable of crime—I am not afraid of being + hauled up for it.” + </p> + <p> + The two little clouds had moved away from the moon and stood at a little + distance, looking as though they were whispering about something which the + moon must not know. A light breeze was racing across the steppe, bringing + the faint rumble of the retreating train. + </p> + <p> + My wife met me at the doorway. Her eyes were laughing gaily and her whole + face was beaming with good-humor. + </p> + <p> + “There is news for you!” she whispered. “Make haste, go to your room and + put on your new coat; we have a visitor.” + </p> + <p> + “What visitor?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Natalya Petrovna has just come by the train.” + </p> + <p> + “What Natalya Petrovna?” + </p> + <p> + “The wife of my uncle Semyon Fyodoritch. You don’t know her. She is a very + nice, good woman.” + </p> + <p> + Probably I frowned, for my wife looked grave and whispered rapidly: + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is queer her having come, but don’t be cross, Nikolay, and + don’t be hard on her. She is unhappy, you know; Uncle Semyon Fyodoritch + really is ill-natured and tyrannical, it is difficult to live with him. + She says she will only stay three days with us, only till she gets a + letter from her brother.” + </p> + <p> + My wife whispered a great deal more nonsense to me about her despotic + uncle; about the weakness of mankind in general and of young wives in + particular; about its being our duty to give shelter to all, even great + sinners, and so on. Unable to make head or tail of it, I put on my new + coat and went to make acquaintance with my “aunt.” + </p> + <p> + A little woman with large black eyes was sitting at the table. My table, + the gray walls, my roughly-made sofa, everything to the tiniest grain of + dust seemed to have grown younger and more cheerful in the presence of + this new, young, beautiful, and dissolute creature, who had a most subtle + perfume about her. And that our visitor was a lady of easy virtue I could + see from her smile, from her scent, from the peculiar way in which she + glanced and made play with her eyelashes, from the tone in which she + talked with my wife—a respectable woman. There was no need to tell + me she had run away from her husband, that her husband was old and + despotic, that she was good-natured and lively; I took it all in at the + first glance. Indeed, it is doubtful whether there is a man in all Europe + who cannot spot at the first glance a woman of a certain temperament. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know I had such a big nephew!” said my aunt, holding out her + hand to me and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “And I did not know I had such a pretty aunt,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + Supper began over again. The cork flew with a bang out of the second + bottle, and my aunt swallowed half a glassful at a gulp, and when my wife + went out of the room for a moment my aunt did not scruple to drain a full + glass. I was drunk both with the wine and with the presence of a woman. Do + you remember the song? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Eyes black as pitch, eyes full of passion, + Eyes burning bright and beautiful, + How I love you, + How I fear you!” + </pre> + <p> + I don’t remember what happened next. Anyone who wants to know how love + begins may read novels and long stories; I will put it shortly and in the + words of the same silly song: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It was an evil hour + When first I met you.” + </pre> + <p> + Everything went head over heels to the devil. I remember a fearful, + frantic whirlwind which sent me flying round like a feather. It lasted a + long while, and swept from the face of the earth my wife and my aunt + herself and my strength. From the little station in the steppe it has + flung me, as you see, into this dark street. + </p> + <p> + Now tell me what further evil can happen to me? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AFTER THE THEATRE + </h2> + <p> + NADYA ZELENIN had just come back with her mamma from the theatre where she + had seen a performance of “Yevgeny Onyegin.” As soon as she reached her + own room she threw off her dress, let down her hair, and in her petticoat + and white dressing-jacket hastily sat down to the table to write a letter + like Tatyana’s. + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” she wrote, “but you do not love me, do not love me!” + </p> + <p> + She wrote it and laughed. + </p> + <p> + She was only sixteen and did not yet love anyone. She knew that an officer + called Gorny and a student called Gruzdev loved her, but now after the + opera she wanted to be doubtful of their love. To be unloved and unhappy—how + interesting that was. There is something beautiful, touching, and poetical + about it when one loves and the other is indifferent. Onyegin was + interesting because he was not in love at all, and Tatyana was fascinating + because she was so much in love; but if they had been equally in love with + each other and had been happy, they would perhaps have seemed dull. + </p> + <p> + “Leave off declaring that you love me,” Nadya went on writing, thinking of + Gorny. “I cannot believe it. You are very clever, cultivated, serious, you + have immense talent, and perhaps a brilliant future awaits you, while I am + an uninteresting girl of no importance, and you know very well that I + should be only a hindrance in your life. It is true that you were + attracted by me and thought you had found your ideal in me, but that was a + mistake, and now you are asking yourself in despair: ‘Why did I meet that + girl?’ And only your goodness of heart prevents you from owning it to + yourself....” + </p> + <p> + Nadya felt sorry for herself, she began to cry, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “It is hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, or I should take a + nun’s veil and go whither chance may lead me. And you would be left free + and would love another. Oh, if I were dead!” + </p> + <p> + She could not make out what she had written through her tears; little + rainbows were quivering on the table, on the floor, on the ceiling, as + though she were looking through a prism. She could not write, she sank + back in her easy-chair and fell to thinking of Gorny. + </p> + <p> + My God! how interesting, how fascinating men were! Nadya recalled the fine + expression, ingratiating, guilty, and soft, which came into the officer’s + face when one argued about music with him, and the effort he made to + prevent his voice from betraying his passion. In a society where cold + haughtiness and indifference are regarded as signs of good breeding and + gentlemanly bearing, one must conceal one’s passions. And he did try to + conceal them, but he did not succeed, and everyone knew very well that he + had a passionate love of music. The endless discussions about music and + the bold criticisms of people who knew nothing about it kept him always on + the strain; he was frightened, timid, and silent. He played the piano + magnificently, like a professional pianist, and if he had not been in the + army he would certainly have been a famous musician. + </p> + <p> + The tears on her eyes dried. Nadya remembered that Gorny had declared his + love at a Symphony concert, and again downstairs by the hatstand where + there was a tremendous draught blowing in all directions. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad that you have at last made the acquaintance of Gruzdev, + our student friend,” she went on writing. “He is a very clever man, and + you will be sure to like him. He came to see us yesterday and stayed till + two o’clock. We were all delighted with him, and I regretted that you had + not come. He said a great deal that was remarkable.” + </p> + <p> + Nadya laid her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, and her hair + covered the letter. She recalled that the student, too, loved her, and + that he had as much right to a letter from her as Gorny. Wouldn’t it be + better after all to write to Gruzdev? There was a stir of joy in her bosom + for no reason whatever; at first the joy was small, and rolled in her + bosom like an india-rubber ball; then it became more massive, bigger, and + rushed like a wave. Nadya forgot Gorny and Gruzdev; her thoughts were in a + tangle and her joy grew and grew; from her bosom it passed into her arms + and legs, and it seemed as though a light, cool breeze were breathing on + her head and ruffling her hair. Her shoulders quivered with subdued + laughter, the table and the lamp chimney shook, too, and tears from her + eyes splashed on the letter. She could not stop laughing, and to prove to + herself that she was not laughing about nothing she made haste to think of + something funny. + </p> + <p> + “What a funny poodle,” she said, feeling as though she would choke with + laughter. “What a funny poodle!” + </p> + <p> + She thought how, after tea the evening before, Gruzdev had played with + Maxim the poodle, and afterwards had told them about a very intelligent + poodle who had run after a crow in the yard, and the crow had looked round + at him and said: “Oh, you scamp!” + </p> + <p> + The poodle, not knowing he had to do with a learned crow, was fearfully + confused and retreated in perplexity, then began barking.... + </p> + <p> + “No, I had better love Gruzdev,” Nadya decided, and she tore up the letter + to Gorny. + </p> + <p> + She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; but the + thoughts in her head insisted on flowing in all directions, and she + thought about everything—about her mother, about the street, about + the pencil, about the piano.... She thought of them joyfully, and felt + that everything was good, splendid, and her joy told her that this was not + all, that in a little while it would be better still. Soon it would be + spring, summer, going with her mother to Gorbiki. Gorny would come for his + furlough, would walk about the garden with her and make love to her. + Gruzdev would come too. He would play croquet and skittles with her, and + would tell her wonderful things. She had a passionate longing for the + garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders shook + with laughter, and it seemed to her that there was a scent of wormwood in + the room and that a twig was tapping at the window. + </p> + <p> + She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with the immense + joy which filled her with yearning, she looked at the holy image hanging + at the back of her bed, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord God! Oh, Lord God!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LADY’S STORY + </h2> + <p> + NINE years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding + towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the station. + </p> + <p> + The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of + thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight + towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it. + </p> + <p> + Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the + tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My + companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of + nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a + medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which + we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a + thunderbolt.... + </p> + <p> + Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a + gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr + Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse. + </p> + <p> + “It’s fine!” he cried, “it’s splendid!” + </p> + <p> + Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a + minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning. + </p> + <p> + Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and + feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one’s heart in a flutter. By the + time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of + rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul + near the stable. + </p> + <p> + Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their + stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the + slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even + stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it + almost twilight. + </p> + <p> + “What a crash!” said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud + rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in + two. “What do you say to that?” + </p> + <p> + He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid + ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me. + </p> + <p> + “Natalya Vladimirovna,” he said, “I would give anything only to stay here + a little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On + his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to + be looking at me with love. + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” he said. “I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know + you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I + love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know + that you are dear to me and let me look at you.” + </p> + <p> + His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened + to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as + though spellbound, unable to stir. + </p> + <p> + I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening. + </p> + <p> + “You say nothing, and that is splendid,” said Pyotr Sergeyitch. “Go on + being silent.” + </p> + <p> + I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to + the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me. + </p> + <p> + Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we + dashed into the room. My father and brother, who were not used to seeing + me laughing and light-hearted, looked at me in surprise and began laughing + too. + </p> + <p> + The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but the + raindrops still glittered on Pyotr Sergeyitch’s beard. The whole evening + till supper-time he was singing, whistling, playing noisily with the dog + and racing about the room after it, so that he nearly upset the servant + with the samovar. And at supper he ate a great deal, talked nonsense, and + maintained that when one eats fresh cucumbers in winter there is the + fragrance of spring in one’s mouth. + </p> + <p> + When I went to bed I lighted a candle and threw my window wide open, and + an undefined feeling took possession of my soul. I remembered that I was + free and healthy, that I had rank and wealth, that I was beloved; above + all, that I had rank and wealth, rank and wealth, my God! how nice that + was!... Then, huddling up in bed at a touch of cold which reached me from + the garden with the dew, I tried to discover whether I loved Pyotr + Sergeyitch or not,... and fell asleep unable to reach any conclusion. + </p> + <p> + And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the + shadows of the lime trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rose + vividly in my memory. Life seemed to me rich, varied, full of charm. + Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the garden.... + </p> + <p> + And what happened afterwards? Why—nothing. In the winter when we + lived in town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us from time to time. Country + acquaintances are charming only in the country and in summer; in the town + and in winter they lose their charm. When you pour out tea for them in the + town it seems as though they are wearing other people’s coats, and as + though they stirred their tea too long. In the town, too, Pyotr Sergeyitch + spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all the same as in the + country. In the town we were more vividly conscious of the wall that stood + between us. I had rank and wealth, while he was poor, and he was not even + a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy public prosecutor; + we both of us—I through my youth and he for some unknown reason—thought + of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us in the town + he would criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain + a sullen silence when there was anyone else in the drawing-room. There is + no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern + romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and + oversensitive, and are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that + they are doomed to failure, that personal life has disappointed them; + instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and + forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity. + </p> + <p> + I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching + me; I went on living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, + not knowing what I expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on + and on.... People passed by me with their love, bright days and warm + nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all + this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with + everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like + mist.... Where is it all? + </p> + <p> + My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, + caressed me, gave me hope—the patter of the rain, the rolling of the + thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love—all that has become + nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; on the + plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is dark and + terrible.... + </p> + <p> + A ring at the bell.... It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter I see + the trees and remember how green they were for me in the summer I whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my darlings!” + </p> + <p> + And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowful + and warm and whisper the same thing. + </p> + <p> + He has long ago by my father’s good offices been transferred to town. He + looks a little older, a little fallen away. He has long given up declaring + his love, has left off talking nonsense, dislikes his official work, is + ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything + out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now he has sat down by the + hearth and looks in silence at the fire.... + </p> + <p> + Not knowing what to say I ask him: + </p> + <p> + “Well, what have you to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” he answers. + </p> + <p> + And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholy + face. + </p> + <p> + I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, my + head dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for + myself and for this man, and passionately longed for what had passed away + and what life refused us now. And now I did not think about rank and + wealth. + </p> + <p> + I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered: + </p> + <p> + “My God! my God! my life is wasted!” + </p> + <p> + And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: “Don’t weep.” He + understood that I must weep, and that the time for this had come. + </p> + <p> + I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, + too, and vexed with this timid, unsuccessful man who could not make a life + for me, nor for himself. + </p> + <p> + When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while + putting on his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a + long while into my tear-stained face. I believe at that moment he recalled + the storm, the streaks of rain, our laughter, my face that day; he longed + to say something to me, and he would have been glad to say it; but he said + nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. God help him! + </p> + <p> + After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet + before the fireplace; the red embers were covered with ash and began to + grow dim. The frost tapped still more angrily at the windows, and the wind + droned in the chimney. + </p> + <p> + The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN EXILE + </h2> + <p> + OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by name, + were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three ferrymen + were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and toothless, but + broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone + in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was + afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka. The Tatar was + ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing how nice + it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful and clever wife he + had left behind at home. He was not more than twenty five, and now by the + light of the camp-fire, with his pale and sick, mournful face, he looked + like a boy. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure, it is not paradise here,” said Canny. “You can see for + yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else.... Easter has + long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning there was + snow...” + </p> + <p> + “It’s bad! it’s bad!” said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror. + </p> + <p> + The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped + against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away + sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the + ferrymen called a “karbos.” Far away on the further bank, lights, dying + down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were + burning last year’s grass. And beyond the little snakes there was darkness + again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge. It + was damp and cold.... + </p> + <p> + The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, and the + same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in the + Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky. + </p> + <p> + “It’s bad! it’s bad!” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “You will get used to it,” said Semyon, and he laughed. “Now you are young + and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to you in + your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the time will + come when you will say to yourself: ‘I wish no one a better life than + mine.’ You look at me. Within a week the floods will be over and we shall + set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I + shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I’ve been going like + that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and the salmon are + under the water while I am on the water. And thank God for it, I want + nothing; God give everyone such a life.” + </p> + <p> + The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to the + blaze, and said: + </p> + <p> + “My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will come here. + They have promised.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want your wife and mother for?” asked Canny. “That’s mere + foolishness, my lad. It’s the devil confounding you, damn his soul! Don’t + you listen to him, the cursed one. Don’t let him have his way. He is at + you about the women, but you spite him; say, ‘I don’t want them!’ He is on + at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: ‘I don’t want it!’ + I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor + post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!” + </p> + <p> + Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on: + </p> + <p> + “I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son of a + deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear a frockcoat, + and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I can sleep naked on the + ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a better life. I want nothing and + I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is that there is nobody + richer and freer than I am. When they sent me here from Russia from the + first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil was at me about my + wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him: ‘I want + nothing.’ I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and I don’t + complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him, if but + once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: he is sunk in the bog to + the crown of his head and will never get out. + </p> + <p> + “It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, + well-educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman + here from Russia. He hadn’t shared something with his brothers and had + forged something in a will. They did say he was a prince or a baron, but + maybe he was simply an official—who knows? Well, the gentleman + arrived here, and first thing he bought himself a house and land in + Muhortinskoe. ‘I want to live by my own work,’ says he, ‘in the sweat of + my brow, for I am not a gentleman now,’ says he, ‘but a settler.’ ‘Well,’ + says I, ‘God help you, that’s the right thing.’ He was a young man then, + busy and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty + miles on horseback. Only this is what happened: from the very first year + he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand on my ferry and + sigh: ‘Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me any money from + home!’ ‘You don’t want money, Vassily Sergeyitch,’ says I. ‘What use is it + to you? You cast away the past, and forget it as though it had never been + at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin to live anew. Don’t + listen to the devil,’ says I; ‘he will bring you to no good, he’ll draw + you into a snare. Now you want money,’ says I, ‘but in a very little while + you’ll be wanting something else, and then more and more. If you want to + be happy,’ says I, the chief thing is not to want anything. Yes.... If,’ + says I, ‘if Fate has wronged you and me cruelly it’s no good asking for + her favor and bowing down to her, but you despise her and laugh at her, or + else she will laugh at you.’ That’s what I said to him.... + </p> + <p> + “Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbing his + hands and laughing. ‘I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife,’ says he. ‘She + was sorry for me,’ says he; ‘she has come. She is good and kind.’ And he + was breathless with joy. So a day later he came with his wife. A beautiful + young lady in a hat; in her arms was a baby girl. And lots of luggage of + all sorts. And my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussing round her; he couldn’t + take his eyes off her and couldn’t say enough in praise of her. ‘Yes, + brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!’ ‘Oh, all right,’ thinks + I, ‘it will be a different tale presently.’ And from that time forward he + went almost every week to inquire whether money had not come from Russia. + He wanted a lot of money. ‘She is losing her youth and beauty here in + Siberia for my sake,’ says he, ‘and sharing my bitter lot with me, and so + I ought,’ says he, ‘to provide her with every comfort....’ + </p> + <p> + “To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with the officials + and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to give food and drink to + all that crew, and there had to be a piano and a shaggy lapdog on the sofa—plague + take it!... Luxury, in fact, self-indulgence. The lady did not stay with + him long. How could she? The clay, the water, the cold, no vegetables for + you, no fruit. All around you ignorant and drunken people and no sort of + manners, and she was a spoilt lady from Petersburg or Moscow.... To be + sure she moped. Besides, her husband, say what you like, was not a + gentleman now, but a settler—not the same rank. + </p> + <p> + “Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, there was + shouting from the further bank. I went over with the ferry, and what do I + see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with her a young gentleman, an + official. A sledge with three horses.... I ferried them across here, they + got in and away like the wind. They were soon lost to sight. And towards + morning Vassily Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry. ‘Didn’t my wife + come this way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?’ ‘She did,’ said I; + ‘you may look for the wind in the fields!’ He galloped in pursuit of them. + For five days and nights he was riding after them. When I ferried him over + to the other side afterwards, he flung himself on the ferry and beat his + head on the boards of the ferry and howled. ‘So that’s how it is,’ says I. + I laughed, and reminded him ‘people can live even in Siberia!’ And he beat + his head harder than ever.... + </p> + <p> + “Then he began longing for freedom. His wife had slipped off to Russia, + and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get her away from her + lover. And he took, my lad, to galloping almost every day, either to the + post or the town to see the commanding officer; he kept sending in + petitions for them to have mercy on him and let him go back home; and he + used to say that he had spent some two hundred roubles on telegrams alone. + He sold his land and mortgaged his house to the Jews. He grew gray and + bent, and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption. If he + talked to you he would go, khee—khee—khee,... and there were + tears in his eyes. He kept rushing about like this with petitions for + eight years, but now he has grown brighter and more cheerful again: he has + found another whim to give way to. You see, his daughter has grown up. He + looks at her, and she is the apple of his eye. And to tell the truth she + is all right, good-looking, with black eyebrows and a lively disposition. + Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino. They used to + stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and he could not take + his eyes off her. ‘Yes, Semyon,’ says he, ‘people can live even in + Siberia. Even in Siberia there is happiness. Look,’ says he, ‘what a + daughter I have got! I warrant you wouldn’t find another like her for a + thousand versts round.’ ‘Your daughter is all right,’ says I, ‘that’s + true, certainly.’ But to myself I thought: ‘Wait a bit, the wench is + young, her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and there is no life + here.’ And she did begin to pine, my lad.... She faded and faded, and now + she can hardly crawl about. Consumption. + </p> + <p> + “So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul! You see how people + can live in Siberia.... He has taken to going from one doctor to another + and taking them home with him. As soon as he hears that two or three + hundred miles away there is a doctor or a sorcerer, he will drive to fetch + him. A terrible lot of money he spent on doctors, and to my thinking he + had better have spent the money on drink.... She’ll die just the same. She + is certain to die, and then it will be all over with him. He’ll hang + himself from grief or run away to Russia—that’s a sure thing. He’ll + run away and they’ll catch him, then he will be tried, sent to prison, he + will have a taste of the lash....” + </p> + <p> + “Good! good!” said the Tatar, shivering with cold. + </p> + <p> + “What is good?” asked Canny. + </p> + <p> + “His wife, his daughter.... What of prison and what of sorrow!—anyway, + he did see his wife and his daughter.... You say, want nothing. But + ‘nothing’ is bad! His wife lived with him three years—that was a + gift from God. ‘Nothing’ is bad, but three years is good. How not + understand?” + </p> + <p> + Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian words of + which he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid one should fall sick + and die in a strange land, and be buried in the cold and dark earth; that + if his wife came to him for one day, even for one hour, that for such + happiness he would be ready to bear any suffering and to thank God. Better + one day of happiness than nothing. + </p> + <p> + Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had left at + home. Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began crying and assuring + Semyon that he was not guilty, and was suffering for nothing. His two + brothers and an uncle had carried off a peasant’s horses, and had beaten + the old man till he was half dead, and the commune had not judged fairly, + but had contrived a sentence by which all the three brothers were sent to + Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left at home. + </p> + <p> + “You will get used to it!” said Semyon. + </p> + <p> + The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the fire; his + face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he still did not + understand why he was here in the darkness and the wet, beside strangers, + and not in the Simbirsk province. + </p> + <p> + Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming a song + in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “What joy has she with her father?” he said a little later. “He loves her + and he rejoices in her, that’s true; but, mate, you must mind your ps and + qs with him, he is a strict old man, a harsh old man. And young wenches + don’t want strictness. They want petting and ha-ha-ha! and ho-ho-ho! and + scent and pomade. Yes.... Ech! life, life,” sighed Semyon, and he got up + heavily. “The vodka is all gone, so it is time to sleep. Eh? I am going, + my lad....” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at the fire; + he began thinking of his own village and of his wife. If his wife could + only come for a month, for a day; and then if she liked she might go back + again. Better a month or even a day than nothing. But if his wife kept her + promise and came, what would he have to feed her on? Where could she live + here? + </p> + <p> + “If there were not something to eat, how could she live?” the Tatar asked + aloud. + </p> + <p> + He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at the oar; + it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for vodkas but the men + shared all they received among themselves, and gave nothing to the Tatar, + but only laughed at him. And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and + frightened.... Now, when his whole body was aching and shivering, he ought + to go into the hut and lie down to sleep; but he had nothing to cover him + there, and it was colder than on the river-bank; here he had nothing to + cover him either, but at least he could make up the fire.... + </p> + <p> + In another week, when the floods were quite over and they set the ferry + going, none of the ferrymen but Semyon would be wanted, and the Tatar + would begin going from village to village begging for alms and for work. + His wife was only seventeen; she was beautiful, spoilt, and shy; could she + possibly go from village to village begging alms with her face unveiled? + No, it was terrible even to think of that.... + </p> + <p> + It was already getting light; the barge, the bushes of willow on the + water, and the waves could be clearly discerned, and if one looked round + there was the steep clay slope; at the bottom of it the hut thatched with + dingy brown straw, and the huts of the village lay clustered higher up. + The cocks were already crowing in the village. + </p> + <p> + The rusty red clay slope, the barge, the river, the strange, unkind + people, hunger, cold, illness, perhaps all that was not real. Most likely + it was all a dream, thought the Tatar. He felt that he was asleep and + heard his own snoring.... Of course he was at home in the Simbirsk + province, and he had only to call his wife by name for her to answer; and + in the next room was his mother.... What terrible dreams there are, + though! What are they for? The Tatar smiled and opened his eyes. What + river was this, the Volga? + </p> + <p> + Snow was falling. + </p> + <p> + “Boat!” was shouted on the further side. “Boat!” + </p> + <p> + The Tatar woke up, and went to wake his mates and row over to the other + side. The ferrymen came on to the river-bank, putting on their torn + sheepskins as they walked, swearing with voices husky from sleepiness and + shivering from the cold. On waking from their sleep, the river, from which + came a breath of piercing cold, seemed to strike them as revolting and + horrible. They jumped into the barge without hurrying themselves.... The + Tatar and the three ferrymen took the long, broad-bladed oars, which in + the darkness looked like the claws of crabs; Semyon leaned his stomach + against the tiller. The shout on the other side still continued, and two + shots were fired from a revolver, probably with the idea that the ferrymen + were asleep or had gone to the pot-house in the village. + </p> + <p> + “All right, you have plenty of time,” said Semyon in the tone of a man + convinced that there was no necessity in this world to hurry—that it + would lead to nothing, anyway. + </p> + <p> + The heavy, clumsy barge moved away from the bank and floated between the + willow-bushes, and only the willows slowly moving back showed that the + barge was not standing still but moving. The ferrymen swung the oars + evenly in time; Semyon lay with his stomach on the tiller and, describing + a semicircle in the air, flew from one side to the other. In the darkness + it looked as though the men were sitting on some antediluvian animal with + long paws, and were moving on it through a cold, desolate land, the land + of which one sometimes dreams in nightmares. + </p> + <p> + They passed beyond the willows and floated out into the open. The creak + and regular splash of the oars was heard on the further shore, and a shout + came: “Make haste! make haste!” + </p> + <p> + Another ten minutes passed, and the barge banged heavily against the + landing-stage. + </p> + <p> + “And it keeps sprinkling and sprinkling,” muttered Semyon, wiping the snow + from his face; “and where it all comes from God only knows.” + </p> + <p> + On the bank stood a thin man of medium height in a jacket lined with fox + fur and in a white lambskin cap. He was standing at a little distance from + his horses and not moving; he had a gloomy, concentrated expression, as + though he were trying to remember something and angry with his + untrustworthy memory. When Semyon went up to him and took off his cap, + smiling, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I am hastening to Anastasyevka. My daughter’s worse again, and they say + that there is a new doctor at Anastasyevka.” + </p> + <p> + They dragged the carriage on to the barge and floated back. The man whom + Semyon addressed as Vassily Sergeyitch stood all the time motionless, + tightly compressing his thick lips and staring off into space; when his + coachman asked permission to smoke in his presence he made no answer, as + though he had not heard. Semyon, lying with his stomach on the tiller, + looked mockingly at him and said: + </p> + <p> + “Even in Siberia people can live—can li-ive!” + </p> + <p> + There was a triumphant expression on Canny’s face, as though he had proved + something and was delighted that things had happened as he had foretold. + The unhappy helplessness of the man in the foxskin coat evidently afforded + him great pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “It’s muddy driving now, Vassily Sergeyitch,” he said when the horses were + harnessed again on the bank. “You should have put off going for another + fortnight, when it will be drier. Or else not have gone at all. ... If any + good would come of your going—but as you know yourself, people have + been driving about for years and years, day and night, and it’s always + been no use. That’s the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his carriage and + drove off. + </p> + <p> + “There, he has galloped off for a doctor!” said Semyon, shrinking from the + cold. “But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the wind in the + fields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take your soul! What a + queer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!” + </p> + <p> + The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred and repulsion, + shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken Russian, said: “He is + good... good; but you are bad! You are bad! The gentleman is a good soul, + excellent, and you are a beast, bad! The gentleman is alive, but you are a + dead carcass.... God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief + and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, + clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing. You are a stone, and God + does not love you, but He loves the gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + Everyone laughed; the Tatar frowned contemptuously, and with a wave of his + hand wrapped himself in his rags and went to the campfire. The ferrymen + and Semyon sauntered to the hut. + </p> + <p> + “It’s cold,” said one ferryman huskily as he stretched himself on the + straw with which the damp clay floor was covered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s not warm,” another assented. “It’s a dog’s life....” + </p> + <p> + They all lay down. The door was thrown open by the wind and the snow + drifted into the hut; nobody felt inclined to get up and shut the door: + they were cold, and it was too much trouble. + </p> + <p> + “I am all right,” said Semyon as he began to doze. “I wouldn’t wish anyone + a better life.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a tough one, we all know. Even the devils won’t take you!” + </p> + <p> + Sounds like a dog’s howling came from outside. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that? Who’s there?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Tatar crying.” + </p> + <p> + “I say.... He’s a queer one!” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll get u-used to it!” said Semyon, and at once fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + The others were soon asleep too. The door remained unclosed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CATTLE-DEALERS + </h2> + <p> + THE long goods train has been standing for hours in the little station. + The engine is as silent as though its fire had gone out; there is not a + soul near the train or in the station yard. + </p> + <p> + A pale streak of light comes from one of the vans and glides over the + rails of a siding. In that van two men are sitting on an outspread cape: + one is an old man with a big gray beard, wearing a sheepskin coat and a + high lambskin hat, somewhat like a busby; the other a beardless youth in a + threadbare cloth reefer jacket and muddy high boots. They are the owners + of the goods. The old man sits, his legs stretched out before him, musing + in silence; the young man half reclines and softly strums on a cheap + accordion. A lantern with a tallow candle in it is hanging on the wall + near them. + </p> + <p> + The van is quite full. If one glances in through the dim light of the + lantern, for the first moment the eyes receive an impression of something + shapeless, monstrous, and unmistakably alive, something very much like + gigantic crabs which move their claws and feelers, crowd together, and + noiselessly climb up the walls to the ceiling; but if one looks more + closely, horns and their shadows, long lean backs, dirty hides, tails, + eyes begin to stand out in the dusk. They are cattle and their shadows. + There are eight of them in the van. Some turn round and stare at the men + and swing their tails. Others try to stand or lie down more comfortably. + They are crowded. If one lies down the others must stand and huddle + closer. No manger, no halter, no litter, not a wisp of hay....* + </p> + <p> + At last the old man pulls out of his pocket a silver watch and looks at + the time: a quarter past two. + </p> + <p> + “We have been here nearly two hours,” he says, yawning. “Better go and + stir them up, or we may be here till morning. They have gone to sleep, or + goodness knows what they are up to.” + </p> + <p> + The old man gets up and, followed by his long shadow, cautiously gets down + from the van into the darkness. He makes his way along beside the train to + the engine, and after passing some two dozen vans sees a red open furnace; + a human figure sits motionless facing it; its peaked cap, nose, and knees + are lighted up by the crimson glow, all the rest is black and can scarcely + be distinguished in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Are we going to stay here much longer?” asks the old man. + </p> + <p> + No answer. The motionless figure is evidently asleep. The old man clears + his throat impatiently and, shrinking from the penetrating damp, walks + round the engine, and as he does so the brilliant light of the two engine + lamps dazzles his eyes for an instant and makes the night even blacker to + him; he goes to the station. + </p> + <p> + The platform and steps of the station are wet. Here and there are white + patches of freshly fallen melting snow. In the station itself it is light + and as hot as a steam-bath. There is a smell of paraffin. Except for the + weighing-machine and a yellow seat on which a man wearing a guard’s + uniform is asleep, there is no furniture in the place at all. On the left + are two wide-open doors. Through one of them the telegraphic apparatus and + a lamp with a green shade on it can be seen; through the other, a small + room, half of it taken up by a dark cupboard. In this room the head guard + and the engine-driver are sitting on the window-sill. They are both + feeling a cap with their fingers and disputing. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not real beaver, it’s imitation,” says the engine-driver. “Real + beaver is not like that. Five roubles would be a high price for the whole + cap, if you care to know!” + </p> + <p> + “You know a great deal about it,...” the head guard says, offended. “Five + roubles, indeed! Here, we will ask the merchant. Mr. Malahin,” he says, + addressing the old man, “what do you say: is this imitation beaver or + real?” + </p> + <p> + Old Malahin takes the cap into his hand, and with the air of a connoisseur + pinches the fur, blows on it, sniffs at it, and a contemptuous smile + lights up his angry face. + </p> + <p> + “It must be imitation!” he says gleefully. “Imitation it is.” + </p> + <p> + A dispute follows. The guard maintains that the cap is real beaver, and + the engine-driver and Malahin try to persuade him that it is not. In the + middle of the argument the old man suddenly remembers the object of his + coming. + </p> + <p> + “Beaver and cap is all very well, but the train’s standing still, + gentlemen!” he says. “Who is it we are waiting for? Let us start!” + </p> + <p> + “Let us,” the guard agrees. “We will smoke another cigarette and go on. + But there is no need to be in a hurry.... We shall be delayed at the next + station anyway!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should we?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well.... We are too much behind time.... If you are late at one + station you can’t help being delayed at the other stations to let the + trains going the opposite way pass. Whether we set off now or in the + morning we shan’t be number fourteen. We shall have to be number + twenty-three.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you make that out?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there it is.” + </p> + <p> + Malahin looks at the guard, reflects, and mutters mechanically as though + to himself: + </p> + <p> + “God be my judge, I have reckoned it and even jotted it down in a + notebook; we have wasted thirty-four hours standing still on the journey. + If you go on like this, either the cattle will die, or they won’t pay me + two roubles for the meat when I do get there. It’s not traveling, but + ruination.” + </p> + <p> + The guard raises his eyebrows and sighs with an air that seems to say: + “All that is unhappily true!” The engine-driver sits silent, dreamily + looking at the cap. From their faces one can see that they have a secret + thought in common, which they do not utter, not because they want to + conceal it, but because such thoughts are much better expressed by signs + than by words. And the old man understands. He feels in his pocket, takes + out a ten-rouble note, and without preliminary words, without any change + in the tone of his voice or the expression of his face, but with the + confidence and directness with which probably only Russians give and take + bribes, he gives the guard the note. The latter takes it, folds it in + four, and without undue haste puts it in his pocket. After that all three + go out of the room, and waking the sleeping guard on the way, go on to the + platform. + </p> + <p> + “What weather!” grumbles the head guard, shrugging his shoulders. “You + can’t see your hand before your face.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s vile weather.” + </p> + <p> + From the window they can see the flaxen head of the telegraph clerk appear + beside the green lamp and the telegraphic apparatus; soon after another + head, bearded and wearing a red cap, appears beside it—no doubt that + of the station-master. The station-master bends down to the table, reads + something on a blue form, rapidly passing his cigarette along the + lines.... Malahin goes to his van. + </p> + <p> + The young man, his companion, is still half reclining and hardly audibly + strumming on the accordion. He is little more than a boy, with no trace of + a mustache; his full white face with its broad cheek-bones is childishly + dreamy; his eyes have a melancholy and tranquil look unlike that of a + grown-up person, but he is broad, strong, heavy and rough like the old + man; he does not stir nor shift his position, as though he is not equal to + moving his big body. It seems as though any movement he made would tear + his clothes and be so noisy as to frighten both him and the cattle. From + under his big fat fingers that clumsily pick out the stops and keys of the + accordion comes a steady flow of thin, tinkling sounds which blend into a + simple, monotonous little tune; he listens to it, and is evidently much + pleased with his performance. + </p> + <p> + A bell rings, but with such a muffled note that it seems to come from far + away. A hurried second bell soon follows, then a third and the guard’s + whistle. A minute passes in profound silence; the van does not move, it + stands still, but vague sounds begin to come from beneath it, like the + crunch of snow under sledge-runners; the van begins to shake and the + sounds cease. Silence reigns again. But now comes the clank of buffers, + the violent shock makes the van start and, as it were, give a lurch + forward, and all the cattle fall against one another. + </p> + <p> + “May you be served the same in the world to come,” grumbles the old man, + setting straight his cap, which had slipped on the back of his head from + the jolt. “He’ll maim all my cattle like this!” + </p> + <p> + Yasha gets up without a word and, taking one of the fallen beasts by the + horns, helps it to get on to its legs.... The jolt is followed by a + stillness again. The sounds of crunching snow come from under the van + again, and it seems as though the train had moved back a little. + </p> + <p> + “There will be another jolt in a minute,” says the old man. And the + convulsive quiver does, in fact, run along the train, there is a crashing + sound and the bullocks fall on one another again. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a job!” says Yasha, listening. “The train must be heavy. It seems it + won’t move.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not heavy before, but now it has suddenly got heavy. No, my lad, + the guard has not gone shares with him, I expect. Go and take him + something, or he will be jolting us till morning.” + </p> + <p> + Yasha takes a three-rouble note from the old man and jumps out of the van. + The dull thud of his heavy footsteps resounds outside the van and + gradually dies away. Stillness.... In the next van a bullock utters a + prolonged subdued “moo,” as though it were singing. + </p> + <p> + Yasha comes back. A cold damp wind darts into the van. + </p> + <p> + “Shut the door, Yasha, and we will go to bed,” says the old man. “Why burn + a candle for nothing?” + </p> + <p> + Yasha moves the heavy door; there is a sound of a whistle, the engine and + the train set off. + </p> + <p> + “It’s cold,” mutters the old man, stretching himself on the cape and + laying his head on a bundle. “It is very different at home! It’s warm and + clean and soft, and there is room to say your prayers, but here we are + worse off than any pigs. It’s four days and nights since I have taken off + my boots.” + </p> + <p> + Yasha, staggering from the jolting of the train, opens the lantern and + snuffs out the wick with his wet fingers. The light flares up, hisses like + a frying pan and goes out. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lad,” Malahin goes on, as he feels Yasha lie down beside him and + the young man’s huge back huddle against his own, “it’s cold. There is a + draught from every crack. If your mother or your sister were to sleep here + for one night they would be dead by morning. There it is, my lad, you + wouldn’t study and go to the high school like your brothers, so you must + take the cattle with your father. It’s your own fault, you have only + yourself to blame.... Your brothers are asleep in their beds now, they are + snug under the bedclothes, but you, the careless and lazy one, are in the + same box as the cattle.... Yes.... ” + </p> + <p> + The old man’s words are inaudible in the noise of the train, but for a + long time he goes on muttering, sighing and clearing his throat.... The + cold air in the railway van grows thicker and more stifling. The pungent + odor of fresh dung and smoldering candle makes it so repulsive and acrid + that it irritates Yasha’s throat and chest as he falls asleep. He coughs + and sneezes, while the old man, being accustomed to it, breathes with his + whole chest as though nothing were amiss, and merely clears his throat. + </p> + <p> + To judge from the swaying of the van and the rattle of the wheels the + train is moving rapidly and unevenly. The engine breathes heavily, + snorting out of time with the pulsation of the train, and altogether there + is a medley of sounds. The bullocks huddle together uneasily and knock + their horns against the walls. + </p> + <p> + When the old man wakes up, the deep blue sky of early morning is peeping + in at the cracks and at the little uncovered window. He feels unbearably + cold, especially in the back and the feet. The train is standing still; + Yasha, sleepy and morose, is busy with the cattle. + </p> + <p> + The old man wakes up out of humor. Frowning and gloomy, he clears his + throat angrily and looks from under his brows at Yasha who, supporting a + bullock with his powerful shoulder and slightly lifting it, is trying to + disentangle its leg. + </p> + <p> + “I told you last night that the cords were too long,” mutters the old man; + “but no, ‘It’s not too long, Daddy.’ There’s no making you do anything, + you will have everything your own way.... Blockhead!” + </p> + <p> + He angrily moves the door open and the light rushes into the van. A + passenger train is standing exactly opposite the door, and behind it a red + building with a roofed-in platform—a big station with a refreshment + bar. The roofs and bridges of the trains, the earth, the sleepers, all are + covered with a thin coating of fluffy, freshly fallen snow. In the spaces + between the carriages of the passenger train the passengers can be seen + moving to and fro, and a red-haired, red-faced gendarme walking up and + down; a waiter in a frock-coat and a snow-white shirt-front, looking cold + and sleepy, and probably very much dissatisfied with his fate, is running + along the platform carrying a glass of tea and two rusks on a tray. + </p> + <p> + The old man gets up and begins saying his prayers towards the east. Yasha, + having finished with the bullock and put down the spade in the corner, + stands beside him and says his prayers also. He merely moves his lips and + crosses himself; the father prays in a loud whisper and pronounces the end + of each prayer aloud and distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “... And the life of the world to come. Amen,” the old man says aloud, + draws in a breath, and at once whispers another prayer, rapping out + clearly and firmly at the end: “... and lay calves upon Thy altar!” + </p> + <p> + After saying his prayers, Yasha hurriedly crosses himself and says: “Five + kopecks, please.” + </p> + <p> + And on being given the five-kopeck piece, he takes a red copper teapot and + runs to the station for boiling water. Taking long jumps over the rails + and sleepers, leaving huge tracks in the feathery snow, and pouring away + yesterday’s tea out of the teapot he runs to the refreshment room and + jingles his five-kopeck piece against his teapot. From the van the + bar-keeper can be seen pushing away the big teapot and refusing to give + half of his samovar for five kopecks, but Yasha turns the tap himself and, + spreading wide his elbows so as not to be interfered with fills his teapot + with boiling water. + </p> + <p> + “Damned blackguard!” the bar-keeper shouts after him as he runs back to + the railway van. + </p> + <p> + The scowling face of Malahin grows a little brighter over the tea. + </p> + <p> + “We know how to eat and drink, but we don’t remember our work. Yesterday + we could do nothing all day but eat and drink, and I’ll be bound we forgot + to put down what we spent. What a memory! Lord have mercy on us!” + </p> + <p> + The old man recalls aloud the expenditure of the day before, and writes + down in a tattered notebook where and how much he had given to guards, + engine-drivers, oilers.... + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the passenger train has long ago gone off, and an engine runs + backwards and forwards on the empty line, apparently without any definite + object, but simply enjoying its freedom. The sun has risen and is playing + on the snow; bright drops are falling from the station roof and the tops + of the vans. + </p> + <p> + Having finished his tea, the old man lazily saunters from the van to the + station. Here in the middle of the first-class waiting-room he sees the + familiar figure of the guard standing beside the station-master, a young + man with a handsome beard and in a magnificent rough woollen overcoat. The + young man, probably new to his position, stands in the same place, + gracefully shifting from one foot to the other like a good racehorse, + looks from side to side, salutes everyone that passes by, smiles and + screws up his eyes.... He is red-cheeked, sturdy, and good-humored; his + face is full of eagerness, and is as fresh as though he had just fallen + from the sky with the feathery snow. Seeing Malahin, the guard sighs + guiltily and throws up his hands. + </p> + <p> + “We can’t go number fourteen,” he says. “We are very much behind time. + Another train has gone with that number.” + </p> + <p> + The station-master rapidly looks through some forms, then turns his + beaming blue eyes upon Malahin, and, his face radiant with smiles and + freshness, showers questions on him: + </p> + <p> + “You are Mr. Malahin? You have the cattle? Eight vanloads? What is to be + done now? You are late and I let number fourteen go in the night. What are + we to do now?” + </p> + <p> + The young man discreetly takes hold of the fur of Malahin’s coat with two + pink fingers and, shifting from one foot to the other, explains affably + and convincingly that such and such numbers have gone already, and that + such and such are going, and that he is ready to do for Malahin everything + in his power. And from his face it is evident that he is ready to do + anything to please not only Malahin, but the whole world—he is so + happy, so pleased, and so delighted! The old man listens, and though he + can make absolutely nothing of the intricate system of numbering the + trains, he nods his head approvingly, and he, too, puts two fingers on the + soft wool of the rough coat. He enjoys seeing and hearing the polite and + genial young man. To show goodwill on his side also, he takes out a + ten-rouble note and, after a moment’s thought, adds a couple of rouble + notes to it, and gives them to the station-master. The latter takes them, + puts his finger to his cap, and gracefully thrusts them into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Well, gentlemen, can’t we arrange it like this?” he says, kindled by a + new idea that has flashed on him. “The troop train is late,... as you see, + it is not here,... so why shouldn’t you go as the troop train?** And I + will let the troop train go as twenty-eight. Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like,” agrees the guard. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent!” the station-master says, delighted. “In that case there is no + need for you to wait here; you can set off at once. I’ll dispatch you + immediately. Excellent!” + </p> + <p> + He salutes Malahin and runs off to his room, reading forms as he goes. The + old man is very much pleased by the conversation that has just taken + place; he smiles and looks about the room as though looking for something + else agreeable. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll have a drink, though,” he says, taking the guard’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “It seems a little early for drinking.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you must let me treat you to a glass in a friendly way.” + </p> + <p> + They both go to the refreshment bar. After having a drink the guard spends + a long time selecting something to eat. + </p> + <p> + He is a very stout, elderly man, with a puffy and discolored face. His + fatness is unpleasant, flabby-looking, and he is sallow as people are who + drink too much and sleep irregularly. + </p> + <p> + “And now we might have a second glass,” says Malahin. “It’s cold now, it’s + no sin to drink. Please take some. So I can rely upon you, Mr. Guard, that + there will be no hindrance or unpleasantness for the rest of the journey. + For you know in moving cattle every hour is precious. To-day meat is one + price; and to-morrow, look you, it will be another. If you are a day or + two late and don’t get your price, instead of a profit you get home—excuse + my saying it—without your breeches. Pray take a little.... I rely + on you, and as for standing you something or what you like, I shall be + pleased to show you my respect at any time.” + </p> + <p> + After having fed the guard, Malahin goes back to the van. + </p> + <p> + “I have just got hold of the troop train,” he says to his son. “We shall + go quickly. The guard says if we go all the way with that number we shall + arrive at eight o’clock to-morrow evening. If one does not bestir oneself, + my boy, one gets nothing.... That’s so.... So you watch and learn....” + </p> + <p> + After the first bell a man with a face black with soot, in a blouse and + filthy frayed trousers hanging very slack, comes to the door of the van. + This is the oiler, who had been creeping under the carriages and tapping + the wheels with a hammer. + </p> + <p> + “Are these your vans of cattle?” he asks. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, because two of the vans are not safe. They can’t go on, they must + stay here to be repaired.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, tell us another! You simply want a drink, to get something out + of me.... You should have said so.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please, only it is my duty to report it at once.” + </p> + <p> + Without indignation or protest, simply, almost mechanically, the old man + takes two twenty-kopeck pieces out of his pocket and gives them to the + oiler. He takes them very calmly, too, and looking good-naturedly at the + old man enters into conversation. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to sell your cattle, I suppose.... It’s good business!” + </p> + <p> + Malahin sighs and, looking calmly at the oiler’s black face, tells him + that trading in cattle used certainly to be profitable, but now it has + become a risky and losing business. + </p> + <p> + “I have a mate here,” the oiler interrupts him. “You merchant gentlemen + might make him a little present....” + </p> + <p> + Malahin gives something to the mate too. The troop train goes quickly and + the waits at the stations are comparatively short. The old man is pleased. + The pleasant impression made by the young man in the rough overcoat has + gone deep, the vodka he has drunk slightly clouds his brain, the weather + is magnificent, and everything seems to be going well. He talks without + ceasing, and at every stopping place runs to the refreshment bar. Feeling + the need of a listener, he takes with him first the guard, and then the + engine-driver, and does not simply drink, but makes a long business of it, + with suitable remarks and clinking of glasses. + </p> + <p> + “You have your job and we have ours,” he says with an affable smile. “May + God prosper us and you, and not our will but His be done.” + </p> + <p> + The vodka gradually excites him and he is worked up to a great pitch of + energy. He wants to bestir himself, to fuss about, to make inquiries, to + talk incessantly. At one minute he fumbles in his pockets and bundles and + looks for some form. Then he thinks of something and cannot remember it; + then takes out his pocketbook, and with no sort of object counts over his + money. He bustles about, sighs and groans, clasps his hands.... Laying out + before him the letters and telegrams from the meat salesmen in the city, + bills, post office and telegraphic receipt forms, and his note book, he + reflects aloud and insists on Yasha’s listening. + </p> + <p> + And when he is tired of reading over forms and talking about prices, he + gets out at the stopping places, runs to the vans where his cattle are, + does nothing, but simply clasps his hands and exclaims in horror. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he says in a complaining voice. “Holy Martyr Vlassy! + Though they are bullocks, though they are beasts, yet they want to eat and + drink as men do.... It’s four days and nights since they have drunk or + eaten. Oh, dear! oh, dear!” + </p> + <p> + Yasha follows him and does what he is told like an obedient son. He does + not like the old man’s frequent visits to the refreshment bar. Though he + is afraid of his father, he cannot refrain from remarking on it. + </p> + <p> + “So you have begun already!” he says, looking sternly at the old man. + “What are you rejoicing at? Is it your name-day or what?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you dare teach your father.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine goings on!” + </p> + <p> + When he has not to follow his father along the other vans Yasha sits on + the cape and strums on the accordion. Occasionally he gets out and walks + lazily beside the train; he stands by the engine and turns a prolonged, + unmoving stare on the wheels or on the workmen tossing blocks of wood into + the tender; the hot engine wheezes, the falling blocks come down with the + mellow, hearty thud of fresh wood; the engine-driver and his assistant, + very phlegmatic and imperturbable persons, perform incomprehensible + movements and don’t hurry themselves. After standing for a while by the + engine, Yasha saunters lazily to the station; here he looks at the + eatables in the refreshment bar, reads aloud some quite uninteresting + notice, and goes back slowly to the cattle van. His face expresses neither + boredom nor desire; apparently he does not care where he is, at home, in + the van, or by the engine. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening the train stops near a big station. The lamps have only + just been lighted along the line; against the blue background in the fresh + limpid air the lights are bright and pale like stars; they are only red + and glowing under the station roof, where it is already dark. All the + lines are loaded up with carriages, and it seems that if another train + came in there would be no place for it. Yasha runs to the station for + boiling water to make the evening tea. Well-dressed ladies and high-school + boys are walking on the platform. If one looks into the distance from the + platform there are far-away lights twinkling in the evening dusk on both + sides of the station—that is the town. What town? Yasha does not + care to know. He sees only the dim lights and wretched buildings beyond + the station, hears the cabmen shouting, feels a sharp, cold wind on his + face, and imagines that the town is probably disagreeable, uncomfortable, + and dull. + </p> + <p> + While they are having tea, when it is quite dark and a lantern is hanging + on the wall again as on the previous evening, the train quivers from a + slight shock and begins moving backwards. After going a little way it + stops; they hear indistinct shouts, someone sets the chains clanking near + the buffers and shouts, “Ready!” The train moves and goes forward. Ten + minutes later it is dragged back again. + </p> + <p> + Getting out of the van, Malahin does not recognize his train. His eight + vans of bullocks are standing in the same row with some trolleys which + were not a part of the train before. Two or three of these are loaded with + rubble and the others are empty. The guards running to and fro on the + platform are strangers. They give unwilling and indistinct answers to his + questions. They have no thoughts to spare for Malahin; they are in a hurry + to get the train together so as to finish as soon as possible and be back + in the warmth. + </p> + <p> + “What number is this?” asks Malahin + </p> + <p> + “Number eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is the troop train? Why have you taken me off the troop train?” + </p> + <p> + Getting no answer, the old man goes to the station. He looks first for the + familiar figure of the head guard and, not finding him, goes to the + station-master. The station-master is sitting at a table in his own room, + turning over a bundle of forms. He is busy, and affects not to see the + newcomer. His appearance is impressive: a cropped black head, prominent + ears, a long hooked nose, a swarthy face; he has a forbidding and, as it + were, offended expression. Malahin begins making his complaint at great + length. + </p> + <p> + “What?” queries the station-master. “How is this?” He leans against the + back of his chair and goes on, growing indignant: “What is it? and why + shouldn’t you go by number eighteen? Speak more clearly, I don’t + understand! How is it? Do you want me to be everywhere at once?” + </p> + <p> + He showers questions on him, and for no apparent reason grows sterner and + sterner. Malahin is already feeling in his pocket for his pocketbook, but + in the end the station-master, aggrieved and indignant, for some unknown + reason jumps up from his seat and runs out of the room. Malahin shrugs his + shoulders, and goes out to look for someone else to speak to. + </p> + <p> + From boredom or from a desire to put the finishing stroke to a busy day, + or simply that a window with the inscription “Telegraph!” on it catches + his eye, he goes to the window and expresses a desire to send off a + telegram. Taking up a pen, he thinks for a moment, and writes on a blue + form: “Urgent. Traffic Manager. Eight vans of live stock. Delayed at every + station. Kindly send an express number. Reply paid. Malahin.” + </p> + <p> + Having sent off the telegram, he goes back to the station-master’s room. + There he finds, sitting on a sofa covered with gray cloth, a + benevolent-looking gentleman in spectacles and a cap of raccoon fur; he is + wearing a peculiar overcoat very much like a lady’s, edged with fur, with + frogs and slashed sleeves. Another gentleman, dried-up and sinewy, wearing + the uniform of a railway inspector, stands facing him. + </p> + <p> + “Just think of it,” says the inspector, addressing the gentleman in the + queer overcoat. “I’ll tell you an incident that really is A1! The Z. + railway line in the coolest possible way stole three hundred trucks from + the N. line. It’s a fact, sir! I swear it! They carried them off, + repainted them, put their letters on them, and that’s all about it. The N. + line sends its agents everywhere, they hunt and hunt. And then—can + you imagine it?—the Company happen to come upon a broken-down + carriage of the Z. line. They repair it at their depot, and all at once, + bless my soul! see their own mark on the wheels What do you say to that? + Eh? If I did it they would send me to Siberia, but the railway companies + simply snap their fingers at it!” + </p> + <p> + It is pleasant to Malahin to talk to educated, cultured people. He strokes + his beard and joins in the conversation with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Take this case, gentlemen, for instance,” he says. “I am transporting + cattle to X. Eight vanloads. Very good.... Now let us say they charge me + for each vanload as a weight of ten tons; eight bullocks don’t weigh ten + tons, but much less, yet they don’t take any notice of that....” + </p> + <p> + At that instant Yasha walks into the room looking for his father. He + listens and is about to sit down on a chair, but probably thinking of his + weight goes and sits on the window-sill. + </p> + <p> + “They don’t take any notice of that,” Malahin goes on, “and charge me and + my son the third-class fare, too, forty-two roubles, for going in the van + with the bullocks. This is my son Yakov. I have two more at home, but they + have gone in for study. Well and apart from that it is my opinion that the + railways have ruined the cattle trade. In old days when they drove them in + herds it was better.” + </p> + <p> + The old man’s talk is lengthy and drawn out. After every sentence he looks + at Yasha as though he would say: “See how I am talking to clever people.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word!” the inspector interrupts him. “No one is indignant, no one + criticizes. And why? It is very simple. An abomination strikes the eye and + arouses indignation only when it is exceptional, when the established + order is broken by it. Here, where, saving your presence, it constitutes + the long-established program and forms and enters into the basis of the + order itself, where every sleeper on the line bears the trace of it and + stinks of it, one too easily grows accustomed to it! Yes, sir!” + </p> + <p> + The second bell rings, the gentlemen in the queer overcoat gets up. The + inspector takes him by the arm and, still talking with heat, goes off with + him to the platform. After the third bell the station-master runs into his + room, and sits down at his table. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, with what number am I to go?” asks Malahin. + </p> + <p> + The station-master looks at a form and says indignantly: + </p> + <p> + “Are you Malahin, eight vanloads? You must pay a rouble a van and six + roubles and twenty kopecks for stamps. You have no stamps. Total, fourteen + roubles, twenty kopecks.” + </p> + <p> + Receiving the money, he writes something down, dries it with sand, and, + hurriedly snatching up a bundle of forms, goes quickly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock in the evening Malahin gets an answer from the traffic + manager: “Give precedence.” + </p> + <p> + Reading the telegram through, the old man winks significantly and, very + well pleased with himself, puts it in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he says to Yasha, “look and learn.” + </p> + <p> + At midnight his train goes on. The night is dark and cold like the + previous one; the waits at the stations are long. Yasha sits on the cape + and imperturbably strums on the accordion, while the old man is still more + eager to exert himself. At one of the stations he is overtaken by a desire + to lodge a complaint. At his request a gendarme sits down and writes: + </p> + <p> + “November 10, 188-.—I, non-commissioned officer of the Z. section of + the N. police department of railways, Ilya Tchered, in accordance with + article II of the statute of May 19, 1871, have drawn up this protocol at + the station of X. as herewith follows.... ” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to write next?” asks the gendarme. + </p> + <p> + Malahin lays out before him forms, postal and telegraph receipts, + accounts.... He does not know himself definitely what he wants of the + gendarme; he wants to describe in the protocol not any separate episode + but his whole journey, with all his losses and conversations with + station-masters—to describe it lengthily and vindictively. + </p> + <p> + “At the station of Z.,” he says, “write that the station-master unlinked + my vans from the troop train because he did not like my countenance.” + </p> + <p> + And he wants the gendarme to be sure to mention his countenance. The + latter listens wearily, and goes on writing without hearing him to the + end. He ends his protocol thus: + </p> + <p> + “The above deposition I, non-commissioned officer Tchered, have written + down in this protocol with a view to present it to the head of the Z. + section, and have handed a copy thereof to Gavril Malahin.” + </p> + <p> + The old man takes the copy, adds it to the papers with which his side + pocket is stuffed, and, much pleased, goes back to his van. + </p> + <p> + In the morning Malahin wakes up again in a bad humor, but his wrath vents + itself not on Yasha but the cattle. + </p> + <p> + “The cattle are done for!” he grumbles. “They are done for! They are at + the last gasp! God be my judge! they will all die. Tfoo!” + </p> + <p> + The bullocks, who have had nothing to drink for many days, tortured by + thirst, are licking the hoar frost on the walls, and when Malachin goes up + to them they begin licking his cold fur jacket. From their clear, tearful + eyes it can be seen that they are exhausted by thirst and the jolting of + the train, that they are hungry and miserable. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nice job taking you by rail, you wretched brutes!” mutters + Malahin. “I could wish you were dead to get it over! It makes me sick to + look at you!” + </p> + <p> + At midday the train stops at a big station where, according to the + regulations, there was drinking water provided for cattle. + </p> + <p> + Water is given to the cattle, but the bullocks will not drink it: the + water is too cold.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Two more days and nights pass, and at last in the distance in the murky + fog the city comes into sight. The journey is over. The train comes to a + standstill before reaching the town, near a goods’ station. The bullocks, + released from the van, stagger and stumble as though they were walking on + slippery ice. + </p> + <p> + Having got through the unloading and veterinary inspection, Malahin and + Yasha take up their quarters in a dirty, cheap hotel in the outskirts of + the town, in the square in which the cattle-market is held. Their lodgings + are filthy and their food is disgusting, unlike what they ever have at + home; they sleep to the harsh strains of a wretched steam hurdy-gurdy + which plays day and night in the restaurant under their lodging. + </p> + <p> + The old man spends his time from morning till night going about looking + for purchasers, and Yasha sits for days in the hotel room, or goes out + into the street to look at the town. He sees the filthy square heaped up + with dung, the signboards of restaurants, the turreted walls of a + monastery in the fog. Sometimes he runs across the street and looks into + the grocer’s shop, admires the jars of cakes of different colors, yawns, + and lazily saunters back to his room. The city does not interest him. + </p> + <p> + At last the bullocks are sold to a dealer. Malahin hires drovers. The + cattle are divided into herds, ten in each, and driven to the other end of + the town. The bullocks, exhausted, go with drooping heads through the + noisy streets, and look indifferently at what they see for the first and + last time in their lives. The tattered drovers walk after them, their + heads drooping too. They are bored.... Now and then some drover starts out + of his brooding, remembers that there are cattle in front of him intrusted + to his charge, and to show that he is doing his duty brings a stick down + full swing on a bullock’s back. The bullock staggers with the pain, runs + forward a dozen paces, and looks about him as though he were ashamed at + being beaten before people. + </p> + <p> + After selling the bullocks and buying for his family presents such as they + could perfectly well have bought at home, Malahin and Yasha get ready for + their journey back. Three hours before the train goes the old man, who has + already had a drop too much with the purchaser and so is fussy, goes down + with Yasha to the restaurant and sits down to drink tea. Like all + provincials, he cannot eat and drink alone: he must have company as fussy + and as fond of sedate conversation as himself. + </p> + <p> + “Call the host!” he says to the waiter; “tell him I should like to + entertain him.” + </p> + <p> + The hotel-keeper, a well-fed man, absolutely indifferent to his lodgers, + comes and sits down to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we have sold our stock,” Malahin says, laughing. “I have swapped my + goat for a hawk. Why, when we set off the price of meat was three roubles + ninety kopecks, but when we arrived it had dropped to three roubles + twenty-five. They tell us we are too late, we should have been here three + days earlier, for now there is not the same demand for meat, St. Philip’s + fast has come.... Eh? It’s a nice how-do-you-do! It meant a loss of + fourteen roubles on each bullock. Yes. But only think what it costs to + bring the stock! Fifteen roubles carriage, and you must put down six + roubles for each bullock, tips, bribes, drinks, and one thing and + another....” + </p> + <p> + The hotel-keeper listens out of politeness and reluctantly drinks tea. + Malahin sighs and groans, gesticulates, jests about his ill-luck, but + everything shows that the loss he has sustained does not trouble him much. + He doesn’t mind whether he has lost or gained as long as he has listeners, + has something to make a fuss about, and is not late for his train. + </p> + <p> + An hour later Malahin and Yasha, laden with bags and boxes, go downstairs + from the hotel room to the front door to get into a sledge and drive to + the station. They are seen off by the hotel-keeper, the waiter, and + various women. The old man is touched. He thrusts ten-kopeck pieces in all + directions, and says in a sing-song voice: + </p> + <p> + “Good by, good health to you! God grant that all may be well with you. + Please God if we are alive and well we shall come again in Lent. Good-by. + Thank you. God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + Getting into the sledge, the old man spends a long time crossing himself + in the direction in which the monastery walls make a patch of darkness in + the fog. Yasha sits beside him on the very edge of the seat with his legs + hanging over the side. His face as before shows no sign of emotion and + expresses neither boredom nor desire. He is not glad that he is going + home, nor sorry that he has not had time to see the sights of the city. + </p> + <p> + “Drive on!” + </p> + <p> + The cabman whips up the horse and, turning round, begins swearing at the + heavy and cumbersome luggage. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * On many railway lines, in order to avoid accidents, it is + against the regulations to carry hay on the trains, and so + live stock are without fodder on the journey.—Author’s + Note. + + **The train destined especially for the transport of troops + is called the troop train; when there are no troops it takes + goods, and goes more rapidly than ordinary goods train. + —Author’s Note. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SORROW + </h2> + <p> + THE turner, Grigory Petrov, who had been known for years past as a + splendid craftsman, and at the same time as the most senseless peasant in + the Galtchinskoy district, was taking his old woman to the hospital. He + had to drive over twenty miles, and it was an awful road. A government + post driver could hardly have coped with it, much less an incompetent + sluggard like Grigory. A cutting cold wind was blowing straight in his + face. Clouds of snowflakes were whirling round and round in all + directions, so that one could not tell whether the snow was falling from + the sky or rising from the earth. The fields, the telegraph posts, and the + forest could not be seen for the fog of snow. And when a particularly + violent gust of wind swooped down on Grigory, even the yoke above the + horse’s head could not be seen. The wretched, feeble little nag crawled + slowly along. It took all its strength to drag its legs out of the snow + and to tug with its head. The turner was in a hurry. He kept restlessly + hopping up and down on the front seat and lashing the horse’s back. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cry, Matryona,...” he muttered. “Have a little patience. Please God + we shall reach the hospital, and in a trice it will be the right thing for + you.... Pavel Ivanitch will give you some little drops, or tell them to + bleed you; or maybe his honor will be pleased to rub you with some sort of + spirit—it’ll... draw it out of your side. Pavel Ivanitch will do his + best. He will shout and stamp about, but he will do his best.... He is a + nice gentleman, affable, God give him health! As soon as we get there he + will dart out of his room and will begin calling me names. ‘How? Why so?’ + he will cry. ‘Why did you not come at the right time? I am not a dog to be + hanging about waiting on you devils all day. Why did you not come in the + morning? Go away! Get out of my sight. Come again to-morrow.’ And I shall + say: ‘Mr. Doctor! Pavel Ivanitch! Your honor!’ Get on, do! plague take + you, you devil! Get on!” + </p> + <p> + The turner lashed his nag, and without looking at the old woman went on + muttering to himself: + </p> + <p> + “‘Your honor! It’s true as before God.... Here’s the Cross for you, I set + off almost before it was light. How could I be here in time if the + Lord.... The Mother of God... is wroth, and has sent such a snowstorm? + Kindly look for yourself.... Even a first-rate horse could not do it, + while mine—you can see for yourself—is not a horse but a + disgrace.’ And Pavel Ivanitch will frown and shout: ‘We know you! You + always find some excuse! Especially you, Grishka; I know you of old! I’ll + be bound you have stopped at half a dozen taverns!’ And I shall say: ‘Your + honor! am I a criminal or a heathen? My old woman is giving up her soul to + God, she is dying, and am I going to run from tavern to tavern! What an + idea, upon my word! Plague take them, the taverns!’ Then Pavel Ivanitch + will order you to be taken into the hospital, and I shall fall at his + feet.... ‘Pavel Ivanitch! Your honor, we thank you most humbly! Forgive us + fools and anathemas, don’t be hard on us peasants! We deserve a good + kicking, while you graciously put yourself out and mess your feet in the + snow!’ And Pavel Ivanitch will give me a look as though he would like to + hit me, and will say: ‘You’d much better not be swilling vodka, you fool, + but taking pity on your old woman instead of falling at my feet. You want + a thrashing!’ ‘You are right there—a thrashing, Pavel Ivanitch, + strike me God! But how can we help bowing down at your feet if you are our + benefactor, and a real father to us? Your honor! I give you my word,... + here as before God,... you may spit in my face if I deceive you: as soon + as my Matryona, this same here, is well again and restored to her natural + condition, I’ll make anything for your honor that you would like to order! + A cigarette-case, if you like, of the best birchwood,... balls for + croquet, skittles of the most foreign pattern I can turn.... I will make + anything for you! I won’t take a farthing from you. In Moscow they would + charge you four roubles for such a cigarette-case, but I won’t take a + farthing.’ The doctor will laugh and say: ‘Oh, all right, all right.... I + see! But it’s a pity you are a drunkard....’ I know how to manage the + gentry, old girl. There isn’t a gentleman I couldn’t talk to. Only God + grant we don’t get off the road. Oh, how it is blowing! One’s eyes are + full of snow.” + </p> + <p> + And the turner went on muttering endlessly. He prattled on mechanically to + get a little relief from his depressing feelings. He had plenty of words + on his tongue, but the thoughts and questions in his brain were even more + numerous. Sorrow had come upon the turner unawares, unlooked-for, and + unexpected, and now he could not get over it, could not recover himself. + He had lived hitherto in unruffled calm, as though in drunken + half-consciousness, knowing neither grief nor joy, and now he was suddenly + aware of a dreadful pain in his heart. The careless idler and drunkard + found himself quite suddenly in the position of a busy man, weighed down + by anxieties and haste, and even struggling with nature. + </p> + <p> + The turner remembered that his trouble had begun the evening before. When + he had come home yesterday evening, a little drunk as usual, and from + long-established habit had begun swearing and shaking his fists, his old + woman had looked at her rowdy spouse as she had never looked at him + before. Usually, the expression in her aged eyes was that of a martyr, + meek like that of a dog frequently beaten and badly fed; this time she had + looked at him sternly and immovably, as saints in the holy pictures or + dying people look. From that strange, evil look in her eyes the trouble + had begun. The turner, stupefied with amazement, borrowed a horse from a + neighbor, and now was taking his old woman to the hospital in the hope + that, by means of powders and ointments, Pavel Ivanitch would bring back + his old woman’s habitual expression. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Matryona,...” the turner muttered, “if Pavel Ivanitch asks you + whether I beat you, say, ‘Never!’ and I never will beat you again. I swear + it. And did I ever beat you out of spite? I just beat you without + thinking. I am sorry for you. Some men wouldn’t trouble, but here I am + taking you.... I am doing my best. And the way it snows, the way it snows! + Thy Will be done, O Lord! God grant we don’t get off the road.... Does + your side ache, Matryona, that you don’t speak? I ask you, does your side + ache?” + </p> + <p> + It struck him as strange that the snow on his old woman’s face was not + melting; it was queer that the face itself looked somehow drawn, and had + turned a pale gray, dingy waxen hue and had grown grave and solemn. + </p> + <p> + “You are a fool!” muttered the turner.... “I tell you on my conscience, + before God,... and you go and... Well, you are a fool! I have a good mind + not to take you to Pavel Ivanitch!” + </p> + <p> + The turner let the reins go and began thinking. He could not bring himself + to look round at his old woman: he was frightened. He was afraid, too, of + asking her a question and not getting an answer. At last, to make an end + of uncertainty, without looking round he felt his old woman’s cold hand. + The lifted hand fell like a log. + </p> + <p> + “She is dead, then! What a business!” + </p> + <p> + And the turner cried. He was not so much sorry as annoyed. He thought how + quickly everything passes in this world! His trouble had hardly begun when + the final catastrophe had happened. He had not had time to live with his + old woman, to show her he was sorry for her before she died. He had lived + with her for forty years, but those forty years had passed by as it were + in a fog. What with drunkenness, quarreling, and poverty, there had been + no feeling of life. And, as though to spite him, his old woman died at the + very time when he felt he was sorry for her, that he could not live + without her, and that he had behaved dreadfully badly to her. + </p> + <p> + “Why, she used to go the round of the village,” he remembered. “I sent her + out myself to beg for bread. What a business! She ought to have lived + another ten years, the silly thing; as it is I’ll be bound she thinks I + really was that sort of man.... Holy Mother! but where the devil am I + driving? There’s no need for a doctor now, but a burial. Turn back!” + </p> + <p> + Grigory turned back and lashed the horse with all his might. The road grew + worse and worse every hour. Now he could not see the yoke at all. Now and + then the sledge ran into a young fir tree, a dark object scratched the + turner’s hands and flashed before his eyes, and the field of vision was + white and whirling again. + </p> + <p> + “To live over again,” thought the turner. + </p> + <p> + He remembered that forty years ago Matryona had been young, handsome, + merry, that she had come of a well-to-do family. They had married her to + him because they had been attracted by his handicraft. All the essentials + for a happy life had been there, but the trouble was that, just as he had + got drunk after the wedding and lay sprawling on the stove, so he had gone + on without waking up till now. His wedding he remembered, but of what + happened after the wedding—for the life of him he could remember + nothing, except perhaps that he had drunk, lain on the stove, and + quarreled. Forty years had been wasted like that. + </p> + <p> + The white clouds of snow were beginning little by little to turn gray. It + was getting dusk. + </p> + <p> + “Where am I going?” the turner suddenly bethought him with a start. “I + ought to be thinking of the burial, and I am on the way to the + hospital.... It as is though I had gone crazy.” + </p> + <p> + Grigory turned round again, and again lashed his horse. The little nag + strained its utmost and, with a snort, fell into a little trot. The turner + lashed it on the back time after time.... A knocking was audible behind + him, and though he did not look round, he knew it was the dead woman’s + head knocking against the sledge. And the snow kept turning darker and + darker, the wind grew colder and more cutting.... + </p> + <p> + “To live over again!” thought the turner. “I should get a new lathe, take + orders,... give the money to my old woman....” + </p> + <p> + And then he dropped the reins. He looked for them, tried to pick them up, + but could not—his hands would not work.... + </p> + <p> + “It does not matter,” he thought, “the horse will go of itself, it knows + the way. I might have a little sleep now.... Before the funeral or the + requiem it would be as well to get a little rest....” + </p> + <p> + The turner closed his eyes and dozed. A little later he heard the horse + stop; he opened his eyes and saw before him something dark like a hut or a + haystack.... + </p> + <p> + He would have got out of the sledge and found out what it was, but he felt + overcome by such inertia that it seemed better to freeze than move, and he + sank into a peaceful sleep. + </p> + <p> + He woke up in a big room with painted walls. Bright sunlight was streaming + in at the windows. The turner saw people facing him, and his first feeling + was a desire to show himself a respectable man who knew how things should + be done. + </p> + <p> + “A requiem, brothers, for my old woman,” he said. “The priest should be + told....” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right, all right; lie down,” a voice cut him short. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Ivanitch!” the turner cried in surprise, seeing the doctor before + him. “Your honor, benefactor!” + </p> + <p> + He wanted to leap up and fall on his knees before the doctor, but felt + that his arms and legs would not obey him. + </p> + <p> + “Your honor, where are my legs, where are my arms!” + </p> + <p> + “Say good-by to your arms and legs.... They’ve been frozen off. Come, + come!... What are you crying for? You’ve lived your life, and thank God + for it! I suppose you have had sixty years of it—that’s enough for + you!...” + </p> + <p> + “I am grieving.... Graciously forgive me! If I could have another five or + six years!...” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “The horse isn’t mine, I must give it back.... I must bury my old + woman.... How quickly it is all ended in this world! Your honor, Pavel + Ivanitch! A cigarette-case of birchwood of the best! I’ll turn you croquet + balls....” + </p> + <p> + The doctor went out of the ward with a wave of his hand. It was all over + with the turner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON OFFICIAL DUTY + </h2> + <p> + THE deputy examining magistrate and the district doctor were going to an + inquest in the village of Syrnya. On the road they were overtaken by a + snowstorm; they spent a long time going round and round, and arrived, not + at midday, as they had intended, but in the evening when it was dark. They + put up for the night at the Zemstvo hut. It so happened that it was in + this hut that the dead body was lying—the corpse of the Zemstvo + insurance agent, Lesnitsky, who had arrived in Syrnya three days before + and, ordering the samovar in the hut, had shot himself, to the great + surprise of everyone; and the fact that he had ended his life so + strangely, after unpacking his eatables and laying them out on the table, + and with the samovar before him, led many people to suspect that it was a + case of murder; an inquest was necessary. + </p> + <p> + In the outer room the doctor and the examining magistrate shook the snow + off themselves and knocked it off their boots. And meanwhile the old + village constable, Ilya Loshadin, stood by, holding a little tin lamp. + There was a strong smell of paraffin. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” asked the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Conshtable,...” answered the constable. + </p> + <p> + He used to spell it “conshtable” when he signed the receipts at the post + office. + </p> + <p> + “And where are the witnesses?” + </p> + <p> + “They must have gone to tea, your honor.” + </p> + <p> + On the right was the parlor, the travelers’ or gentry’s room; on the left + the kitchen, with a big stove and sleeping shelves under the rafters. The + doctor and the examining magistrate, followed by the constable, holding + the lamp high above his head, went into the parlor. Here a still, long + body covered with white linen was lying on the floor close to the + table-legs. In the dim light of the lamp they could clearly see, besides + the white covering, new rubber goloshes, and everything about it was + uncanny and sinister: the dark walls, and the silence, and the goloshes, + and the stillness of the dead body. On the table stood a samovar, cold + long ago; and round it parcels, probably the eatables. + </p> + <p> + “To shoot oneself in the Zemstvo hut, how tactless!” said the doctor. “If + one does want to put a bullet through one’s brains, one ought to do it at + home in some outhouse.” + </p> + <p> + He sank on to a bench, just as he was, in his cap, his fur coat, and his + felt overboots; his fellow-traveler, the examining magistrate, sat down + opposite. + </p> + <p> + “These hysterical, neurasthenic people are great egoists,” the doctor went + on hotly. “If a neurasthenic sleeps in the same room with you, he rustles + his newspaper; when he dines with you, he gets up a scene with his wife + without troubling about your presence; and when he feels inclined to shoot + himself, he shoots himself in a village in a Zemstvo hut, so as to give + the maximum of trouble to everybody. These gentlemen in every circumstance + of life think of no one but themselves! That’s why the elderly so dislike + our ‘nervous age.’” + </p> + <p> + “The elderly dislike so many things,” said the examining magistrate, + yawning. “You should point out to the elder generation what the difference + is between the suicides of the past and the suicides of to-day. In the old + days the so-called gentleman shot himself because he had made away with + Government money, but nowadays it is because he is sick of life, + depressed.... Which is better?” + </p> + <p> + “Sick of life, depressed; but you must admit that he might have shot + himself somewhere else.” + </p> + <p> + “Such trouble!” said the constable, “such trouble! It’s a real affliction. + The people are very much upset, your honor; they haven’t slept these three + nights. The children are crying. The cows ought to be milked, but the + women won’t go to the stall—they are afraid... for fear the + gentleman should appear to them in the darkness. Of course they are silly + women, but some of the men are frightened too. As soon as it is dark they + won’t go by the hut one by one, but only in a flock together. And the + witnesses too....” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Startchenko, a middle-aged man in spectacles with a dark beard, and + the examining magistrate Lyzhin, a fair man, still young, who had only + taken his degree two years before and looked more like a student than an + official, sat in silence, musing. They were vexed that they were late. Now + they had to wait till morning, and to stay here for the night, though it + was not yet six o’clock; and they had before them a long evening, a dark + night, boredom, uncomfortable beds, beetles, and cold in the morning; and + listening to the blizzard that howled in the chimney and in the loft, they + both thought how unlike all this was the life which they would have chosen + for themselves and of which they had once dreamed, and how far away they + both were from their contemporaries, who were at that moment walking about + the lighted streets in town without noticing the weather, or were getting + ready for the theatre, or sitting in their studies over a book. Oh, how + much they would have given now only to stroll along the Nevsky Prospect, + or along Petrovka in Moscow, to listen to decent singing, to sit for an + hour or so in a restaurant! + </p> + <p> + “Oo-oo-oo-oo!” sang the storm in the loft, and something outside slammed + viciously, probably the signboard on the hut. “Oo-oo-oo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + “You can do as you please, but I have no desire to stay here,” said + Startchenko, getting up. “It’s not six yet, it’s too early to go to bed; I + am off. Von Taunitz lives not far from here, only a couple of miles from + Syrnya. I shall go to see him and spend the evening there. Constable, run + and tell my coachman not to take the horses out. And what are you going to + do?” he asked Lyzhin. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; I expect I shall go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor wrapped himself in his fur coat and went out. Lyzhin could hear + him talking to the coachman and the bells beginning to quiver on the + frozen horses. He drove off. + </p> + <p> + “It is not nice for you, sir, to spend the night in here,” said the + constable; “come into the other room. It’s dirty, but for one night it + won’t matter. I’ll get a samovar from a peasant and heat it directly. I’ll + heap up some hay for you, and then you go to sleep, and God bless you, + your honor.” + </p> + <p> + A little later the examining magistrate was sitting in the kitchen + drinking tea, while Loshadin, the constable, was standing at the door + talking. He was an old man about sixty, short and very thin, bent and + white, with a naive smile on his face and watery eyes, and he kept + smacking with his lips as though he were sucking a sweetmeat. He was + wearing a short sheepskin coat and high felt boots, and held his stick in + his hands all the time. The youth of the examining magistrate aroused his + compassion, and that was probably why he addressed him familiarly. + </p> + <p> + “The elder gave orders that he was to be informed when the police + superintendent or the examining magistrate came,” he said, “so I suppose I + must go now.... It’s nearly three miles to the <i>volost</i>, and the + storm, the snowdrifts, are something terrible—maybe one won’t get + there before midnight. Ough! how the wind roars!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t need the elder,” said Lyzhin. “There is nothing for him to do + here.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the old man with curiosity, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, grandfather, how many years have you been constable?” + </p> + <p> + “How many? Why, thirty years. Five years after the Freedom I began going + as constable, that’s how I reckon it. And from that time I have been going + every day since. Other people have holidays, but I am always going. When + it’s Easter and the church bells are ringing and Christ has risen, I still + go about with my bag—to the treasury, to the post, to the police + superintendent’s lodgings, to the rural captain, to the tax inspector, to + the municipal office, to the gentry, to the peasants, to all orthodox + Christians. I carry parcels, notices, tax papers, letters, forms of + different sorts, circulars, and to be sure, kind gentleman, there are all + sorts of forms nowadays, so as to note down the numbers—yellow, + white, and red—and every gentleman or priest or well-to-do peasant + must write down a dozen times in the year how much he has sown and + harvested, how many quarters or poods he has of rye, how many of oats, how + many of hay, and what the weather’s like, you know, and insects, too, of + all sorts. To be sure you can write what you like, it’s only a regulation, + but one must go and give out the notices and then go again and collect + them. Here, for instance, there’s no need to cut open the gentleman; you + know yourself it’s a silly thing, it’s only dirtying your hands, and here + you have been put to trouble, your honor; you have come because it’s the + regulation; you can’t help it. For thirty years I have been going round + according to regulation. In the summer it is all right, it is warm and + dry; but in winter and autumn it’s uncomfortable. At times I have been + almost drowned and almost frozen; all sorts of things have happened—wicked + people set on me in the forest and took away my bag; I have been beaten, + and I have been before a court of law.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you accused of?” + </p> + <p> + “Of fraud.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, Hrisanf Grigoryev, the clerk, sold the contractor some + boards belonging to someone else—cheated him, in fact. I was mixed + up in it. They sent me to the tavern for vodka; well, the clerk did not + share with me—did not even offer me a glass; but as through my + poverty I was—in appearance, I mean—not a man to be relied + upon, not a man of any worth, we were both brought to trial; he was sent + to prison, but, praise God! I was acquitted on all points. They read a + notice, you know, in the court. And they were all in uniforms—in the + court, I mean. I can tell you, your honor, my duties for anyone not used + to them are terrible, absolutely killing; but to me it is nothing. In + fact, my feet ache when I am not walking. And at home it is worse for me. + At home one has to heat the stove for the clerk in the <i>volost</i> + office, to fetch water for him, to clean his boots.” + </p> + <p> + “And what wages do you get?” Lyzhin asked. + </p> + <p> + “Eighty-four roubles a year.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet you get other little sums coming in. You do, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Other little sums? No, indeed! Gentlemen nowadays don’t often give tips. + Gentlemen nowadays are strict, they take offense at anything. If you bring + them a notice they are offended, if you take off your cap before them they + are offended. ‘You have come to the wrong entrance,’ they say. ‘You are a + drunkard,’ they say. ‘You smell of onion; you are a blockhead; you are the + son of a bitch.’ There are kind-hearted ones, of course; but what does one + get from them? They only laugh and call one all sorts of names. Mr. + Altuhin, for instance, he is a good-natured gentleman; and if you look at + him he seems sober and in his right mind, but so soon as he sees me he + shouts and does not know what he means himself. He gave me such a name + ‘You,’ said he,...” The constable uttered some word, but in such a low + voice that it was impossible to make out what he said. + </p> + <p> + “What?” Lyzhin asked. “Say it again.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Administration,’” the constable repeated aloud. “He has been calling me + that for a long while, for the last six years. ‘Hullo, Administration!’ + But I don’t mind; let him, God bless him! Sometimes a lady will send one a + glass of vodka and a bit of pie and one drinks to her health. But peasants + give more; peasants are more kind-hearted, they have the fear of God in + their hearts: one will give a bit of bread, another a drop of cabbage + soup, another will stand one a glass. The village elders treat one to tea + in the tavern. Here the witnesses have gone to their tea. ‘Loshadin,’ they + said, ‘you stay here and keep watch for us,’ and they gave me a kopeck + each. You see, they are frightened, not being used to it, and yesterday + they gave me fifteen kopecks and offered me a glass.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, aren’t you frightened?” + </p> + <p> + “I am, sir; but of course it is my duty, there is no getting away from it. + In the summer I was taking a convict to the town, and he set upon me and + gave me such a drubbing! And all around were fields, forest—how + could I get away from him? It’s just the same here. I remember the + gentleman, Mr. Lesnitsky, when he was so high, and I knew his father and + mother. I am from the village of Nedoshtchotova, and they, the Lesnitsky + family, were not more than three-quarters of a mile from us and less than + that, their ground next to ours, and Mr. Lesnitsky had a sister, a + God-fearing and tender-hearted lady. Lord keep the soul of Thy servant + Yulya, eternal memory to her! She was never married, and when she was + dying she divided all her property; she left three hundred acres to the + monastery, and six hundred to the commune of peasants of Nedoshtchotova to + commemorate her soul; but her brother hid the will, they do say burnt it + in the stove, and took all this land for himself. He thought, to be sure, + it was for his benefit; but—nay, wait a bit, you won’t get on in the + world through injustice, brother. The gentleman did not go to confession + for twenty years after. He kept away from the church, to be sure, and died + impenitent. He burst. He was a very fat man, so he burst lengthways. Then + everything was taken from the young master, from Seryozha, to pay the + debts—everything there was. Well, he had not gone very far in his + studies, he couldn’t do anything, and the president of the Rural Board, + his uncle—‘I’ll take him’—Seryozha, I mean—thinks he, + ‘for an agent; let him collect the insurance, that’s not a difficult job,’ + and the gentleman was young and proud, he wanted to be living on a bigger + scale and in better style and with more freedom. To be sure it was a + come-down for him to be jolting about the district in a wretched cart and + talking to the peasants; he would walk and keep looking on the ground, + looking on the ground and saying nothing; if you called his name right in + his ear, ‘Sergey Sergeyitch!’ he would look round like this, ‘Eh?’ and + look down on the ground again, and now you see he has laid hands on + himself. There’s no sense in it, your honor, it’s not right, and there’s + no making out what’s the meaning of it, merciful Lord! Say your father was + rich and you are poor; it is mortifying, there’s no doubt about it, but + there, you must make up your mind to it. I used to live in good style, + too; I had two horses, your honor, three cows, I used to keep twenty head + of sheep; but the time has come, and I am left with nothing but a wretched + bag, and even that is not mine but Government property. And now in our + Nedoshtchotova, if the truth is to be told, my house is the worst of the + lot. Makey had four footmen, and now Makey is a footman himself. Petrak + had four laborers, and now Petrak is a laborer himself.” + </p> + <p> + “How was it you became poor?” asked the examining magistrate. + </p> + <p> + “My sons drink terribly. I could not tell you how they drink, you wouldn’t + believe it.” + </p> + <p> + Lyzhin listened and thought how he, Lyzhin, would go back sooner or later + to Moscow, while this old man would stay here for ever, and would always + be walking and walking. And how many times in his life he would come + across such battered, unkempt old men, not “men of any worth,” in whose + souls fifteen kopecks, glasses of vodka, and a profound belief that you + can’t get on in this life by dishonesty, were equally firmly rooted. + </p> + <p> + Then he grew tired of listening, and told the old man to bring him some + hay for his bed, There was an iron bedstead with a pillow and a quilt in + the traveler’s room, and it could be fetched in; but the dead man had been + lying by it for nearly three days (and perhaps sitting on it just before + his death), and it would be disagreeable to sleep upon it now.... + </p> + <p> + “It’s only half-past seven,” thought Lyzhin, glancing at his watch. “How + awful it is!” + </p> + <p> + He was not sleepy, but having nothing to do to pass away the time, he lay + down and covered himself with a rug. Loshadin went in and out several + times, clearing away the tea-things; smacking his lips and sighing, he + kept tramping round the table; at last he took his little lamp and went + out, and, looking at his long, gray-headed, bent figure from behind, + Lyzhin thought: + </p> + <p> + “Just like a magician in an opera.” + </p> + <p> + It was dark. The moon must have been behind the clouds, as the windows and + the snow on the window-frames could be seen distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “Oo-oo-oo!” sang the storm, “Oo-oo-oo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + “Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!” wailed a woman in the loft, or it sounded like it. + “Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!” + </p> + <p> + “B-booh!” something outside banged against the wall. “Trah!” + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate listened: there was no woman up there, it was the + wind howling. It was rather cold, and he put his fur coat over his rug. As + he got warm he thought how remote all this—the storm, and the hut, + and the old man, and the dead body lying in the next room—how remote + it all was from the life he desired for himself, and how alien it all was + to him, how petty, how uninteresting. If this man had killed himself in + Moscow or somewhere in the neighborhood, and he had had to hold an inquest + on him there, it would have been interesting, important, and perhaps he + might even have been afraid to sleep in the next room to the corpse. Here, + nearly a thousand miles from Moscow, all this was seen somehow in a + different light; it was not life, they were not human beings, but + something only existing “according to the regulation,” as Loshadin said; + it would leave not the faintest trace in the memory, and would be + forgotten as soon as he, Lyzhin, drove away from Syrnya. The fatherland, + the real Russia, was Moscow, Petersburg; but here he was in the provinces, + the colonies. When one dreamed of playing a leading part, of becoming a + popular figure, of being, for instance, examining magistrate in + particularly important cases or prosecutor in a circuit court, of being a + society lion, one always thought of Moscow. To live, one must be in + Moscow; here one cared for nothing, one grew easily resigned to one’s + insignificant position, and only expected one thing of life—to get + away quickly, quickly. And Lyzhin mentally moved about the Moscow streets, + went into the familiar houses, met his kindred, his comrades, and there + was a sweet pang at his heart at the thought that he was only twenty-six, + and that if in five or ten years he could break away from here and get to + Moscow, even then it would not be too late and he would still have a whole + life before him. And as he sank into unconsciousness, as his thoughts + began to be confused, he imagined the long corridor of the court at + Moscow, himself delivering a speech, his sisters, the orchestra which for + some reason kept droning: “Oo-oo-oo-oo! Oo-oooo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + “Booh! Trah!” sounded again. “Booh!” + </p> + <p> + And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to the + bookkeeper in the little office of the Rural Board, a thin, pale gentleman + with black hair and dark eyes walked in; he had a disagreeable look in his + eyes such as one sees in people who have slept too long after dinner, and + it spoilt his delicate, intelligent profile; and the high boots he was + wearing did not suit him, but looked clumsy. The bookkeeper had introduced + him: “This is our insurance agent.” + </p> + <p> + “So that was Lesnitsky,... this same man,” Lyzhin reflected now. + </p> + <p> + He recalled Lesnitsky’s soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemed to + him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like Lesnitsky’s. + </p> + <p> + All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” he asked in alarm. + </p> + <p> + “The conshtable!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want here?” + </p> + <p> + “I have come to ask, your honor—you said this evening that you did + not want the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told me to go to + him. Shouldn’t I go?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough, you bother me,” said Lyzhin with vexation, and he covered + himself up again. + </p> + <p> + “He may be angry.... I’ll go, your honor. I hope you will be comfortable,” + and Loshadin went out. + </p> + <p> + In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The witnesses must + have returned. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll let those poor beggars get away early to-morrow,...” thought the + examining magistrate; “we’ll begin the inquest as soon as it is daylight.” + </p> + <p> + He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were steps again, + not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was the slam of a door, + voices, the scratching of a match.... + </p> + <p> + “Are you asleep? Are you asleep?” Dr. Startchenko was asking him hurriedly + and angrily as he struck one match after another; he was covered with + snow, and brought a chill air in with him. “Are you asleep? Get up! Let us + go to Von Taunitz’s. He has sent his own horses for you. Come along. + There, at any rate, you will have supper, and sleep like a human being. + You see I have come for you myself. The horses are splendid, we shall get + there in twenty minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “And what time is it now?” + </p> + <p> + “A quarter past ten.” + </p> + <p> + Lyzhin, sleepy and discontented, put on his felt overboots, his fur-lined + coat, his cap and hood, and went out with the doctor. There was not a very + sharp frost, but a violent and piercing wind was blowing and driving along + the street the clouds of snow which seemed to be racing away in terror: + high drifts were heaped up already under the fences and at the doorways. + The doctor and the examining magistrate got into the sledge, and the white + coachman bent over them to button up the cover. They were both hot. + </p> + <p> + “Ready!” + </p> + <p> + They drove through the village. “Cutting a feathery furrow,” thought the + examining magistrate, listlessly watching the action of the trace horse’s + legs. There were lights in all the huts, as though it were the eve of a + great holiday: the peasants had not gone to bed because they were afraid + of the dead body. The coachman preserved a sullen silence, probably he had + felt dreary while he was waiting by the Zemstvo hut, and now he, too, was + thinking of the dead man. + </p> + <p> + “At the Von Taunitz’s,” said Startchenko, “they all set upon me when they + heard that you were left to spend the night in the hut, and asked me why I + did not bring you with me.” + </p> + <p> + As they drove out of the village, at the turning the coachman suddenly + shouted at the top of his voice: “Out of the way!” + </p> + <p> + They caught a glimpse of a man: he was standing up to his knees in the + snow, moving off the road and staring at the horses. The examining + magistrate saw a stick with a crook, and a beard and a bag, and he fancied + that it was Loshadin, and even fancied that he was smiling. He flashed by + and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The road ran at first along the edge of the forest, then along a broad + forest clearing; they caught glimpses of old pines and a young birch + copse, and tall, gnarled young oak trees standing singly in the clearings + where the wood had lately been cut; but soon it was all merged in the + clouds of snow. The coachman said he could see the forest; the examining + magistrate could see nothing but the trace horse. The wind blew on their + backs. + </p> + <p> + All at once the horses stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it now?” asked Startchenko crossly. + </p> + <p> + The coachman got down from the box without a word and began running round + the sledge, treading on his heels; he made larger and larger circles, + getting further and further away from the sledge, and it looked as though + he were dancing; at last he came back and began to turn off to the right. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got off the road, eh?” asked Startchenko. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all ri-ight....” + </p> + <p> + Then there was a little village and not a single light in it. Again the + forest and the fields. Again they lost the road, and again the coachman + got down from the box and danced round the sledge. The sledge flew along a + dark avenue, flew swiftly on. And the heated trace horse’s hoofs knocked + against the sledge. Here there was a fearful roaring sound from the trees, + and nothing could be seen, as though they were flying on into space; and + all at once the glaring light at the entrance and the windows flashed upon + their eyes, and they heard the good-natured, drawn-out barking of dogs. + They had arrived. + </p> + <p> + While they were taking off their fur coats and their felt boots below, “Un + Petit Verre de Clicquot” was being played upon the piano overhead, and + they could hear the children beating time with their feet. Immediately on + going in they were aware of the snug warmth and special smell of the old + apartments of a mansion where, whatever the weather outside, life is so + warm and clean and comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “That’s capital!” said Von Taunitz, a fat man with an incredibly thick + neck and with whiskers, as he shook the examining magistrate’s hand. + “That’s capital! You are very welcome, delighted to make your + acquaintance. We are colleagues to some extent, you know. At one time I + was deputy prosecutor; but not for long, only two years. I came here to + look after the estate, and here I have grown old—an old fogey, in + fact. You are very welcome,” he went on, evidently restraining his voice + so as not to speak too loud; he was going upstairs with his guests. “I + have no wife, she’s dead. But here, I will introduce my daughters,” and + turning round, he shouted down the stairs in a voice of thunder: “Tell + Ignat to have the sledge ready at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + His four daughters, young and pretty girls, all wearing gray dresses and + with their hair done up in the same style, and their cousin, also young + and attractive, with her children, were in the drawing-room. Startchenko, + who knew them already, began at once begging them to sing something, and + two of the young ladies spent a long time declaring they could not sing + and that they had no music; then the cousin sat down to the piano, and + with trembling voices, they sang a duet from “The Queen of Spades.” Again + “Un Petit Verre de Clicquot” was played, and the children skipped about, + beating time with their feet. And Startchenko pranced about too. Everybody + laughed. + </p> + <p> + Then the children said good-night and went off to bed. The examining + magistrate laughed, danced a quadrille, flirted, and kept wondering + whether it was not all a dream? The kitchen of the Zemstvo hut, the heap + of hay in the corner, the rustle of the beetles, the revolting + poverty-stricken surroundings, the voices of the witnesses, the wind, the + snow storm, the danger of being lost; and then all at once this splendid, + brightly lighted room, the sounds of the piano, the lovely girls, the + curly-headed children, the gay, happy laughter—such a transformation + seemed to him like a fairy tale, and it seemed incredible that such + transitions were possible at the distance of some two miles in the course + of one hour. And dreary thoughts prevented him from enjoying himself, and + he kept thinking this was not life here, but bits of life fragments, that + everything here was accidental, that one could draw no conclusions from + it; and he even felt sorry for these girls, who were living and would end + their lives in the wilds, in a province far away from the center of + culture, where nothing is accidental, but everything is in accordance with + reason and law, and where, for instance, every suicide is intelligible, so + that one can explain why it has happened and what is its significance in + the general scheme of things. He imagined that if the life surrounding him + here in the wilds were not intelligible to him, and if he did not see it, + it meant that it did not exist at all. + </p> + <p> + At supper the conversation turned on Lesnitsky. + </p> + <p> + “He left a wife and child,” said Startchenko. “I would forbid + neurasthenics and all people whose nervous system is out of order to + marry, I would deprive them of the right and possibility of multiplying + their kind. To bring into the world nervous, invalid children is a crime.” + </p> + <p> + “He was an unfortunate young man,” said Von Taunitz, sighing gently and + shaking his head. “What a lot one must suffer and think about before one + brings oneself to take one’s own life,... a young life! Such a misfortune + may happen in any family, and that is awful. It is hard to bear such a + thing, insufferable....” + </p> + <p> + And all the girls listened in silence with grave faces, looking at their + father. Lyzhin felt that he, too, must say something, but he couldn’t + think of anything, and merely said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, suicide is an undesirable phenomenon.” + </p> + <p> + He slept in a warm room, in a soft bed covered with a quilt under which + there were fine clean sheets, but for some reason did not feel + comfortable: perhaps because the doctor and Von Taunitz were, for a long + time, talking in the adjoining room, and overhead he heard, through the + ceiling and in the stove, the wind roaring just as in the Zemstvo hut, and + as plaintively howling: “Oo-oo-oo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + Von Taunitz’s wife had died two years before, and he was still unable to + resign himself to his loss and, whatever he was talking about, always + mentioned his wife; and there was no trace of a prosecutor left about him + now. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that I may some day come to such a condition?” thought + Lyzhin, as he fell asleep, still hearing through the wall his host’s + subdued, as it were bereaved, voice. + </p> + <p> + The examining magistrate did not sleep soundly. He felt hot and + uncomfortable, and it seemed to him in his sleep that he was not at Von + Taunitz’s, and not in a soft clean bed, but still in the hay at the + Zemstvo hut, hearing the subdued voices of the witnesses; he fancied that + Lesnitsky was close by, not fifteen paces away. In his dreams he + remembered how the insurance agent, black-haired and pale, wearing dusty + high boots, had come into the bookkeeper’s office. “This is our insurance + agent....” + </p> + <p> + Then he dreamed that Lesnitsky and Loshadin the constable were walking + through the open country in the snow, side by side, supporting each other; + the snow was whirling about their heads, the wind was blowing on their + backs, but they walked on, singing: “We go on, and on, and on....” + </p> + <p> + The old man was like a magician in an opera, and both of them were singing + as though they were on the stage: + </p> + <p> + “We go on, and on, and on!... You are in the warmth, in the light and + snugness, but we are walking in the frost and the storm, through the deep + snow.... We know nothing of ease, we know nothing of joy.... We bear all + the burden of this life, yours and ours.... Oo-oo-oo! We go on, and on, + and on....” + </p> + <p> + Lyzhin woke and sat up in bed. What a confused, bad dream! And why did he + dream of the constable and the agent together? What nonsense! And now + while Lyzhin’s heart was throbbing violently and he was sitting on his + bed, holding his head in his hands, it seemed to him that there really was + something in common between the lives of the insurance agent and the + constable. Don’t they really go side by side holding each other up? Some + tie unseen, but significant and essential, existed between them, and even + between them and Von Taunitz and between all men—all men; in this + life, even in the remotest desert, nothing is accidental, everything is + full of one common idea, everything has one soul, one aim, and to + understand it it is not enough to think, it is not enough to reason, one + must have also, it seems, the gift of insight into life, a gift which is + evidently not bestowed on all. And the unhappy man who had broken down, + who had killed himself—the “neurasthenic,” as the doctor called him—and + the old peasant who spent every day of his life going from one man to + another, were only accidental, were only fragments of life for one who + thought of his own life as accidental, but were parts of one organism—marvelous + and rational—for one who thought of his own life as part of that + universal whole and understood it. So thought Lyzhin, and it was a thought + that had long lain hidden in his soul, and only now it was unfolded + broadly and clearly to his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + He lay down and began to drop asleep; and again they were going along + together, singing: “We go on, and on, and on.... We take from life what is + hardest and bitterest in it, and we leave you what is easy and joyful; and + sitting at supper, you can coldly and sensibly discuss why we suffer and + perish, and why we are not as sound and as satisfied as you.” + </p> + <p> + What they were singing had occurred to his mind before, but the thought + was somewhere in the background behind his other thoughts, and flickered + timidly like a faraway light in foggy weather. And he felt that this + suicide and the peasant’s sufferings lay upon his conscience, too; to + resign himself to the fact that these people, submissive to their fate, + should take up the burden of what was hardest and gloomiest in life—how + awful it was! To accept this, and to desire for himself a life full of + light and movement among happy and contented people, and to be continually + dreaming of such, means dreaming of fresh suicides of men crushed by toil + and anxiety, or of men weak and outcast whom people only talk of sometimes + at supper with annoyance or mockery, without going to their help.... And + again: + </p> + <p> + “We go on, and on, and on...” as though someone were beating with a hammer + on his temples. + </p> + <p> + He woke early in the morning with a headache, roused by a noise; in the + next room Von Taunitz was saying loudly to the doctor: + </p> + <p> + “It’s impossible for you to go now. Look what’s going on outside. Don’t + argue, you had better ask the coachman; he won’t take you in such weather + for a million.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s only two miles,” said the doctor in an imploring voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if it were only half a mile. If you can’t, then you can’t. Directly + you drive out of the gates it is perfect hell, you would be off the road + in a minute. Nothing will induce me to let you go, you can say what you + like.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s bound to be quieter towards evening,” said the peasant who was + heating the stove. + </p> + <p> + And in the next room the doctor began talking of the rigorous climate and + its influence on the character of the Russian, of the long winters which, + by preventing movement from place to place, hinder the intellectual + development of the people; and Lyzhin listened with vexation to these + observations and looked out of window at the snow drifts which were piled + on the fence. He gazed at the white dust which covered the whole visible + expanse, at the trees which bowed their heads despairingly to right and + then to left, listened to the howling and the banging, and thought + gloomily: + </p> + <p> + “Well, what moral can be drawn from it? It’s a blizzard and that is all + about it....” + </p> + <p> + At midday they had lunch, then wandered aimlessly about the house; they + went to the windows. + </p> + <p> + “And Lesnitsky is lying there,” thought Lyzhin, watching the whirling + snow, which raced furiously round and round upon the drifts. “Lesnitsky is + lying there, the witnesses are waiting....” + </p> + <p> + They talked of the weather, saying that the snowstorm usually lasted two + days and nights, rarely longer. At six o’clock they had dinner, then they + played cards, sang, danced; at last they had supper. The day was over, + they went to bed. + </p> + <p> + In the night, towards morning, it all subsided. When they got up and + looked out of window, the bare willows with their weakly drooping branches + were standing perfectly motionless; it was dull and still, as though + nature now were ashamed of its orgy, of its mad nights, and the license it + had given to its passions. The horses, harnessed tandem, had been waiting + at the front door since five o’clock in the morning. When it was fully + daylight the doctor and the examining magistrate put on their fur coats + and felt boots, and, saying good-by to their host, went out. + </p> + <p> + At the steps beside the coachman stood the familiar figure of the + constable, Ilya Loshadin, with an old leather bag across his shoulder and + no cap on his head, covered with snow all over, and his face was red and + wet with perspiration. The footman who had come out to help the gentlemen + and cover their legs looked at him sternly and said: + </p> + <p> + “What are you standing here for, you old devil? Get away!” + </p> + <p> + “Your honor, the people are anxious,” said Loshadin, smiling naively all + over his face, and evidently pleased at seeing at last the people he had + waited for so long. “The people are very uneasy, the children are + crying.... They thought, your honor, that you had gone back to the town + again. Show us the heavenly mercy, our benefactors!...” + </p> + <p> + The doctor and the examining magistrate said nothing, got into the sledge, + and drove to Syrnya. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER + </h2> + <p> + A FIRST-CLASS passenger who had just dined at the station and drunk a + little too much lay down on the velvet-covered seat, stretched himself out + luxuriously, and sank into a doze. After a nap of no more than five + minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his <i>vis-a-vis,</i> gave a smirk, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “My father of blessed memory used to like to have his heels tickled by + peasant women after dinner. I am just like him, with this difference, that + after dinner I always like my tongue and my brains gently stimulated. + Sinful man as I am, I like empty talk on a full stomach. Will you allow me + to have a chat with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be delighted,” answered the <i>vis-a-vis.</i> + </p> + <p> + “After a good dinner the most trifling subject is sufficient to arouse + devilishly great thoughts in my brain. For instance, we saw just now near + the refreshment bar two young men, and you heard one congratulate the + other on being celebrated. ‘I congratulate you,’ he said; ‘you are already + a celebrity and are beginning to win fame.’ Evidently actors or + journalists of microscopic dimensions. But they are not the point. The + question that is occupying my mind at the moment, sir, is exactly what is + to be understood by the word <i>fame</i> or <i>charity</i>. What do you + think? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a ragged garment; we all + understand it as Pushkin does—that is, more or less subjectively—but + no one has yet given a clear, logical definition of the word.... I would + give a good deal for such a definition!” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you feel such a need for it?” + </p> + <p> + “You see, if we knew what fame is, the means of attaining it might also + perhaps be known to us,” said the first-class passenger, after a moment’s + thought. “I must tell you, sir, that when I was younger I strove after + celebrity with every fiber of my being. To be popular was my craze, so to + speak. For the sake of it I studied, worked, sat up at night, neglected my + meals. And I fancy, as far as I can judge without partiality, I had all + the natural gifts for attaining it. To begin with, I am an engineer by + profession. In the course of my life I have built in Russia some two dozen + magnificent bridges, I have laid aqueducts for three towns; I have worked + in Russia, in England, in Belgium.... Secondly, I am the author of several + special treatises in my own line. And thirdly, my dear sir, I have from a + boy had a weakness for chemistry. Studying that science in my leisure + hours, I discovered methods of obtaining certain organic acids, so that + you will find my name in all the foreign manuals of chemistry. I have + always been in the service, I have risen to the grade of actual civil + councilor, and I have an unblemished record. I will not fatigue your + attention by enumerating my works and my merits, I will only say that I + have done far more than some celebrities. And yet here I am in my old age, + I am getting ready for my coffin, so to say, and I am as celebrated as + that black dog yonder running on the embankment.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you tell? Perhaps you are celebrated.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! Well, we will test it at once. Tell me, have you ever heard the name + Krikunov?” + </p> + <p> + The <i>vis-a-vis</i> raised his eyes to the ceiling, thought a minute, and + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t heard it,...” he said. + </p> + <p> + “That is my surname. You, a man of education, getting on in years, have + never heard of me—a convincing proof! It is evident that in my + efforts to gain fame I have not done the right thing at all: I did not + know the right way to set to work, and, trying to catch fame by the tail, + got on the wrong side of her.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the right way to set to work?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the devil only knows! Talent, you say? Genius? Originality? Not a + bit of it, sir!... People have lived and made a career side by side with + me who were worthless, trivial, and even contemptible compared with me. + They did not do one-tenth of the work I did, did not put themselves out, + were not distinguished for their talents, and did not make an effort to be + celebrated, but just look at them! Their names are continually in the + newspapers and on men’s lips! If you are not tired of listening I will + illustrate it by an example. Some years ago I built a bridge in the town + of K. I must tell you that the dullness of that scurvy little town was + terrible. If it had not been for women and cards I believe I should have + gone out of my mind. Well, it’s an old story: I was so bored that I got + into an affair with a singer. Everyone was enthusiastic about her, the + devil only knows why; to my thinking she was—what shall I say?—an + ordinary, commonplace creature, like lots of others. The hussy was + empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what’s more, she was a fool. + </p> + <p> + “She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in the afternoon—and + I fancy did nothing else. She was looked upon as a cocotte, and that was + indeed her profession; but when people wanted to refer to her in a + literary fashion, they called her an actress and a singer. I used to be + devoted to the theatre, and therefore this fraudulent pretense of being an + actress made me furiously indignant. My young lady had not the slightest + right to call herself an actress or a singer. She was a creature entirely + devoid of talent, devoid of feeling—a pitiful creature one may say. + As far as I can judge she sang disgustingly. The whole charm of her ‘art’ + lay in her kicking up her legs on every suitable occasion, and not being + embarrassed when people walked into her dressing-room. She usually + selected translated vaudevilles, with singing in them, and opportunities + for disporting herself in male attire, in tights. In fact it was—ough! + Well, I ask your attention. As I remember now, a public ceremony took + place to celebrate the opening of the newly constructed bridge. There was + a religious service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on. I hung + about my cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid that my heart + would burst with the excitement of an author. It’s an old story and there’s + no need for false modesty, and so I will tell you that my bridge was a + magnificent work! It was not a bridge but a picture, a perfect delight! + And who would not have been excited when the whole town came to the + opening? ‘Oh,’ I thought, ‘now the eyes of all the public will be on me! + Where shall I hide myself?’ Well, I need not have worried myself, sir—alas! + Except the official personages, no one took the slightest notice of me. + They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, gazed like sheep at the bridge, + and did not concern themselves to know who had built it. And it was from + that time, by the way, that I began to hate our estimable public—damnation + take them! Well, to continue. All at once the public became agitated; a + whisper ran through the crowd,... a smile came on their faces, their + shoulders began to move. ‘They must have seen me,’ I thought. A likely + idea! I looked, and my singer, with a train of young scamps, was making + her way through the crowd. The eyes of the crowd were hurriedly following + this procession. A whisper began in a thousand voices: ‘That’s + so-and-so.... Charming! Bewitching!’ Then it was they noticed me.... A + couple of young milksops, local amateurs of the scenic art, I presume, + looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: ‘That’s her lover!’ How do + you like that? And an unprepossessing individual in a top-hat, with a chin + that badly needed shaving, hung round me, shifting from one foot to the + other, then turned to me with the words: + </p> + <p> + “‘Do you know who that lady is, walking on the other bank? That’s + so-and-so.... Her voice is beneath all criticism, but she has a most + perfect mastery of it!...’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Can you tell me,’ I asked the unprepossessing individual, ‘who built + this bridge?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I really don’t know,’ answered the individual; some engineer, I expect.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And who built the cathedral in your town?’ I asked again. + </p> + <p> + “‘I really can’t tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then I asked him who was considered the best teacher in K., who the best + architect, and to all my questions the unprepossessing individual answered + that he did not know. + </p> + <p> + “‘And tell me, please,’ I asked in conclusion, with whom is that singer + living?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘With some engineer called Krikunov.’ + </p> + <p> + “Well, how do you like that, sir? But to proceed. There are no + minnesingers or bards nowadays, and celebrity is created almost + exclusively by the newspapers. The day after the dedication of the bridge, + I greedily snatched up the local <i>Messenger,</i> and looked for myself + in it. I spent a long time running my eyes over all the four pages, and at + last there it was—hurrah! I began reading: ‘Yesterday in beautiful + weather, before a vast concourse of people, in the presence of His + Excellency the Governor of the province, so-and-so, and other dignitaries, + the ceremony of the dedication of the newly constructed bridge took + place,’ and so on.... Towards the end: Our talented actress so-and-so, the + favorite of the K. public, was present at the dedication looking very + beautiful. I need not say that her arrival created a sensation. The star + was wearing...’ and so on. They might have given me one word! Half a word. + Petty as it seems, I actually cried with vexation! + </p> + <p> + “I consoled myself with the reflection that the provinces are stupid, and + one could expect nothing of them and for celebrity one must go to the + intellectual centers—to Petersburg and to Moscow. And as it + happened, at that very time there was a work of mine in Petersburg which I + had sent in for a competition. The date on which the result was to be + declared was at hand. + </p> + <p> + “I took leave of K. and went to Petersburg. It is a long journey from K. + to Petersburg, and that I might not be bored on the journey I took a + reserved compartment and—well—of course, I took my singer. We + set off, and all the way we were eating, drinking champagne, and—tra-la-la! + But behold, at last we reach the intellectual center. I arrived on the + very day the result was declared, and had the satisfaction, my dear sir, + of celebrating my own success: my work received the first prize. Hurrah! + Next day I went out along the Nevsky and spent seventy kopecks on various + newspapers. I hastened to my hotel room, lay down on the sofa, and, + controlling a quiver of excitement, made haste to read. I ran through one + newspaper—nothing. I ran through a second—nothing either; my + God! At last, in the fourth, I lighted upon the following paragraph: + ‘Yesterday the well-known provincial actress so-and-so arrived by express + in Petersburg. We note with pleasure that the climate of the South has had + a beneficial effect on our fair friend; her charming stage appearance...’ + and I don‘t remember the rest! Much lower down than that paragraph I + found, printed in the smallest type: ’First prize in the competition was + adjudged to an engineer called so-and-so.’ That was all! And to make + things better, they even misspelt my name: instead of Krikunov it was + Kirkutlov. So much for your intellectual center! But that was not all.... + By the time I left Petersburg, a month later, all the newspapers were + vying with one another in discussing our incomparable, divine, highly + talented actress, and my mistress was referred to, not by her surname, but + by her Christian name and her father’s.... + </p> + <p> + “Some years later I was in Moscow. I was summoned there by a letter, in + the mayor’s own handwriting, to undertake a work for which Moscow, in its + newspapers, had been clamoring for over a hundred years. In the intervals + of my work I delivered five public lectures, with a philanthropic object, + in one of the museums there. One would have thought that was enough to + make one known to the whole town for three days at least, wouldn’t one? + But, alas! not a single Moscow gazette said a word about me. There was + something about houses on fire, about an operetta, sleeping town + councilors, drunken shop keepers—about everything; but about my + work, my plans, my lectures—mum. And a nice set they are in Moscow! + I got into a tram.... It was packed full; there were ladies and military + men and students of both sexes, creatures of all sorts in couples. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am told the town council has sent for an engineer to plan such and + such a work!’ I said to my neighbor, so loudly that all the tram could + hear. ‘Do you know the name of the engineer?’ + </p> + <p> + “My neighbor shook his head. The rest of the public took a cursory glance + at me, and in all their eyes I read: ‘I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I am told that there is someone giving lectures in such and such a + museum?’ I persisted, trying to get up a conversation. ‘I hear it is + interesting.’ + </p> + <p> + “No one even nodded. Evidently they had not all of them heard of the + lectures, and the ladies were not even aware of the existence of the + museum. All that would not have mattered, but imagine, my dear sir, the + people suddenly leaped to their feet and struggled to the windows. What + was it? What was the matter? + </p> + <p> + “‘Look, look!’ my neighbor nudged me. ‘Do you see that dark man getting + into that cab? That’s the famous runner, King!’ + </p> + <p> + “And the whole tram began talking breathlessly of the runner who was then + absorbing the brains of Moscow. + </p> + <p> + “I could give you ever so many other examples, but I think that is enough. + Now let us assume that I am mistaken about myself, that I am a wretchedly + boastful and incompetent person; but apart from myself I might point to + many of my contemporaries, men remarkable for their talent and industry, + who have nevertheless died unrecognized. Are Russian navigators, chemists, + physicists, mechanicians, and agriculturists popular with the public? Do + our cultivated masses know anything of Russian artists, sculptors, and + literary men? Some old literary hack, hard-working and talented, will wear + away the doorstep of the publishers’ offices for thirty-three years, cover + reams of paper, be had up for libel twenty times, and yet not step beyond + his ant-heap. Can you mention to me a single representative of our + literature who would have become celebrated if the rumor had not been + spread over the earth that he had been killed in a duel, gone out of his + mind, been sent into exile, or had cheated at cards?” + </p> + <p> + The first-class passenger was so excited that he dropped his cigar out of + his mouth and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he went on fiercely, “and side by side with these people I can + quote you hundreds of all sorts of singers, acrobats, buffoons, whose + names are known to every baby. Yes!” + </p> + <p> + The door creaked, there was a draught, and an individual of forbidding + aspect, wearing an Inverness coat, a top-hat, and blue spectacles, walked + into the carriage. The individual looked round at the seats, frowned, and + went on further. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who that is?” there came a timid whisper from the furthest + corner of the compartment. + </p> + <p> + “That is N. N., the famous Tula cardsharper who was had up in connection + with the Y. bank affair.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” laughed the first-class passenger. “He knows a Tula + cardsharper, but ask him whether he knows Semiradsky, Tchaykovsky, or + Solovyov the philosopher—he’ll shake his head.... It swinish!” + </p> + <p> + Three minutes passed in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Allow me in my turn to ask you a question,” said the <i>vis-a-vis</i> + timidly, clearing his throat. “Do you know the name of Pushkov?” + </p> + <p> + “Pushkov? H’m! Pushkov.... No, I don’t know it!” + </p> + <p> + “That is my name,...” said the <i>vis-a-vis,</i>, overcome with + embarrassment. “Then you don’t know it? And yet I have been a professor at + one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years,... a member of the + Academy of Sciences,... have published more than one work....” + </p> + <p> + The first-class passenger and the <i>vis-a-vis</i> looked at each other + and burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TRAGIC ACTOR + </h2> + <p> + IT was the benefit night of Fenogenov, the tragic actor. They were acting + “Prince Serebryany.” The tragedian himself was playing Vyazemsky; + Limonadov, the stage manager, was playing Morozov; Madame Beobahtov, + Elena. The performance was a grand success. The tragedian accomplished + wonders indeed. When he was carrying off Elena, he held her in one hand + above his head as he dashed across the stage. He shouted, hissed, banged + with his feet, tore his coat across his chest. When he refused to fight + Morozov, he trembled all over as nobody ever trembles in reality, and + gasped loudly. The theatre shook with applause. There were endless calls. + Fenogenov was presented with a silver cigarette-case and a bouquet tied + with long ribbons. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs and urged their + men to applaud, many shed tears.... But the one who was the most + enthusiastic and most excited was Masha, daughter of Sidoretsky the police + captain. She was sitting in the first row of the stalls beside her papa; + she was ecstatic and could not take her eyes off the stage even between + the acts. Her delicate little hands and feet were quivering, her eyes were + full of tears, her cheeks turned paler and paler. And no wonder—she + was at the theatre for the first time in her life. + </p> + <p> + “How well they act! how splendidly!” she said to her papa the police + captain, every time the curtain fell. “How good Fenogenov is!” + </p> + <p> + And if her papa had been capable of reading faces he would have read on + his daughter’s pale little countenance a rapture that was almost anguish. + She was overcome by the acting, by the play, by the surroundings. When the + regimental band began playing between the acts, she closed her eyes, + exhausted. + </p> + <p> + “Papa!” she said to the police captain during the last interval, “go + behind the scenes and ask them all to dinner to-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + The police captain went behind the scenes, praised them for all their fine + acting, and complimented Madame Beobahtov. + </p> + <p> + “Your lovely face demands a canvas, and I only wish I could wield the + brush!” + </p> + <p> + And with a scrape, he thereupon invited the company to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “All except the fair sex,” he whispered. “I don’t want the actresses, for + I have a daughter.” + </p> + <p> + Next day the actors dined at the police captain’s. Only three turned up, + the manager Limonadov, the tragedian Fenogenov, and the comic man + Vodolazov; the others sent excuses. The dinner was a dull affair. + Limonadov kept telling the police captain how much he respected him, and + how highly he thought of all persons in authority; Vodolazov mimicked + drunken merchants and Armenians; and Fenogenov (on his passport his name + was Knish), a tall, stout Little Russian with black eyes and frowning + brow, declaimed “At the portals of the great,” and “To be or not to be.” + Limonadov, with tears in his eyes, described his interview with the former + Governor, General Kanyutchin. The police captain listened, was bored, and + smiled affably. He was well satisfied, although Limonadov smelt strongly + of burnt feathers, and Fenogenov was wearing a hired dress coat and boots + trodden down at heel. They pleased his daughter and made her lively, and + that was enough for him. And Masha never took her eyes off the actors. She + had never before seen such clever, exceptional people! + </p> + <p> + In the evening the police captain and Masha were at the theatre again. A + week later the actors dined at the police captain’s again, and after that + came almost every day either to dinner or supper. Masha became more and + more devoted to the theatre, and went there every evening. + </p> + <p> + She fell in love with the tragedian. One fine morning, when the police + captain had gone to meet the bishop, Masha ran away with Limonadov’s + company and married her hero on the way. After celebrating the wedding, + the actors composed a long and touching letter and sent it to the police + captain. + </p> + <p> + It was the work of their combined efforts. + </p> + <p> + “Bring out the motive, the motive!” Limonadov kept saying as he dictated + to the comic man. “Lay on the respect.... These official chaps like it. + Add something of a sort... to draw a tear.” + </p> + <p> + The answer to this letter was most discomforting. The police captain + disowned his daughter for marrying, as he said, “a stupid, idle Little + Russian with no fixed home or occupation.” + </p> + <p> + And the day after this answer was received Masha was writing to her + father. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, he beats me! Forgive us!” + </p> + <p> + He had beaten her, beaten her behind the scenes, in the presence of + Limonadov, the washerwoman, and two lighting men. He remembered how, four + days before the wedding, he was sitting in the London Tavern with the + whole company, and all were talking about Masha. The company were advising + him to “chance it,” and Limonadov, with tears in his eyes urged: “It would + be stupid and irrational to let slip such an opportunity! Why, for a sum + like that one would go to Siberia, let alone getting married! When you + marry and have a theatre of your own, take me into your company. I shan’t + be master then, you’ll be master.” + </p> + <p> + Fenogenov remembered it, and muttered with clenched fists: + </p> + <p> + “If he doesn’t send money I’ll smash her! I won’t let myself be made a + fool of, damn my soul!” + </p> + <p> + At one provincial town the company tried to give Masha the slip, but Masha + found out, ran to the station, and got there when the second bell had rung + and the actors had all taken their seats. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been shamefully treated by your father,” said the tragedian; “all is + over between us!” + </p> + <p> + And though the carriage was full of people, she went down on her knees and + held out her hands, imploring him: + </p> + <p> + “I love you! Don’t drive me away, Kondraty Ivanovitch,” she besought him. + “I can’t live without you!” + </p> + <p> + They listened to her entreaties, and after consulting together, took her + into the company as a “countess”—the name they used for the minor + actresses who usually came on to the stage in crowds or in dumb parts. To + begin with Masha used to play maid-servants and pages, but when Madame + Beobahtov, the flower of Limonadov’s company, eloped, they made her <i>ingenue</i>. + She acted badly, lisped, and was nervous. She soon grew used to it, + however, and began to be liked by the audience. Fenogenov was much + displeased. + </p> + <p> + “To call her an actress!” he used to say. “She has no figure, no + deportment, nothing whatever but silliness.” + </p> + <p> + In one provincial town the company acted Schiller’s “Robbers.” Fenogenov + played Franz, Masha, Amalie. The tragedian shouted and quivered. Masha + repeated her part like a well-learnt lesson, and the play would have gone + off as they generally did had it not been for a trifling mishap. + Everything went well up to the point where Franz declares his love for + Amalie and she seizes his sword. The tragedian shouted, hissed, quivered, + and squeezed Masha in his iron embrace. And Masha, instead of repulsing + him and crying “Hence!” trembled in his arms like a bird and did not + move,... she seemed petrified. + </p> + <p> + “Have pity on me!” she whispered in his ear. “Oh, have pity on me! I am so + miserable!” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know your part! Listen to the prompter!” hissed the tragedian, + and he thrust his sword into her hand. + </p> + <p> + After the performance, Limonadov and Fenogenov were sitting in the ticket + box-office engaged in conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Your wife does not learn her part, you are right there,” the manager was + saying. “She doesn’t know her line.... Every man has his own line,... but + she doesn’t know hers....” + </p> + <p> + Fenogenov listened, sighed, and scowled and scowled. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, Masha was sitting in a little general shop writing: + </p> + <p> + “Papa, he beats me! Forgive us! Send us some money!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TRANSGRESSION + </h2> + <p> + A COLLEGIATE assessor called Miguev stopped at a telegraph-post in the + course of his evening walk and heaved a deep sigh. A week before, as he + was returning home from his evening walk, he had been overtaken at that + very spot by his former housemaid, Agnia, who said to him viciously: + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit! I’ll cook you such a crab that’ll teach you to ruin innocent + girls! I’ll leave the baby at your door, and I’ll have the law of you, and + I’ll tell your wife, too....” + </p> + <p> + And she demanded that he should put five thousand roubles into the bank in + her name. Miguev remembered it, heaved a sigh, and once more reproached + himself with heartfelt repentance for the momentary infatuation which had + caused him so much worry and misery. + </p> + <p> + When he reached his bungalow, he sat down to rest on the doorstep. It was + just ten o’clock, and a bit of the moon peeped out from behind the clouds. + There was not a soul in the street nor near the bungalows; elderly summer + visitors were already going to bed, while young ones were walking in the + wood. Feeling in both his pockets for a match to light his cigarette, + Miguev brought his elbow into contact with something soft. He looked idly + at his right elbow, and his face was instantly contorted by a look of as + much horror as though he had seen a snake beside him. On the step at the + very door lay a bundle. Something oblong in shape was wrapped up in + something—judging by the feel of it, a wadded quilt. One end of the + bundle was a little open, and the collegiate assessor, putting in his + hand, felt something damp and warm. He leaped on to his feet in horror, + and looked about him like a criminal trying to escape from his warders.... + </p> + <p> + “She has left it!” he muttered wrathfully through his teeth, clenching his + fists. “Here it lies.... Here lies my transgression! O Lord!” + </p> + <p> + He was numb with terror, anger, and shame... What was he to do now? What + would his wife say if she found out? What would his colleagues at the + office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig him in the ribs, guffaw, + and say: “I congratulate you!... He-he-he! Though your beard is gray, your + heart is gay.... You are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!” The whole colony of + summer visitors would know his secret now, and probably the respectable + mothers of families would shut their doors to him. Such incidents always + get into the papers, and the humble name of Miguev would be published all + over Russia.... + </p> + <p> + The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could distinctly hear + his wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for supper; in the yard close + to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was plaintively strumming on the + balalaika. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secret + would be discovered. Miguev was conscious of an overwhelming desire to + make haste. + </p> + <p> + “Haste, haste!...” he muttered, “this minute, before anyone sees. I’ll + carry it away and lay it on somebody’s doorstep....” + </p> + <p> + Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with a deliberate step to + avoid awakening suspicion, went down the street.... + </p> + <p> + “A wonderfully nasty position!” he reflected, trying to assume an air of + unconcern. “A collegiate assessor walking down the street with a baby! + Good heavens! if anyone sees me and understands the position, I am done + for.... I’d better put it on this doorstep.... No, stay, the windows are + open and perhaps someone is looking. Where shall I put it? I know! I’ll + take it to the merchant Myelkin’s.... Merchants are rich people and + tenderhearted; very likely they will say thank you and adopt it.” + </p> + <p> + And Miguev made up his mind to take the baby to Myelkin’s, although the + merchant’s villa was in the furthest street, close to the river. + </p> + <p> + “If only it does not begin screaming or wriggle out of the bundle,” + thought the collegiate assessor. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise! Here + I am carrying a human being under my arm as though it were a portfolio. A + human being, alive, with soul, with feelings like anyone else.... If by + good luck the Myelkins adopt him, he may turn out somebody.... Maybe he + will become a professor, a great general, an author.... Anything may + happen! Now I am carrying him under my arm like a bundle of rubbish, and + perhaps in thirty or forty years I may not dare to sit down in his + presence....” + </p> + <p> + As Miguev was walking along a narrow, deserted alley, beside a long row of + fences, in the thick black shade of the lime trees, it suddenly struck him + that he was doing something very cruel and criminal. + </p> + <p> + “How mean it is really!” he thought. “So mean that one can’t imagine + anything meaner.... Why are we shifting this poor baby from door to door? + It’s not its fault that it’s been born. It’s done us no harm. We are + scoundrels.... We take our pleasure, and the innocent babies have to pay + the penalty. Only to think of all this wretched business! I’ve done wrong + and the child has a cruel fate before it. If I lay it at the Myelkins’ + door, they’ll send it to the foundling hospital, and there it will grow up + among strangers, in mechanical routine,... no love, no petting, no + spoiling.... And then he’ll be apprenticed to a shoemaker,... he’ll take + to drink, will learn to use filthy language, will go hungry. A shoemaker! + and he the son of a collegiate assessor, of good family.... He is my flesh + and blood,... ” + </p> + <p> + Miguev came out of the shade of the lime trees into the bright moonlight + of the open road, and opening the bundle, he looked at the baby. + </p> + <p> + “Asleep!” he murmured. “You little rascal! why, you’ve an aquiline nose + like your father’s.... He sleeps and doesn’t feel that it’s his own father + looking at him!... It’s a drama, my boy... Well, well, you must forgive + me. Forgive me, old boy.... It seems it’s your fate....” + </p> + <p> + The collegiate assessor blinked and felt a spasm running down his + cheeks.... He wrapped up the baby, put him under his arm, and strode on. + All the way to the Myelkins’ villa social questions were swarming in his + brain and conscience was gnawing in his bosom. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a decent, honest man,” he thought, “I should damn everything, + go with this baby to Anna Filippovna, fall on my knees before her, and + say: ‘Forgive me! I have sinned! Torture me, but we won’t ruin an innocent + child. We have no children; let us adopt him!’ She’s a good sort, she’d + consent.... And then my child would be with me.... Ech!” + </p> + <p> + He reached the Myelkins’ villa and stood still hesitating. He imagined + himself in the parlor at home, sitting reading the paper while a little + boy with an aquiline nose played with the tassels of his dressing gown. At + the same time visions forced themselves on his brain of his winking + colleagues, and of his Excellency digging him in the ribs and + guffawing.... Besides the pricking of his conscience, there was something + warm, sad, and tender in his heart.... + </p> + <p> + Cautiously the collegiate assessor laid the baby on the verandah step and + waved his hand. Again he felt a spasm run over his face.... + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, old fellow! I am a scoundrel,” he muttered. “Don’t remember + evil against me.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped back, but immediately cleared his throat resolutely and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come what will! Damn it all! I’ll take him, and let people say what + they like!” + </p> + <p> + Miguev took the baby and strode rapidly back. + </p> + <p> + “Let them say what they like,” he thought. “I’ll go at once, fall on my + knees, and say: ‘Anna Filippovna!’ Anna is a good sort, she’ll + understand.... And we’ll bring him up.... If it’s a boy we’ll call him + Vladimir, and if it’s a girl we’ll call her Anna! Anyway, it will be a + comfort in our old age.” + </p> + <p> + And he did as he determined. Weeping and almost faint with shame and + terror, full of hope and vague rapture, he went into his bungalow, went up + to his wife, and fell on his knees before her. + </p> + <p> + “Anna Filippovna!” he said with a sob, and he laid the baby on the floor. + “Hear me before you punish.... I have sinned! This is my child.... You + remember Agnia? Well, it was the devil drove me to it. ...” + </p> + <p> + And, almost unconscious with shame and terror, he jumped up without + waiting for an answer, and ran out into the open air as though he had + received a thrashing.... + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay here outside till she calls me,” he thought. “I’ll give her + time to recover, and to think it over....” + </p> + <p> + The porter Yermolay passed him with his balalaika, glanced at him and + shrugged his shoulders. A minute later he passed him again, and again he + shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a go! Did you ever!” he muttered grinning. “Aksinya, the + washer-woman, was here just now, Semyon Erastovitch. The silly woman put + her baby down on the steps here, and while she was indoors with me, + someone took and carried off the baby... Who’d have thought it!” + </p> + <p> + “What? What are you saying?” shouted Miguev at the top of his voice. + </p> + <p> + Yermolay, interpreting his master’s wrath in his own fashion, scratched + his head and heaved a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, Semyon Erastovitch,” he said, “but it’s the summer + holidays,... one can’t get on without... without a woman, I mean....” + </p> + <p> + And glancing at his master’s eyes glaring at him with anger and + astonishment, he cleared his throat guiltily and went on: + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin, of course, but there—what is one to do?... You’ve + forbidden us to have strangers in the house, I know, but we’ve none of our + own now. When Agnia was here I had no women to see me, for I had one at + home; but now, you can see for yourself, sir,... one can’t help having + strangers. In Agnia’s time, of course, there was nothing irregular, + because...” + </p> + <p> + “Be off, you scoundrel!” Miguev shouted at him, stamping, and he went back + into the room. + </p> + <p> + Anna Filippovna, amazed and wrathful, was sitting as before, her + tear-stained eyes fixed on the baby.... + </p> + <p> + “There! there!” Miguev muttered with a pale face, twisting his lips into a + smile. “It was a joke.... It’s not my baby,... it’s the washer-woman’s!... + I... I was joking.... Take it to the porter.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SMALL FRY + </h2> + <p> + “HONORED Sir, Father and Benefactor!” a petty clerk called Nevyrazimov was + writing a rough copy of an Easter congratulatory letter. “I trust that you + may spend this Holy Day even as many more to come, in good health and + prosperity. And to your family also I...” + </p> + <p> + The lamp, in which the kerosene was getting low, was smoking and smelling. + A stray cockroach was running about the table in alarm near Nevyrazimov’s + writing hand. Two rooms away from the office Paramon the porter was for + the third time cleaning his best boots, and with such energy that the + sound of the blacking-brush and of his expectorations was audible in all + the rooms. + </p> + <p> + “What else can I write to him, the rascal?” Nevyrazimov wondered, raising + his eyes to the smutty ceiling. + </p> + <p> + On the ceiling he saw a dark circle—the shadow of the lamp-shade. + Below it was the dusty cornice, and lower still the wall, which had once + been painted a bluish muddy color. And the office seemed to him such a + place of desolation that he felt sorry, not only for himself, but even for + the cockroach. + </p> + <p> + “When I am off duty I shall go away, but he’ll be on duty here all his + cockroach-life,” he thought, stretching. “I am bored! Shall I clean my + boots?” + </p> + <p> + And stretching once more, Nevyrazimov slouched lazily to the porter’s + room. Paramon had finished cleaning his boots. Crossing himself with one + hand and holding the brush in the other, he was standing at the open + window-pane, listening. + </p> + <p> + “They’re ringing,” he whispered to Nevyrazimov, looking at him with eyes + intent and wide open. “Already!” + </p> + <p> + Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter chimes + floated into the room with a whiff of fresh spring air. The booming of the + bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, and above the chaos of sounds + rose the brisk tenor tones of the nearest church and a loud shrill laugh. + </p> + <p> + “What a lot of people!” sighed Nevyrazimov, looking down into the street, + where shadows of men flitted one after another by the illumination lamps. + “They’re all hurrying to the midnight service.... Our fellows have had a + drink by now, you may be sure, and are strolling about the town. What a + lot of laughter, what a lot of talk! I’m the only unlucky one, to have to + sit here on such a day: And I have to do it every year!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, nobody forces you to take the job. It’s not your turn to be on duty + today, but Zastupov hired you to take his place. When other folks are + enjoying themselves you hire yourself out. It’s greediness!” + </p> + <p> + “Devil a bit of it! Not much to be greedy over—two roubles is all he + gives me; a necktie as an extra.... It’s poverty, not greediness. And it + would be jolly, now, you know, to be going with a party to the service, + and then to break the fast.... To drink and to have a bit of supper and + tumble off to sleep.... One sits down to the table, there’s an Easter cake + and the samovar hissing, and some charming little thing beside you.... You + drink a glass and chuck her under the chin, and it’s first-rate.... You + feel you’re somebody.... Ech h-h!... I’ve made a mess of things! Look at + that hussy driving by in her carriage, while I have to sit here and + brood.” + </p> + <p> + “We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you’ll be + promoted and drive about in your carriage one day.” + </p> + <p> + “I? No, brother, not likely. I shan’t get beyond a ‘titular,’ not if I try + till I burst. I’m not an educated man.” + </p> + <p> + “Our General has no education either, but...” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand before he got his + position. And he’s got very different manners and deportment from me, + brother. With my manners and deportment one can’t get far! And such a + scoundrelly surname, Nevyrazimov! It’s a hopeless position, in fact. One + may go on as one is, or one may hang oneself...” + </p> + <p> + He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. The din + of the bells grew louder and louder.... There was no need to stand by the + window to hear it. And the better he could hear the bells and the louder + the roar of the carriages, the darker seemed the muddy walls and the + smutty cornice and the more the lamp smoked. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I hook it and leave the office?” thought Nevyrazimov. + </p> + <p> + But such a flight promised nothing worth having.... After coming out of + the office and wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gone home + to his lodging, and in his lodging it was even grayer and more depressing + than in the office.... Even supposing he were to spend that day pleasantly + and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but the same gray walls, the + same stop-gap duty and complimentary letters.... + </p> + <p> + Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank into thought. + The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart with an + intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find himself suddenly in + the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in the solemn + festivity for the sake of which all those bells were clashing and those + carriages were rumbling. He longed for what he had known in childhood—the + family circle, the festive faces of his own people, the white cloth, + light, warmth...! He thought of the carriage in which the lady had just + driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was so smart, the gold + chain that adorned the secretary’s chest.... He thought of a warm bed, of + the Stanislav order, of new boots, of a uniform without holes in the + elbows.... He thought of all those things because he had none of them. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I steal?” he thought. “Even if stealing is an easy matter, hiding + is what’s difficult. Men run away to America, they say, with what they’ve + stolen, but the devil knows where that blessed America is. One must have + education even to steal, it seems.” + </p> + <p> + The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages and + Paramon’s cough, while his depression and anger grew more and more intense + and unbearable. The clock in the office struck half-past twelve. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose rapidly.” + </p> + <p> + Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which the + kerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and threatening to go + out. The stray cockroach was still running about the table and had found + no resting-place. + </p> + <p> + “One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make it up? I + should want to make all sorts of innuendoes and insinuations, like + Proshkin, and I can’t do it. If I made up anything I should be the first + to get into trouble for it. I’m an ass, damn my soul!” + </p> + <p> + And Nevyrazimov, racking his brain for a means of escape from his hopeless + position, stared at the rough copy he had written. The letter was written + to a man whom he feared and hated with his whole soul, and from whom he + had for the last ten years been trying to wring a post worth eighteen + roubles a month, instead of the one he had at sixteen roubles. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I’ll teach you to run here, you devil!” He viciously slapped the palm + of his hand on the cockroach, who had the misfortune to catch his eye. + “Nasty thing!” + </p> + <p> + The cockroach fell on its back and wriggled its legs in despair. + Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The lamp flared + up and spluttered. + </p> + <p> + And Nevyrazimov felt better. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REQUIEM + </h2> + <p> + IN the village church of Verhny Zaprudy mass was just over. The people had + begun moving and were trooping out of church. The only one who did not + move was Andrey Andreyitch, a shopkeeper and old inhabitant of Verhny + Zaprudy. He stood waiting, with his elbows on the railing of the right + choir. His fat and shaven face, covered with indentations left by pimples, + expressed on this occasion two contradictory feelings: resignation in the + face of inevitable destiny, and stupid, unbounded disdain for the smocks + and striped kerchiefs passing by him. As it was Sunday, he was dressed + like a dandy. He wore a long cloth overcoat with yellow bone buttons, blue + trousers not thrust into his boots, and sturdy goloshes—the huge + clumsy goloshes only seen on the feet of practical and prudent persons of + firm religious convictions. + </p> + <p> + His torpid eyes, sunk in fat, were fixed upon the ikon stand. He saw the + long familiar figures of the saints, the verger Matvey puffing out his + cheeks and blowing out the candles, the darkened candle stands, the + threadbare carpet, the sacristan Lopuhov running impulsively from the + altar and carrying the holy bread to the churchwarden.... All these things + he had seen for years, and seen over and over again like the five fingers + of his hand.... There was only one thing, however, that was somewhat + strange and unusual. Father Grigory, still in his vestments, was standing + at the north door, twitching his thick eyebrows angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it he is winking at? God bless him!” thought the shopkeeper. “And + he is beckoning with his finger! And he stamped his foot! What next! + What’s the matter, Holy Queen and Mother! Whom does he mean it for?” + </p> + <p> + Andrey Andreyitch looked round and saw the church completely deserted. + There were some ten people standing at the door, but they had their backs + to the altar. + </p> + <p> + “Do come when you are called! Why do you stand like a graven image?” he + heard Father Grigory’s angry voice. “I am calling you.” + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper looked at Father Grigory’s red and wrathful face, and only + then realized that the twitching eyebrows and beckoning finger might refer + to him. He started, left the railing, and hesitatingly walked towards the + altar, tramping with his heavy goloshes. + </p> + <p> + “Andrey Andreyitch, was it you asked for prayers for the rest of Mariya’s + soul?” asked the priest, his eyes angrily transfixing the shopkeeper’s + fat, perspiring face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was you wrote this? You?” And Father Grigory angrily thrust + before his eyes the little note. + </p> + <p> + And on this little note, handed in by Andrey Andreyitch before mass, was + written in big, as it were staggering, letters: + </p> + <p> + “For the rest of the soul of the servant of God, the harlot Mariya.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, certainly I wrote it,...” answered the shopkeeper. + </p> + <p> + “How dared you write it?” whispered the priest, and in his husky whisper + there was a note of wrath and alarm. + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper looked at him in blank amazement; he was perplexed, and he, + too, was alarmed. Father Grigory had never in his life spoken in such a + tone to a leading resident of Verhny Zaprudy. Both were silent for a + minute, staring into each other’s face. The shopkeeper’s amazement was so + great that his fat face spread in all directions like spilt dough. + </p> + <p> + “How dared you?” repeated the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Wha... what?” asked Andrey Andreyitch in bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand?” whispered Father Grigory, stepping back in + astonishment and clasping his hands. “What have you got on your shoulders, + a head or some other object? You send a note up to the altar, and write a + word in it which it would be unseemly even to utter in the street! Why are + you rolling your eyes? Surely you know the meaning of the word?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you referring to the word harlot?” muttered the shopkeeper, flushing + crimson and blinking. “But you know, the Lord in His mercy... forgave this + very thing,... forgave a harlot.... He has prepared a place for her, and + indeed from the life of the holy saint, Mariya of Egypt, one may see in + what sense the word is used—excuse me...” + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper wanted to bring forward some other argument in his + justification, but took fright and wiped his lips with his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s what you make of it!” cried Father Grigory, clasping his hands. + “But you see God has forgiven her—do you understand? He has + forgiven, but you judge her, you slander her, call her by an unseemly + name, and whom! Your own deceased daughter! Not only in Holy Scripture, + but even in worldly literature you won’t read of such a sin! I tell you + again, Andrey, you mustn’t be over-subtle! No, no, you mustn’t be + over-subtle, brother! If God has given you an inquiring mind, and if you + cannot direct it, better not go into things.... Don’t go into things, and + hold your peace!” + </p> + <p> + “But you know, she,... excuse my mentioning it, was an actress!” + articulated Andrey Andreyitch, overwhelmed. + </p> + <p> + “An actress! But whatever she was, you ought to forget it all now she is + dead, instead of writing it on the note.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so,...” the shopkeeper assented. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to do penance,” boomed the deacon from the depths of the altar, + looking contemptuously at Andrey Andreyitch’s embarrassed face, “that + would teach you to leave off being so clever! Your daughter was a + well-known actress. There were even notices of her death in the + newspapers.... Philosopher!” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,... certainly,” muttered the shopkeeper, “the word is not a + seemly one; but I did not say it to judge her, Father Grigory, I only + meant to speak spiritually,... that it might be clearer to you for whom + you were praying. They write in the memorial notes the various callings, + such as the infant John, the drowned woman Pelagea, the warrior Yegor, the + murdered Pavel, and so on.... I meant to do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “It was foolish, Andrey! God will forgive you, but beware another time. + Above all, don’t be subtle, but think like other people. Make ten bows and + go your way.” + </p> + <p> + “I obey,” said the shopkeeper, relieved that the lecture was over, and + allowing his face to resume its expression of importance and dignity. “Ten + bows? Very good, I understand. But now, Father, allow me to ask you a + favor.... Seeing that I am, anyway, her father,... you know yourself, + whatever she was, she was still my daughter, so I was,... excuse me, + meaning to ask you to sing the requiem today. And allow me to ask you, + Father Deacon!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s good,” said Father Grigory, taking off his vestments. “That + I commend. I can approve of that! Well, go your way. We will come out + immediately.” + </p> + <p> + Andrey Andreyitch walked with dignity from the altar, and with a solemn, + requiem-like expression on his red face took his stand in the middle of + the church. The verger Matvey set before him a little table with the + memorial food upon it, and a little later the requiem service began. + </p> + <p> + There was perfect stillness in the church. Nothing could be heard but the + metallic click of the censer and slow singing.... Near Andrey Andreyitch + stood the verger Matvey, the midwife Makaryevna, and her one-armed son + Mitka. There was no one else. The sacristan sang badly in an unpleasant, + hollow bass, but the tune and the words were so mournful that the + shopkeeper little by little lost the expression of dignity and was plunged + in sadness. He thought of his Mashutka,... he remembered she had been born + when he was still a lackey in the service of the owner of Verhny Zaprudy. + In his busy life as a lackey he had not noticed how his girl had grown up. + That long period during which she was being shaped into a graceful + creature, with a little flaxen head and dreamy eyes as big as + kopeck-pieces passed unnoticed by him. She had been brought up like all + the children of favorite lackeys, in ease and comfort in the company of + the young ladies. The gentry, to fill up their idle time, had taught her + to read, to write, to dance; he had had no hand in her bringing up. Only + from time to time casually meeting her at the gate or on the landing of + the stairs, he would remember that she was his daughter, and would, so far + as he had leisure for it, begin teaching her the prayers and the + scripture. Oh, even then he had the reputation of an authority on the + church rules and the holy scriptures! Forbidding and stolid as her + father’s face was, yet the girl listened readily. She repeated the prayers + after him yawning, but on the other hand, when he, hesitating and trying + to express himself elaborately, began telling her stories, she was all + attention. Esau’s pottage, the punishment of Sodom, and the troubles of + the boy Joseph made her turn pale and open her blue eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards when he gave up being a lackey, and with the money he had saved + opened a shop in the village, Mashutka had gone away to Moscow with his + master’s family.... + </p> + <p> + Three years before her death she had come to see her father. He had + scarcely recognized her. She was a graceful young woman with the manners + of a young lady, and dressed like one. She talked cleverly, as though from + a book, smoked, and slept till midday. When Andrey Andreyitch asked her + what she was doing, she had announced, looking him boldly straight in the + face: “I am an actress.” Such frankness struck the former flunkey as the + acme of cynicism. Mashutka had begun boasting of her successes and her + stage life; but seeing that her father only turned crimson and threw up + his hands, she ceased. And they spent a fortnight together without + speaking or looking at one another till the day she went away. Before she + went away she asked her father to come for a walk on the bank of the + river. Painful as it was for him to walk in the light of day, in the sight + of all honest people, with a daughter who was an actress, he yielded to + her request. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely place you live in!” she said enthusiastically. “What + ravines and marshes! Good heavens, how lovely my native place is!” + </p> + <p> + And she had burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “The place is simply taking up room,...” Andrey Andreyvitch had thought, + looking blankly at the ravines, not understanding his daughter’s + enthusiasm. “There is no more profit from them than milk from a + billy-goat.” + </p> + <p> + And she had cried and cried, drawing her breath greedily with her whole + chest, as though she felt she had not a long time left to breathe. + </p> + <p> + Andrey Andreyitch shook his head like a horse that has been bitten, and to + stifle painful memories began rapidly crossing himself.... + </p> + <p> + “Be mindful, O Lord,” he muttered, “of Thy departed servant, the harlot + Mariya, and forgive her sins, voluntary or involuntary....” + </p> + <p> + The unseemly word dropped from his lips again, but he did not notice it: + what is firmly imbedded in the consciousness cannot be driven out by + Father Grigory’s exhortations or even knocked out by a nail. Makaryevna + sighed and whispered something, drawing in a deep breath, while one-armed + Mitka was brooding over something.... + </p> + <p> + “Where there is no sickness, nor grief, nor sighing,” droned the + sacristan, covering his right cheek with his hand. + </p> + <p> + Bluish smoke coiled up from the censer and bathed in the broad, slanting + patch of sunshine which cut across the gloomy, lifeless emptiness of the + church. And it seemed as though the soul of the dead woman were soaring + into the sunlight together with the smoke. The coils of smoke like a + child’s curls eddied round and round, floating upwards to the window and, + as it were, holding aloof from the woes and tribulations of which that + poor soul was full. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN THE COACH-HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + IT was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening. Stepan the coachman, + Mihailo the house-porter, Alyoshka the coachman’s grandson, who had come + up from the village to stay with his grandfather, and Nikandr, an old man + of seventy, who used to come into the yard every evening to sell salt + herrings, were sitting round a lantern in the big coach-house, playing + “kings.” Through the wide-open door could be seen the whole yard, the big + house, where the master’s family lived, the gates, the cellars, and the + porter’s lodge. It was all shrouded in the darkness of night, and only the + four windows of one of the lodges which was let were brightly lit up. The + shadows of the coaches and sledges with their shafts tipped upwards + stretched from the walls to the doors, quivering and cutting across the + shadows cast by the lantern and the players.... On the other side of the + thin partition that divided the coach-house from the stable were the + horses. There was a scent of hay, and a disagreeable smell of salt + herrings coming from old Nikandr. + </p> + <p> + The porter won and was king; he assumed an attitude such as was in his + opinion befitting a king, and blew his nose loudly on a red-checked + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Now if I like I can chop off anybody’s head,” he said. Alyoshka, a boy of + eight with a head of flaxen hair, left long uncut, who had only missed + being king by two tricks, looked angrily and with envy at the porter. He + pouted and frowned. + </p> + <p> + “I shall give you the trick, grandfather,” he said, pondering over his + cards; “I know you have got the queen of diamonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, little silly, you have thought enough!” + </p> + <p> + Alyoshka timidly played the knave of diamonds. At that moment a ring was + heard from the yard. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang you!” muttered the porter, getting up. “Go and open the gate, O + king!” + </p> + <p> + When he came back a little later, Alyoshka was already a prince, the + fish-hawker a soldier, and the coachman a peasant. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nasty business,” said the porter, sitting down to the cards again. + “I have just let the doctors out. They have not extracted it.” + </p> + <p> + “How could they? Just think, they would have to pick open the brains. If + there is a bullet in the head, of what use are doctors?” + </p> + <p> + “He is lying unconscious,” the porter went on. “He is bound to die. + Alyoshka, don’t look at the cards, you little puppy, or I will pull your + ears! Yes, I let the doctors out, and the father and mother in... They + have only just arrived. Such crying and wailing, Lord preserve us! They + say he is the only son.... It’s a grief!” + </p> + <p> + All except Alyoshka, who was absorbed in the game, looked round at the + brightly lighted windows of the lodge. + </p> + <p> + “I have orders to go to the police station tomorrow,” said the porter. + “There will be an inquiry... But what do I know about it? I saw nothing of + it. He called me this morning, gave me a letter, and said: ‘Put it in the + letter-box for me.’ And his eyes were red with crying. His wife and + children were not at home. They had gone out for a walk. So when I had + gone with the letter, he put a bullet into his forehead from a revolver. + When I came back his cook was wailing for the whole yard to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a great sin,” said the fish-hawker in a husky voice, and he shook + his head, “a great sin!” + </p> + <p> + “From too much learning,” said the porter, taking a trick; “his wits + outstripped his wisdom. Sometimes he would sit writing papers all + night.... Play, peasant!... But he was a nice gentleman. And so white + skinned, black-haired and tall!... He was a good lodger.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems the fair sex is at the bottom of it,” said the coachman, + slapping the nine of trumps on the king of diamonds. “It seems he was fond + of another man’s wife and disliked his own; it does happen.” + </p> + <p> + “The king rebels,” said the porter. + </p> + <p> + At that moment there was again a ring from the yard. The rebellious king + spat with vexation and went out. Shadows like dancing couples flitted + across the windows of the lodge. There was the sound of voices and hurried + footsteps in the yard. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the doctors have come again,” said the coachman. “Our Mihailo + is run off his legs....” + </p> + <p> + A strange wailing voice rang out for a moment in the air. Alyoshka looked + in alarm at his grandfather, the coachman; then at the windows, and said: + </p> + <p> + “He stroked me on the head at the gate yesterday, and said, ‘What district + do you come from, boy?’ Grandfather, who was that howled just now?” + </p> + <p> + His grandfather trimmed the light in the lantern and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “The man is lost,” he said a little later, with a yawn. “He is lost, and + his children are ruined, too. It’s a disgrace for his children for the + rest of their lives now.” + </p> + <p> + The porter came back and sat down by the lantern. + </p> + <p> + “He is dead,” he said. “They have sent to the almshouse for the old women + to lay him out.” + </p> + <p> + “The kingdom of heaven and eternal peace to him!” whispered the coachman, + and he crossed himself. + </p> + <p> + Looking at him, Alyoshka crossed himself too. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t pray for such as him,” said the fish-hawker. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true,” the porter assented. “Now his soul has gone straight to + hell, to the devil....” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin,” repeated the fish-hawker; “such as he have no funeral, no + requiem, but are buried like carrion with no respect.” + </p> + <p> + The old man put on his cap and got up. + </p> + <p> + “It was the same thing at our lady’s,” he said, pulling his cap on + further. “We were serfs in those days; the younger son of our mistress, + the General’s lady, shot himself through the mouth with a pistol, from too + much learning, too. It seems that by law such have to be buried outside + the cemetery, without priests, without a requiem service; but to save + disgrace our lady, you know, bribed the police and the doctors, and they + gave her a paper to say her son had done it when delirious, not knowing + what he was doing. You can do anything with money. So he had a funeral + with priests and every honor, the music played, and he was buried in the + church; for the deceased General had built that church with his own money, + and all his family were buried there. Only this is what happened, friends. + One month passed, and then another, and it was all right. In the third + month they informed the General’s lady that the watchmen had come from + that same church. What did they want? They were brought to her, they fell + at her feet. ‘We can’t go on serving, your excellency,’ they said. ‘Look + out for other watchmen and graciously dismiss us.’ ‘What for?’ ‘No,’ they + said, ‘we can’t possibly; your son howls under the church all night.’” + </p> + <p> + Alyoshka shuddered, and pressed his face to the coachman’s back so as not + to see the windows. + </p> + <p> + “At first the General’s lady would not listen,” continued the old man. + “‘All this is your fancy, you simple folk have such notions,’ she said. ‘A + dead man cannot howl.’ Some time afterwards the watchmen came to her + again, and with them the sacristan. So the sacristan, too, had heard him + howling. The General’s lady saw that it was a bad job; she locked herself + in her bedroom with the watchmen. ‘Here, my friends, here are twenty-five + roubles for you, and for that go by night in secret, so that no one should + hear or see you, dig up my unhappy son, and bury him,’ she said, ‘outside + the cemetery.’ And I suppose she stood them a glass... And the watchmen + did so. The stone with the inscription on it is there to this day, but he + himself, the General’s son, is outside the cemetery.... O Lord, forgive us + our transgressions!” sighed the fish-hawker. “There is only one day in the + year when one may pray for such people: the Saturday before Trinity.... + You mustn’t give alms to beggars for their sake, it is a sin, but you may + feed the birds for the rest of their souls. The General’s lady used to go + out to the crossroads every three days to feed the birds. Once at the + cross-roads a black dog suddenly appeared; it ran up to the bread, and was + such a... we all know what that dog was. The General’s lady was like a + half-crazy creature for five days afterwards, she neither ate nor + drank.... All at once she fell on her knees in the garden, and prayed and + prayed.... Well, good-by, friends, the blessing of God and the Heavenly + Mother be with you. Let us go, Mihailo, you’ll open the gate for me.” + </p> + <p> + The fish-hawker and the porter went out. The coachman and Alyoshka went + out too, so as not to be left in the coach-house. + </p> + <p> + “The man was living and is dead!” said the coachman, looking towards the + windows where shadows were still flitting to and fro. “Only this morning + he was walking about the yard, and now he is lying dead.” + </p> + <p> + “The time will come and we shall die too,” said the porter, walking away + with the fish-hawker, and at once they both vanished from sight in the + darkness. + </p> + <p> + The coachman, and Alyoshka after him, somewhat timidly went up to the + lighted windows. A very pale lady with large tear stained eyes, and a + fine-looking gray headed man were moving two card-tables into the middle + of the room, probably with the intention of laying the dead man upon them, + and on the green cloth of the table numbers could still be seen written in + chalk. The cook who had run about the yard wailing in the morning was now + standing on a chair, stretching up to try and cover the looking glass with + a towel. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather what are they doing?” asked Alyoshka in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “They are just going to lay him on the tables,” answered his grandfather. + “Let us go, child, it is bedtime.” + </p> + <p> + The coachman and Alyoshka went back to the coach-house. They said their + prayers, and took off their boots. Stepan lay down in a corner on the + floor, Alyoshka in a sledge. The doors of the coach house were shut, there + was a horrible stench from the extinguished lantern. A little later + Alyoshka sat up and looked about him; through the crack of the door he + could still see a light from those lighted windows. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, I am frightened!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come, go to sleep, go to sleep!...” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I am frightened!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you frightened of? What a baby!” + </p> + <p> + They were silent. + </p> + <p> + Alyoshka suddenly jumped out of the sledge and, loudly weeping, ran to his + grandfather. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What’s the matter?” cried the coachman in a fright, getting + up also. + </p> + <p> + “He’s howling!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is howling?” + </p> + <p> + “I am frightened, grandfather, do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + The coachman listened. + </p> + <p> + “It’s their crying,” he said. “Come! there, little silly! They are sad, so + they are crying.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go home,...” his grandson went on sobbing and trembling all + over. “Grandfather, let us go back to the village, to mammy; come, + grandfather dear, God will give you the heavenly kingdom for it....” + </p> + <p> + “What a silly, ah! Come, be quiet, be quiet! Be quiet, I will light the + lantern,... silly!” + </p> + <p> + The coachman fumbled for the matches and lighted the lantern. But the + light did not comfort Alyoshka. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather Stepan, let’s go to the village!” he besought him, weeping. + “I am frightened here; oh, oh, how frightened I am! And why did you bring + me from the village, accursed man?” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s an accursed man? You mustn’t use such disrespectable words to your + lawful grandfather. I shall whip you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do whip me, grandfather, do; beat me like Sidor’s goat, but only take me + to mammy, for God’s mercy!...” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, grandson, come!” the coachman said kindly. “It’s all right, + don’t be frightened....I am frightened myself.... Say your prayers!” + </p> + <p> + The door creaked and the porter’s head appeared. “Aren’t you asleep, + Stepan?” he asked. “I shan’t get any sleep all night,” he said, coming in. + “I shall be opening and shutting the gates all night.... What are you + crying for, Alyoshka?” + </p> + <p> + “He is frightened,” the coachman answered for his grandson. + </p> + <p> + Again there was the sound of a wailing voice in the air. The porter said: + </p> + <p> + “They are crying. The mother can’t believe her eyes.... It’s dreadful how + upset she is.” + </p> + <p> + “And is the father there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.... The father is all right. He sits in the corner and says nothing. + They have taken the children to relations.... Well, Stepan, shall we have + a game of trumps?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the coachman agreed, scratching himself, “and you, Alyoshka, go to + sleep. Almost big enough to be married, and blubbering, you rascal. Come, + go along, grandson, go along....” + </p> + <p> + The presence of the porter reassured Alyoshka. He went, not very + resolutely, towards the sledge and lay down. And while he was falling + asleep he heard a half-whisper. + </p> + <p> + “I beat and cover,” said his grandfather. + </p> + <p> + “I beat and cover,” repeated the porter. + </p> + <p> + The bell rang in the yard, the door creaked and seemed also saying: “I + beat and cover.” When Alyoshka dreamed of the gentleman and, frightened by + his eyes, jumped up and burst out crying, it was morning, his grandfather + was snoring, and the coach-house no longer seemed terrible. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PANIC FEARS + </h2> + <p> + DURING all the years I have been living in this world I have only three + times been terrified. + </p> + <p> + The first real terror, which made my hair stand on end and made shivers + run all over me, was caused by a trivial but strange phenomenon. It + happened that, having nothing to do one July evening, I drove to the + station for the newspapers. It was a still, warm, almost sultry evening, + like all those monotonous evenings in July which, when once they have set + in, go on for a week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, in regular + unbroken succession, and are suddenly cut short by a violent thunderstorm + and a lavish downpour of rain that refreshes everything for a long time. + </p> + <p> + The sun had set some time before, and an unbroken gray dusk lay all over + the land. The mawkishly sweet scents of the grass and flowers were heavy + in the motionless, stagnant air. + </p> + <p> + I was driving in a rough trolley. Behind my back the gardener’s son + Pashka, a boy of eight years old, whom I had taken with me to look after + the horse in case of necessity, was gently snoring, with his head on a + sack of oats. Our way lay along a narrow by-road, straight as a ruler, + which lay hid like a great snake in the tall thick rye. There was a pale + light from the afterglow of sunset; a streak of light cut its way through + a narrow, uncouth-looking cloud, which seemed sometimes like a boat and + sometimes like a man wrapped in a quilt.... + </p> + <p> + I had driven a mile and a half, or two miles, when against the pale + background of the evening glow there came into sight one after another + some graceful tall poplars; a river glimmered beyond them, and a gorgeous + picture suddenly, as though by magic, lay stretched before me. I had to + stop the horse, for our straight road broke off abruptly and ran down a + steep incline overgrown with bushes. We were standing on the hillside and + beneath us at the bottom lay a huge hole full of twilight, of fantastic + shapes, and of space. At the bottom of this hole, in a wide plain guarded + by the poplars and caressed by the gleaming river, nestled a village. It + was now sleeping.... Its huts, its church with the belfry, its trees, + stood out against the gray twilight and were reflected darkly in the + smooth surface of the river. + </p> + <p> + I waked Pashka for fear he should fall out and began cautiously going + down. + </p> + <p> + “Have we got to Lukovo?” asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Hold the reins!...” + </p> + <p> + I led the horse down the hill and looked at the village. At the first + glance one strange circumstance caught my attention: at the very top of + the belfry, in the tiny window between the cupola and the bells, a light + was twinkling. This light was like that of a smoldering lamp, at one + moment dying down, at another flickering up. What could it come from? + </p> + <p> + Its source was beyond my comprehension. It could not be burning at the + window, for there were neither ikons nor lamps in the top turret of the + belfry; there was nothing there, as I knew, but beams, dust, and spiders’ + webs. It was hard to climb up into that turret, for the passage to it from + the belfry was closely blocked up. + </p> + <p> + It was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of some outside + light, but though I strained my eyes to the utmost, I could not see one + other speck of light in the vast expanse that lay before me. There was no + moon. The pale and, by now, quite dim streak of the afterglow could not + have been reflected, for the window looked not to the west, but to the + east. These and other similar considerations were straying through my mind + all the while that I was going down the slope with the horse. At the + bottom I sat down by the roadside and looked again at the light. As before + it was glimmering and flaring up. + </p> + <p> + “Strange,” I thought, lost in conjecture. “Very strange.” + </p> + <p> + And little by little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At first I + thought that this was vexation at not being able to explain a simple + phenomenon; but afterwards, when I suddenly turned away from the light in + horror and caught hold of Pashka with one hand, it became clear that I was + overcome with terror.... + </p> + <p> + I was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery, and horror, as though I + had been flung down against my will into this great hole full of shadows, + where I was standing all alone with the belfry looking at me with its red + eye. + </p> + <p> + “Pashka!” I cried, closing my eyes in horror. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Pashka, what’s that gleaming on the belfry?” + </p> + <p> + Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn. + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell?” + </p> + <p> + This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, but not + for long. Pashka, seeing my uneasiness, fastened his big eyes upon the + light, looked at me again, then again at the light.... + </p> + <p> + “I am frightened,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + At this point, beside myself with terror, I clutched the boy with one + hand, huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash. + </p> + <p> + “It’s stupid!” I said to myself. “That phenomenon is only terrible because + I don’t understand it; everything we don’t understand is mysterious.” + </p> + <p> + I tried to persuade myself, but at the same time I did not leave off + lashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I purposely stayed + for a full hour chatting with the overseer, and read through two or three + newspapers, but the feeling of uneasiness did not leave me. On the way + back the light was not to be seen, but on the other hand the silhouettes + of the huts, of the poplars, and of the hill up which I had to drive, + seemed to me as though animated. And why the light was there I don’t know + to this day. + </p> + <p> + The second terror I experienced was excited by a circumstance no less + trivial.... I was returning from a romantic interview. It was one o’clock + at night, the time when nature is buried in the soundest, sweetest sleep + before the dawn. That time nature was not sleeping, and one could not call + the night a still one. Corncrakes, quails, nightingales, and woodcocks + were calling, crickets and grasshoppers were chirruping. There was a light + mist over the grass, and clouds were scurrying straight ahead across the + sky near the moon. Nature was awake, as though afraid of missing the best + moments of her life. + </p> + <p> + I walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway embankment. The + moonlight glided over the lines which were already covered with dew. Great + shadows from the clouds kept flitting over the embankment. Far ahead, a + dim green light was glimmering peacefully. + </p> + <p> + “So everything is well,” I thought, looking at them. + </p> + <p> + I had a quiet, peaceful, comfortable feeling in my heart. I was returning + from a tryst, I had no need to hurry; I was not sleepy, and I was + conscious of youth and health in every sigh, every step I took, rousing a + dull echo in the monotonous hum of the night. I don’t know what I was + feeling then, but I remember I was happy, very happy. + </p> + <p> + I had gone not more than three-quarters of a mile when I suddenly heard + behind me a monotonous sound, a rumbling, rather like the roar of a great + stream. It grew louder and louder every second, and sounded nearer and + nearer. I looked round; a hundred paces from me was the dark copse from + which I had only just come; there the embankment turned to the right in a + graceful curve and vanished among the trees. I stood still in perplexity + and waited. A huge black body appeared at once at the turn, noisily darted + towards me, and with the swiftness of a bird flew past me along the rails. + Less than half a minute passed and the blur had vanished, the rumble + melted away into the noise of the night. + </p> + <p> + It was an ordinary goods truck. There was nothing peculiar about it in + itself, but its appearance without an engine and in the night puzzled me. + Where could it have come from and what force sent it flying so rapidly + along the rails? Where did it come from and where was it flying to? + </p> + <p> + If I had been superstitious I should have made up my mind it was a party + of demons and witches journeying to a devils’ sabbath, and should have + gone on my way; but as it was, the phenomenon was absolutely inexplicable + to me. I did not believe my eyes, and was entangled in conjectures like a + fly in a spider’s web.... + </p> + <p> + I suddenly realized that I was utterly alone on the whole vast plain; that + the night, which by now seemed inhospitable, was peeping into my face and + dogging my footsteps; all the sounds, the cries of the birds, the + whisperings of the trees, seemed sinister, and existing simply to alarm my + imagination. I dashed on like a madman, and without realizing what I was + doing I ran, trying to run faster and faster. And at once I heard + something to which I had paid no attention before: that is, the plaintive + whining of the telegraph wires. + </p> + <p> + “This is beyond everything,” I said, trying to shame myself. “It’s + cowardice! it’s silly!” + </p> + <p> + But cowardice was stronger than common sense. I only slackened my pace + when I reached the green light, where I saw a dark signal-box, and near it + on the embankment the figure of a man, probably the signalman. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see it?” I asked breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “See whom? What?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a truck ran by.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw it,...” the peasant said reluctantly. “It broke away from the goods + train. There is an incline at the ninetieth mile...; the train is dragged + uphill. The coupling on the last truck gave way, so it broke off and ran + back.... There is no catching it now!...” + </p> + <p> + The strange phenomenon was explained and its fantastic character vanished. + My panic was over and I was able to go on my way. + </p> + <p> + My third fright came upon me as I was going home from stand shooting in + early spring. It was in the dusk of evening. The forest road was covered + with pools from a recent shower of rain, and the earth squelched under + one’s feet. The crimson glow of sunset flooded the whole forest, coloring + the white stems of the birches and the young leaves. I was exhausted and + could hardly move. + </p> + <p> + Four or five miles from home, walking along the forest road, I suddenly + met a big black dog of the water spaniel breed. As he ran by, the dog + looked intently at me, straight in my face, and ran on. + </p> + <p> + “A nice dog!” I thought. “Whose is it?” + </p> + <p> + I looked round. The dog was standing ten paces off with his eyes fixed on + me. For a minute we scanned each other in silence, then the dog, probably + flattered by my attention, came slowly up to me and wagged his tail. + </p> + <p> + I walked on, the dog following me. + </p> + <p> + “Whose dog can it be?” I kept asking myself. “Where does he come from?” + </p> + <p> + I knew all the country gentry for twenty or thirty miles round, and knew + all their dogs. Not one of them had a spaniel like that. How did he come + to be in the depths of the forest, on a track used for nothing but carting + timber? He could hardly have dropped behind someone passing through, for + there was nowhere for the gentry to drive to along that road. + </p> + <p> + I sat down on a stump to rest, and began scrutinizing my companion. He, + too, sat down, raised his head, and fastened upon me an intent stare. He + gazed at me without blinking. I don’t know whether it was the influence of + the stillness, the shadows and sounds of the forest, or perhaps a result + of exhaustion, but I suddenly felt uneasy under the steady gaze of his + ordinary doggy eyes. I thought of Faust and his bulldog, and of the fact + that nervous people sometimes when exhausted have hallucinations. That was + enough to make me get up hurriedly and hurriedly walk on. The dog followed + me. + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” I shouted. + </p> + <p> + The dog probably liked my voice, for he gave a gleeful jump and ran about + in front of me. + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” I shouted again. + </p> + <p> + The dog looked round, stared at me intently, and wagged his tail + good-humoredly. Evidently my threatening tone amused him. I ought to have + patted him, but I could not get Faust’s dog out of my head, and the + feeling of panic grew more and more acute... Darkness was coming on, which + completed my confusion, and every time the dog ran up to me and hit me + with his tail, like a coward I shut my eyes. The same thing happened as + with the light in the belfry and the truck on the railway: I could not + stand it and rushed away. + </p> + <p> + At home I found a visitor, an old friend, who, after greeting me, began to + complain that as he was driving to me he had lost his way in the forest, + and a splendid valuable dog of his had dropped behind. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BET + </h2> + <p> + IT WAS a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and down his + study and remembering how, fifteen years before, he had given a party one + autumn evening. There had been many clever men there, and there had been + interesting conversations. Among other things they had talked of capital + punishment. The majority of the guests, among whom were many journalists + and intellectual men, disapproved of the death penalty. They considered + that form of punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitable for Christian + States. In the opinion of some of them the death penalty ought to be + replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you,” said their host the banker. “I have not tried + either the death penalty or imprisonment for life, but if one may judge <i>a + priori</i>, the death penalty is more moral and more humane than + imprisonment for life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but + lifelong imprisonment kills him slowly. Which executioner is the more + humane, he who kills you in a few minutes or he who drags the life out of + you in the course of many years?” + </p> + <p> + “Both are equally immoral,” observed one of the guests, “for they both + have the same object—to take away life. The State is not God. It has + not the right to take away what it cannot restore when it wants to.” + </p> + <p> + Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When + he was asked his opinion, he said: + </p> + <p> + “The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but if I + had to choose between the death penalty and imprisonment for life, I would + certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is better than not at all.” + </p> + <p> + A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervous in + those days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; he struck the table + with his fist and shouted at the young man: + </p> + <p> + “It’s not true! I’ll bet you two millions you wouldn’t stay in solitary + confinement for five years.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that in earnest,” said the young man, “I’ll take the bet, but + I would stay not five but fifteen years.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen? Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I stake two millions!” + </p> + <p> + “Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!” said the young + man. + </p> + <p> + And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt and + frivolous, with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted at the bet. + At supper he made fun of the young man, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me two + millions are a trifle, but you are losing three or four of the best years + of your life. I say three or four, because you won’t stay longer. Don’t + forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinement is a great deal + harder to bear than compulsory. The thought that you have the right to + step out in liberty at any moment will poison your whole existence in + prison. I am sorry for you.” + </p> + <p> + And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and asked + himself: “What was the object of that bet? What is the good of that man’s + losing fifteen years of his life and my throwing away two millions? Can it + prove that the death penalty is better or worse than imprisonment for + life? No, no. It was all nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was + the caprice of a pampered man, and on his part simple greed for money....” + </p> + <p> + Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided that the + young man should spend the years of his captivity under the strictest + supervision in one of the lodges in the banker’s garden. It was agreed + that for fifteen years he should not be free to cross the threshold of the + lodge, to see human beings, to hear the human voice, or to receive letters + and newspapers. He was allowed to have a musical instrument and books, and + was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to smoke. By the terms of + the agreement, the only relations he could have with the outer world were + by a little window made purposely for that object. He might have anything + he wanted—books, music, wine, and so on—in any quantity he + desired by writing an order, but could only receive them through the + window. The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle that + would make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young man to + stay there <i>exactly</i> fifteen years, beginning from twelve o’clock of + November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o’clock of November 14, 1885. The + slightest attempt on his part to break the conditions, if only two minutes + before the end, released the banker from the obligation to pay him two + millions. + </p> + <p> + For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge from his + brief notes, the prisoner suffered severely from loneliness and + depression. The sounds of the piano could be heard continually day and + night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites + the desires, and desires are the worst foes of the prisoner; and besides, + nothing could be more dreary than drinking good wine and seeing no one. + And tobacco spoilt the air of his room. In the first year the books he + sent for were principally of a light character; novels with a complicated + love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so on. + </p> + <p> + In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisoner + asked only for the classics. In the fifth year music was audible again, + and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him through the window + said that all that year he spent doing nothing but eating and drinking and + lying on his bed, frequently yawning and angrily talking to himself. He + did not read books. Sometimes at night he would sit down to write; he + would spend hours writing, and in the morning tear up all that he had + written. More than once he could be heard crying. + </p> + <p> + In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously studying + languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself eagerly into these + studies—so much so that the banker had enough to do to get him the + books he ordered. In the course of four years some six hundred volumes + were procured at his request. It was during this period that the banker + received the following letter from his prisoner: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them to + people who know the languages. Let them read them. If they find not one + mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the garden. That shot will show me + that my efforts have not been thrown away. The geniuses of all ages and of + all lands speak different languages, but the same flame burns in them all. + Oh, if you only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feels now from being + able to understand them!” The prisoner’s desire was fulfilled. The banker + ordered two shots to be fired in the garden. + </p> + <p> + Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and + read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a man + who in four years had mastered six hundred learned volumes should waste + nearly a year over one thin book easy of comprehension. Theology and + histories of religion followed the Gospels. + </p> + <p> + In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immense + quantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time he was busy with the + natural sciences, then he would ask for Byron or Shakespeare. There were + notes in which he demanded at the same time books on chemistry, and a + manual of medicine, and a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or + theology. His reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among the + wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutching + first at one spar and then at another. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + The old banker remembered all this, and thought: + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow at twelve o’clock he will regain his freedom. By our agreement + I ought to pay him two millions. If I do pay him, it is all over with me: + I shall be utterly ruined.” + </p> + <p> + Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he + was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or his assets. + Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and the + excitability which he could not get over even in advancing years, had by + degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless, + self-confident millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling + at every rise and fall in his investments. “Cursed bet!” muttered the old + man, clutching his head in despair. “Why didn’t the man die? He is only + forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will marry, will enjoy + life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at him with envy + like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same sentence: ‘I am + indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!’ No, it is + too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the + death of that man!” + </p> + <p> + It struck three o’clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the + house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled + trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of + the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, + and went out of the house. + </p> + <p> + It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind + was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The + banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor the white + statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where the lodge + stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the + watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere + either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse. + </p> + <p> + “If I had the pluck to carry out my intention,” thought the old man, + “suspicion would fall first upon the watchman.” + </p> + <p> + He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the + entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and + lighted a match. There was not a soul there. There was a bedstead with no + bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The + seals on the door leading to the prisoner’s rooms were intact. + </p> + <p> + When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped + through the little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner’s + room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back, the + hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on + the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years’ + imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the window + with his finger, and the prisoner made no movement whatever in response. + Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off the door and put the key in + the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The + banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but + three minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up + his mind to go in. + </p> + <p> + At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a + skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a + woman’s and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, + his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which + his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful + to look at it. His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his + emaciated, aged-looking face, no one would have believed that he was only + forty. He was asleep.... In front of his bowed head there lay on the table + a sheet of paper on which there was something written in fine handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “Poor creature!” thought the banker, “he is asleep and most likely + dreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, + throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and the most + conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let us + first read what he has written here....” + </p> + <p> + The banker took the page from the table and read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow at twelve o’clock I regain my freedom and the right to + associate with other men, but before I leave this room and see the + sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. With a clear + conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I despise + freedom and life and health, and all that in your books is called the good + things of the world. + </p> + <p> + “For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true + I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant + wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the + forests, have loved women.... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by + the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have + whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In + your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from + there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the + sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have + watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the + storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I + have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds’ + pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse + with me of God.... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless + pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, + conquered whole kingdoms.... + </p> + <p> + “Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man + has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass in my brain. I + know that I am wiser than all of you. + </p> + <p> + “And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this + world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a + mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off the + face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowing under the + floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will burn + or freeze together with the earthly globe. + </p> + <p> + “You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies + for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to + strange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple and + orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a sweating + horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. I don’t want to + understand you. + </p> + <p> + “To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I renounce + the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise and which now I + despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money I shall go out from + here five hours before the time fixed, and so break the compact....” + </p> + <p> + When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the + strange man on the head, and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other + time, even when he had lost heavily on the Stock Exchange, had he felt so + great a contempt for himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, but his + tears and emotion kept him for hours from sleeping. + </p> + <p> + Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had + seen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the window into the + garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker went at once with the + servants to the lodge and made sure of the flight of his prisoner. To + avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took from the table the writing in + which the millions were renounced, and when he got home locked it up in + the fireproof safe. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HEAD-GARDENER’S STORY + </h2> + <p> + A SALE of flowers was taking place in Count N.‘s greenhouses. The + purchasers were few in number—a landowner who was a neighbor of + mine, a young timber-merchant, and myself. While the workmen were carrying + out our magnificent purchases and packing them into the carts, we sat at + the entry of the greenhouse and chatted about one thing and another. It is + extremely pleasant to sit in a garden on a still April morning, listening + to the birds, and watching the flowers brought out into the open air and + basking in the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a full + shaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat, superintended the + packing of the plants himself, but at the same time he listened to our + conversation in the hope of hearing something new. He was an intelligent, + very good-hearted man, respected by everyone. He was for some reason + looked upon by everyone as a German, though he was in reality on his + father’s side Swedish, on his mother’s side Russian, and attended the + Orthodox church. He knew Russian, Swedish, and German. He had read a good + deal in those languages, and nothing one could do gave him greater + pleasure than lending him some new book or talking to him, for instance, + about Ibsen. + </p> + <p> + He had his weaknesses, but they were innocent ones: he called himself the + head gardener, though there were no under-gardeners; the expression of his + face was unusually dignified and haughty; he could not endure to be + contradicted, and liked to be listened to with respect and attention. + </p> + <p> + “That young fellow there I can recommend to you as an awful rascal,” said + my neighbor, pointing to a laborer with a swarthy, gipsy face, who drove + by with the water-barrel. “Last week he was tried in the town for burglary + and was acquitted; they pronounced him mentally deranged, and yet look at + him, he is the picture of health. Scoundrels are very often acquitted + nowadays in Russia on grounds of abnormality and aberration, yet these + acquittals, these unmistakable proofs of an indulgent attitude to crime, + lead to no good. They demoralize the masses, the sense of justice is + blunted in all as they become accustomed to seeing vice unpunished, and + you know in our age one may boldly say in the words of Shakespeare that in + our evil and corrupt age virtue must ask forgiveness of vice.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very true,” the merchant assented. “Owing to these frequent + acquittals, murder and arson have become much more common. Ask the + peasants.” + </p> + <p> + Mihail Karlovitch turned towards us and said: + </p> + <p> + “As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, I am always delighted to meet with + these verdicts of not guilty. I am not afraid for morality and justice + when they say ‘Not guilty,’ but on the contrary I feel pleased. Even when + my conscience tells me the jury have made a mistake in acquitting the + criminal, even then I am triumphant. Judge for yourselves, gentlemen; if + the judges and the jury have more faith in <i>man</i> than in evidence, + material proofs, and speeches for the prosecution, is not that faith <i>in + man</i> in itself higher than any ordinary considerations? Such faith is + only attainable by those few who understand and feel Christ.” + </p> + <p> + “A fine thought,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s not a new one. I remember a very long time ago I heard a legend + on that subject. A very charming legend,” said the gardener, and he + smiled. “I was told it by my grandmother, my father’s mother, an excellent + old lady. She told me it in Swedish, and it does not sound so fine, so + classical, in Russian.” + </p> + <p> + But we begged him to tell it and not to be put off by the coarseness of + the Russian language. Much gratified, he deliberately lighted his pipe, + looked angrily at the laborers, and began: + </p> + <p> + “There settled in a certain little town a solitary, plain, elderly + gentleman called Thomson or Wilson—but that does not matter; the + surname is not the point. He followed an honorable profession: he was a + doctor. He was always morose and unsociable, and only spoke when required + by his profession. He never visited anyone, never extended his + acquaintance beyond a silent bow, and lived as humbly as a hermit. The + fact was, he was a learned man, and in those days learned men were not + like other people. They spent their days and nights in contemplation, in + reading and in healing disease, looked upon everything else as trivial, + and had no time to waste a word. The inhabitants of the town understood + this, and tried not to worry him with their visits and empty chatter. They + were very glad that God had sent them at last a man who could heal + diseases, and were proud that such a remarkable man was living in their + town. ‘He knows everything,’ they said about him. + </p> + <p> + “But that was not enough. They ought to have also said, ‘He loves + everyone.’ In the breast of that learned man there beat a wonderful + angelic heart. Though the people of that town were strangers and not his + own people, yet he loved them like children, and did not spare himself for + them. He was himself ill with consumption, he had a cough, but when he was + summoned to the sick he forgot his own illness he did not spare himself + and, gasping for breath, climbed up the hills however high they might be. + He disregarded the sultry heat and the cold, despised thirst and hunger. + He would accept no money and strange to say, when one of his patients + died, he would follow the coffin with the relations, weeping. + </p> + <p> + “And soon he became so necessary to the town that the inhabitants wondered + how they could have got on before without the man. Their gratitude knew no + bounds. Grown-up people and children, good and bad alike, honest men and + cheats—all in fact, respected him and knew his value. In the little + town and all the surrounding neighborhood there was no man who would allow + himself to do anything disagreeable to him; indeed, they would never have + dreamed of it. When he came out of his lodging, he never fastened the + doors or windows, in complete confidence that there was no thief who could + bring himself to do him wrong. He often had in the course of his medical + duties to walk along the highroads, through the forests and mountains + haunted by numbers of hungry vagrants; but he felt that he was in perfect + security. + </p> + <p> + “One night he was returning from a patient when robbers fell upon him in + the forest, but when they recognized him, they took off their hats + respectfully and offered him something to eat. When he answered that he + was not hungry, they gave him a warm wrap and accompanied him as far as + the town, happy that fate had given them the chance in some small way to + show their gratitude to the benevolent man. Well, to be sure, my + grandmother told me that even the horses and the cows and the dogs knew + him and expressed their joy when they met him. + </p> + <p> + “And this man who seemed by his sanctity to have guarded himself from + every evil, to whom even brigands and frenzied men wished nothing but + good, was one fine morning found murdered. Covered with blood, with his + skull broken, he was lying in a ravine, and his pale face wore an + expression of amazement. Yes, not horror but amazement was the emotion + that had been fixed upon his face when he saw the murderer before him. You + can imagine the grief that overwhelmed the inhabitants of the town and the + surrounding districts. All were in despair, unable to believe their eyes, + wondering who could have killed the man. The judges who conducted the + inquiry and examined the doctor’s body said: ‘Here we have all the signs + of a murder, but as there is not a man in the world capable of murdering + our doctor, obviously it was not a case of murder, and the combination of + evidence is due to simple chance. We must suppose that in the darkness he + fell into the ravine of himself and was mortally injured.’ + </p> + <p> + “The whole town agreed with this opinion. The doctor was buried, and + nothing more was said about a violent death. The existence of a man who + could have the baseness and wickedness to kill the doctor seemed + incredible. There is a limit even to wickedness, isn’t there? + </p> + <p> + “All at once, would you believe it, chance led them to discovering the + murderer. A vagrant who had been many times convicted, notorious for his + vicious life, was seen selling for drink a snuff-box and watch that had + belonged to the doctor. When he was questioned he was confused, and + answered with an obvious lie. A search was made, and in his bed was found + a shirt with stains of blood on the sleeves, and a doctor’s lancet set in + gold. What more evidence was wanted? They put the criminal in prison. The + inhabitants were indignant, and at the same time said: + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s incredible! It can’t be so! Take care that a mistake is not made; + it does happen, you know, that evidence tells a false tale.’ + </p> + <p> + “At his trial the murderer obstinately denied his guilt. Everything was + against him, and to be convinced of his guilt was as easy as to believe + that this earth is black; but the judges seem to have gone mad: they + weighed every proof ten times, looked distrustfully at the witnesses, + flushed crimson and sipped water.... The trial began early in the morning + and was only finished in the evening. + </p> + <p> + “‘Accused!’ the chief judge said, addressing the murderer, ‘the court has + found you guilty of murdering Dr. So-and-so, and has sentenced you to....’ + </p> + <p> + “The chief judge meant to say ‘to the death penalty,’ but he dropped from + his hands the paper on which the sentence was written, wiped the cold + sweat from his face, and cried out: + </p> + <p> + “‘No! May God punish me if I judge wrongly, but I swear he is not guilty. + I cannot admit the thought that there exists a man who would dare to + murder our friend the doctor! A man could not sink so low!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘There cannot be such a man!’ the other judges assented. + </p> + <p> + “‘No,’ the crowd cried. ‘Let him go!’ + </p> + <p> + “The murderer was set free to go where he chose, and not one soul blamed + the court for an unjust verdict. And my grandmother used to say that for + such faith in humanity God forgave the sins of all the inhabitants of that + town. He rejoices when people believe that man is His image and semblance, + and grieves if, forgetful of human dignity, they judge worse of men than + of dogs. The sentence of acquittal may bring harm to the inhabitants of + the town, but on the other hand, think of the beneficial influence upon + them of that faith in man—a faith which does not remain dead, you + know; it raises up generous feelings in us, and always impels us to love + and respect every man. Every man! And that is important.” + </p> + <p> + Mihail Karlovitch had finished. My neighbor would have urged some + objection, but the head-gardener made a gesture that signified that he did + not like objections; then he walked away to the carts, and, with an + expression of dignity, went on looking after the packing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEAUTIES + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or sixth class, I + was driving with my grandfather from the village of Bolshoe Kryepkoe in + the Don region to Rostov-on-the-Don. It was a sultry, languidly dreary day + of August. Our eyes were glued together, and our mouths were parched from + the heat and the dry burning wind which drove clouds of dust to meet us; + one did not want to look or speak or think, and when our drowsy driver, a + Little Russian called Karpo, swung his whip at the horses and lashed me on + my cap, I did not protest or utter a sound, but only, rousing myself from + half-slumber, gazed mildly and dejectedly into the distance to see whether + there was a village visible through the dust. We stopped to feed the + horses in a big Armenian village at a rich Armenian’s whom my grandfather + knew. Never in my life have I seen a greater caricature than that + Armenian. Imagine a little shaven head with thick overhanging eyebrows, a + beak of a nose, long gray mustaches, and a wide mouth with a long + cherry-wood chibouk sticking out of it. This little head was clumsily + attached to a lean hunch-back carcass attired in a fantastic garb, a short + red jacket, and full bright blue trousers. This figure walked straddling + its legs and shuffling with its slippers, spoke without taking the chibouk + out of its mouth, and behaved with truly Armenian dignity, not smiling, + but staring with wide-open eyes and trying to take as little notice as + possible of its guests. + </p> + <p> + There was neither wind nor dust in the Armenian’s rooms, but it was just + as unpleasant, stifling, and dreary as in the steppe and on the road. I + remember, dusty and exhausted by the heat, I sat in the corner on a green + box. The unpainted wooden walls, the furniture, and the floors colored + with yellow ocher smelt of dry wood baked by the sun. Wherever I looked + there were flies and flies and flies.... Grandfather and the Armenian were + talking about grazing, about manure, and about oats.... I knew that they + would be a good hour getting the samovar; that grandfather would be not + less than an hour drinking his tea, and then would lie down to sleep for + two or three hours; that I should waste a quarter of the day waiting, + after which there would be again the heat, the dust, the jolting cart. I + heard the muttering of the two voices, and it began to seem to me that I + had been seeing the Armenian, the cupboard with the crockery, the flies, + the windows with the burning sun beating on them, for ages and ages, and + should only cease to see them in the far-off future, and I was seized with + hatred for the steppe, the sun, the flies.... + </p> + <p> + A Little Russian peasant woman in a kerchief brought in a tray of + tea-things, then the samovar. The Armenian went slowly out into the + passage and shouted: “Mashya, come and pour out tea! Where are you, + Mashya?” + </p> + <p> + Hurried footsteps were heard, and there came into the room a girl of + sixteen in a simple cotton dress and a white kerchief. As she washed the + crockery and poured out the tea, she was standing with her back to me, and + all I could see was that she was of a slender figure, barefooted, and that + her little bare heels were covered by long trousers. + </p> + <p> + The Armenian invited me to have tea. Sitting down to the table, I glanced + at the girl, who was handing me a glass of tea, and felt all at once as + though a wind were blowing over my soul and blowing away all the + impressions of the day with their dust and dreariness. I saw the + bewitching features of the most beautiful face I have ever met in real + life or in my dreams. Before me stood a beauty, and I recognized that at + the first glance as I should have recognized lightning. + </p> + <p> + I am ready to swear that Masha—or, as her father called her, Mashya—was + a real beauty, but I don’t know how to prove it. It sometimes happens that + clouds are huddled together in disorder on the horizon, and the sun hiding + behind them colors them and the sky with tints of every possible shade—crimson, + orange, gold, lilac, muddy pink; one cloud is like a monk, another like a + fish, a third like a Turk in a turban. The glow of sunset enveloping a + third of the sky gleams on the cross on the church, flashes on the windows + of the manor house, is reflected in the river and the puddles, quivers on + the trees; far, far away against the background of the sunset, a flock of + wild ducks is flying homewards.... And the boy herding the cows, and the + surveyor driving in his chaise over the dam, and the gentleman out for a + walk, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them thinks it terribly + beautiful, but no one knows or can say in what its beauty lies. + </p> + <p> + I was not the only one to think the Armenian girl beautiful. My + grandfather, an old man of seventy, gruff and indifferent to women and the + beauties of nature, looked caressingly at Masha for a full minute, and + asked: + </p> + <p> + “Is that your daughter, Avert Nazaritch?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is my daughter,” answered the Armenian. + </p> + <p> + “A fine young lady,” said my grandfather approvingly. + </p> + <p> + An artist would have called the Armenian girl’s beauty classical and + severe, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which—God + knows why!—inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing correct + features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, bosom, and every movement of + the young body all go together in one complete harmonious accord in which + nature has not blundered over the smallest line. You fancy for some reason + that the ideally beautiful woman must have such a nose as Masha’s, + straight and slightly aquiline, just such great dark eyes, such long + lashes, such a languid glance; you fancy that her black curly hair and + eyebrows go with the soft white tint of her brow and cheeks as the green + reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha’s white neck and her youthful bosom + were not fully developed, but you fancy the sculptor would need a great + creative genius to mold them. You gaze, and little by little the desire + comes over you to say to Masha something extraordinarily pleasant, + sincere, beautiful, as beautiful as she herself was. + </p> + <p> + At first I felt hurt and abashed that Masha took no notice of me, but was + all the time looking down; it seemed to me as though a peculiar + atmosphere, proud and happy, separated her from me and jealously screened + her from my eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That’s because I am covered with dust,” I thought, “am sunburnt, and am + still a boy.” + </p> + <p> + But little by little I forgot myself, and gave myself up entirely to the + consciousness of beauty. I thought no more now of the dreary steppe, of + the dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the flies, no longer tasted the + tea, and felt nothing except that a beautiful girl was standing only the + other side of the table. + </p> + <p> + I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecstacy, nor + enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful though pleasant sadness. + It was a sadness vague and undefined as a dream. For some reason I felt + sorry for myself, for my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the + girl herself, and I had a feeling as though we all four had lost something + important and essential to life which we should never find again. My + grandfather, too, grew melancholy; he talked no more about manure or about + oats, but sat silent, looking pensively at Masha. + </p> + <p> + After tea my grandfather lay down for a nap while I went out of the house + into the porch. The house, like all the houses in the Armenian village + stood in the full sun; there was not a tree, not an awning, no shade. The + Armenian’s great courtyard, overgrown with goosefoot and wild mallows, was + lively and full of gaiety in spite of the great heat. Threshing was going + on behind one of the low hurdles which intersected the big yard here and + there. Round a post stuck into the middle of the threshing-floor ran a + dozen horses harnessed side by side, so that they formed one long radius. + A Little Russian in a long waistcoat and full trousers was walking beside + them, cracking a whip and shouting in a tone that sounded as though he + were jeering at the horses and showing off his power over them. + </p> + <p> + “A—a—a, you damned brutes!... A—a—a, plague take + you! Are you frightened?” + </p> + <p> + The horses, sorrel, white, and piebald, not understanding why they were + made to run round in one place and to crush the wheat straw, ran + unwillingly as though with effort, swinging their tails with an offended + air. The wind raised up perfect clouds of golden chaff from under their + hoofs and carried it away far beyond the hurdle. Near the tall fresh + stacks peasant women were swarming with rakes, and carts were moving, and + beyond the stacks in another yard another dozen similar horses were + running round a post, and a similar Little Russian was cracking his whip + and jeering at the horses. + </p> + <p> + The steps on which I was sitting were hot; on the thin rails and here and + there on the window-frames sap was oozing out of the wood from the heat; + red ladybirds were huddling together in the streaks of shadow under the + steps and under the shutters. The sun was baking me on my head, on my + chest, and on my back, but I did not notice it, and was conscious only of + the thud of bare feet on the uneven floor in the passage and in the rooms + behind me. After clearing away the tea-things, Masha ran down the steps, + fluttering the air as she passed, and like a bird flew into a little grimy + outhouse—I suppose the kitchen—from which came the smell of + roast mutton and the sound of angry talk in Armenian. She vanished into + the dark doorway, and in her place there appeared on the threshold an old + bent, red-faced Armenian woman wearing green trousers. The old woman was + angry and was scolding someone. Soon afterwards Masha appeared in the + doorway, flushed with the heat of the kitchen and carrying a big black + loaf on her shoulder; swaying gracefully under the weight of the bread, + she ran across the yard to the threshing-floor, darted over the hurdle, + and, wrapt in a cloud of golden chaff, vanished behind the carts. The + Little Russian who was driving the horses lowered his whip, sank into + silence, and gazed for a minute in the direction of the carts. Then when + the Armenian girl darted again by the horses and leaped over the hurdle, + he followed her with his eyes, and shouted to the horses in a tone as + though he were greatly disappointed: + </p> + <p> + “Plague take you, unclean devils!” + </p> + <p> + And all the while I was unceasingly hearing her bare feet, and seeing how + she walked across the yard with a grave, preoccupied face. She ran now + down the steps, swishing the air about me, now into the kitchen, now to + the threshing-floor, now through the gate, and I could hardly turn my head + quickly enough to watch her. + </p> + <p> + And the oftener she fluttered by me with her beauty, the more acute became + my sadness. I felt sorry both for her and for myself and for the Little + Russian, who mournfully watched her every time she ran through the cloud + of chaff to the carts. Whether it was envy of her beauty, or that I was + regretting that the girl was not mine, and never would be, or that I was a + stranger to her; or whether I vaguely felt that her rare beauty was + accidental, unnecessary, and, like everything on earth, of short duration; + or whether, perhaps, my sadness was that peculiar feeling which is excited + in man by the contemplation of real beauty, God only knows. + </p> + <p> + The three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to me that I had + not had time to look properly at Masha when Karpo drove up to the river, + bathed the horse, and began to put it in the shafts. The wet horse snorted + with pleasure and kicked his hoofs against the shafts. Karpo shouted to + it: “Ba—ack!” My grandfather woke up. Masha opened the creaking + gates for us, we got into the chaise and drove out of the yard. We drove + in silence as though we were angry with one another. + </p> + <p> + When, two or three hours later, Rostov and Nahitchevan appeared in the + distance, Karpo, who had been silent the whole time, looked round quickly, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “A fine wench, that at the Armenian’s.” + </p> + <p> + And he lashed his horses. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Another time, after I had become a student, I was traveling by rail to the + south. It was May. At one of the stations, I believe it was between + Byelgorod and Harkov, I got out of the tram to walk about the platform. + </p> + <p> + The shades of evening were already lying on the station garden, on the + platform, and on the fields; the station screened off the sunset, but on + the topmost clouds of smoke from the engine, which were tinged with rosy + light, one could see the sun had not yet quite vanished. + </p> + <p> + As I walked up and down the platform I noticed that the greater number of + the passengers were standing or walking near a second-class compartment, + and that they looked as though some celebrated person were in that + compartment. Among the curious whom I met near this compartment I saw, + however, an artillery officer who had been my fellow-traveler, an + intelligent, cordial, and sympathetic fellow—as people mostly are + whom we meet on our travels by chance and with whom we are not long + acquainted. + </p> + <p> + “What are you looking at there?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He made no answer, but only indicated with his eyes a feminine figure. It + was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a Russian dress, with + her head bare and a little shawl flung carelessly on one shoulder; not a + passenger, but I suppose a sister or daughter of the station-master. She + was standing near the carriage window, talking to an elderly woman who was + in the train. Before I had time to realize what I was seeing, I was + suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had once experienced in the Armenian + village. + </p> + <p> + The girl was remarkably beautiful, and that was unmistakable to me and to + those who were looking at her as I was. + </p> + <p> + If one is to describe her appearance feature by feature, as the practice + is, the only really lovely thing was her thick wavy fair hair, which hung + loose with a black ribbon tied round her head; all the other features were + either irregular or very ordinary. Either from a peculiar form of + coquettishness, or from short-sightedness, her eyes were screwed up, her + nose had an undecided tilt, her mouth was small, her profile was feebly + and insipidly drawn, her shoulders were narrow and undeveloped for her age—and + yet the girl made the impression of being really beautiful, and looking at + her, I was able to feel convinced that the Russian face does not need + strict regularity in order to be lovely; what is more, that if instead of + her turn-up nose the girl had been given a different one, correct and + plastically irreproachable like the Armenian girl’s, I fancy her face + would have lost all its charm from the change. + </p> + <p> + Standing at the window talking, the girl, shrugging at the evening damp, + continually looking round at us, at one moment put her arms akimbo, at the + next raised her hands to her head to straighten her hair, talked, laughed, + while her face at one moment wore an expression of wonder, the next of + horror, and I don’t remember a moment when her face and body were at rest. + The whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in these tiny, + infinitely elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of her face, in + her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the subtle grace of her + movements with her youth, her freshness, the purity of her soul that + sounded in her laugh and voice, and with the weakness we love so much in + children, in birds, in fawns, and in young trees. + </p> + <p> + It was that butterfly’s beauty so in keeping with waltzing, darting about + the garden, laughter and gaiety, and incongruous with serious thought, + grief, and repose; and it seemed as though a gust of wind blowing over the + platform, or a fall of rain, would be enough to wither the fragile body + and scatter the capricious beauty like the pollen of a flower. + </p> + <p> + “So—o!...” the officer muttered with a sigh when, after the second + bell, we went back to our compartment. + </p> + <p> + And what that “So—o” meant I will not undertake to decide. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he was sad, and did not want to go away from the beauty and the + spring evening into the stuffy train; or perhaps he, like me, was + unaccountably sorry for the beauty, for himself, and for me, and for all + the passengers, who were listlessly and reluctantly sauntering back to + their compartments. As we passed the station window, at which a pale, + red-haired telegraphist with upstanding curls and a faded, broad-cheeked + face was sitting beside his apparatus, the officer heaved a sigh and said: + </p> + <p> + “I bet that telegraphist is in love with that pretty girl. To live out in + the wilds under one roof with that ethereal creature and not fall in love + is beyond the power of man. And what a calamity, my friend! what an + ironical fate, to be stooping, unkempt, gray, a decent fellow and not a + fool, and to be in love with that pretty, stupid little girl who would + never take a scrap of notice of you! Or worse still: imagine that + telegraphist is in love, and at the same time married, and that his wife + is as stooping, as unkempt, and as decent a person as himself.” + </p> + <p> + On the platform between our carriage and the next the guard was standing + with his elbows on the railing, looking in the direction of the beautiful + girl, and his battered, wrinkled, unpleasantly beefy face, exhausted by + sleepless nights and the jolting of the train, wore a look of tenderness + and of the deepest sadness, as though in that girl he saw happiness, his + own youth, soberness, purity, wife, children; as though he were repenting + and feeling in his whole being that that girl was not his, and that for + him, with his premature old age, his uncouthness, and his beefy face, the + ordinary happiness of a man and a passenger was as far away as heaven.... + </p> + <p> + The third bell rang, the whistles sounded, and the train slowly moved off. + First the guard, the station-master, then the garden, the beautiful girl + with her exquisitely sly smile, passed before our windows.... + </p> + <p> + Putting my head out and looking back, I saw how, looking after the train, + she walked along the platform by the window where the telegraph clerk was + sitting, smoothed her hair, and ran into the garden. The station no longer + screened off the sunset, the plain lay open before us, but the sun had + already set and the smoke lay in black clouds over the green, velvety + young corn. It was melancholy in the spring air, and in the darkening sky, + and in the railway carriage. + </p> + <p> + The familiar figure of the guard came into the carriage, and he began + lighting the candles. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL + </h2> + <p> + IT was Christmas Eve. Marya had long been snoring on the stove; all the + paraffin in the little lamp had burnt out, but Fyodor Nilov still sat at + work. He would long ago have flung aside his work and gone out into the + street, but a customer from Kolokolny Lane, who had a fortnight before + ordered some boots, had been in the previous day, had abused him roundly, + and had ordered him to finish the boots at once before the morning + service. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a convict’s life!” Fyodor grumbled as he worked. “Some people have + been asleep long ago, others are enjoying themselves, while you sit here + like some Cain and sew for the devil knows whom....” + </p> + <p> + To save himself from accidentally falling asleep, he kept taking a bottle + from under the table and drinking out of it, and after every pull at it he + twisted his head and said aloud: + </p> + <p> + “What is the reason, kindly tell me, that customers enjoy themselves while + I am forced to sit and work for them? Because they have money and I am a + beggar?” + </p> + <p> + He hated all his customers, especially the one who lived in Kolokolny + Lane. He was a gentleman of gloomy appearance, with long hair, a yellow + face, blue spectacles, and a husky voice. He had a German name which one + could not pronounce. It was impossible to tell what was his calling and + what he did. When, a fortnight before, Fyodor had gone to take his + measure, he, the customer, was sitting on the floor pounding something in + a mortar. Before Fyodor had time to say good-morning the contents of the + mortar suddenly flared up and burned with a bright red flame; there was a + stink of sulphur and burnt feathers, and the room was filled with a thick + pink smoke, so that Fyodor sneezed five times; and as he returned home + afterwards, he thought: “Anyone who feared God would not have anything to + do with things like that.” + </p> + <p> + When there was nothing left in the bottle Fyodor put the boots on the + table and sank into thought. He leaned his heavy head on his fist and + began thinking of his poverty, of his hard life with no glimmer of light + in it. Then he thought of the rich, of their big houses and their + carriages, of their hundred-rouble notes.... How nice it would be if the + houses of these rich men—the devil flay them!—were smashed, if + their horses died, if their fur coats and sable caps got shabby! How + splendid it would be if the rich, little by little, changed into beggars + having nothing, and he, a poor shoemaker, were to become rich, and were to + lord it over some other poor shoemaker on Christmas Eve. + </p> + <p> + Dreaming like this, Fyodor suddenly thought of his work, and opened his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a go,” he thought, looking at the boots. “The job has been + finished ever so long ago, and I go on sitting here. I must take the boots + to the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + He wrapped up the work in a red handkerchief, put on his things, and went + out into the street. A fine hard snow was falling, pricking the face as + though with needles. It was cold, slippery, dark, the gas-lamps burned + dimly, and for some reason there was a smell of paraffin in the street, so + that Fyodor coughed and cleared his throat. Rich men were driving to and + fro on the road, and every rich man had a ham and a bottle of vodka in his + hands. Rich young ladies peeped at Fyodor out of the carriages and + sledges, put out their tongues and shouted, laughing: + </p> + <p> + “Beggar! Beggar!” + </p> + <p> + Students, officers, and merchants walked behind Fyodor, jeering at him and + crying: + </p> + <p> + “Drunkard! Drunkard! Infidel cobbler! Soul of a boot-leg! Beggar!” + </p> + <p> + All this was insulting, but Fyodor held his tongue and only spat in + disgust. But when Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, a master-bootmaker, met him + and said: “I’ve married a rich woman and I have men working under me, + while you are a beggar and have nothing to eat,” Fyodor could not refrain + from running after him. He pursued him till he found himself in Kolokolny + Lane. His customer lived in the fourth house from the corner on the very + top floor. To reach him one had to go through a long, dark courtyard, and + then to climb up a very high slippery stair-case which tottered under + one’s feet. When Fyodor went in to him he was sitting on the floor + pounding something in a mortar, just as he had been the fortnight before. + </p> + <p> + “Your honor, I have brought your boots,” said Fyodor sullenly. + </p> + <p> + The customer got up and began trying on the boots in silence. Desiring to + help him, Fyodor went down on one knee and pulled off his old, boot, but + at once jumped up and staggered towards the door in horror. The customer + had not a foot, but a hoof like a horse’s. + </p> + <p> + “Aha!” thought Fyodor; “here’s a go!” + </p> + <p> + The first thing should have been to cross himself, then to leave + everything and run downstairs; but he immediately reflected that he was + meeting a devil for the first and probably the last time, and not to take + advantage of his services would be foolish. He controlled himself and + determined to try his luck. Clasping his hands behind him to avoid making + the sign of the cross, he coughed respectfully and began: + </p> + <p> + “They say that there is nothing on earth more evil and impure than the + devil, but I am of the opinion, your honor, that the devil is highly + educated. He has—excuse my saying it—hoofs and a tail behind, + but he has more brains than many a student.” + </p> + <p> + “I like you for what you say,” said the devil, flattered. “Thank you, + shoemaker! What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + And without loss of time the shoemaker began complaining of his lot. He + began by saying that from his childhood up he had envied the rich. He had + always resented it that all people did not live alike in big houses and + drive with good horses. Why, he asked, was he poor? How was he worse than + Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, who had his own house, and whose wife wore a + hat? He had the same sort of nose, the same hands, feet, head, and back, + as the rich, and so why was he forced to work when others were enjoying + themselves? Why was he married to Marya and not to a lady smelling of + scent? He had often seen beautiful young ladies in the houses of rich + customers, but they either took no notice of him whatever, or else + sometimes laughed and whispered to each other: “What a red nose that + shoemaker has!” It was true that Marya was a good, kind, hard-working + woman, but she was not educated; her hand was heavy and hit hard, and if + one had occasion to speak of politics or anything intellectual before her, + she would put her spoke in and talk the most awful nonsense. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want, then?” his customer interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased to make me + a rich man.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before the cocks + crow, go and sign on this paper here that you give me up your soul.” + </p> + <p> + “Your honor,” said Fyodor politely, “when you ordered a pair of boots from + me I did not ask for the money in advance. One has first to carry out the + order and then ask for payment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well!” the customer assented. + </p> + <p> + A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick smoke came + puffing out, and there was a smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. When the + smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes and saw that he was no longer + Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker, but quite a different man, wearing a + waistcoat and a watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that he was + sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot men were handing him + dishes, bowing low and saying: + </p> + <p> + “Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!” + </p> + <p> + What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton and a dish + of cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, and a little + afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish cream. And how dignified, how + genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, and before each dish drank a big glass of + excellent vodka, like some general or some count. After the pork he was + handed some boiled grain moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with + bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eating and was delighted. What + more? They served, too, a pie with onion and steamed turnip with kvass. + </p> + <p> + “How is it the gentry don’t burst with such meals?” he thought. + </p> + <p> + In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey. After dinner the devil + appeared in blue spectacles and asked with a low bow: + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?” + </p> + <p> + But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after his dinner. + The feeling of repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and to distract his + thoughts he looked at the boot on his left foot. + </p> + <p> + “For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a half + roubles. What shoemaker made it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Kuzma Lebyodkin,” answered the footman. + </p> + <p> + “Send for him, the fool!” + </p> + <p> + Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw soon made his appearance. He stopped in a + respectful attitude at the door and asked: + </p> + <p> + “What are your orders, your honor?” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. “Don’t dare to + argue; remember your place as a cobbler! Blockhead! You don’t know how to + make boots! I’ll beat your ugly phiz to a jelly! Why have you come?” + </p> + <p> + “For money.” + </p> + <p> + “What money? Be off! Come on Saturday! Boy, give him a cuff!” + </p> + <p> + But he at once recalled what a life the customers used to lead him, too, + and he felt heavy at heart, and to distract his attention he took a fat + pocketbook out of his pocket and began counting his money. There was a + great deal of money, but Fyodor wanted more still. The devil in the blue + spectacles brought him another notebook fatter still, but he wanted even + more; and the more he counted it, the more discontented he became. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the evil one brought him a full-bosomed lady in a red + dress, and said that this was his new wife. He spent the whole evening + kissing her and eating gingerbreads, and at night he went to bed on a + soft, downy feather-bed, turned from side to side, and could not go to + sleep. He felt uncanny. + </p> + <p> + “We have a great deal of money,” he said to his wife; “we must look out or + thieves will be breaking in. You had better go and look with a candle.” + </p> + <p> + He did not sleep all night, and kept getting up to see if his box was all + right. In the morning he had to go to church to matins. In church the same + honor is done to rich and poor alike. When Fyodor was poor he used to pray + in church like this: “God, forgive me, a sinner!” He said the same thing + now though he had become rich. What difference was there? And after death + Fyodor rich would not be buried in gold, not in diamonds, but in the same + black earth as the poorest beggar. Fyodor would burn in the same fire as + cobblers. Fyodor resented all this, and, too, he felt weighed down all + over by his dinner, and instead of prayer he had all sorts of thoughts in + his head about his box of money, about thieves, about his bartered, ruined + soul. + </p> + <p> + He came out of church in a bad temper. To drive away his unpleasant + thoughts as he had often done before, he struck up a song at the top of + his voice. But as soon as he began a policeman ran up and said, with his + fingers to the peak of his cap: + </p> + <p> + “Your honor, gentlefolk must not sing in the street! You are not a + shoemaker!” + </p> + <p> + Fyodor leaned his back against a fence and fell to thinking: what could he + do to amuse himself? + </p> + <p> + “Your honor,” a porter shouted to him, “don’t lean against the fence, you + will spoil your fur coat!” + </p> + <p> + Fyodor went into a shop and bought himself the very best concertina, then + went out into the street playing it. Everybody pointed at him and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “And a gentleman, too,” the cabmen jeered at him; “like some cobbler....” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the proper thing for gentlefolk to be disorderly in the street?” a + policeman said to him. “You had better go into a tavern!” + </p> + <p> + “Your honor, give us a trifle, for Christ’s sake,” the beggars wailed, + surrounding Fyodor on all sides. + </p> + <p> + In earlier days when he was a shoemaker the beggars took no notice of him, + now they wouldn’t let him pass. + </p> + <p> + And at home his new wife, the lady, was waiting for him, dressed in a + green blouse and a red skirt. He meant to be attentive to her, and had + just lifted his arm to give her a good clout on the back, but she said + angrily: + </p> + <p> + “Peasant! Ignorant lout! You don’t know how to behave with ladies! If you + love me you will kiss my hand; I don’t allow you to beat me.” + </p> + <p> + “This is a blasted existence!” thought Fyodor. “People do lead a life! You + mustn’t sing, you mustn’t play the concertina, you mustn’t have a lark + with a lady.... Pfoo!” + </p> + <p> + He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil spirit in the + blue spectacles appeared and said: + </p> + <p> + “Come, Fyodor Pantelyeitch, I have performed my part of the bargain. Now + sign your paper and come along with me!” + </p> + <p> + And he dragged Fyodor to hell, straight to the furnace, and devils flew up + from all directions and shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Fool! Blockhead! Ass!” + </p> + <p> + There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to suffocate one. + And suddenly it all vanished. Fyodor opened his eyes and saw his table, + the boots, and the tin lamp. The lamp-glass was black, and from the faint + light on the wick came clouds of stinking smoke as from a chimney. Near + the table stood the customer in the blue spectacles, shouting angrily: + </p> + <p> + “Fool! Blockhead! Ass! I’ll give you a lesson, you scoundrel! You took the + order a fortnight ago and the boots aren’t ready yet! Do you suppose I + want to come trapesing round here half a dozen times a day for my boots? + You wretch! you brute!” + </p> + <p> + Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots. The customer went on + swearing and threatening him for a long time. At last when he subsided, + Fyodor asked sullenly: + </p> + <p> + “And what is your occupation, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I make Bengal lights and fireworks. I am a pyrotechnician.” + </p> + <p> + They began ringing for matins. Fyodor gave the customer the boots, took + the money for them, and went to church. + </p> + <p> + Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro in the + street; merchants, ladies, officers were walking along the pavement + together with the humbler folk.... But Fyodor did not envy them nor repine + at his lot. It seemed to him now that rich and poor were equally badly + off. Some were able to drive in a carriage, and others to sing songs at + the top of their voice and to play the concertina, but one and the same + thing, the same grave, was awaiting all alike, and there was nothing in + life for which one would give the devil even a tiny scrap of one’s soul. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Schoolmistress and Other Stories, by +Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND OTHER *** + +***** This file should be named 1732-h.htm or 1732-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/3/1732/ + +Produced by James Rusk and 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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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by James Rusk + + + + + +THE TALES OF CHEKHOV, VOLUME 9 + +THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND OTHER STORIES + +CONTENTS + + THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN + MISERY + CHAMPAGNE + AFTER THE THEATRE + A LADY'S STORY + IN EXILE + THE CATTLE-DEALERS + SORROW + ON OFFICIAL DUTY + THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER + A TRAGIC ACTOR + A TRANSGRESSION + SMALL FRY + THE REQUIEM + IN THE COACH-HOUSE + PANIC FEARS + THE BET + THE HEAD-GARDENER'S STORY + THE BEAUTIES + THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL + + + + +THE SCHOOLMISTRESS + +AT half-past eight they drove out of the town. + +The highroad was dry, a lovely April sun was shining warmly, but +the snow was still lying in the ditches and in the woods. Winter, +dark, long, and spiteful, was hardly over; spring had come all of +a sudden. But neither the warmth nor the languid transparent +woods, warmed by the breath of spring, nor the black flocks of +birds flying over the huge puddles that were like lakes, nor the +marvelous fathomless sky, into which it seemed one would have +gone away so joyfully, presented anything new or interesting to +Marya Vassilyevna who was sitting in the cart. For thirteen years +she had been schoolmistress, and there was no reckoning how many +times during all those years she had been to the town for her +salary; and whether it were spring as now, or a rainy autumn +evening, or winter, it was all the same to her, and she always -- +invariably -- longed for one thing only, to get to the end of her +journey as quickly as could be. + +She felt as though she had been living in that part of the +country for ages and ages, for a hundred years, and it seemed to +her that she knew every stone, every tree on the road from the +town to her school. Her past was here, her present was here, and +she could imagine no other future than the school, the road to +the town and back again, and again the school and again the road. +. . . + +She had got out of the habit of thinking of her past before she +became a schoolmistress, and had almost forgotten it. She had +once had a father and mother; they had lived in Moscow in a big +flat near the Red Gate, but of all that life there was left in +her memory only something vague and fluid like a dream. Her +father had died when she was ten years old, and her mother had +died soon after. . . . She had a brother, an officer; at first +they used to write to each other, then her brother had given up +answering her letters, he had got out of the way of writing. Of +her old belongings, all that was left was a photograph of her +mother, but it had grown dim from the dampness of the school, and +now nothing could be seen but the hair and the eyebrows. + +When they had driven a couple of miles, old Semyon, who was +driving, turned round and said: + +"They have caught a government clerk in the town. They have taken +him away. The story is that with some Germans he killed Alexeyev, +the Mayor, in Moscow." + +"Who told you that?" + +"They were reading it in the paper, in Ivan Ionov's tavern." + +And again they were silent for a long time. Marya Vassilyevna +thought of her school, of the examination that was coming soon, +and of the girl and four boys she was sending up for it. And just +as she was thinking about the examination, she was overtaken by +a neighboring landowner called Hanov in a carriage with four +horses, the very man who had been examiner in her school the year +before. When he came up to her he recognized her and bowed. + +"Good-morning," he said to her. "You are driving home, I +suppose." + +This Hanov, a man of forty with a listless expression and a face +that showed signs of wear, was beginning to look old, but was +still handsome and admired by women. He lived in his big +homestead alone, and was not in the service; and people used to +say of him that he did nothing at home but walk up and down the +room whistling, or play chess with his old footman. People said, +too, that he drank heavily. And indeed at the examination the +year before the very papers he brought with him smelt of wine +and scent. He had been dressed all in new clothes on that +occasion, and Marya Vassilyevna thought him very attractive, and +all the while she sat beside him she had felt embarrassed. She +was accustomed to see frigid and sensible examiners at the +school, while this one did not remember a single prayer, or know +what to ask questions about, and was exceedingly courteous and +delicate, giving nothing but the highest marks. + +"I am going to visit Bakvist," he went on, addressing Marya +Vassilyevna, "but I am told he is not at home." + +They turned off the highroad into a by-road to the village, Hanov +leading the way and Semyon following. The four horses moved at a +walking pace, with effort dragging the heavy carriage through the +mud. Semyon tacked from side to side, keeping to the edge of the +road, at one time through a snowdrift, at another through a pool, +often jumping out of the cart and helping the horse. Marya +Vassilyevna was still thinking about the school, wondering +whether the arithmetic questions at the examination would be +difficult or easy. And she felt annoyed with the Zemstvo board at +which she had found no one the day before. How unbusiness-like! +Here she had been asking them for the last two years to dismiss +the watchman, who did nothing, was rude to her, and hit the +schoolboys; but no one paid any attention. It was hard to find +the president at the office, and when one did find him he would +say with tears in his eyes that he hadn't a moment to spare; the +inspector visited the school at most once in three years, and +knew nothing whatever about his work, as he had been in the +Excise Duties Department, and had received the post of school +inspector through influence. The School Council met very rarely, +and there was no knowing where it met; the school guardian was +an almost illiterate peasant, the head of a tanning business, +unintelligent, rude, and a great friend of the watchman's -- and +goodness knows to whom she could appeal with complaints or +inquiries . . . . + +"He really is handsome," she thought, glancing at Hanov. + +The road grew worse and worse. . . . They drove into the wood. +Here there was no room to turn round, the wheels sank deeply in, +water splashed and gurgled through them, and sharp twigs struck +them in the face. + +"What a road!" said Hanov, and he laughed. + +The schoolmistress looked at him and could not understand why +this queer man lived here. What could his money, his interesting +appearance, his refined bearing do for him here, in this mud, in +this God-forsaken, dreary place? He got no special advantages +out of life, and here, like Semyon, was driving at a jog-trot on +an appalling road and enduring the same discomforts. Why live +here if one could live in Petersburg or abroad? And one would +have thought it would be nothing for a rich man like him to make +a good road instead of this bad one, to avoid enduring this +misery and seeing the despair on the faces of his coachman and +Semyon; but he only laughed, and apparently did not mind, and +wanted no better life. He was kind, soft, naive, and he did +not understand this coarse life, just as at the examination he +did not know the prayers. He subscribed nothing to the schools +but globes, and genuinely regarded himself as a useful person and +a prominent worker in the cause of popular education. And what +use were his globes here? + +"Hold on, Vassilyevna!" said Semyon. + +The cart lurched violently and was on the point of upsetting; +something heavy rolled on to Marya Vassilyevna's feet -- it was +her parcel of purchases. There was a steep ascent uphill through +the clay; here in the winding ditches rivulets were gurgling. +The water seemed to have gnawed away the road; and how could one +get along here! The horses breathed hard. Hanov got out of his +carriage and walked at the side of the road in his long overcoat. +He was hot. + +"What a road!" he said, and laughed again. "It would soon smash +up one's carriage." + +"Nobody obliges you to drive about in such weather," said Semyon +surlily. "You should stay at home." + +"I am dull at home, grandfather. I don't like staying at home." + +Beside old Semyon he looked graceful and vigorous, but yet in his +walk there was something just perceptible which betrayed in him a +being already touched by decay, weak, and on the road to ruin. +And all at once there was a whiff of spirits in the wood. Marya +Vassilyevna was filled with dread and pity for this man going to +his ruin for no visible cause or reason, and it came into her +mind that if she had been his wife or sister she would have +devoted her wh ole life to saving him from ruin. His wife! Life +was so ordered that here he was living in his great house alone, +and she was living in a God-forsaken village alone, and yet for +some reason the mere thought that he and she might be close to +one another and equals seemed impossible and absurd. In reality, +life was arranged and human relations were complicated so +utterly beyond all understanding that when one thought about it +one felt uncanny and one's heart sank. + +"And it is beyond all understanding," she thought, "why God gives +beauty, this graciousness, and sad, sweet eyes to weak, unlucky, +useless people -- why they are so charming." + +"Here we must turn off to the right," said Hanov, getting into +his carriage. "Good-by! I wish you all things good!" + +And again she thought of her pupils, of the examination, of the +watchman, of the School Council; and when the wind brought the +sound of the retreating carriage these thoughts were mingled with +others. She longed to think of beautiful eyes, of love, of the +happiness which would never be. . . . + +His wife? It was cold in the morning, there was no one to heat +the stove, the watchman disappeared; the children came in as soon +as it was light, bringing in snow and mud and making a noise: it +was all so inconvenient, so comfortless. Her abode consisted of +one little room and the kitchen close by. Her head ached every +day after her work, and after dinner she had heart-burn. She had +to collect money from the school-children for wood and for the +watchman, and to give it to the school guardian, and then to +entreat him -- that overfed, insolent peasant -- for God's sake +to send her wood. And at night she dreamed of examinations, +peasants, snowdrifts. And this life was making her grow old and +coarse, making her ugly, angular, and awkward, as though she +were made of lead. She was always afraid, and she would get up +from her seat and not venture to sit down in the presence of a +member of the Zemstvo or the school guardian. And she used +formal, deferential expressions when she spoke of any one of +them. And no one thought her attractive, and life was passing +drearily, without affection, without friendly sympathy, without +interesting acquaintances. How awful it would have been in her +position if she had fallen in love! + +"Hold on, Vassilyevna!" + +Again a sharp ascent uphill. . . . + +She had become a schoolmistress from necessity, without feeling +any vocation for it; and she had never thought of a vocation, of +serving the cause of enlightenment; and it always seemed to her +that what was most important in her work was not the children, +nor enlightenment, but the examinations. And what time had she +for thinking of vocation, of serving the cause of enlightenment? +Teachers, badly paid doctors, and their assistants, with their +terribly hard work, have not even the comfort of thinking +that they are serving an idea or the people, as their +heads are always stuffed with thoughts of their daily bread, of +wood for the fire, of bad roads, of illnesses. It is a +hard-working, an uninteresting life, and only silent, patient +cart-horses like Mary Vassilyevna could put up with it for long; +the lively, nervous, impressionable people who talked about +vocation and serving the idea were soon weary of it and gave up +the work. + +Semyon kept picking out the driest and shortest way, first by a +meadow, then by the backs of the village huts; but in one place +the peasants would not let them pass, in another it was the +priest's land and they could not cross it, in another Ivan Ionov +had bought a plot from the landowner and had dug a ditch round +it. They kept having to turn back. + +They reached Nizhneye Gorodistche. Near the tavern on the +dung-strewn earth, where the snow was still lying, there stood +wagons that had brought great bottles of crude sulphuric acid. +There were a great many people in the tavern, all drivers, and +there was a smell of vodka, tobacco, and sheepskins. There was a +loud noise of conversation and the banging of the swing-door. +Through the wall, without ceasing for a moment, came the sound of +a concertina being played in the shop. Marya Vassilyevna +sat down and drank some tea, while at the next table peasants +were drinking vodka and beer, perspiring from the tea they had +just swallowed and the stifling fumes of the tavern. + +"I say, Kuzma!" voices kept shouting in confusion. "What there!" +"The Lord bless us!" "Ivan Dementyitch, I can tell you that!" +"Look out, old man!" + +A little pock-marked man with a black beard, who was quite drunk, +was suddenly surprised by something and began using bad language. + +"What are you swearing at, you there?" Semyon, who was sitting +some way off, responded angrily. "Don't you see the young lady?" + +"The young lady!" someone mimicked in another corner. + +"Swinish crow!" + +"We meant nothing . . ." said the little man in confusion. "I beg +your pardon. We pay with our money and the young lady with hers. +Good-morning!" + +"Good-morning," answered the schoolmistress. + +"And we thank you most feelingly." + +Marya Vassilyevna drank her tea with satisfaction, and she, too, +began turning red like the peasants, and fell to thinking again +about firewood, about the watchman. . . . + +"Stay, old man," she heard from the next table, "it's the +schoolmistress from Vyazovye. . . . We know her; she's a good +young lady." + +"She's all right!" + +The swing-door was continually banging, some coming in, others +going out. Marya Vassilyevna sat on, thinking all the time of the +same things, while the concertina went on playing and playing. +The patches of sunshine had been on the floor, then they +passed to the counter, to the wall, and disappeared altogether; +so by the sun it was past midday. The peasants at the next table +were getting ready to go. The little man, somewhat unsteadily, +went up to Marya Vassilyevna and held out his hand to her; +following his example, the others shook hands, too, at parting, +and went out one after another, and the swing-door squeaked and +slammed nine times. + +"Vassilyevna, get ready," Semyon called to her. + +They set off. And again they went at a walking pace. + +"A little while back they were building a school here in their +Nizhneye Gorodistche," said Semyon, turning round. "It was a +wicked thing that was done!" + +"Why, what?" + +"They say the president put a thousand in his pocket, and the +school guardian another thousand in his, and the teacher five +hundred." + +"The whole school only cost a thousand. It's wrong to slander +people, grandfather. That's all nonsense." + +"I don't know, . . . I only tell you what folks say." + +But it was clear that Semyon did not believe the schoolmistress. +The peasants did not believe her. They always thought she +received too large a salary, twenty-one roubles a month (five +would have been enough), and that of the money that she +collected from the children for the firewood and the watchman the +greater part she kept for herself. The guardian thought the same +as the peasants, and he himself made a profit off the firewood +and received payments from the peasants for being a guardian -- +without the knowledge of the authorities. + +The forest, thank God! was behind them, and now it would be flat, +open ground all the way to Vyazovye, and there was not far to go +now. They had to cross the river and then the railway line, and +then Vyazovye was in sight. + +"Where are you driving?" Marya Vassilyevna asked Semyon. "Take +the road to the right to the bridge." + +"Why, we can go this way as well. It's not deep enough to +matter." + +"Mind you don't drown the horse." + +"What?" + +"Look, Hanov is driving to the bridge," said Marya Vassilyevna, +seeing the four horses far away to the right. "It is he, I +think." + +"It is. So he didn't find Bakvist at home. What a pig-headed +fellow he is. Lord have mercy upon us! He's driven over there, +and what for? It's fully two miles nearer this way." + +They reached the river. In the summer it was a little stream +easily crossed by wading. It usually dried up in August, but now, +after the spring floods, it was a river forty feet in breadth, +rapid, muddy, and cold; on the bank and right up to the water +there were fresh tracks of wheels, so it had been crossed here. + +"Go on!" shouted Semyon angrily and anxiously, tugging violently +at the reins and jerking his elbows as a bird does its wings. "Go +on!" + +The horse went on into the water up to his belly and stopped, but +at once went on again with an effort, and Marya Vassilyevna was +aware of a keen chilliness in her feet. + +"Go on!" she, too, shouted, getting up. "Go on!" + +They got out on the bank. + +"Nice mess it is, Lord have mercy upon us!" muttered Semyon, +setting straight the harness. "It's a perfect plague with this +Zemstvo. . . ." + +Her shoes and goloshes were full of water, the lower part of her +dress and of her coat and one sleeve were wet and dripping: the +sugar and flour had got wet, and that was worst of all, and Marya +Vassilyevna could only clasp her hands in despair and say: + +Oh, Semyon, Semyon! How tiresome you are really! . . ." + +The barrier was down at the railway crossing. A train was coming +out of the station. Marya Vassilyevna stood at the crossing +waiting till it should pass, and shivering all over with cold. +Vyazovye was in sight now, and the school with the green roof, +and the church with its crosses flashing in the evening sun: and +the station windows flashed too, and a pink smoke rose from the +engine . . . and it seemed to her that everything was trembling +with cold. + +Here was the train; the windows reflected the gleaming light like +the crosses on the church: it made her eyes ache to look at them. +On the little platform between two first-class carriages a lady +was standing, and Marya Vassilyevna glanced at her as she +passed. Her mother! What a resemblance! Her mother had had just +such luxuriant hair, just such a brow and bend of the head. And +with amazing distinctness, for the first time in those thirteen +years, there rose before her mind a vivid picture of her mother, +her father, her brother, their flat in Moscow, the aquarium with +little fish, everything to the tiniest detail; she heard the +sound of the piano, her father's voice; she felt as she had been +then, young, good-looking, well-dressed, in a bright warm room +among her own people. A feeling of joy and happiness suddenly +came over her, she pressed her hands to her temples in an +ecstacy, and called softly, beseechingly: + +"Mother!" + +And she began crying, she did not know why. Just at that instant +Hanov drove up with his team of four horses, and seeing him she +imagined happiness such as she had never had, and smiled and +nodded to him as an equal and a friend, and it seemed to her +that her happiness, her triumph, was glowing in the sky and on +all sides, in the windows and on the trees. Her father and mother +had never died, she had never been a schoolmistress, it was a +long, tedious, strange dream, and now she had awakened. . . . + +"Vassilyevna, get in!" + +And at once it all vanished. The barrier was slowly raised. Marya +Vassilyevna, shivering and numb with cold, got into the cart. The +carriage with the four horses crossed the railway line; Semyon +followed it. The signalman took off his cap. + +"And here is Vyazovye. Here we are." + +A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN + +A MEDICAL student called Mayer, and a pupil of the Moscow School +of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture called Rybnikov, went +one evening to see their friend Vassilyev, a law student, and +suggested that he should go with them to S. Street. For a long +time Vassilyev would not consent to go, but in the end he put on +his greatcoat and went with them. + +He knew nothing of fallen women except by hearsay and from books, +and he had never in his life been in the houses in which they +live. He knew that there are immoral women who, under the +pressure of fatal circumstances -- environment, bad education, +poverty, and so on -- are forced to sell their honor for money. +They know nothing of pure love, have no children, have no civil +rights; their mothers and sisters weep over them as though they +were dead, science treats of them as an evil, men address them +with contemptuous familiarity. But in spite of all that, they do +not lose the semblance and image of God. They all acknowledge +their sin and hope for salvation. Of the means that lead to +salvation they can avail themselves to the fullest extent. +Society, it is true, will not forgive people their past, but in +the sight of God St. Mary of Egypt is no lower than the other +saints. When it had happened to Vassilyev in the street to +recognize a fallen woman as such, by her dress or her manners, +or to see a picture of one in a comic paper, he always remembered +a story he had once read: a young man, pure and self-sacrificing, +loves a fallen woman and urges her to become his wife; she, +considering herself unworthy of such happiness, takes poison. + +Vassilyev lived in one of the side streets turning out of +Tverskoy Boulevard. When he came out of the house with his two +friends it was about eleven o'clock. The first snow had not long +fallen, and all nature was under the spell of the fresh snow. +There was the smell of snow in the air, the snow crunched softly +under the feet; the earth, the roofs, the trees, the seats on the +boulevard, everything was soft, white, young, and this made the +houses look quite different from the day before; the street +lamps burned more brightly, the air was more transparent, the +carriages rumbled with a deeper note, and with the fresh, light, +frosty air a feeling stirred in the soul akin to the white, +youthful, feathery snow. "Against my will an unknown force," +hummed the medical student in his agreeable tenor, "has led me to +these mournful shores." + +"Behold the mill . . ." the artist seconded him, "in ruins now. . +. ." + +"Behold the mill . . . in ruins now," the medical student +repeated, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head mournfully. + +He paused, rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the words, and +then sang aloud, so well that passers-by looked round: + + "Here in old days when I was free, + Love, free, unfettered, greeted me." + +The three of them went into a restaurant and, without taking off +their greatcoats, drank a couple of glasses of vodka each. Before +drinking the second glass, Vassilyev noticed a bit of cork in his +vodka, raised the glass to his eyes, and gazed into +it for a long time, screwing up his shortsighted eyes. The +medical student did not understand his expression, and said: + +"Come, why look at it? No philosophizing, please. Vodka is given +us to be drunk, sturgeon to be eaten, women to be visited, snow +to be walked upon. For one evening anyway live like a human +being!" + +"But I haven't said anything . . ." said Vassilyev, laughing. "Am +I refusing to?" + +There was a warmth inside him from the vodka. He looked with +softened feelings at his friends, admired them and envied them. +In these strong, healthy, cheerful people how wonderfully +balanced everything is, how finished and smooth is everything in +their minds and souls! They sing, and have a passion for the +theatre, and draw, and talk a great deal, and drink, and they +don't have headaches the day after; they are both poetical and +debauched, both soft and hard; they can work, too, and be +indignant, and laugh without reason, and talk nonsense; they are +warm, honest, self-sacrificing, and as men are in no way inferior +to himself, Vassilyev, who watched over every step he took and +every word he uttered, who was fastidious and cautious, +and ready to raise every trifle to the level of a problem. And +he longed for one evening to live as his friends did, to open +out, to let himself loose from his own control. If vodka had to +be drunk, he would drink it, though his head would be splitting +next morning. If he were taken to the women he would go. He would +laugh, play the fool, gaily respond to the passing advances of +strangers in the street. . . . + +He went out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends -- +one in a crushed broad-brimmed hat, with an affectation of +artistic untidiness; the other in a sealskin cap, a man not poor, +though he affected to belong to the Bohemia of learning. He +liked the snow, the pale street lamps, the sharp black tracks +left in the first snow by the feet of the passers-by. He liked +the air, and especially that limpid, tender, naive, as it were +virginal tone, which can be seen in nature only twice in the +year -- when everything is covered with snow, and in spring on +bright days and moonlight evenings when the ice breaks on the +river. + + "Against my will an unknown force, + Has led me to these mournful shores," + +he hummed in an undertone. + +And the tune for some reason haunted him and his friends all the +way, and all three of them hummed it mechanically, not in time +with one another. + +Vassilyev's imagination was picturing how, in another ten +minutes, he and his friends would knock at a door; how by little +dark passages and dark rooms they would steal in to the women; +how, taking advantage of the darkness, he would strike a match, +would light up and see the face of a martyr and a guilty smile. +The unknown, fair or dark, would certainly have her hair down and +be wearing a white dressing-jacket; she would be panic-stricken +by the light, would be fearfully confused, and would say: "For +God's sake, what are you doing! Put it out!" It would all be +dreadful, but interesting and new. + +II + +The friends turned out of Trubnoy Square into Gratchevka, and +soon reached the side street which Vassilyev only knew by +reputation. Seeing two rows of houses with brightly lighted +windows and wide-open doors, and hearing gay strains of pianos +and violins, sounds which floated out from every door and +mingled in a strange chaos, as though an unseen orchestra were +tuning up in the darkness above the roofs, Vassilyev was +surprised and said: + +"What a lot of houses!" + +"That's nothing," said the medical student. "In London there are +ten times as many. There are about a hundred thousand such women +there." + +The cabmen were sitting on their boxes as calmly and +indifferently as in any other side street; the same passers-by +were walking along the pavement as in other streets. No one was +hurrying, no one was hiding his face in his coat-collar, no one +shook his head reproachfully. . . . And in this indifference to +the noisy chaos of pianos and violins, to the bright windows and +wide-open doors, there was a feeling of something very open, +insolent, reckless, and devil-may-care. Probably it was as gay +and noisy at the slave-markets in their day, and people's faces +and movements showed the same indifference. + +"Let us begin from the beginning," said the artist. + +The friends went into a narrow passage lighted by a lamp with a +reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black coat, with +an unshaven face like a flunkey's, and sleepy-looking eyes, got +up lazily from a yellow sofa in the hall. The place smelt like a +laundry with an odor of vinegar in addition. A door from the hall +led into a brightly lighted room. The medical student and the +artist stopped at this door and, craning their necks, peeped into +the room. + +"Buona sera, signori, rigolleto -- hugenotti -- traviata!" began +the artist, with a theatrical bow. + +"Havanna -- tarakano -- pistoleto!" said the medical student, +pressing his cap to his breast and bowing low. + +Vassilyev was standing behind them. He would have liked to make a +theatrical bow and say something silly, too, but he only smiled, +felt an awkwardness that was like shame, and waited impatiently +for what would happen next. + +A little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, in +a short light-blue frock with a bunch of white ribbon on her +bosom, appeared in the doorway. + +"Why do you stand at the door?" she said. "Take off your coats +and come into the drawing-room." + +The medical student and the artist, still talking Italian, went +into the drawing-room. Vassilyev followed them irresolutely. + +"Gentlemen, take off your coats!" the flunkey said sternly; "you +can't go in like that." + +In the drawing-room there was, besides the girl, another woman, +very stout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She was +sitting near the piano, laying out a game of patience on her lap. +She took no notice whatever of the visitors. + +"Where are the other young ladies?" asked the medical student. + +"They are having their tea," said the fair girl. "Stepan," she +called, "go and tell the young ladies some students have come!" + +A little later a third young lady came into the room. She was +wearing a bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was +painted thickly and unskillfully, her brow was hidden under her +hair, and there was an unblinking, frightened stare in her eyes. +As she came in, she began at once singing some song in a coarse, +powerful contralto. After her a fourth appeared, and after her a +fifth. . . . + +In all this Vassilyev saw nothing new or interesting. It seemed +to him that that room, the piano, the looking-glass in its cheap +gilt frame, the bunch of white ribbon, the dress with the blue +stripes, and the blank indifferent faces, he had seen before and +more than once. Of the darkness, the silence, the secrecy, the +guilty smile, of all that he had expected to meet here and had +dreaded, he saw no trace. + +Everything was ordinary, prosaic, and uninteresting. Only one +thing faintly stirred his curiosity -- the terrible, as it were +intentionally designed, bad taste which was visible in the +cornices, in the absurd pictures, in the dresses, in the bunch +of ribbons. There was something characteristic and peculiar in +this bad taste. + +"How poor and stupid it all is!" thought Vassilyev. "What is +there in all this trumpery I see now that can tempt a normal man +and excite him to commit the horrible sin of buying a human being +for a rouble? I understand any sin for the sake of splendor, +beauty, grace, passion, taste; but what is there here? What is +there here worth sinning for? But . . . one mustn't think!" + +"Beardy, treat me to some porter!" said the fair girl, addressing +him. + +Vassilyev was at once overcome with confusion. + +"With pleasure," he said, bowing politely. "Only excuse me, +madam, I . . . I won't drink with you. I don't drink. + +Five minutes later the friends went off into another house. + +"Why did you ask for porter?" said the medical student angrily. +"What a millionaire! You have thrown away six roubles for no +reason whatever -- simply waste!" + +"If she wants it, why not let her have the pleasure?" said +Vassilyev, justifying himself. + +"You did not give pleasure to her, but to the 'Madam.' They are +told to ask the visitors to stand them treat because it is a +profit to the keeper." + +"Behold the mill . . ." hummed the artist, "in ruins now. . . ." + +Going into the next house, the friends stopped in the hall and +did not go into the drawing-room. Here, as in the first house, a +figure in a black coat, with a sleepy face like a flunkey's, got +up from a sofa in the hall. Looking at this flunkey, at +his face and his shabby black coat, Vassilyev thought: "What +must an ordinary simple Russian have gone through before fate +flung him down as a flunkey here? Where had he been before and +what had he done? What was awaiting him? Was he married? Where +was his mother, and did she know that he was a servant here?" +And Vassilyev could not help particularly noticing the flunkey in +each house. In one of the houses -- he thought it was the fourth +-- there was a little spare, frail-looking flunkey with +a watch-chain on his waistcoat. He was reading a newspaper, and +took no notice of them when they went in. Looking at his face +Vassilyev, for some reason, thought that a man with such a face +might steal, might murder, might bear false witness. But the +face was really interesting: a big forehead, gray eyes, a little +flattened nose, thin compressed lips, and a blankly stupid and at +the same time insolent expression like that of a young harrier +overtaking a hare. Vassilyev thought it would be nice to touch +this man's hair, to see whether it was soft or coarse. It must be +coarse like a dog's. + +III + +Having drunk two glasses of porter, the artist became suddenly +tipsy and grew unnaturally lively. + +"Let's go to another!" he said peremptorily, waving his hands. "I +will take you to the best one." + +When he had brought his fri ends to the house which in his +opinion was the best, he declared his firm intention of dancing a +quadrille. The medical student grumbled something about their +having to pay the musicians a rouble, but agreed to be his +_vis-a-vis_. They began dancing. + +It was just as nasty in the best house as in the worst. Here +there were just the same looking-glasses and pictures, the same +styles of coiffure and dress. Looking round at the furnishing of +the rooms and the costumes, Vassilyev realized that this was not +lack of taste, but something that might be called the taste, and +even the style, of S. Street, which could not be found +elsewhere--something intentional in its ugliness, not accidental, +but elaborated in the course of years. After he had been in eight +houses he was no longer surprised at the color of the dresses, at +the long trains, the gaudy ribbons, the sailor dresses, and the +thick purplish rouge on the cheeks; he saw that it all had to be +like this, that if a single one of the women had been dressed +like a human being, or if there had been one decent engraving on +the wall, the general tone of the whole street would have +suffered. + +"How unskillfully they sell themselves!" he thought. "How can +they fail to understand that vice is only alluring when it is +beautiful and hidden, when it wears the mask of virtue? Modest +black dresses, pale faces, mournful smiles, and darkness would +be far more effective than this clumsy tawdriness. Stupid things! +If they don't understand it of themselves, their visitors might +surely have taught them. . . ." + +A young lady in a Polish dress edged with white fur came up to +him and sat down beside him. + +"You nice dark man, why aren't you dancing?" she asked. "Why are +you so dull?" + +"Because it is dull." + +"Treat me to some Lafitte. Then it won't be dull." + +Vassilyev made no answer. He was silent for a little, and then +asked: + +"What time do you get to sleep?" + +"At six o'clock." + +"And what time do you get up?" + +"Sometimes at two and sometimes at three." + +"And what do you do when you get up?" + +"We have coffee, and at six o'clock we have dinner." + +"And what do you have for dinner?" + +"Usually soup, beefsteak, and dessert. Our madam keeps the girls +well. But why do you ask all this?" + +"Oh, just to talk. . . ." + +Vassilyev longed to talk to the young lady about many things. He +felt an intense desire to find out where she came from, whether +her parents were living, and whether they knew that she was here; +how she had come into this house; whether she were cheerful and +satisfied, or sad and oppressed by gloomy thoughts; whether she +hoped some day to get out of her present position. . . . But he +could not think how to begin or in what shape to put his +questions so as not to seem impertinent. He thought +for a long time, and asked: + +"How old are you?" + +"Eighty," the young lady jested, looking with a laugh at the +antics of the artist as he danced. + +All at once she burst out laughing at something, and uttered a +long cynical sentence loud enough to be heard by everyone. +Vassilyev was aghast, and not knowing how to look, gave a +constrained smile. He was the only one who smiled; all the +others, his friends, the musicians, the women, did not even +glance towards his neighbor, but seemed not to have heard her. + +"Stand me some Lafitte," his neighbor said again. + +Vassilyev felt a repulsion for her white fur and for her voice, +and walked away from her. It seemed to him hot and stifling, and +his heart began throbbing slowly but violently, like a hammer -- +one! two! three! + +"Let us go away!" he said, pulling the artist by his sleeve. + +"Wait a little; let me finish." + +While the artist and the medical student were finishing the +quadrille, to avoid looking at the women, Vassilyev scrutinized +the musicians. A respectable-looking old man in spectacles, +rather like Marshal Bazaine, was playing the piano; a young man +with a fair beard, dressed in the latest fashion, was playing the +violin. The young man had a face that did not look stupid nor +exhausted, but intelligent, youthful, and fresh. He was dressed +fancifully and with taste; he played with feeling. It was +a mystery how he and the respectable-looking old man had come +here. How was it they were not ashamed to sit here? What were +they thinking about when they looked at the women? + +If the violin and the piano had been played by men in rags, +looking hungry, gloomy, drunken, with dissipated or stupid faces, +then one could have understood their presence, perhaps. As it +was, Vassilyev could not understand it at all. He recalled the +story of the fallen woman he had once read, and he thought now +that that human figure with the guilty smile had nothing in +common with what he was seeing now. It seemed to him that he was +seeing not fallen women, but some different world quite apart, +alien to him and incomprehensible; if he had seen this world +before on the stage, or read of it in a book, he would not have +believed in it. . . . + +The woman with the white fur burst out laughing again and uttered +a loathsome sentence in a loud voice. A feeling of disgust took +possession of him. He flushed crimson and went out of the room. + +"Wait a minute, we are coming too!" the artist shouted to him. + +IV + +"While we were dancing," said the medical student, as they all +three went out into the street, "I had a conversation with my +partner. We talked about her first romance. He, the hero, was an +accountant at Smolensk with a wife and five children. She was +seventeen, and she lived with her papa and mamma, who sold soap +and candles." + +"How did he win her heart?" asked Vassilyev. + +"By spending fifty roubles on underclothes for her. What next!" + +"So he knew how to get his partner's story out of her," thought +Vassilyev about the medical student. "But I don't know how to." + +"I say, I am going home!" he said. + +"What for?" + +"Because I don't know how to behave here. Besides, I am bored, +disgusted. What is there amusing in it? If they were human beings +-- but they are savages and animals. I am going; do as you like." + +"Come, Grisha, Grigory, darling. . ." said the artist in a +tearful voice, hugging Vassilyev, "come along! Let's go to one +more together and damnation take them! . . . Please do, Grisha!" + +They persuaded Vassilyev and led him up a staircase. In the +carpet and the gilt banisters, in the porter who opened the door, +and in the panels that decorated the hall, the same S. Street +style was apparent, but carried to a greater perfection, more +imposing. + +"I really will go home!" said Vassilyev as he was taking off his +coat. + +"Come, come, dear boy," said the artist, and he kissed him on the +neck. "Don't be tiresome. . . . Gri-gri, be a good comrade! We +came together, we will go back together. What a beast you are, +really!" + +"I can wait for you in the street. I think it's loathsome, +really!" + +"Come, come, Grisha. . . . If it is loathsome, you can observe +it! Do you understand? You can observe!" + +"One must take an objective view of things," said the medical +student gravely. + +Vassilyev went into the drawing-room and sat down. There were a +number of visitors in the room besides him and his friends: two +infantry officers, a bald, gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, +two beardless youths from the institute of land-surveying, and a +very tipsy man who looked like an actor. All the young ladies +were taken up with these visitors and paid no attention to +Vassilyev. + +Only one of them, dressed _a la Aida,_ glanced sideways at him, +smiled, and said, yawning: "A dark one has come. . . ." + +Vassilyev's heart was throbbing and his face burned. He felt +ashamed before these visitors of his presence here, and he felt +disgusted and miserable. He was tormented by the thought that he, +a decent and loving man (such as he had hitherto considered +himself), hated these women and felt nothing but repulsion +towards them. He felt pity neither for the women nor the +musicians nor the flunkeys. + +"It is because I am not trying to understand them," he thought. +"They are all more like animals than human beings, but of course +they are human beings all the same , they have souls. One must +understand them and then judge. . . ." + +"Grisha, don't go, wait for us," the artist shouted to him and +disappeared. + +The medical student disappeared soon after. + +"Yes, one must make an effort to understand, one mustn't be like +this. . ." Vassilyev went on thinking. + +And he began gazing at each of the women with strained attention, +looking for a guilty smile. But either he did not know how to +read their faces, or not one of these women felt herself to be +guilty; he read on every face nothing but a blank expression of +everyday vulgar boredom and complacency. Stupid faces, stupid +smiles, harsh, stupid voices, insolent movements, and nothing +else. Apparently each of them had in the past a romance with an +accountant based on underclothes for fifty roubles, and looked +for no other charm in the present but coffee, a dinner of three +courses, wines, quadrilles, sleeping till two in the afternoon. . +. . + +Finding no guilty smile, Vassilyev began to look whether there +was not one intelligent face. And his attention was caught by one +pale, rather sleepy, exhausted-looking face. . . . It was a dark +woman, not very young, wearing a dress covered with spangles; +she was sitting in an easy-chair, looking at the floor lost in +thought. Vassilyev walked from one corner of the room to the +other, and, as though casually, sat down beside her. + +"I must begin with something trivial," he thought, "and pass to +what is serious. . . ." + +"What a pretty dress you have," and with his finger he touched +the gold fringe of her fichu. + +"Oh, is it? . . ." said the dark woman listlessly. + +"What province do you come from?" + +"I? From a distance. . . . From Tchernigov." + +"A fine province. It's nice there." + +"Any place seems nice when one is not in it." + +"It's a pity I cannot describe nature," thought Vassilyev. "I +might touch her by a description of nature in Tchernigov. No +doubt she loves the place if she has been born there." + +"Are you dull here?" he asked. + +"Of course I am dull." + +"Why don't you go away from here if you are dull?" + +"Where should I go to? Go begging or what?" + +"Begging would be easier than living here." + +How do you know that? Have you begged?" + +"Yes, when I hadn't the money to study. Even if I hadn't anyone +could understand that. A beggar is anyway a free man, and you are +a slave." + +The dark woman stretched, and watched with sleepy eyes the +footman who was bringing a trayful of glasses and seltzer water. + +"Stand me a glass of porter," she said, and yawned again. + +"Porter," thought Vassilyev. "And what if your brother or mother +walked in at this moment? What would you say? And what would they +say? There would be porter then, I imagine. . . ." + +All at once there was the sound of weeping. From the adjoining +room, from which the footman had brought the seltzer water, a +fair man with a red face and angry eyes ran in quickly. He was +followed by the tall, stout "madam," who was shouting in a +shrill voice: + +"Nobody has given you leave to slap girls on the cheeks! We have +visitors better than you, and they don't fight! Impostor!" + +A hubbub arose. Vassilyev was frightened and turned pale. In the +next room there was the sound of bitter, genuine weeping, as +though of someone insulted. And he realized that there were real +people living here who, like people everywhere else, felt +insulted, suffered, wept, and cried for help. The feeling of +oppressive hate and disgust gave way to an acute feeling of pity +and anger against the aggressor. He rushed into the room where +there was weeping. Across rows of bottles on a marble-top table +he distinguished a suffering face, wet with tears, stretched out +his hands towards that face, took a step towards the table, but +at once drew back in horror. The weeping girl was drunk. + +As he made his way though the noisy crowd gathered about the fair +man, his heart sank and he felt frightened like a child; and it +seemed to him that in this alien, incomprehensible world people +wanted to pursue him, to beat him, to pelt him with filthy +words. . . . He tore down his coat from the hatstand and ran +headlong downstairs. + +V + +Leaning against the fence, he stood near the house waiting for +his friends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and violins, +gay, reckless, insolent, and mournful, mingled in the air in a +sort of chaos, and this tangle of sounds seemed again like an +unseen orchestra tuning up on the roofs. If one looked upwards +into the darkness, the black background was all spangled with +white, moving spots: it was snow falling. As the snowflakes came +into the light they floated round lazily in the air like +down, and still more lazily fell to the ground. The snowflakes +whirled thickly round Vassilyev and hung upon his beard, his +eyelashes, his eyebrows. . . . The cabmen, the horses, and the +passers-by were white. + +"And how can the snow fall in this street!" thought Vassilyev. +"Damnation take these houses!" + +His legs seemed to be giving way from fatigue, simply from having +run down the stairs; he gasped for breath as though he had been +climbing uphill, his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it. +He was consumed by a desire to get out of the street as quickly +as possible and to go home, but even stronger was his desire to +wait for his companions and vent upon them his oppressive +feeling. + +There was much he did not understand in these houses, the souls +of ruined women were a mystery to him as before; but it was clear +to him that the thing was far worse than could have been +believed. If that sinful woman who had poisoned herself was +called fallen, it was difficult to find a fitting name for all +these who were dancing now to this tangle of sound and uttering +long, loathsome sentences. They were not on the road to ruin, but +ruined. + +"There is vice," he thought, "but neither consciousness of sin +nor hope of salvation. They are sold and bought, steeped in wine +and abominations, while they, like sheep, are stupid, +indifferent, and don't understand. My God! My God!" + +It was clear to him, too, that everything that is called human +dignity, personal rights, the Divine image and semblance, were +defiled to their very foundations -- "to the very marrow," as +drunkards say -- and that not only the street and the stupid + women were responsible for it. + +A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and +talking gaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into +Vassilyev's face, and said in a drunken voice: + +"One of us! A bit on, old man? Aha-ha! Never mind, have a good +time! Don't be down-hearted, old chap!" + +He took Vassilyev by the shoulder and pressed his cold wet +mustache against his cheek, then he slipped, staggered, and, +waving both hands, cried: + +"Hold on! Don't upset!" + +And laughing, he ran to overtake his companions. + +Through the noise came the sound of the artist's voice: + +"Don't you dare to hit the women! I won't let you, damnation take +you! You scoundrels!" + +The medical student appeared in the doorway. He looked from side +to side, and seeing Vassilyev, said in an agitated voice: + +"You here! I tell you it's really impossible to go anywhere with +Yegor! What a fellow he is! I don't understand him! He has got up +a scene! Do you hear? Yegor!" he shouted at the door. Yegor!" + +"I won't allow you to hit women!" the artist's piercing voice +sounded from above. Something heavy and lumbering rolled down the +stairs. It was the artist falling headlong. Evidently he had been +pushed downstairs. + +He picked himself up from the ground, shook his hat, and, with an +angry and indignant face, brandished his fist towards the top of +the stairs and shouted: + +"Scoundrels! Torturers! Bloodsuckers! I won't allow you to hit +them! To hit a weak, drunken woman! Oh, you brutes! . . ." + +"Yegor! . . . Come, Yegor! . . ." the medical student began +imploring him. "I give you my word of honor I'll never come with +you again. On my word of honor I won't!" + +Little by little the artist was pacified and the friends went +homewards. + +"Against my will an unknown force," hummed the medical student, +"has led me to these mournful shores." + +"Behold t he mill," the artist chimed in a little later, "in +ruins now. What a lot of snow, Holy Mother! Grisha, why did you +go? You are a funk, a regular old woman." + +Vassilyev walked behind his companions, looked at their backs, +and thought: + +"One of two things: either we only fancy prostitution is an evil, +and we exaggerate it; or, if prostitution really is as great an +evil as is generally assumed, these dear friends of mine are as +much slaveowners, violators, and murderers, as the inhabitants +of Syria and Cairo, that are described in the 'Neva.' Now they +are singing, laughing, talking sense, but haven't they just been +exploiting hunger, ignorance, and stupidity? They have -- I have +been a witness of it. What is the use of their humanity, their +medicine, their painting? The science, art, and lofty sentiments +of these soul-destroyers remind me of the piece of bacon in the +story. Two brigands murdered a beggar in a forest; they began +sharing his clothes between them, and found in his wallet a piece +of bacon. 'Well found,' said one of them, 'let us have a bit.' +'What do you mean? How can you?' cried the other in horror. 'Have +you forgotten that to-day is Wednesday?' And they would not eat +it. After murdering a man, they came out of the forest in the +firm conviction that they were keeping the fast. In the same way +these men, after buying women, go their way imagining that they +are artists and men of science. . . ." + +"Listen!" he said sharply and angrily. "Why do you come here? Is +it possible -- is it possible you don't understand how horrible +it is? Your medical books tell you that every one of these women +dies prematurely of consumption or something; art tells you that +morally they are dead even earlier. Every one of them dies +because she has in her time to entertain five hundred men on an +average, let us say. Each one of them is killed by five hundred +men. You are among those five hundred! If each of you in the +course of your lives visits this place or others like it two +hundred and fifty times, it follows that one woman is killed for +every two of you! Can't you understand that? Isn't it horrible to +murder, two of you, three of you, five of you, a foolish, hungry +woman! Ah! isn't it awful, my God!" + +"I knew it would end like that," the artist said frowning. "We +ought not to have gone with this fool and ass! You imagine you +have grand notions in your head now, ideas, don't you? No, it's +the devil knows what, but not ideas. You are looking at me +now with hatred and repulsion, but I tell you it's better you +should set up twenty more houses like those than look like that. +There's more vice in your expression than in the whole street! +Come along, Volodya, let him go to the devil! He's a fool and an +ass, and that's all. . . ." + +"We human beings do murder each other," said the medical student. +"It's immoral, of course, but philosophizing doesn't help it. +Good-by!" + +At Trubnoy Square the friends said good-by and parted. When he +was left alone, Vassilyev strode rapidly along the boulevard. He +felt frightened of the darkness, of the snow which was falling in +heavy flakes on the ground, and seemed as though it would cover +up the whole world; he felt frightened of the street lamps +shining with pale light through the clouds of snow. His soul was +possessed by an unaccountable, faint-hearted terror. Passers-by +came towards him from time to time, but he timidly moved to one +side; it seemed to him that women, none but women, were coming +from all sides and staring at him. . . . + +"It's beginning," he thought, "I am going to have a breakdown." + +VI + +At home he lay on his bed and said, shuddering all over: "They +are alive! Alive! My God, those women are alive!" + +He encouraged his imagination in all sorts of ways to picture +himself the brother of a fallen woman, or her father; then a +fallen woman herself, with her painted cheeks; and it all moved +him to horror. + +It seemed to him that he must settle the question at once at all +costs, and that this question was not one that did not concern +him, but was his own personal problem. He made an immense effort, +repressed his despair, and, sitting on the bed, holding his head +in his hands, began thinking how one could save all the women he +had seen that day. The method for attacking problems of all kinds +was, as he was an educated man, well known to him. And, however +excited he was, he strictly adhered to that method. He recalled +the history of the problem and its literature, and for a quarter +of an hour he paced from one end of the room to the other trying +to remember all the methods practiced at the present time for +saving women. He had very many good friends and acquaintances +who lived in lodgings in Petersburg. . . . Among them were a good +many honest and self-sacrificing men. Some of them had attempted +to save women. . . . + +"All these not very numerous attempts," thought Vassilyev, "can +be divided into three groups. Some, after buying the woman out of +the brothel, took a room for her, bought her a sewing-machine, +and she became a semptress. And whether he wanted to or + not, after having bought her out he made her his mistress; then +when he had taken his degree, he went away and handed her into +the keeping of some other decent man as though she were a thing. +And the fallen woman remained a fallen woman. Others, after +buying her out, took a lodging apart for her, bought the +inevitable sewing-machine, and tried teaching her to read, +preaching at her and giving her books. The woman lived and sewed +as long as it was interesting and a novelty to her, then getting +bored, began receiving men on the sly, or ran away and went back +where she could sleep till three o'clock, drink coffee, and have +good dinners. The third class, the most ardent and +self-sacrificing, had taken a bold, resolute step. They had +married them. And when the insolent and spoilt, or stupid and +crushed animal became a wife, the head of a household, and +afterwards a mother, it turned her whole existence and attitude +to life upside down, so that it was hard to recognize the fallen +woman afterwards in the wife and the mother. Yes, marriage was +the best and perhaps the only means." + +"But it is impossible!" Vassilyev said aloud, and he sank upon +his bed. "I, to begin with, could not marry one! To do that one +must be a saint and be unable to feel hatred or repulsion. But +supposing that I, the medical student, and the artist mastered +ourselves and did marry them -- suppose they were all married. +What would be the result? The result would be that while here in +Moscow they were being married, some Smolensk accountant would be +debauching another lot, and that lot would be streaming here to +fill the vacant places, together with others from Saratov, +Nizhni-Novgorod, Warsaw. . . . And what is one to do with the +hundred thousand in London? What's one to do with those in +Hamburg?" + +The lamp in which the oil had burnt down began to smoke. +Vassilyev did not notice it. He began pacing to and fro again, +still thinking. Now he put the question differently: what must be +done that fallen women should not be needed? For that, it was +essential that the men who buy them and do them to death should +feel all the immorality of their share in enslaving them and +should be horrified. One must save the men. + +"One won't do anything by art and science, that is clear . . ." +thought Vassilyev. "The only way out of it is missionary work." + +And he began to dream how he would the next evening stand at the +corner of the street and say to every passer-by: "Where are you +going and what for? Have some fear of God!" + +He would turn to the apathetic cabmen and say to them: "Why are +you staying here? Why aren't you revolted? Why aren't you +indignant? I suppose you believe in God and know that it is a +sin, that people go to hell for it? Why don't you speak? It is +true that they are strangers to you, but you know even they have +fathers, brothers like yourselves. . . ." + +One of Vassilyev's friends had once said of him that he was a +talented man. There are all sorts of talents -- talent for +writing, talent for the stage, talent for art; but he had a +peculi ar talent -- a talent for _humanity_. He possessed an +extraordinarily fine delicate scent for pain in general. As a +good actor reflects in himself the movements and voice of others, +so Vassilyev could reflect in his soul the sufferings of others. +When he saw tears, he wept; beside a sick man, he felt sick +himself and moaned; if he saw an act of violence, he felt as +though he himself were the victim of it, he was frightened as a +child, and in his fright ran to help. The pain of others worked +on his nerves, excited him, roused him to a state of frenzy, and +so on. + +Whether this friend were right I don't know, but what Vassilyev +experienced when he thought this question was settled was +something like inspiration. He cried and laughed, spoke aloud the +words that he should say next day, felt a fervent love for those +who would listen to him and would stand beside him at the corner +of the street to preach; he sat down to write letters, made vows +to himself. . . . + +All this was like inspiration also from the fact that it did not +last long. Vassilyev was soon tired. The cases in London, in +Hamburg, in Warsaw, weighed upon him by their mass as a mountain +weighs upon the earth; he felt dispirited, bewildered, in +the face of this mass; he remembered that he had not a gift for +words, that he was cowardly and timid, that indifferent people +would not be willing to listen and understand him, a law student +in his third year, a timid and insignificant person; that +genuine missionary work included not only teaching but deeds. . . + + +When it was daylight and carriages were already beginning to +rumble in the street, Vassilyev was lying motionless on the sofa, +staring into space. He was no longer thinking of the women, nor +of the men, nor of missionary work. His whole attention was +turned upon the spiritual agony which was torturing him. It was a +dull, vague, undefined anguish akin to misery, to an extreme form +of terror and to despair. He could point to the place where the +pain was, in his breast under his heart; but he could not +compare it with anything. In the past he had had acute toothache, +he had had pleurisy and neuralgia, but all that was insignificant +compared with this spiritual anguish. In the presence of that +pain life seemed loathsome. The dissertation, +the excellent work he had written already, the people he loved, +the salvation of fallen women -- everything that only the day +before he had cared about or been indifferent to, now when he +thought of them irritated him in the same way as the noise of +the carriages, the scurrying footsteps of the waiters in the +passage, the daylight. . . . If at that moment someone had +performed a great deed of mercy or had committed a revolting +outrage, he would have felt the same repulsion for both actions. +Of all the thoughts that strayed through his mind only two did +not irritate him: one was that at every moment he had the power +to kill himself, the other that this agony would not last more +than three days. This last he knew by experience. + +After lying for a while he got up and, wringing his hands, walked +about the room, not as usual from corner to corner, but round the +room beside the walls. As he passed he glanced at himself in the +looking-glass. His face looked pale and sunken, his +temples looked hollow, his eyes were bigger, darker, more +staring, as though they belonged to someone else, and they had an +expression of insufferable mental agony. + +At midday the artist knocked at the door. + +"Grigory, are you at home?" he asked. + +Getting no answer, he stood for a minute, pondered, and answered +himself in Little Russian: "Nay. The confounded fellow has gone +to the University." + +And he went away. Vassilyev lay down on the bed and, thrusting +his head under the pillow, began crying with agony, and the more +freely his tears flowed the more terrible his mental anguish +became. As it began to get dark, he thought of the agonizing +night awaiting him, and was overcome by a horrible despair. He +dressed quickly, ran out of his room, and, leaving his door wide +open, for no object or reason, went out into the street. Without +asking himself where he should go, he walked quickly along +Sadovoy Street. + +Snow was falling as heavily as the day before; it was thawing. +Thrusting his hands into his sleeves, shuddering and frightened +at the noises, at the trambells, and at the passers-by, Vassilyev +walked along Sadovoy Street as far as Suharev Tower; then to the +Red Gate; from there he turned off to Basmannya Street. He went +into a tavern and drank off a big glass of vodka, but that did +not make him feel better. When he reached Razgulya he turned to +the right, and strode along side streets in which he had never +been before in his life. He reached the old bridge by which the +Yauza runs gurgling, and from which one can see long rows of +lights in the windows of the Red Barracks. To distract his +spiritual anguish by some new sensation or some other pain, +Vassilyev, not knowing what to do, crying and shuddering, undid +his greatcoat and jacket and exposed his bare chest to the wet +snow and the wind. But that did not lessen his suffering either. +Then he bent down over the rail of the bridge and looked down +into the black, yeasty Yauza, and he longed to plunge down head +foremost; not from loathing for life, not for the sake of +suicide, but in order to bruise himself at least, and by one pain +to ease the other. But the black water, the darkness, the +deserted banks covered with snow were terrifying. He shivered and +walked on. He walked up and down by the Red Barracks, then turned +back and went down to a copse, from the copse back to the bridge +again + +"No, home, home!" he thought. "At home I believe it's better. . ." + +And he went back. When he reached home he pulled off his wet coat +and cap, began pacing round the room, and went on pacing round +and round without stopping till morning. + +VII + +When next morning the artist and the medical student went in to +him, he was moving about the room with his shirt torn, biting his +hands and moaning with pain. + +"For God's sake!" he sobbed when he saw his friends, "take me +where you please, do what you can; but for God's sake, save me +quickly! I shall kill myself!" + +The artist turned pale and was helpless. The medical student, +too, almost shed tears, but considering that doctors ought to be +cool and composed in every emergency said coldly: + +"It's a nervous breakdown. But it's nothing. Let us go at once to +the doctor." + +"Wherever you like, only for God's sake, make haste" + +"Don't excite yourself. You must try and control yourself." + +The artist and the medical student with trembling hands put +Vassilyev's coat and hat on and led him out into the street. + +"Mihail Sergeyitch has been wanting to make your acquaintance for +a long time," the medical student said on the way. "He is a very +nice man and thoroughly good at his work. He took his degree in +1882, and he has an immense practice already. He treats students +as though he were one himself." + +"Make haste, make haste! . . ." Vassilyev urged. + +Mihail Sergeyitch, a stout, fair-haired doctor, received the +friends with politeness and frigid dignity, and smiled only on +one side of his face. + +"Rybnikov and Mayer have spoken to me of your illness already," +he said. "Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, I +beg. . . ." + +He made Vassilyev sit down in a big armchair near the table, and +moved a box of cigarettes towards him. + +"Now then!" he began, stroking his knees. "Let us get to work. . +. . How old are you?" + +He asked questions and the medical student answered them. He +asked whether Vassilyev's father had suffered from certain +special diseases, whether he drank to excess, whether he were +remarkable for cruelty or any peculiarities. He made similar +inquiries about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and brothers. +On learning that his mother had a beautiful voice and sometimes +acted on the stage, he grew more animated at once, and asked: + +"Excuse me, but don't you remember, perhaps, your mother had a +passion for the stage?" + +Twenty minutes passed. Vassilyev was annoyed by the way the docto +r kept stroking his knees and talking of the same thing. + +"So far as I understand your questions, doctor," he said, "you +want to know whether my illness is hereditary or not. It is not." + +The doctor proceeded to ask Vassilyev whether he had had any +secret vices as a boy, or had received injuries to his head; +whether he had had any aberrations, any peculiarities, or +exceptional propensities. Half the questions usually asked by +doctors of their patients can be left unanswered without the +slightest ill effect on the health, but Mihail Sergeyitch, the +medical student, and the artist all looked as though if Vassilyev +failed to answer one question all would be lost. As he received +answers, the doctor for some reason noted them down on a slip of +paper. On learning that Vassilyev had taken his degree in natural +science, and was now studying law, the doctor pondered. + +"He wrote a first-rate piece of original work last year, . . ." +said the medical student. + +"I beg your pardon, but don't interrupt me; you prevent me from +concentrating," said the doctor, and he smiled on one side of his +face. "Though, of course, that does enter into the diagnosis. +Intense intellectual work, nervous exhaustion. . . . Yes, yes. . +. . And do you drink vodka?" he said, addressing Vassilyev. + +"Very rarely." + +Another twenty minutes passed. The medical student began telling +the doctor in a low voice his opinion as to the immediate cause +of the attack, and described how the day before yesterday the +artist, Vassilyev, and he had visited S. Street. + +The indifferent, reserved, and frigid tone in which his friends +and the doctor spoke of the women and that miserable street +struck Vassilyev as strange in the extreme. . . . + +"Doctor, tell me one thing only," he said, controlling himself so +as not to speak rudely. "Is prostitution an evil or not?" + +"My dear fellow, who disputes it?" said the doctor, with an +expression that suggested that he had settled all such questions +for himself long ago. "Who disputes it?" + +"You are a mental doctor, aren't you?" Vassilyev asked curtly. + +"Yes, a mental doctor." + +"Perhaps all of you are right!" said Vassilyev, getting up and +beginning to walk from one end of the room to the other. +"Perhaps! But it all seems marvelous to me! That I should have +taken my degree in two faculties you look upon as a great +achievement; because I have written a work which in three years +will be thrown aside and forgotten, I am praised up to the skies; +but because I cannot speak of fallen women as unconcernedly as of +these chairs, I am being examined by a doctor, I am called mad, +I am pitied!" + +Vassilyev for some reason felt all at once unutterably sorry for +himself, and his companions, and all the people he had seen two +days before, and for the doctor; he burst into tears and sank +into a chair. + +His friends looked inquiringly at the doctor. The latter, with +the air of completely comprehending the tears and the despair, of +feeling himself a specialist in that line, went up to Vassilyev +and, without a word, gave him some medicine to drink; and then, +when he was calmer, undressed him and began to investigate the +degree of sensibility of the skin, the reflex action of the +knees, and so on. + +And Vassilyev felt easier. When he came out from the doctor's he +was beginning to feel ashamed; the rattle of the carriages no +longer irritated him, and the load at his heart grew lighter and +lighter as though it were melting away. He had two prescriptions +in his hand: one was for bromide, one was for morphia. . . . He +had taken all these remedies before. + +In the street he stood still and, saying good-by to his friends, +dragged himself languidly to the University. + +MISERY + +"To whom shall I tell my grief?" + +THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling +lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and +lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, +caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a +ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the +living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it +seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to +shake it off. . . . His little mare is white and motionless +too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the +stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a +halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. +Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar +gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous +lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to +think. + +It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came +out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But +now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light +of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the +bustle of the street grows noisier. + +"Sledge to Vyborgskaya!" Iona hears. "Sledge!" + +Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an +officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head. + +"To Vyborgskaya," repeats the officer. "Are you asleep? To +Vyborgskaya!" + +In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends +cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The +officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the +horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more +from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes +her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets +of. . . . + +"Where are you shoving, you devil?" Iona immediately hears shouts +from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. "Where the +devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!" + +"You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right," says the +officer angrily. + +A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian +crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder +looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona +fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks +his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though +he did not know where he was or why he was there. + +"What rascals they all are!" says the officer jocosely. "They are +simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the +horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose." + +Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he +means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff. + +"What?" inquires the officer. + +Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out +huskily: "My son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir." + +"H'm! What did he die of?" + +Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says: + +"Who can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three +days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God's will." + +"Turn round, you devil!" comes out of the darkness. "Have you +gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!" + +"Drive on! drive on! . . ." says the officer. "We shan't get +there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!" + +The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and +with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at +the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently +disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, +Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. +. . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour +passes, and then another. . . . + +Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, +come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the +pavement with their goloshes. + +"Cabby, to the Police Bridge!" the hunchback cries in a cracked +voice. "The three of us, . . . twenty kopecks!" + +Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is +not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is +a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now +so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, shoving +each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all +three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be +settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After +a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the +conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the +shortest. + +"Well, drive on," says the hunchback in his cracked voice, +settling himself and breathing down Iona's neck. "Cut along! What +a cap you've got, my friend! You wouldn't find a worse one in all +Petersburg. . . ." + +"He-he! . . . he-he! . . ." laughs Iona. "It's nothing to boast +of!" + +"Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to +drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the +neck?" + +"My head aches," says one of the tall ones. "At the Dukmasovs' +yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us." + +"I can't make out why you talk such stuff," says the other tall +one angrily. "You lie like a brute." + +"Strike me dead, it's the truth! . . ." + +"It's about as true as that a louse coughs." + +"He-he!" grins Iona. "Me-er-ry gentlemen!" + +"Tfoo! the devil take you!" cries the hunchback indignantly. +"Will you get on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way +to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her +well." + +Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice +of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees +people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to +be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he +chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is +overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a +certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting +till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says: + +"This week . . . er. . . my. . . er. . . son died!" + +"We shall all die, . . ." says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping +his lips after coughing. "Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I +simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us +there?" + +"Well, you give him a little encouragement . . . one in the +neck!" + +"Do you hear, you old plague? I'll make you smart. If one stands +on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you +hear, you old dragon? Or don't you care a hang what we say? " + +And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck. + +"He-he! . . . " he laughs. "Merry gentlemen . . . . God give you +health!" + +"Cabman, are you married?" asks one of the tall ones. + +"I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the +damp earth. . . . He-ho-ho!. . . .The grave that is! . . . Here +my son's dead and I am alive. . . . It's a strange thing, death +has come in at the wrong door. . . . Instead of coming for me it +went for my son. . . ." + +And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that +point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank +God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, +Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear +into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence +for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased +comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With +a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyes stray restlessly +among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: +can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to +him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . +His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were +to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole +world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a +hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not +have found it with a candle by daylight. . . . + +Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to +address him. + +"What time will it be, friend?" he asks. + +"Going on for ten. . . . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!" + +Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives +himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to +people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, +shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the +reins. . . . He can bear it no longer. + +"Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!" + +And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to +trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty +stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people +snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at +the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has +come home so early. . . . + +"I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even," he thinks. +"That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his +work, . . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had +enough to eat, is always at ease. . . ." + +In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat +sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket. + +"Want a drink?" Iona asks him. + +"Seems so." + +"May it do you good. . . . But my son is dead, mate. . . . Do you +hear? This week in the hospital. . . . It's a queer business. . . +." + +Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees +nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already +asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . Just as +the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. +His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really +talked to anybody yet . . . . He wants to talk of it properly, +with deliberation. . . . He wants to tell how his son was taken +ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. +. . . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the +hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter +Anisya in the country. . . . And he wants to talk about her too. +. . . Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His +listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. . . . It would be +even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, +they blubber at the first word. + +"Let's go out and have a look at the mare," Iona thinks. "There +is always time for sleep. . . . You'll have sleep enough, no +fear. . . ." + +He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is +standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . +. He cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk +about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and +picture him is insufferable anguish. . . . + +"Are you munching?" Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. +"There, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we have not earned +enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . Yes, . . . I have grown +too old to drive. . . . My son ought to be driving, not I. . . . +He was a real cabman. . . . He ought to have lived. . . ." + +Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on: + +"That's how it is, old girl. . . . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. . . . +He said good-by to me. . . . He went and died for no reason. . . +. Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to +that little colt. . . . And all at once that same little colt +went and died. . . . You'd be sorry, wouldn't you? . . ." + +The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's +hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it. + +CHAMPAGNE + +A WAYFARER'S STORY + +IN the year in which my story begins I had a job at a little +station on one of our southwestern railways. Whether I had a gay +or a dull life at the station you can judge from the fact that +for fifteen miles round there was not one human habitation, +not one woman, not one decent tavern; and in those days I was +young, strong, hot-headed, giddy, and foolish. The only +distraction I could possibly find was in the windows of the +passenger trains, and in the vile vodka which the Jews drugged +with thorn-apple. Sometimes there would be a glimpse of a +woman's head at a carriage window, and one would stand like a +statue without breathing and stare at it until the train turned +into an almost invisible speck; or one would drink all one could +of the loathsome vodka till one was stupefied and did not feel +the passing of the long hours and days. Upon me, a native of the +no rth, the steppe produced the effect of a deserted Tatar +cemetery. In the summer the steppe with its solemn calm, the +monotonous chur of the grasshoppers, the transparent moonlight +from which one could not hide, reduced me to listless melancholy; +and in the winter the irreproachable whiteness of the steppe, its +cold distance, long nights, and howling wolves oppressed me like +a heavy nightmare. There were several people living at the +station: my wife and I, a deaf and scrofulous telegraph clerk, +and three watchmen. My assistant, a young man who was in +consumption, used to go for treatment to the town, where he +stayed for months at a time, leaving his duties to me together +with the right of pocketing his salary. I had no children, no +cake would have tempted visitors to come and see me, and I could +only visit other officials on the line, and that no oftener than +once a month. + +I remember my wife and I saw the New Year in. We sat at table, +chewed lazily, and heard the deaf telegraph clerk monotonously +tapping on his apparatus in the next room. I had already drunk +five glasses of drugged vodka, and, propping my heavy head on my +fist, thought of my overpowering boredom from which there was no +escape, while my wife sat beside me and did not take her eyes off +me. She looked at me as no one can look but a woman who has +nothing in this world but a handsome husband. She loved me +madly, slavishly, and not merely my good looks, or my soul, but +my sins, my ill-humor and boredom, and even my cruelty when, in +drunken fury, not knowing how to vent my ill-humor, I tormented +her with reproaches. + +In spite of the boredom which was consuming me, we were preparing +to see the New Year in with exceptional festiveness, and were +awaiting midnight with some impatience. The fact is, we had in +reserve two bottles of champagne, the real thing, with the label +of Veuve Clicquot; this treasure I had won the previous autumn in +a bet with the station-master of D. when I was drinking with him +at a christening. It sometimes happens during a lesson in +mathematics, when the very air is still with boredom, a +butterfly flutters into the class-room; the boys toss their heads +and begin watching its flight with interest, as though they saw +before them not a butterfly but something new and strange; in the +same way ordinary champagne, chancing to come into our dreary +station, roused us. We sat in silence looking alternately at the +clock and at the bottles. + +When the hands pointed to five minutes to twelve I slowly began +uncorking a bottle. I don't know whether I was affected by the +vodka, or whether the bottle was wet, but all I remember is that +when the cork flew up to the ceiling with a bang, my bottle +slipped out of my hands and fell on the floor. Not more than a +glass of the wine was spilt, as I managed to catch the bottle and +put my thumb over the foaming neck. + +"Well, may the New Year bring you happiness!" I said, filling two +glasses. "Drink!" + +My wife took her glass and fixed her frightened eyes on me. Her +face was pale and wore a look of horror. + +"Did you drop the bottle?" she asked. + +"Yes. But what of that?" + +"It's unlucky," she said, putting down her glass and turning +paler still. "It's a bad omen. It means that some misfortune will +happen to us this year." + +"What a silly thing you are," I sighed. "You are a clever woman, +and yet you talk as much nonsense as an old nurse. Drink." + +"God grant it is nonsense, but . . . something is sure to happen! +You'll see." + +She did not even sip her glass, she moved away and sank into +thought. I uttered a few stale commonplaces about superstition, +drank half a bottle, paced up and down, and then went out of the +room. + +Outside there was the still frosty night in all its cold, +inhospitable beauty. The moon and two white fluffy clouds beside +it hung just over the station, motionless as though glued to the +spot, and looked as though waiting for something. A faint +transparent light came from them and touched the white earth +softly, as though afraid of wounding her modesty, and lighted up +everything -- the snowdrifts, the embankment. . . . It was still. + +I walked along the railway embankment. + +"Silly woman," I thought, looking at the sky spangled with +brilliant stars. "Even if one admits that omens sometimes tell +the truth, what evil can happen to us? The misfortunes we have +endured already, and which are facing us now, are so great that +it is difficult to imagine anything worse. What further harm can +you do a fish which has been caught and fried and served up with +sauce?" + +A poplar covered with hoar frost looked in the bluish darkness +like a giant wrapt in a shroud. It looked at me sullenly and +dejectedly, as though like me it realized its loneliness. I stood +a long while looking at it. + +"My youth is thrown away for nothing, like a useless cigarette +end," I went on musing. "My parents died when I was a little +child; I was expelled from the high school, I was born of a noble +family, but I have received neither education nor breeding, and +I have no more knowledge than the humblest mechanic. I have no +refuge, no relations, no friends, no work I like. I am not fitted +for anything, and in the prime of my powers I am good for nothing +but to be stuffed into this little station; I have known nothing +but trouble and failure all my life. What can happen worse?" + +Red lights came into sight in the distance. A train was moving +towards me. The slumbering steppe listened to the sound of it. My +thoughts were so bitter that it seemed to me that I was thinking +aloud and that the moan of the telegraph wire and the rumble of +the train were expressing my thoughts. + +"What can happen worse? The loss of my wife?" I wondered. "Even +that is not terrible. It's no good hiding it from my conscience: +I don't love my wife. I married her when I was only a wretched +boy; now I am young and vigorous, and she has gone off and grown +older and sillier, stuffed from her head to her heels with +conventional ideas. What charm is there in her maudlin love, in +her hollow chest, in her lusterless eyes? I put up with her, but +I don't love her. What can happen? My youth is being wasted, as +the saying is, for a pinch of snuff. Women flit before my eyes +only in the carriage windows, like falling stars. Love I never +had and have not. My manhood, my courage, my power of feeling are +going to ruin. . . . Everything is being thrown away like dirt, +and all my wealth here in the steppe is not worth a farthing." + +The train rushed past me with a roar and indifferently cast the +glow of its red lights upon me. I saw it stop by the green lights +of the station, stop for a minute and rumble off again. After +walking a mile and a half I went back. Melancholy thoughts +haunted me still. Painful as it was to me, yet I remember I tried +as it were to make my thoughts still gloomier and more +melancholy. You know people who are vain and not very clever have +moments when the consciousness that they are miserable affords +them positive satisfaction, and they even coquet with their +misery for their own entertainment. There was a great deal of +truth in what I thought, but there was also a great deal that was +absurd and conceited, and there was something boyishly defiant +in my question: "What could happen worse?" + +"And what is there to happen?" I asked myself. "I think I have +endured everything. I've been ill, I've lost money, I get +reprimanded by my superiors every day, and I go hungry, and a mad +wolf has run into the station yard. What more is there? I have +been insulted, humiliated, . . . and I have insulted others in my +time. I have not been a criminal, it is true, but I don't think I +am capable of crime -- I am not afraid of being hauled up for +it." + +The two little clouds had moved away from the moon and stood at a +little distance, looking as though they were whispering about +something which the moon must not know. A light breeze was racing +across the steppe, bringing the faint rumble of the retreating +train. + +My wife met me at the doorway. Her eyes were laughing gaily and +her whole face was beaming with good-humor. + +"There is news for you!" she whispered. "Make haste, go to your +room and put on your new coat; we have a visitor." + +"What visitor?" + +"Aunt Natalya Petrovna has just come by the train." + +"What Natalya Petrovna?" + +"The wife of my uncle Semyon Fyodoritch. You don't know her. She +is a very nice, good woman." + +Probably I frowned, for my wife looked grave and whispered +rapidly: + +"Of course it is queer her having come, but don't be cross, +Nikolay, and don't be hard on her. She is unhappy, you know; +Uncle Semyon Fyodoritch really is ill-natured and tyrannical, it +is difficult to live with him. She says she will only stay three +days with us, only till she gets a letter from her brother." + +My wife whispered a great deal more nonsense to me about her +despotic uncle; about the weakness of mankind in general and of +young wives in particular; about its being our duty to give +shelter to all, even great sinners, and so on. Unable to make +head or tail of it, I put on my new coat and went to make +acquaintance with my "aunt." + +A little woman with large black eyes was sitting at the table. My +table, the gray walls, my roughly-made sofa, everything to the +tiniest grain of dust seemed to have grown younger and more +cheerful in the presence of this new, young, beautiful, and +dissolute creature, who had a most subtle perfume about her. And +that our visitor was a lady of easy virtue I could see from her +smile, from her scent, from the peculiar way in which she glanced +and made play with her eyelashes, from the tone in which she +talked with my wife -- a respectable woman. There was no need to +tell me she had run away from her husband, that her husband was +old and despotic, that she was good-natured and lively; I took it +all in at the first glance. Indeed, it is doubtful whether there +is a man in all Europe who cannot spot at the first glance a +woman of a certain temperament. + +"I did not know I had such a big nephew!" said my aunt, holding +out her hand to me and smiling. + +"And I did not know I had such a pretty aunt," I answered. + +Supper began over again. The cork flew with a bang out of the +second bottle, and my aunt swallowed half a glassful at a gulp, +and when my wife went out of the room for a moment my aunt did +not scruple to drain a full glass. I was drunk both with the +wine and with the presence of a woman. Do you remember the song? + + "Eyes black as pitch, eyes full of passion, + Eyes burning bright and beautiful, + How I love you, + How I fear you!" + +I don't remember what happened next. Anyone who wants to know how +love begins may read novels and long stories; I will put it +shortly and in the words of the same silly song: + + "It was an evil hour + When first I met you." + +Everything went head over heels to the devil. I remember a +fearful, frantic whirlwind which sent me flying round like a +feather. It lasted a long while, and swept from the face of the +earth my wife and my aunt herself and my strength. From the +little station in the steppe it has flung me, as you see, into +this dark street. + +Now tell me what further evil can happen to me? + +AFTER THE THEATRE + +NADYA ZELENIN had just come back with her mamma from the theatre +where she had seen a performance of "Yevgeny Onyegin." As soon as +she reached her own room she threw off her dress, let down her +hair, and in her petticoat and white dressing-jacket hastily sat +down to the table to write a letter like Tatyana's. + +"I love you," she wrote, "but you do not love me, do not love +me!" + +She wrote it and laughed. + +She was only sixteen and did not yet love anyone. She knew that +an officer called Gorny and a student called Gruzdev loved her, +but now after the opera she wanted to be doubtful of their love. +To be unloved and unhappy -- how interesting that was. There is +something beautiful, touching, and poetical about it when one +loves and the other is indifferent. Onyegin was interesting +because he was not in love at all, and Tatyana was fascinating +because she was so much in love; but if they had been equally in +love with each other and had been happy, they would perhaps have +seemed dull. + +"Leave off declaring that you love me," Nadya went on writing, +thinking of Gorny. "I cannot believe it. You are very clever, +cultivated, serious, you have immense talent, and perhaps a +brilliant future awaits you, while I am an uninteresting girl of +no importance, and you know very well that I should be only a +hindrance in your life. It is true that you were attracted by me +and thought you had found your ideal in me, but that was a +mistake, and now you are asking yourself in despair: 'Why did I +meet that girl?' And only your goodness of heart prevents you +from owning it to yourself. . . ." + +Nadya felt sorry for herself, she began to cry, and went on: + +"It is hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, or I should +take a nun's veil and go whither chance may lead me. And you +would be left free and would love another. Oh, if I were dead! " + +She could not make out what she had written through her tears; +little rainbows were quivering on the table, on the floor, on the +ceiling, as though she were looking through a prism. She could +not write, she sank back in her easy-chair and fell to thinking +of Gorny. + +My God! how interesting, how fascinating men were! Nadya recalled +the fine expression, ingratiating, guilty, and soft, which came +into the officer's face when one argued about music with him, and +the effort he made to prevent his voice from betraying his +passion. In a society where cold haughtiness and indifference are +regarded as signs of good breeding and gentlemanly bearing, one +must conceal one's passions. And he did try to conceal them, but +he did not succeed, and everyone knew very well that he had a +passionate love of music. The endless discussions about music and +the bold criticisms of people who knew nothing about it kept him +always on the strain; he was frightened, timid, and silent. He +played the piano magnificently, like a professional pianist, and +if he had not been in the army he would certainly have been a +famous musician. + +The tears on her eyes dried. Nadya remembered that Gorny had +declared his love at a Symphony concert, and again downstairs by +the hatstand where there was a tremendous draught blowing in all +directions. + +"I am very glad that you have at last made the acquaintance of +Gruzdev, our student friend," she went on writing. "He is a very +clever man, and you will be sure to like him. He came to see us +yesterday and stayed till two o'clock. We were all delighted +with him, and I regretted that you had not come. He said a great +deal that was remarkable." + +Nadya laid her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, and +her hair covered the letter. She recalled that the student, too, +loved her, and that he had as much right to a letter from her as +Gorny. Wouldn't it be better after all to write to Gruzdev? +There was a stir of joy in her bosom for no reason whatever; at +first the joy was small, and rolled in her bosom like an +india-rubber ball; then it became more massive, bigger, and +rushed like a wave. Nadya forgot Gorny and Gruzdev; her thoughts +were in a tangle and her joy grew and grew; from her bosom it +passed into her arms and legs, and it seemed as though a light, +cool breeze were breathing on her head and ruffling her hair. Her +shoulders quivered with subdued laughter, the table and the lamp +chimney shook, too, and tears from her eyes splashed on the +letter. She could not stop laughing, and to prove to herself that +she was not laughing about nothing she made haste to think of +something funny. + +"What a funny poodle," she said, feeling as though she would +choke with laughter. "What a funny poodle! " + +She thought how, after tea the evening before, Gruzdev had played +with Maxim the poodle, and afterwards had told them about a very +intelligent poodle who had run after a crow in the yard, and the +crow had looked round at him and said: "Oh, you scamp! " + +The poodle, not knowing he had to do with a learned crow, was +fearfully confused and retreated in perplexity, then began +barking. . . . + +"No, I had better love Gruzdev," Nadya decided, and she tore up +the letter to Gorny. + +She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; +but the thoughts in her head insisted on flowing in all +directions, and she thought about everything -- about her mother, +about the street, about the pencil, about the piano. . . . She +thought of them joyfully, and felt that everything was good, +splendid, and her joy told her that this was not all, that in a +little while it would be better still. Soon it would be spring, +summer, going with her mother to Gorbiki. Gorny would come for +his furlough, would walk about the garden with her and make love +to her. Gruzdev would come too. He would play croquet and +skittles with her, and would tell her wonderful things. She had a +passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, +the stars. Again her shoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed +to her that there was a scent of wormwood in the room and that a +twig was tapping at the window. + +She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with +the immense joy which filled her with yearning, she looked at the +holy image hanging at the back of her bed, and said: + +"Oh, Lord God! Oh, Lord God!" + +A LADY'S STORY + +NINE years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I +were riding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the +letters from the station. + +The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal +of thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming +straight towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we +were approaching it. + +Against the background of it our house and church looked white +and the tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain +and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing +and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be + nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with +turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take +shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt. +. . . + +Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, +there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in +the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse. + +"It's fine!" he cried, "it's splendid!" + +Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that +in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck +by lightning. + +Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the +wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one's heart in +a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had +gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and +on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable. + +Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses +to their stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to +finish, and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, +exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; +the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight. + +"What a crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a +very loud rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the +sky were split in two. "What do you say to that?" + +He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his +rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me. + +"Natalya Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give anything only to +stay here a little longer and look at you. You are lovely +to-day." + +His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was +pale. On his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and +they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love. + +"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. +I know you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; +only know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no +notice of it, but only know that you are dear to me and let me +look at you." + +His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, +listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, +and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir. + +I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and +listening. + +"You say nothing, and that is splendid," said Pyotr Sergeyitch. +"Go on being silent." + +I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the +drenching rain to the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he +went, ran after me. + +Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like +children, we dashed into the room. My father and brother, who +were not used to seeing me laughing and light-hearted, looked at +me in surprise and began laughing too. + +The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but +the raindrops still glittered on Pyotr Sergeyitch's beard. The +whole evening till supper-time he was singing, whistling, playing +noisily with the dog and racing about the room after it, so that +he nearly upset the servant with the samovar. And at supper he +ate a great deal, talked nonsense, and maintained that when one +eats fresh cucumbers in winter there is the fragrance of spring +in one's mouth. + +When I went to bed I lighted a candle and threw my window wide +open, and an undefined feeling took possession of my soul. I +remembered that I was free and healthy, that I had rank and +wealth, that I was beloved; above all, that I had rank and +wealth, rank and wealth, my God! how nice that was! . . . Then, +huddling up in bed at a touch of cold which reached me from the +garden with the dew, I tried to discover whether I loved Pyotr +Sergeyitch or not, . . . and fell asleep unable to reach any +conclusion. + +And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and +the shadows of the lime trees on my bed, what had happened +yesterday rose vividly in my memory. Life seemed to me rich, +varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed quickly and went out +into the garden. . . . + +And what happened afterwards? Why -- nothing. In the winter when +we lived in town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us from time to +time. Country acquaintances are charming only in the country and +in summer; in the town and in winter they lose their charm. When +you pour out tea for them in the town it seems as though they are +wearing other people's coats, and as though they stirred their +tea too long. In the town, too, Pyotr Sergeyitch spoke sometimes +of love, but the effect was not at all the same as in the +country. In the town we were more vividly conscious of the wall +that stood between us. I had rank and wealth, while he was poor, +and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and +a deputy public prosecutor; we both of us -- I through my youth +and he for some unknown reason -- thought of that wall as very +high and thick, and when he was with us in the town he would +criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain +a sullen silence when there was anyone else in the drawing-room. +There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of +the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, +spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign +themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that +personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they +merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that +their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity. + +I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost +touching me; I went on living in careless ease without trying to +understand myself, not knowing what I expected or what I wanted +from life, and time went on and on. . . . People passed by me +with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the +nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet +and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone +rapidly, leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like +mist. . . . Where is it all? + +My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted +me, caressed me, gave me hope -- the patter of the rain, the +rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love -- +all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a +flat desert dist ance; on the plain not one living soul, and out +there on the horizon it is dark and terrible. . . . + +A ring at the bell. . . . It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the +winter I see the trees and remember how green they were for me in +the summer I whisper: + +"Oh, my darlings!" + +And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel +sorrowful and warm and whisper the same thing. + +He has long ago by my father's good offices been transferred to +town. He looks a little older, a little fallen away. He has long +given up declaring his love, has left off talking nonsense, +dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and +disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything out of +life, and takes no interest in living. Now he has sat down by the +hearth and looks in silence at the fire. . . . + +Not knowing what to say I ask him: + +"Well, what have you to tell me?" + +"Nothing," he answers. + +And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his +melancholy face. + +I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began +quivering, my head dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt +unbearably sorry for myself and for this man, and passionately +longed for what had passed away and what life refused us now. And +now I did not think about rank and wealth. + +I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered: + +"My God! my God! my life is wasted!" + +And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: "Don't weep." +He understood that I must weep, and that the time for this had +come. + +I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for +him, too, and vexed with this timid, unsuccessful man who could +not make a life for me, nor for himself. + +When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long +while putting on his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a +word, and looked a long while into my tear-stained face. I +believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks of +rain, our laughter, my face that day; he longed to say something +to me, and he would have been glad to say it; but he said +nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. God help +him! + +After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on +the carpet before the fireplace; the red embers were covered with +ash and began to grow dim. The frost tapped still more angrily at +the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney. + +The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name. + +IN EXILE + +OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew +by name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the +other three ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of +sixty, lean and toothless, but broad shouldered and still +healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone in to sleep long +before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was afraid that +the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka. The Tatar was ill +and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing +how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful +and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not more than +twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale +and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy. + +"To be sure, it is not paradise here," said Canny. "You can see +for yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else. +. . . Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, +and this morning there was snow. . ." + +"It's bad! it's bad!" said the Tatar, and looked round him in +terror. + +The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, +lapped against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards +the far-away sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a +big barge, which the ferrymen called a "karbos." Far away on the +further bank, lights, dying down and flickering up again, +zigzagged like little snakes; they were burning last year's +grass. And beyond the little snakes there was darkness again. +There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge +It was damp and cold. . . . + +The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at +home, and the same blackness all round, but something was +lacking. At home in the Simbirsk province the stars were quite +different, and so was the sky. + +"It's bad! it's bad!" he repeated. + +"You will get used to it," said Semyon, and he laughed. "Now you +are young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and +it seems to you in your foolishness that you are more wretched +than anyone; but the time will come when you will say to +yourself: 'I wish no one a better life than mine.' You look at +me. Within a week the floods will be over and we shall set up the +ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I shall +stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I've been going +like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and the +salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank God +for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life." + +The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer +to the blaze, and said: + +"My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will +come here. They have promised." + +"And what do you want your wife and mother for?" asked Canny. +"That's mere foolishness, my lad. It's the devil confounding you, +damn his soul! Don't you listen to him, the cursed one. Don't let +him have his way. He is at you about the women, but you spite +him; say, 'I don't want them!' He is on at you about freedom, but +you stand up to him and say: 'I don't want it!' I want nothing, +neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor post, nor +paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!" + +Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on: + +"I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son +of a deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear +a frockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I +can sleep naked on the ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a +better life. I want nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the +way I look at it is that there is nobody richer and freer than I +am. When they sent me here from Russia from the first day I stuck +it out; I want nothing! The devil was at me about my wife and +about my home and about freedom, but I told him: 'I want +nothing.' I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and I +don't complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens +to him, if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: +he is sunk in the bog to the crown of his head and will never get +out. + +"It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, +well-educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a +gentleman here from Russia. He hadn't shared something with his +brothers and had forged something in a will. They did say he was +a prince or a baron, but maybe he was simply an official -- who +knows? Well, the gentleman arrived here, and first thing he +bought himself a house and land in Muhortinskoe. 'I want to live +by my own work,' says he, 'in the sweat of my brow, for I am not +a gentleman now,' says he, 'but a settler.' 'Well,' says I, 'God +help you, that's the right thing.' He was a young man then, busy +and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty +miles on horseback. Only this is what happened: from the very +first year he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to +stand on my ferry and sigh: 'Ech, Semyon, how long it is since +they sent me any money from home!' 'You don't want money, Vassily +Sergeyitch,' says I. 'What use is it to you? You cast away the +past, and forget it as though it had never been at all, as though +it had been a dream, and begin to live anew. Don't listen to the +devil,' says I; 'he will bring you to no good, he'll draw you +into a snare. Now you want money,' says I, ' but in a very +little while you'll be wanting something else, and then more and +more. If you want to be happy,' says I, the chief thing is not to +want anything. Yes. . . . If,' says I, 'if Fate has wronged you +and me cruelly it's no good asking for her favor and bowing down +to her, but you despise her and laugh at her, or else she will +laugh at you.' That's what I said to him. . . . + +"Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was +rubbing his hands and laughing. ' I am going to Gyrino to meet my +wife,' says he. 'She was sorry for me,' says he; 'she has come. +She is good and kind.' And he was breathless with joy. So a day +later he came with his wife. A beautiful young lady in a hat; in +her arms was a baby girl. And lots of luggage of all sorts. And +my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussing round her; he couldn't take his +eyes off her and couldn't say enough in praise of her. 'Yes, +brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!' 'Oh, all +right,' thinks I, 'it will be a different tale presently.' And +from that time forward he went almost every week to inquire +whether money had not come from Russia. He wanted a lot of +money. 'She is losing her youth and beauty here in Siberia for my +sake,' says he, 'and sharing my bitter lot with me, and so I +ought,' says he, 'to provide her with every comfort. . . .' + +"To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with the +officials and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to +give food and drink to all that crew, and there had to be a piano +and a shaggy lapdog on the sofa -- plague take it! . . . Luxury, +in fact, self-indulgence. The lady did not stay with him long. +How could she? The clay, the water, the cold, no vegetables for +you, no fruit. All around you ignorant and drunken people and no +sort of manners, and she was a spoilt lady from Petersburg or +Moscow. . . . To be sure she moped. Besides, her husband, say +what you like, was not a gentleman now, but a settler -- not the +same rank. + +"Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, +there was shouting from the further bank. I went over with the +ferry, and what do I see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with +her a young gentleman, an official. A sledge with three horses. +. . . I ferried them across here, they got in and away like the +wind. They were soon lost to sight. And towards morning Vassily +Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry. 'Didn't my wife come this +way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?' 'She did,' said I; +'you may look for the wind in the fields!' He galloped in pursuit +of them. For five days and nights he was riding after them. When +I ferried him over to the other side afterwards, he flung himself +on the ferry and beat his head on the boards of the ferry and +howled. 'So that's how it is,' says I. I laughed, and reminded +him 'people can live even in Siberia!' And he beat his head +harder than ever. . . . + +"Then he began longing for freedom. His wife had slipped off to +Russia, and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get +her away from her lover. And he took, my lad, to galloping almost +every day, either to the post or the town to see the commanding +officer; he kept sending in petitions for them to have mercy on +him and let him go back home; and he used to say that he had +spent some two hundred roubles on telegrams alone. He sold his +land and mortgaged his house to the Jews. He grew gray and bent, +and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption. If he +talked to you he would go, khee -- khee -- khee,. . . and there +were tears in his eyes. He kept rushing about like this with +petitions for eight years, but now he has grown brighter and +more cheerful again: he has found another whim to give way to. +You see, his daughter has grown up. He looks at her, and she is +the apple of his eye. And to tell the truth she is all right, +good-looking, with black eyebrows and a lively disposition. +Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino. They +used to stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and he +could not take his eyes off her. 'Yes, Semyon,' says he, 'people +can live even in Siberia. Even in Siberia there is happiness. +Look,' says he, 'what a daughter I have got! I warrant you +wouldn't find another like her for a thousand versts round.' +'Your daughter is all right,' says I, 'that's true, certainly.' +But to myself I thought: 'Wait a bit, the wench is young, +her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and there is no +life here.' And she did begin to pine, my lad. . . . +She faded and faded, and now she can hardly crawl about. +Consumption. + +"So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul! You see +how people can live in Siberia. . . . He has taken to going from +one doctor to another and taking them home with him. As soon as +he hears that two or three hundred miles away there is a +doctor or a sorcerer, he will drive to fetch him. A terrible lot +of money he spent on doctors, and to my thinking he had better +have spent the money on drink. . . . She'll die just the same. +She is certain to die, and then it will be all over with him. +He'll hang himself from grief or run away to Russia -- that's a +sure thing. He'll run away and they'll catch him, then he will be +tried, sent to prison, he will have a taste of the lash. . . ." + +"Good! good!" said the Tatar, shivering with cold. + +"What is good?" asked Canny. + +"His wife, his daughter. . . . What of prison and what of sorrow! +-- anyway, he did see his wife and his daughter. . . . You say, +want nothing. But 'nothing' is bad! His wife lived with him three +years -- that was a gift from God. 'Nothing' is bad, +but three years is good. How not understand?" + +Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian +words of which he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid +one should fall sick and die in a strange land, and be buried in +the cold and dark earth; that if his wife came to him for one +day, even for one hour, that for such happiness he would be ready +to bear any suffering and to thank God. Better one day of +happiness than nothing. + +Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had +left at home. Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began +crying and assuring Semyon that he was not guilty, and was +suffering for nothing. His two brothers and an uncle had carried +off a peasant's horses, and had beaten the old man till he was +half dead, and the commune had not judged fairly, but had +contrived a sentence by which all the three brothers were sent to +Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left at home. + +"You will get used to it!" said Semyon. + +The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the +fire; his face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he +still did not understand why he was here in the darkness and the +wet, beside strangers, and not in the Simbirsk province. + +Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming +a song in an undertone. + +"What joy has she with her father?" he said a little later. "He +loves her and he rejoices in her, that's true; but, mate, you +must mind your ps and qs with him, he is a strict old man, a +harsh old man. And young wenches don't want strictness. They +want petting and ha-ha-ha! and ho-ho-ho! and scent and pomade. +Yes. . . . Ech! life, life," sighed Semyon, and he got up +heavily. "The vodka is all gone, so it is time to sleep. Eh? I am +going, my lad. . . ." + +Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at +the fire; he began thinking of his own village and of his wife. +If his wife could only come for a month, for a day; and then if +she liked she might go back again. Better a month or even a day +than nothing. But if his wife kept her promise and came, what +would he have to feed her on? Where could she live here? + +"If there were not something to eat, how could she live?" the +Tatar asked aloud. + +He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at +the oar; it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for +vodkas but the men shared all they received among themselves, and +gave nothing to the Tatar, but only laughed at him. +And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and frightened. . . . Now, +when his whole body was aching and shivering, he ought to go into +the hut and lie down to sleep; but he had nothing to cover him +there, and it was colder than on the river-bank; here he had +nothing to cover him either, but at least he could make up the +fire. . . . + +In another week, when the floods were quite ov er and they set +the ferry going, none of the ferrymen but Semyon would be wanted, +and the Tatar would begin going from village to village begging +for alms and for work. His wife was only seventeen; she was +beautiful, spoilt, and shy; could she possibly go from village to +village begging alms with her face unveiled? No, it was terrible +even to think of that. . . . + +It was already getting light; the barge, the bushes of willow on +the water, and the waves could be clearly discerned, and if one +looked round there was the steep clay slope; at the bottom of it +the hut thatched with dingy brown straw, and the huts of the +village lay clustered higher up. The cocks were already crowing +in the village. + +The rusty red clay slope, the barge, the river, the strange, +unkind people, hunger, cold, illness, perhaps all that was not +real. Most likely it was all a dream, thought the Tatar. He felt +that he was asleep and heard his own snoring. . . . Of course he +was at home in the Simbirsk province, and he had only to call his +wife by name for her to answer; and in the next room was his +mother. . . . What terrible dreams there are, though! What are +they for? The Tatar smiled and opened his eyes. What river was +this, the Volga? + +Snow was falling. + +"Boat!" was shouted on the further side. "Boat!" + +The Tatar woke up, and went to wake his mates and row over to the +other side. The ferrymen came on to the river-bank, putting on +their torn sheepskins as they walked, swearing with voices husky +from sleepiness and shivering from the cold. On waking +from their sleep, the river, from which came a breath of +piercing cold, seemed to strike them as revolting and horrible. +They jumped into the barge without hurrying themselves. . . . The +Tatar and the three ferrymen took the long, broad-bladed oars, +which in the darkness looked like the claws of crabs; Semyon +leaned his stomach against the tiller. The shout on the other +side still continued, and two shots were fired from a revolver, +probably with the idea that the ferrymen were asleep or had gone +to the pot-house in the village. + +"All right, you have plenty of time," said Semyon in the tone of +a man convinced that there was no necessity in this world to +hurry -- that it would lead to nothing, anyway. + +The heavy, clumsy barge moved away from the bank and floated +between the willow-bushes, and only the willows slowly moving +back showed that the barge was not standing still but moving. The +ferrymen swung the oars evenly in time; Semyon lay with his +stomach on the tiller and, describing a semicircle in the air, +flew from one side to the other. In the darkness it looked as +though the men were sitting on some antediluvian animal with long +paws, and were moving on it through a cold, desolate land, the +land of which one sometimes dreams in nightmares. + +They passed beyond the willows and floated out into the open. The +creak and regular splash of the oars was heard on the further +shore, and a shout came: "Make haste! make haste!" + +Another ten minutes passed, and the barge banged heavily against +the landing-stage. + +"And it keeps sprinkling and sprinkling," muttered Semyon, wiping +the snow from his face; "and where it all comes from God only +knows." + +On the bank stood a thin man of medium height in a jacket lined +with fox fur and in a white lambskin cap. He was standing at a +little distance from his horses and not moving; he had a gloomy, +concentrated expression, as though he were trying to remember +something and angry with his untrustworthy memory. When Semyon +went up to him and took off his cap, smiling, he said: + +"I am hastening to Anastasyevka. My daughter's worse again, and +they say that there is a new doctor at Anastasyevka." + +They dragged the carriage on to the barge and floated back. The +man whom Semyon addressed as Vassily Sergeyitch stood all the +time motionless, tightly compressing his thick lips and staring +off into space; when his coachman asked permission to smoke in +his presence he made no answer, as though he had not heard. +Semyon, lying with his stomach on the tiller, looked mockingly at +him and said: + +"Even in Siberia people can live -- can li-ive!" + +There was a triumphant expression on Canny's face, as though he +had proved something and was delighted that things had happened +as he had foretold. The unhappy helplessness of the man in the +foxskin coat evidently afforded him great pleasure. + +"It's muddy driving now, Vassily Sergeyitch," he said when the +horses were harnessed again on the bank. "You should have put off +going for another fortnight, when it will be drier. Or else not +have gone at all. . . . If any good would come of your going -- +but as you know yourself, people have been driving about for +years and years, day and night, and it's alway's been no use. +That's the truth." + +Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his +carriage and drove off. + +"There, he has galloped off for a doctor!" said Semyon, shrinking +from the cold. "But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the +wind in the fields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take +your soul! What a queer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!" + +The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred and +repulsion, shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken +Russian, said: "He is good . . . good; but you are bad! You are +bad! The gentleman is a good soul, excellent, and you are a +beast, bad! The gentleman is alive, but you are a dead carcass. +. . . God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and +sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are +stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing. You are +a stone, and God does not love you, but He loves the gentleman!" + +Everyone laughed; the Tatar frowned contemptuously, and with a +wave of his hand wrapped himself in his rags and went to the +campfire. The ferrymen and Semyon sauntered to the hut. + +"It's cold," said one ferryman huskily as he stretched himself on +the straw with which the damp clay floor was covered. + +"Yes, its not warm," another assented. "It's a dog's life. . . ." + +They all lay down. The door was thrown open by the wind and the +snow drifted into the hut; nobody felt inclined to get up and +shut the door: they were cold, and it was too much trouble. + +"I am all right," said Semyon as he began to doze. "I wouldn't +wish anyone a better life." + +"You are a tough one, we all know. Even the devils won't take +you!" + +Sounds like a dog's howling came from outside. + +"What's that? Who's there?" + +"It's the Tatar crying." + +"I say. . . . He's a queer one!" + +"He'll get u-used to it!" said Semyon, and at once fell asleep. + +The others were soon asleep too. The door remained unclosed. + +THE CATTLE-DEALERS + +THE long goods train has been standing for hours in the little +station. The engine is as silent as though its fire had gone out; +there is not a soul near the train or in the station yard. + +A pale streak of light comes from one of the vans and glides over +the rails of a siding. In that van two men are sitting on an +outspread cape: one is an old man with a big gray beard, wearing +a sheepskin coat and a high lambskin hat, somewhat like a busby; +the other a beardless youth in a threadbare cloth reefer jacket +and muddy high boots. They are the owners of the goods. The old +man sits, his legs stretched out before him, musing in silence; +the young man half reclines and softly strums on a cheap +accordion. A lantern with a tallow candle in it is hanging on the +wall near them. + +The van is quite full. If one glances in through the dim light of +the lantern, for the first moment the eyes receive an impression +of something shapeless, monstrous, and unmistakably alive, +something very much like gigantic crabs which move their claws +and feelers, crowd together, and noiselessly climb up the walls +to the ceiling; but if one looks more closely, horns and their +shadows, long lean backs, dirty hides, tails, eyes begin to stand +out in the dusk. They are cattle and their shadows. There are +eight of them in the van. Some turn round and stare at the men +and swing their tails. Others try to stand or lie d own more +comfortably. They are crowded. If one lies down the others must +stand and huddle closer. No manger, no halter, no litter, not a +wisp of hay. . . .* + +At last the old man pulls out of his pocket a silver watch and +looks at the time: a quarter past two. + +"We have been here nearly two hours," he says, yawning. "Better +go and stir them up, or we may be here till morning. They have +gone to sleep, or goodness knows what they are up to." + +The old man gets up and, followed by his long shadow, cautiously +gets down from the van into the darkness. He makes his way along +beside the train to the engine, and after passing some two dozen +vans sees a red open furnace; a human figure sits motionless +facing it; its peaked cap, nose, and knees are lighted up by the +crimson glow, all the rest is black and can scarcely be +distinguished in the darkness. + +"Are we going to stay here much longer?" asks the old man. + +No answer. The motionless figure is evidently asleep. The old man +clears his throat impatiently and, shrinking from the penetrating +damp, walks round the engine, and as he does so the brilliant +light of the two engine lamps dazzles his eyes for an instant +and makes the night even blacker to him; he goes to the station. + +The platform and steps of the station are wet. Here and there are +white patches of freshly fallen melting snow. In the station +itself it is light and as hot as a steam-bath. There is a smell +of paraffin. Except for the weighing-machine and a yellow seat on +which a man wearing a guard's uniform is asleep, there is no +furniture in the place at all. On the left are two wide-open +doors. Through one of them the telegraphic apparatus and a lamp +with a green shade on it can be seen; through the other, a small +room, half of it taken up by a dark cupboard. In this room the +head guard and the engine-driver are sitting on the window-sill. +They are both feeling a cap with their fingers and disputing. + +"That's not real beaver, it's imitation," says the engine-driver. +"Real beaver is not like that. Five roubles would be a high price +for the whole cap, if you care to know!" + +"You know a great deal about it, . . ." the head guard says, +offended. "Five roubles, indeed! Here, we will ask the merchant. +Mr. Malahin," he says, addressing the old man, "what do you say: +is this imitation beaver or real?" + +Old Malahin takes the cap into his hand, and with the air of a +connoisseur pinches the fur, blows on it, sniffs at it, and a +contemptuous smile lights up his angry face. + +"It must be imitation!" he says gleefully. "Imitation it is." + +A dispute follows. The guard maintains that the cap is real +beaver, and the engine-driver and Malahin try to persuade him +that it is not. In the middle of the argument the old man +suddenly remembers the object of his coming. + +"Beaver and cap is all very well, but the train's standing still, +gentlemen!" he says. "Who is it we are waiting for? Let us +start!" + +"Let us," the guard agrees. "We will smoke another cigarette and +go on. But there is no need to be in a hurry. . . . We shall be +delayed at the next station anyway!" + +"Why should we?" + +"Oh, well. . . . We are too much behind time. . . . If you are +late at one station you can't help being delayed at the other +stations to let the trains going the opposite way pass. Whether +we set off now or in the morning we shan't be number fourteen. +We shall have to be number twenty-three." + +"And how do you make that out?" + +"Well, there it is." + +Malahin looks at the guard, reflects, and mutters mechanically as +though to himself: + +"God be my judge, I have reckoned it and even jotted it down in a +notebook; we have wasted thirty-four hours standing still on the +journey. If you go on like this, either the cattle will die, or +they won't pay me two roubles for the meat when I do get there. +It's not traveling, but ruination." + +The guard raises his eyebrows and sighs with an air that seems to +say: "All that is unhappily true!" The engine-driver sits silent, +dreamily looking at the cap. From their faces one can see that +they have a secret thought in common, which they do not utter, +not because they want to conceal it, but because such thoughts +are much better expressed by signs than by words. And the old man +understands. He feels in his pocket, takes out a ten-rouble note, +and without preliminary words, without any change in the tone of +his voice or the expression of his face, but with the confidence +and directness with which probably only Russians give and take +bribes, he gives the guard the note. The latter takes it, folds +it in four, and without undue haste puts it in his pocket. +After that all three go out of the room, and waking the sleeping +guard on the way, go on to the platform. + +"What weather!" grumbles the head guard, shrugging his shoulders. +"You can't see your hand before your face." + +"Yes, it's vile weather." + +From the window they can see the flaxen head of the telegraph +clerk appear beside the green lamp and the telegraphic apparatus; +soon after another head, bearded and wearing a red cap, appears +beside it -- no doubt that of the station-master. The +station-master bends down to the table, reads something on a blue +form, rapidly passing his cigarette along the lines. . . . +Malahin goes to his van. + +The young man, his companion, is still half reclining and hardly +audibly strumming on the accordion. He is little more than a boy, +with no trace of a mustache; his full white face with its broad +cheek-bones is childishly dreamy; his eyes have a melancholy and +tranquil look unlike that of a grown-up person, but he is broad, +strong, heavy and rough like the old man; he does not stir nor +shift his position, as though he is not equal to moving his big +body. It seems as though any movement he made would tear his +clothes and be so noisy as to frighten both him and the cattle. +From under his big fat fingers that clumsily pick out the stops +and keys of the accordion comes a steady flow of thin, tinkling +sounds which blend into a simple, monotonous little tune; he +listens to it, and is evidently much pleased with his +performance. + +A bell rings, but with such a muffled note that it seems to come +from far away. A hurried second bell soon follows, then a third +and the guard's whistle. A minute passes in profound silence; the +van does not move, it stands still, but vague sounds begin to +come from beneath it, like the crunch of snow under +sledge-runners; the van begins to shake and the sounds cease. +Silence reigns again. But now comes the clank of buffers, the +violent shock makes the van start and, as it were, give a lurch +forward, and all the cattle fall against one another. + +"May you be served the same in the world to come," grumbles the +old man, setting straight his cap, which had slipped on the back +of his head from the jolt. "He'll maim all my cattle like this!" + +Yasha gets up without a word and, taking one of the fallen beasts +by the horns, helps it to get on to its legs. . . . The jolt is +followed by a stillness again. The sounds of crunching snow come +from under the van again, and it seems as though the train had +moved back a little. + +"There will be another jolt in a minute," says the old man. And +the convulsive quiver does, in fact, run along the train, there +is a crashing sound and the bullocks fall on one another again. + +"It's a job!" says Yasha, listening. "The train must be heavy. It +seems it won't move." + +"It was not heavy before, but now it has suddenly got heavy. No, +my lad, the guard has not gone shares with him, I expect. Go and +take him something, or he will be jolting us till morning." + +Yasha takes a three-rouble note from the old man and jumps out of +the van. The dull thud of his heavy footsteps resounds outside +the van and gradually dies away. Stillness. . . . In the next +van a bullock utters a prolonged subdued "moo," as though +it were singing. + +Yasha comes back. A cold damp wind darts into the van. + +"Shut the door, Yasha, and we will go to bed," says the old man. +"Why burn a candle for nothing?" + +Yasha moves the heavy door; there is a sound of a whistle, the +engine and the train set off. + + +"It's cold," mutters the old man, stretching himself on the cape +and laying his head on a bundle. "It is very different at home! +It's warm and clean and soft, and there is room to say your +prayers, but here we are worse off than any pigs. It's four +days and nights since I have taken off my boots." + +Yasha, staggering from the jolting of the train, opens the +lantern and snuffs out the wick with his wet fingers. The light +flares up, hisses like a frying pan and goes out. + +"Yes, my lad," Malahin goes on, as he feels Yasha lie down beside +him and the young man's huge back huddle against his own, "it's +cold. There is a draught from every crack. If your mother or your +sister were to sleep here for one night they would be dead by +morning. There it is, my lad, you wouldn't study and go to the +high school like your brothers, so you must take the cattle with +your father. It's your own fault, you have only yourself to +blame. . . . Your brothers are asleep in their beds now, they +are snug under the bedclothes, but you, the careless and lazy +one, are in the same box as the cattle. . . . Yes. . . . " + +The old man's words are inaudible in the noise of the train, but +for a long time he goes on muttering, sighing and clearing his +throat. . . . The cold air in the railway van grows thicker and +more stifling The pungent odor of fresh dung and smoldering +candle makes it so repulsive and acrid that it irritates Yasha's +throat and chest as he falls asleep. He coughs and sneezes, while +the old man, being accustomed to it, breathes with his whole +chest as though nothing were amiss, and merely clears his throat. + +To judge from the swaying of the van and the rattle of the wheels +the train is moving rapidly and unevenly. The engine breathes +heavily, snorting out of time with the pulsation of the train, +and altogether there is a medley of sounds. The bullocks huddle +together uneasily and knock their horns against the walls. + +When the old man wakes up, the deep blue sky of early morning is +peeping in at the cracks and at the little uncovered window. He +feels unbearably cold, especially in the back and the feet. The +train is standing still; Yasha, sleepy and morose, is busy with +the cattle. + +The old man wakes up out of humor. Frowning and gloomy, he clears +his throat angrily and looks from under his brows at Yasha who, +supporting a bullock with his powerful shoulder and slightly +lifting it, is trying to disentangle its leg. + +"I told you last night that the cords were too long," mutters the +old man; "but no, 'It's not too long, Daddy.' There's no making +you do anything, you will have everything your own way. . . . +Blockhead!" + +He angrily moves the door open and the light rushes into the van. +A passenger train is standing exactly opposite the door, and +behind it a red building with a roofed-in platform -- a big +station with a refreshment bar. The roofs and bridges of the +trains, the earth, the sleepers, all are covered with a thin +coating of fluffy, freshly fallen snow. In the spaces between the +carriages of the passenger train the passengers can be seen +moving to and fro, and a red-haired, red-faced gendarme walking +up and down; a waiter in a frock-coat and a snow-white +shirt-front, looking cold and sleepy, and probably very much +dissatisfied with his fate, is running along the platform +carrying a glass of tea and two rusks on a tray. + +The old man gets up and begins saying his prayers towards the +east. Yasha, having finished with the bullock and put down the +spade in the corner, stands beside him and says his prayers also. +He merely moves his lips and crosses himself; the father prays +in a loud whisper and pronounces the end of each prayer aloud and +distinctly. + +". . . And the life of the world to come. Amen," the old man says +aloud, draws in a breath, and at once whispers another prayer, +rapping out clearly and firmly at the end: " . . . and lay calves +upon Thy altar!" + +After saying his prayers, Yasha hurriedly crosses himself and +says: "Five kopecks, please." + +And on being given the five-kopeck piece, he takes a red copper +teapot and runs to the station for boiling water. Taking long +jumps over the rails and sleepers, leaving huge tracks in the +feathery snow, and pouring away yesterday's tea out of the +teapot he runs to the refreshment room and jingles his +five-kopeck piece against his teapot. From the van the bar-keeper +can be seen pushing away the big teapot and refusing to give half +of his samovar for five kopecks, but Yasha turns the tap himself +and, spreading wide his elbows so as not to be interfered with +fills his teapot with boiling water. + +"Damned blackguard!" the bar-keeper shouts after him as he runs +back to the railway van. + +The scowling face of Malahin grows a little brighter over the +tea. + +"We know how to eat and drink, but we don't remember our work. +Yesterday we could do nothing all day but eat and drink, and I'll +be bound we forgot to put down what we spent. What a memory! Lord +have mercy on us!" + +The old man recalls aloud the expenditure of the day before, and +writes down in a tattered notebook where and how much he had +given to guards, engine-drivers, oilers. . . . + +Meanwhile the passenger train has long ago gone off, and an +engine runs backwards and forwards on the empty line, apparently +without any definite object, but simply enjoying its freedom. The +sun has risen and is playing on the snow; bright drops are +falling from the station roof and the tops of the vans. + +Having finished his tea, the old man lazily saunters from the van +to the station. Here in the middle of the first-class +waiting-room he sees the familiar figure of the guard standing +beside the station-master, a young man with a handsome beard and +in a magnificent rough woollen overcoat. The young man, probably +new to his position, stands in the same place, gracefully +shifting from one foot to the other like a good racehorse, looks +from side to side, salutes everyone that passes by, smiles and +screws up his eyes. . . . He is red-cheeked, sturdy, and +good-humored; his face is full of eagerness, and is as fresh as +though he had just fallen from the sky with the feathery snow. +Seeing Malahin, the guard sighs guiltily and throws up his +hands. + +"We can't go number fourteen," he says. "We are very much behind +time. Another train has gone with that number." + +The station-master rapidly looks through some forms, then turns +his beaming blue eyes upon Malahin, and, his face radiant with +smiles and freshness, showers questions on him: + +"You are Mr. Malahin? You have the cattle? Eight vanloads? What +is to be done now? You are late and I let number fourteen go in +the night. What are we to do now?" + +The young man discreetly takes hold of the fur of Malahin's coat +with two pink fingers and, shifting from one foot to the other, +explains affably and convincingly that such and such numbers have +gone already, and that such and such are going, and that he is +ready to do for Malahin everything in his power. And from his +face it is evident that he is ready to do anything to please not +only Malahin, but the whole world -- he is so happy, so pleased, +and so delighted! The old man listens, and though he can make +absolutely nothing of the intricate system of numbering the +trains, he nods his head approvingly, and he, too, puts two +fingers on the soft wool of the rough coat. He enjoys seeing and +hearing the polite and genial young man. To show goodwill on his +side also, he takes out a ten-rouble note and, after a moment's +thought, adds a couple of rouble notes to it, and gives them to +the station-master. The latter takes them, puts his finger to his +cap, and gracefully thrusts them into his pocket. + +"Well, gentlemen, can't we arrange it like this?" he says, +kindled by a new idea that has flashed on him. "The troop train +is late, . . . as you see, it is not here, . . . so why shouldn't +you go as the troop train?** And I will let the troop train +go as twenty-eight. Eh?" + +"If you like," agrees the guard. + +"Excellent!" the station-master says, delighted. "In that case +there is no need for you to wait here; you can set off at once. +I'll dispatch you immediately. Excellent!" + +He salutes Malahin and runs off to his room, reading forms as he +goes. The old man is very much pleased by the conversation that +has just taken place; he smiles and looks about the room as +though looking for something else agreeable. + +"We'll have a drink, though," he says, taking the guard's arm. + +"It seems a little early for drinking." + +"No, you must let me treat you to a glass in a friendly way." + +They both go to the refreshment bar. After having a drink the +guard spends a long time selecting something to eat. + +He is a very stout, elderly man, with a puffy and discolored +face. His fatness is unpleasant, flabby-looking, and he is sallow +as people are who drink too much and sleep irregularly. + +"And now we might have a second glass," says Malahin. "It's cold +now, it's no sin to drink. Please take some. So I can rely upon +you, Mr. Guard, that there will be no hindrance or unpleasantness +for the rest of the journey. For you know in moving cattle every +hour is precious. To-day meat is one price; and to-morrow, look +you, it will be another. If you are a day or two late and don't +get your price, instead of a profit you get home -- excuse my +saying it -- with out your breeches. Pray take a little. . . . +I rely on you, and as for standing you something or what you +like, I shall be pleased to show you my respect at any time." + +After having fed the guard, Malahin goes back to the van. + +"I have just got hold of the troop train," he says to his son. +"We shall go quickly. The guard says if we go all the way with +that number we shall arrive at eight o'clock to-morrow evening. +If one does not bestir oneself, my boy, one gets nothing. . . . +That's so. . . . So you watch and learn. . . ." + +After the first bell a man with a face black with soot, in a +blouse and filthy frayed trousers hanging very slack, comes to +the door of the van. This is the oiler, who had been creeping +under the carriages and tapping the wheels with a hammer. + +"Are these your vans of cattle?" he asks. + +"Yes. Why?" + +"Why, because two of the vans are not safe. They can't go on, +they must stay here to be repaired." + +"Oh, come, tell us another! You simply want a drink, to get +something out of me. . . . You should have said so." + +"As you please, only it is my duty to report it at once." + +Without indignation or protest, simply, almost mechanically, the +old man takes two twenty-kopeck pieces out of his pocket and +gives them to the oiler. He takes them very calmly, too, and +looking good-naturedly at the old man enters into conversation. + +"You are going to sell your cattle, I suppose. . . . It's good +business!" + +Malahin sighs and, looking calmly at the oiler's black face, +tells him that trading in cattle used certainly to be profitable, +but now it has become a risky and losing business. + +"I have a mate here," the oiler interrupts him. "You merchant +gentlemen might make him a little present. . .." + +Malahin gives something to the mate too. The troop train goes +quickly and the waits at the stations are comparatively short. +The old man is pleased. The pleasant impression made by the young +man in the rough overcoat has gone deep, the vodka he has +drunk slightly clouds his brain, the weather is magnificent, and +everything seems to be going well. He talks without ceasing, and +at every stopping place runs to the refreshment bar. Feeling the +need of a listener, he takes with him first the guard, and then +the engine-driver, and does not simply drink, but makes a long +business of it, with suitable remarks and clinking of glasses. + +"You have your job and we have ours," he says with an affable +smile. "May God prosper us and you, and not our will but His be +done." + +The vodka gradually excites him and he is worked up to a great +pitch of energy. He wants to bestir himself, to fuss about, to +make inquiries, to talk incessantly. At one minute he fumbles in +his pockets and bundles and looks for some form. Then he thinks +of something and cannot remember it; then takes out his +pocketbook, and with no sort of object counts over his money. He +bustles about, sighs and groans, clasps his hands. . . . Laying +out before him the letters and telegrams from the meat salesmen +in the city, bills, post office and telegraphic receipt forms, +and his note book, he reflects aloud and insists on Yasha's +listening. + +And when he is tired of reading over forms and talking about +prices, he gets out at the stopping places, runs to the vans +where his cattle are, does nothing, but simply clasps his hands +and exclaims in horror. + +"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" he says in a complaining voice. "Holy +Martyr Vlassy! Though they are bullocks, though they are beasts, +yet they want to eat and drink as men do. . . . It's four days +and nights since they have drunk or eaten. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" + +Yasha follows him and does what he is told like an obedient son. +He does not like the old man's frequent visits to the refreshment +bar. Though he is afraid of his father, he cannot refrain from +remarking on it. + +"So you have begun already!" he says, looking sternly at the old +man. "What are you rejoicing at? Is it your name-day or what?" + +"Don't you dare teach your father." + +"Fine goings on!" + +When he has not to follow his father along the other vans Yasha +sits on the cape and strums on the accordion. Occasionally he +gets out and walks lazily beside the train; he stands by the +engine and turns a prolonged, unmoving stare on the wheels or +on the workmen tossing blocks of wood into the tender; the hot +engine wheezes, the falling blocks come down with the mellow, +hearty thud of fresh wood; the engine-driver and his assistant, +very phlegmatic and imperturbable persons, perform +incomprehensible movements and don't hurry themselves. After +standing for a while by the engine, Yasha saunters lazily to the +station; here he looks at the eatables in the refreshment bar, +reads aloud some quite uninteresting notice, and goes back +slowly to the cattle van. His face expresses neither boredom nor +desire; apparently he does not care where he is, at home, in the +van, or by the engine. + +Towards evening the train stops near a big station. The lamps +have only just been lighted along the line; against the blue +background in the fresh limpid air the lights are bright and pale +like stars; they are only red and glowing under the station +roof, where it is already dark. All the lines are loaded up with +carriages, and it seems that if another train came in there would +be no place for it. Yasha runs to the station for boiling water +to make the evening tea. Well-dressed ladies and high-school +boys are walking on the platform. If one looks into the distance +from the platform there are far-away lights twinkling in the +evening dusk on both sides of the station -- that is the town. +What town? Yasha does not care to know. He sees only the dim +lights and wretched buildings beyond the station, hears the +cabmen shouting, feels a sharp, cold wind on his face, and +imagines that the town is probably disagreeable, uncomfortable, +and dull. + +While they are having tea, when it is quite dark and a lantern is +hanging on the wall again as on the previous evening, the train +quivers from a slight shock and begins moving backwards. After +going a little way it stops; they hear indistinct shouts, +someone sets the chains clanking near the buffers and shouts, +"Ready!" The train moves and goes forward. Ten minutes later it +is dragged back again. + +Getting out of the van, Malahin does not recognize his train. His +eight vans of bullocks are standing in the same row with some +trolleys which were not a part of the train before. Two or three +of these are loaded with rubble and the others are empty. The +guards running to and fro on the platform are strangers. They +give unwilling and indistinct answers to his questions. They have +no thoughts to spare for Malahin; they are in a hurry to get the +train together so as to finish as soon as possible and be back +in the warmth. + +"What number is this?" asks Malahin + +"Number eighteen." + +"And where is the troop train? Why have you taken me off the +troop train?" + +Getting n o answer, the old man goes to the station. He looks +first for the familiar figure of the head guard and, not finding +him, goes to the station-master. The station-master is sitting at +a table in his own room, turning over a bundle of forms. He is +busy, and affects not to see the newcomer. His appearance is +impressive: a cropped black head, prominent ears, a long hooked +nose, a swarthy face; he has a forbidding and, as it were, +offended expression. Malahin begins making his complaint at +great length. + +"What?" queries the station-master. "How is this?" He leans +against the back of his chair and goes on, growing indignant: +"What is it? and why shouldn't you go by number eighteen? Speak +more clearly, I don't understand! How is it? Do you want me to +be everywhere at once?" + +He showers questions on him, and for no apparent reason grows +sterner and sterner. Malahin is already feeling in his pocket for +his pocketbook, but in the end the station-master, aggrieved and +indignant, for some unknown reason jumps up from his seat and +runs out of the room. Malahin shrugs his shoulders, and goes out +to look for someone else to speak to. + +From boredom or from a desire to put the finishing stroke to a +busy day, or simply that a window with the inscription +"Telegraph! " on it catches his eye, he goes to the window and +expresses a desire to send off a telegram. Taking up a pen, he +thinks for a moment, and writes on a blue form: "Urgent. Traffic +Manager. Eight vans of live stock. Delayed at every station. +Kindly send an express number. Reply paid. Malahin." + +Having sent off the telegram, he goes back to the +station-master's room. There he finds, sitting on a sofa covered +with gray cloth, a benevolent-looking gentleman in spectacles and +a cap of raccoon fur; he is wearing a peculiar overcoat very much +like a lady's, edged with fur, with frogs and slashed sleeves. +Another gentleman, dried-up and sinewy, wearing the uniform of a +railway inspector, stands facing him. + +"Just think of it," says the inspector, addressing the gentleman +in the queer overcoat. " I'll tell you an incident that really is +A1! The Z. railway line in the coolest possible way stole three +hundred trucks from the N. line. It's a fact, sir! I swear it! +They carried them off, repainted them, put their letters on them, +and that's all about it. The N. line sends its agents everywhere, +they hunt and hunt. And then -- can you imagine it? -- the +Company happen to come upon a broken-down carriage of the Z. +line. They repair it at their depot, and all at once, bless my +soul! see their own mark on the wheels What do you say to that? +Eh? If I did it they would send me to Siberia, but the railway +companies simply snap their fingers at it!" + +It is pleasant to Malahin to talk to educated, cultured people. +He strokes his beard and joins in the conversation with dignity. + +"Take this case, gentlemen, for instance," he says. I am +transporting cattle to X. Eight vanloads. Very good. . . . Now +let us say they charge me for each vanload as a weight of ten +tons; eight bullocks don't weigh ten tons, but much less, yet +they don't take any notice of that. . . ." + +At that instant Yasha walks into the room looking for his father. +He listens and is about to sit down on a chair, but probably +thinking of his weight goes and sits on the window-sill + +"They don't take any notice of that," Malahin goes on, "and +charge me and my son the third-class fare, too, forty-two +roubles, for going in the van with the bullocks. This is my son +Yakov. I have two more at home, but they have gone in for study. +Well and apart from that it is my opinion that the railways have +ruined the cattle trade. In old days when they drove them in +herds it was better." + +The old man's talk is lengthy and drawn out. After every sentence +he looks at Yasha as though he would say: "See how I am talking +to clever people." + +"Upon my word!" the inspector interrupts him. "No one is +indignant, no one criticizes. And why? It is very simple. An +abomination strikes the eye and arouses indignation only when it +is exceptional, when the established order is broken by it. Here, +where, saving your presence, it constitutes the long-established +program and forms and enters into the basis of the order itself, +where every sleeper on the line bears the trace of it and stinks +of it, one too easily grows accustomed to it! Yes, sir!" + +The second bell rings, the gentlemen in the queer overcoat gets +up. The inspector takes him by the arm and, still talking with +heat, goes off with him to the platform. After the third bell the +station-master runs into his room, and sits down at his table. + +"Listen, with what number am I to go?" asks Malahin. + +The station-master looks at a form and says indignantly: + +"Are you Malahin, eight vanloads? You must pay a rouble a van and +six roubles and twenty kopecks for stamps. You have no stamps. +Total, fourteen roubles, twenty kopecks." + +Receiving the money, he writes something down, dries it with +sand, and, hurriedly snatching up a bundle of forms, goes quickly +out of the room. + +At ten o'clock in the evening Malahin gets an answer from the +traffic manager: "Give precedence." + +Reading the telegram through, the old man winks significantly +and, very well pleased with himself, puts it in his pocket. + +"Here," he says to Yasha, "look and learn." + +At midnight his train goes on. The night is dark and cold like +the previous one; the waits at the stations are long. Yasha sits +on the cape and imperturbably strums on the accordion, while the +old man is still more eager to exert himself. At one of +the stations he is overtaken by a desire to lodge a complaint. +At his request a gendarme sits down and writes: + +"November 10, 188-. -- I, non-commissioned officer of the Z. +section of the N. police department of railways, Ilya Tchered, in +accordance with article II of the statute of May 19, 1871, have +drawn up this protocol at the station of X. as herewith follows. +. . . " + +"What am I to write next?" asks the gendarme. + +Malahin lays out before him forms, postal and telegraph receipts, +accounts. . . . He does not know himself definitely what he wants +of the gendarme; he wants to describe in the protocol not any +separate episode but his whole journey, with all his losses and +conversations with station-masters -- to describe it lengthily +and vindictively. + +"At the station of Z.," he says, "write that the station-master +unlinked my vans from the troop train because he did not like my +countenance." + +And he wants the gendarme to be sure to mention his countenance. +The latter listens wearily, and goes on writing without hearing +him to the end. He ends his protocol thus: + +"The above deposition I, non-commissioned officer Tchered, have +written down in this protocol with a view to present it to the +head of the Z. section, and have handed a copy thereof to Gavril +Malahin." + +The old man takes the copy, adds it to the papers with which his +side pocket is stuffed, and, much pleased, goes back to his van. + +In the morning Malahin wakes up again in a bad humor, but his +wrath vents itself not on Yasha but the cattle. + +"The cattle are done for!" he grumbles. "They are done for! They +are at the last gasp! God be my judge! they will all die. Tfoo!" + +The bullocks, who have had nothing to drink for many days, +tortured by thirst, are licking the hoar frost on the walls, and +when Malachin goes up to them they begin licking his cold fur +jacket. From their clear, tearful eyes it can be seen that they +are exhausted by thirst and the jolting of the train, that they +are hungry and miserable. + +"It's a nice job taking you by rail, you wretched brutes!" +mutters Malahin. "I could wish you were dead to get it over! It +makes me sick to look at you!" + +At midday the train stops at a big station where, according to +the regulations, there was drinking water provided for cattle. + +Water is given to the cattle, but the bullocks will not drink it: +the water is too cold. . . . + + * * * * * * * + +Two more days and nights pass, and at last in the distance in the +murky fog the city comes into sight. The jou rney is over. The +train comes to a standstill before reaching the town, near a +goods' station. The bullocks, released from the van, stagger and +stumble as though they were walking on slippery ice. + +Having got through the unloading and veterinary inspection, +Malahin and Yasha take up their quarters in a dirty, cheap hotel +in the outskirts of the town, in the square in which the +cattle-market is held. Their lodgings are filthy and their food +is disgusting, unlike what they ever have at home; they sleep to +the harsh strains of a wretched steam hurdy-gurdy which plays day +and night in the restaurant under their lodging. + +The old man spends his time from morning till night going about +looking for purchasers, and Yasha sits for days in the hotel +room, or goes out into the street to look at the town. He sees +the filthy square heaped up with dung, the signboards of +restaurants, the turreted walls of a monastery in the fog. +Sometimes he runs across the street and looks into the grocer's +shop, admires the jars of cakes of different colors, yawns, and +lazily saunters back to his room. The city does not interest him. + +At last the bullocks are sold to a dealer. Malahin hires drovers. +The cattle are divided into herds, ten in each, and driven to the +other end of the town. The bullocks, exhausted, go with drooping +heads through the noisy streets, and look indifferently at what +they see for the first and last time in their lives. The tattered +drovers walk after them, their heads drooping too. They are +bored. . . . Now and then some drover starts out of his brooding, +remembers that there are cattle in front of him intrusted to his +charge, and to show that he is doing his duty brings a stick down +full swing on a bullock's back. The bullock staggers with the +pain, runs forward a dozen paces, and looks about him as though +he were ashamed at being beaten before people. + +After selling the bullocks and buying for his family presents +such as they could perfectly well have bought at home, Malahin +and Yasha get ready for their journey back. Three hours before +the train goes the old man, who has already had a drop too much +with the purchaser and so is fussy, goes down with Yasha to the +restaurant and sits down to drink tea. Like all provincials, he +cannot eat and drink alone: he must have company as fussy and as +fond of sedate conversation as himself. + +"Call the host!" he says to the waiter; "tell him I should like +to entertain him." + +The hotel-keeper, a well-fed man, absolutely indifferent to his +lodgers, comes and sits down to the table. + +"Well, we have sold our stock," Malahin says, laughing. "I have +swapped my goat for a hawk. Why, when we set off the price of +meat was three roubles ninety kopecks, but when we arrived it had +dropped to three roubles twenty-five. They tell us we are too +late, we should have been here three days earlier, for now there +is not the same demand for meat, St. Philip's fast has come. . . +. Eh? It's a nice how-do-you-do! It meant a loss of fourteen +roubles on each bullock. Yes. But only think what it costs to +bring the stock! Fifteen roubles carriage, and you must put down +six roubles for each bullock, tips, bribes, drinks, and one thing +and another. . . ." + +The hotel-keeper listens out of politeness and reluctantly drinks +tea. Malahin sighs and groans, gesticulates, jests about his +ill-luck, but everything shows that the loss he has sustained +does not trouble him much. He doesn't mind whether he has lost +or gained as long as he has listeners, has something to make a +fuss about, and is not late for his train. + +An hour later Malahin and Yasha, laden with bags and boxes, go +downstairs from the hotel room to the front door to get into a +sledge and drive to the station. They are seen off by the +hotel-keeper, the waiter, and various women. The old man is +touched. He thrusts ten-kopeck pieces in all directions, and says +in a sing-song voice: + +"Good by, good health to you! God grant that all may be well with +you. Please God if we are alive and well we shall come again in +Lent. Good-by. Thank you. God bless you!" + +Getting into the sledge, the old man spends a long time crossing +himself in the direction in which the monastery walls make a +patch of darkness in the fog. Yasha sits beside him on the very +edge of the seat with his legs hanging over the side. His face +as before shows no sign of emotion and expresses neither boredom +nor desire. He is not glad that he is going home, nor sorry that +he has not had time to see the sights of the city. + +"Drive on!" + +The cabman whips up the horse and, turning round, begins swearing +at the heavy and cumbersome luggage. + +---- * On many railway lines, in order to avoid accidents, it is +against the regulations to carry hay on the trains, and so live +stock are without fodder on the journey. -- Author's Note. + +**The train destined especially for the transport of troops is +called the troop train; when they are no troops it takes goods, +and goes more rapidly than ordinary goods train. -- Author's +Note. + +SORROW + +THE turner, Grigory Petrov, who had been known for years past as +a splendid craftsman, and at the same time as the most senseless +peasant in the Galtchinskoy district, was taking his old woman to +the hospital. He had to drive over twenty miles, and +it was an awful road. A government post driver could hardly have +coped with it, much less an incompetent sluggard like Grigory. A +cutting cold wind was blowing straight in his face. Clouds of +snowflakes were whirling round and round in all directions, so +that one could not tell whether the snow was falling from the sky +or rising from the earth. The fields, the telegraph posts, and +the forest could not be seen for the fog of snow. And when a +particularly violent gust of wind swooped down on Grigory, even +the yoke above the horse's head could not be seen. The wretched, +feeble little nag crawled slowly along. It took all its strength +to drag its legs out of the snow and to tug with its head. The +turner was in a hurry. He kept restlessly hopping up and down on +the front seat and lashing the horse's back. + +"Don't cry, Matryona, . . ." he muttered. "Have a little +patience. Please God we shall reach the hospital, and in a trice +it will be the right thing for you. . . . Pavel Ivanitch will +give you some little drops, or tell them to bleed you; or maybe +his honor will be pleased to rub you with some sort of spirit -- +it'll . . . draw it out of your side. Pavel Ivanitch will do his +best. He will shout and stamp about, but he will do his best. . . +. He is a nice gentleman, affable, God give him health! As soon +as we get there he will dart out of his room and will begin +calling me names. 'How? Why so?' he will cry. 'Why did you not +come at the right time? I am not a dog to be hanging about +waiting on you devils all day. Why did you not come +in the morning? Go away! Get out of my sight. Come again +to-morrow.' And I shall say: 'Mr. Doctor! Pavel Ivanitch! Your +honor!' Get on, do! plague take you, you devil! Get on!" + +The turner lashed his nag, and without looking at the old woman +went on muttering to himself: + +"'Your honor! It's true as before God. . . . Here's the Cross +for you, I set off almost before it was light. How could I be +here in time if the Lord. . . .The Mother of God . . . is wroth, +and has sent such a snowstorm? Kindly look for yourself. . +. . Even a first-rate horse could not do it, while mine -- you +can see for yourself -- is not a horse but a disgrace.' And Pavel +Ivanitch will frown and shout: 'We know you! You always find some +excuse! Especially you, Grishka; I know you of old! I'll be +bound you have stopped at half a dozen taverns!' And I shall say: +'Your honor! am I a criminal or a heathen? My old woman is giving +up her soul to God, she is dying, and am I going to run from +tavern to tavern! What an idea, upon my word! Plague take them, +the taverns!' Then Pavel Ivanitch will order you to be taken into +the hospital, and I shall fall at his feet. . . . 'Pavel +Ivanitch! Your honor, we thank you most humbly! Forgive us fools +and anathemas, don't be hard on us peasants! We deserve a good +kicking, whi le you graciously put yourself out and mess your +feet in the snow!' And Pavel Ivanitch will give me a look as +though he would like to hit me, and will say: 'You'd much better +not be swilling vodka, you fool, but taking pity on your old +woman instead of falling at my feet. You want a thrashing!' 'You +are right there -- a thrashing, Pavel Ivanitch, strike me God! +But how can we help bowing down at your feet if you are our +benefactor, and a real father to us? Your honor! I give you my +word, . . . here as before God, . . . you may spit in my face if +I deceive you: as soon as my Matryona, this same here, is well +again and restored to her natural condition, I'll make anything +for your honor that you would like to order! A cigarette-case, +if you like, of the best birchwood, . . . balls for croquet, +skittles of the most foreign pattern I can turn. . . . I will +make anything for you! I won't take a farthing from you. In +Moscow they would charge you four roubles for such a +cigarette-case, but I won't take a farthing.' The doctor will +laugh and say: 'Oh, all right, all right. . . . I see! But it's a +pity you are a drunkard. . . .' I know how to manage the gentry, +old girl. There isn't a gentleman I couldn't talk to. Only God +grant we don't get off the road. Oh, how it is blowing! One's +eyes are full of snow." + +And the turner went on muttering endlessly. He prattled on +mechanically to get a little relief from his depressing feelings. +He had plenty of words on his tongue, but the thoughts and +questions in his brain were even more numerous. Sorrow had come +upon the turner unawares, unlooked-for, and unexpected, and now +he could not get over it, could not recover himself. He had lived +hitherto in unruffled calm, as though in drunken +half-consciousness, knowing neither grief nor joy, and now he was +suddenly aware of a dreadful pain in his heart. The careless +idler and drunkard found himself quite suddenly in the position +of a busy man, weighed down by anxieties and haste, and even +struggling with nature. + +The turner remembered that his trouble had begun the evening +before. When he had come home yesterday evening, a little drunk +as usual, and from long-established habit had begun swearing and +shaking his fists, his old woman had looked at her rowdy spouse +as she had never looked at him before. Usually, the expression in +her aged eyes was that of a martyr, meek like that of a dog +frequently beaten and badly fed; this time she had looked at him +sternly and immovably, as saints in the holy pictures or dying +people look. From that strange, evil look in her eyes the trouble +had begun. The turner, stupefied with amazement, borrowed a horse +from a neighbor, and now was taking his old woman to the hospital +in the hope that, by means of powders and ointments, Pavel +Ivanitch would bring back his old woman's habitual expression. + +"I say, Matryona, . . ." the turner muttered, "if Pavel Ivanitch +asks you whether I beat you, say, 'Never!' and I never will beat +you again. I swear it. And did I ever beat you out of spite? I +just beat you without thinking. I am sorry for you. Some men +wouldn't trouble, but here I am taking you. . . . I am doing my +best. And the way it snows, the way it snows! Thy Will be done, O +Lord! God grant we don't get off the road. . . . Does your side +ache, Matryona, that you don't speak? I ask you, does your side +ache?" + +It struck him as strange that the snow on his old woman's face +was not melting; it was queer that the face itself looked somehow +drawn, and had turned a pale gray, dingy waxen hue and had grown +grave and solemn. + +"You are a fool!" muttered the turner. . . . "I tell you on my +conscience, before God,. . . and you go and . . . Well, you are a +fool! I have a good mind not to take you to Pavel Ivanitch!" + +The turner let the reins go and began thinking. He could not +bring himself to look round at his old woman: he was frightened. +He was afraid, too, of asking her a question and not getting an +answer. At last, to make an end of uncertainty, without looking +round he felt his old woman's cold hand. The lifted hand fell +like a log. + +"She is dead, then! What a business!" + +And the turner cried. He was not so much sorry as annoyed. He +thought how quickly everything passes in this world! His trouble +had hardly begun when the final catastrophe had happened. He had +not had time to live with his old woman, to show her he was +sorry for her before she died. He had lived with her for forty +years, but those forty years had passed by as it were in a fog. +What with drunkenness, quarreling, and poverty, there had been no +feeling of life. And, as though to spite him, his old woman died +at the very time when he felt he was sorry for her, that he could +not live without her, and that he had behaved dreadfully badly to +her. + +"Why, she used to go the round of the village," he remembered. "I +sent her out myself to beg for bread. What a business! She ought +to have lived another ten years, the silly thing; as it is I'll +be bound she thinks I really was that sort of man. . . . Holy +Mother! but where the devil am I driving? There's no need for a +doctor now, but a burial. Turn back!" + +Grigory turned back and lashed the horse with all his might. The +road grew worse and worse every hour. Now he could not see the +yoke at all. Now and then the sledge ran into a young fir tree, a +dark object scratched the turner's hands and flashed before his +eyes, and the field of vision was white and whirling again. + +"To live over again," thought the turner. + +He remembered that forty years ago Matryona had been young, +handsome, merry, that she had come of a well-to-do family. They +had married her to him because they had been attracted by his +handicraft. All the essentials for a happy life had been there, +but the trouble was that, just as he had got drunk after the +wedding and lay sprawling on the stove, so he had gone on without +waking up till now. His wedding he remembered, but of what +happened after the wedding -- for the life of him he could +remember nothing, except perhaps that he had drunk, lain on the +stove, and quarreled. Forty years had been wasted like that. + +The white clouds of snow were beginning little by little to turn +gray. It was getting dusk. + +"Where am I going?" the turner suddenly bethought him with a +start. "I ought to be thinking of the burial, and I am on the way +to the hospital. . . . It as is though I had gone crazy." + +Grigory turned round again, and again lashed his horse. The +little nag strained its utmost and, with a snort, fell into a +little trot. The turner lashed it on the back time after time. . +. . A knocking was audible behind him, and though he did not +look round, he knew it was the dead woman's head knocking against +the sledge. And the snow kept turning darker and darker, the wind +grew colder and more cutting. . . . + +"To live over again!" thought the turner. "I should get a new +lathe, take orders, . . . give the money to my old woman. . . ." + +And then he dropped the reins. He looked for them, tried to pick +them up, but could not -- his hands would not work. . . . + +"It does not matter," he thought, "the horse will go of itself, +it knows the way. I might have a little sleep now. . . . Before +the funeral or the requiem it would be as well to get a little +rest. . . ." + +The turner closed his eyes and dozed. A little later he heard the +horse stop; he opened his eyes and saw before him something dark +like a hut or a haystack. . . . + +He would have got out of the sledge and found out what it was, +but he felt overcome by such inertia that it seemed better to +freeze than move, and he sank into a peaceful sleep. + +He woke up in a big room with painted walls. Bright sunlight was +streaming in at the windows. The turner saw people facing him, +and his first feeling was a desire to show himself a respectable +man who knew how things should be done. + +"A requiem, brothers, for my old woman," he said. "The priest +should be told. . . ." + +"Oh, all right, all right; lie down," a voice cut him short. + +"Pavel Ivanitch!" the turner cried in surprise, seeing the doctor +before him. "Your honor, benefactor! " + +He wanted to leap up and fall on his knees before the doctor, +but felt that his arms and legs would not obey him. + +"Your honor, where are my legs, where are my arms!" + +"Say good-by to your arms and legs. . . . They've been frozen +off. Come, come! . . . What are you crying for ? You've lived +your life, and thank God for it! I suppose you have had sixty +years of it -- that's enough for you! . . ." + +"I am grieving. . . . Graciously forgive me! If I could have +another five or six years! . . ." + +"What for?" + +"The horse isn't mine, I must give it back. . . . I must bury my +old woman. . . . How quickly it is all ended in this world! Your +honor, Pavel Ivanitch! A cigarette-case of birchwood of the best! +I'll turn you croquet balls. . . ." + +The doctor went out of the ward with a wave of his hand. It was +all over with the turner. + +ON OFFICIAL DUTY + +THE deputy examining magistrate and the district doctor were +going to an inquest in the village of Syrnya. On the road they +were overtaken by a snowstorm; they spent a long time going round +and round, and arrived, not at midday, as they had intended, but +in the evening when it was dark. They put up for the night at the +Zemstvo hut. It so happened that it was in this hut that the dead +body was lying -- the corpse of the Zemstvo insurance agent, +Lesnitsky, who had arrived in Syrnya three +days before and, ordering the samovar in the hut, had shot +himself, to the great surprise of everyone; and the fact that he +had ended his life so strangely, after unpacking his eatables and +laying them out on the table, and with the samovar before him, +led many people to suspect that it was a case of murder; an +inquest was necessary. + +In the outer room the doctor and the examining magistrate shook +the snow off themselves and knocked it off their boots. And +meanwhile the old village constable, Ilya Loshadin, stood by, +holding a little tin lamp. There was a strong smell of paraffin. + +"Who are you?" asked the doctor. + +"Conshtable, . . ." answered the constable. + +He used to spell it "conshtable" when he signed the receipts at +the post office. + +"And where are the witnesses?" + +"They must have gone to tea, your honor." + +On the right was the parlor, the travelers' or gentry's room; on +the left the kitchen, with a big stove and sleeping shelves under +the rafters. The doctor and the examining magistrate, followed by +the constable, holding the lamp high above his head, went into +the parlor. Here a still, long body covered with white linen was +lying on the floor close to the table-legs. In the dim light of +the lamp they could clearly see, besides the white covering, new +rubber goloshes, and everything about it was uncanny and +sinister: the dark walls, and the silence, and the goloshes, and +the stillness of the dead body. On the table stood a samovar, +cold long ago; and round it parcels, probably the eatables. + +"To shoot oneself in the Zemstvo hut, how tactless!" said the +doctor. "If one does want to put a bullet through one's brains, +one ought to do it at home in some outhouse." + +He sank on to a bench, just as he was, in his cap, his fur coat, +and his felt overboots; his fellow-traveler, the examining +magistrate, sat down opposite. + +"These hysterical, neurasthenic people are great egoists," the +doctor went on hotly. "If a neurasthenic sleeps in the same room +with you, he rustles his newspaper; when he dines with you, he +gets up a scene with his wife without troubling about your +presence; and when he feels inclined to shoot himself, he shoots +himself in a village in a Zemstvo hut, so as to give the maximum +of trouble to everybody. These gentlemen in every circumstance of +life think of no one but themselves! That's why the elderly so +dislike our 'nervous age.'" + +"The elderly dislike so many things," said the examining +magistrate, yawning. "You should point out to the elder +generation what the difference is between the suicides of the +past and the suicides of to-day. In the old days the so-called +gentleman shot himself because he had made away with Government +money, but nowadays it is because he is sick of life, depressed. +. . . Which is better?" + +"Sick of life, depressed; but you must admit that he might have +shot himself somewhere else." + +"Such trouble!" said the constable, "such trouble! It's a real +affliction. The people are very much upset, your honor; they +haven't slept these three nights. The children are crying. The +cows ought to be milked, but the women won't go to the stall -- +they are afraid . . . for fear the gentleman should appear to +them in the darkness. Of course they are silly women, but some of +the men are frightened too. As soon as it is dark they won't go +by the hut one by one, but only in a flock together. And the +witnesses too. . . ." + +Dr. Startchenko, a middle-aged man in spectacles with a dark +beard, and the examining magistrate Lyzhin, a fair man, still +young, who had only taken his degree two years before and looked +more like a student than an official, sat in silence, musing. +They were vexed that they were late. Now they had to wait till +morning, and to stay here for the night, though it was not yet +six o'clock; and they had before them a long evening, a dark +night, boredom, uncomfortable beds, beetles, and cold in the +morning; and listening to the blizzard that howled in the chimney +and in the loft, they both thought how unlike all this was the +life which they would have chosen for themselves and of which +they had once dreamed, and how far away they both were from +their contemporaries, who were at that moment walking about the +lighted streets in town without noticing the weather, or were +getting ready for the theatre, or sitting in their studies over a +book. Oh, how much they would have given now only to stroll +along the Nevsky Prospect, or along Petrovka in Moscow, to listen +to decent singing, to sit for an hour or so in a restaurant! + +"Oo-oo-oo-oo!" sang the storm in the loft, and something outside +slammed viciously, probably the signboard on the hut. +"Oo-oo-oo-oo!" + +"You can do as you please, but I have no desire to stay here," +said Startchenko, getting up. "It's not six yet, it's too early +to go to bed; I am off. Von Taunitz lives not far from here, only +a couple of miles from Syrnya. I shall go to see him and spend +the evening there. Constable, run and tell my coachman not to +take the horses out. And what are you going to do?" he asked +Lyzhin. + +"I don't know; I expect I shall go to sleep." + +The doctor wrapped himself in his fur coat and went out. Lyzhin +could hear him talking to the coachman and the bells beginning to +quiver on the frozen horses. He drove off. + +"It is not nice for you, sir, to spend the night in here," said +the constable; "come into the other room. It's dirty, but for one +night it won't matter. I'll get a samovar from a peasant and heat +it directly. I'll heap up some hay for you, and then + you go to sleep, and God bless you, your honor." + +A little later the examining magistrate was sitting in the +kitchen drinking tea, while Loshadin, the constable, was standing +at the door talking. He was an old man about sixty, short and +very thin, bent and white, with a naive smile on his face +and watery eyes, and he kept smacking with his lips as though he +were sucking a sweetmeat. He was wearing a short sheepskin coat +and high felt boots, and held his stick in his hands all the +time. The youth of the examining magistrate aroused his +compassion, and that was probably why he addressed him +familiarly. + +"The elder gave orders that he was to be informed when the police +superintendent or the examining magistrate came," he said, "so I +suppose I must go now. . . . It's nearly three miles to the +_volost_, and the storm, the snowdrifts, are something terrible +-- maybe one won't get there before midnight. Ough! how the wind +roars!" + +"I don't need the elder," said Lyzhin. "There is nothing for him +to do here." + +He looked at the old man with curiosity, and asked: + +"Tell me, grandfather, how many years have you been constable? " + +"How many? Why, thirty years. Five years after the Freedom I +began going as constable, that's how I reckon it. And from that +time I have been going every day since. Other people have +holidays, but I am always going. When it's Easter and the church +bells are ringing and Christ has risen, I still go about with my +bag -- to the treasury, to the post, to the police +superintendent's lodgings, to the rural captain, to the tax +inspector, to the municipal office, to the gentry, to the +peasants, to all orthodox Christians. I carry parcels, notices, +tax papers, letters, forms of different sorts, circulars, and to +be sure, kind gentleman, there are all sorts of forms nowadays, +so as to note down the numbers -- yellow, white, and red -- and +every gentleman or priest or well-to-do peasant must write down +a dozen times in the year how much he has sown and harvested, how +many quarters or poods he has of rye, how many of oats, how many +of hay, and what the weather's like, you know, and insects, too, +of all sorts. To be sure you can write what you like, it's only a +regulation, but one must go and give out the notices and then go +again and collect them. Here, for instance, there's no need to +cut open the gentleman; you know yourself it's a silly thing, +it's only dirtying your hands, and here you have been put to +trouble, your honor; you have come because it's the regulation; +you can't help it. For thirty years I have been going round +according to regulation. In the summer it is all right, it is +warm and dry; but in winter and autumn it's uncomfortable At +times I have been almost drowned and almost frozen; all sorts of +things have happened -- wicked people set on me in the forest and +took away my bag; I have been beaten, and I have been before a +court of law." + +"What were you accused of?" + +"Of fraud." + +"How do you mean?" + +"Why, you see, Hrisanf Grigoryev, the clerk, sold the contractor +some boards belonging to someone else -- cheated him, in fact. I +was mixed up in it. They sent me to the tavern for vodka; well, +the clerk did not share with me -- did not even offer me a glass; +but as through my poverty I was -- in appearance, I mean -- not a +man to be relied upon, not a man of any worth, we were both +brought to trial; he was sent to prison, but, praise God! I was +acquitted on all points. They read a notice, you know, in the +court. And they were all in uniforms -- in the court, I mean. I +can tell you, your honor, my duties for anyone not used to them +are terrible, absolutely killing; but to me it is nothing. In +fact, my feet ache when I am not walking. And at home it is worse +for me. At home one has to heat the stove for the clerk in the +_volost_ office, to fetch water for him, to clean his boots." + +"And what wages do you get?" Lyzhin asked. + +"Eighty-four roubles a year." + +"I'll bet you get other little sums coming in. You do, don't +you?" + +"Other little sums? No, indeed! Gentlemen nowadays don't often +give tips. Gentlemen nowadays are strict, they take offense at +anything. If you bring them a notice they are offended, if you +take off your cap before them they are offended. 'You have come +to the wrong entrance,' they say. 'You are a drunkard,' they say. +'You smell of onion; you are a blockhead; you are the son of a +bitch.' There are kind-hearted ones, of course; but what does one +get from them? They only laugh and call one all sorts of names. +Mr. Altuhin, for instance, he is a good-natured gentleman; and if +you look at him he seems sober and in his right mind, but so soon +as he sees me he shouts and does not know what he means himself. +He gave me such a name 'You,' said he, . . ." The constable +uttered some word, but in such a low voice that it was impossible +to make out what he said. + +"What?" Lyzhin asked. "Say it again." + +" 'Administration,' " the constable repeated aloud. "He has been +calling me that for a long while, for the last six years. 'Hullo, +Administration!' But I don't mind; let him, God bless him! +Sometimes a lady will send one a glass of vodka and a bit of pie +and one drinks to her health. But peasants give more; peasants +are more kind-hearted, they have the fear of God in their hearts: +one will give a bit of bread, another a drop of cabbage soup, +another will stand one a glass. The village elders treat one to +tea in the tavern. Here the witnesses have gone to their tea. +'Loshadin,' they said, 'you stay here and keep watch for us,' and +they gave me a kopeck each. You see, they are frightened, not +being used to it, and yesterday they gave me fifteen kopecks and +offered me a glass." + +"And you, aren't you frightened?" + +"I am, sir; but of course it is my duty, there is no getting away +from it. In the summer I was taking a convict to the town, and he +set upon me and gave me such a drubbing! And all around were +fields, forest -- how could I get away from him? It's just the +same here. I remember the gentleman, Mr. Lesnitsky, when he was +so high, and I knew his father and mother. I am from the village +of Nedoshtchotova, and they, the Lesnitsky family, were not more +than three-quarters of a mile from us and less +than that, their ground next to ours, and Mr. Lesnitsky had a +sister, a God-fearing and tender-hearted lady. Lord keep the soul +of Thy servant Yulya, eternal memory to her! She was never +married, and when she was dying she divided all her property; +she left three hundred acres to the monastery, and six hundred +to the commune of peasants of Nedoshtchotova to commemorate her +soul; but her brother hid the will, they do say burnt it in the +stove, and took all this land for himself. He thought, to +be sure, it was for his benefit; but -- nay, wait a bit, you +won't get on in the world through injustice, brother. The +gentleman did not go to confession for twenty years after. He +kept away from the church, to be sure, and died impenitent. He +burst. He was a very fat man, so he burst lengthways. Then +everything was taken from the young master, from Seryozha, to pay +the debts -- everything there was. Well, he had not gone very far +in his studies, he couldn't do anything, and the president +of the Rural Board, his uncle -- 'I'll take him' -- Seryozha, I +mean -- thinks he, 'for an agent; let him collect the insurance, +that's not a difficult job,' and the gentleman was young and +proud, he wanted to be living on a bigger scale and in better +style and with more freedom. To be sure it was a come-down for +him to be jolting about the district in a wretched cart and +talking to the peasants; he would walk and keep looking on the +ground, looking on the ground and saying nothing; if you +called his name right in his ear, 'Sergey Sergeyitch!' he would +look round like this, 'Eh?' and look down on the ground again, +and now you see he has laid hands on himself. There's no sense in +it, your honor, it's not right, and there's no making out what's +the meaning of it, merciful Lord! Say your father was rich and +you are poor; it is mortifying, there's no doubt about it, but +there, you must make up your mind to it. I used to live in good +style, too; I had two horses, your honor, three cows, I used to +keep twenty head of sheep; but the time has come, and I am left +with nothing but a wretched bag, and even that is not mine but +Government property. And now in our Nedoshtchotova, if the truth +is to be told, my house is the worst of the lot. Makey had four +footmen, and now Makey is a footman himself. Petrak had four +laborers, and now Petrak is a laborer himself." + +"How was it you became poor?" asked the examining magistrate. + +"My sons drink terribly. I could not tell you how they drink, you +wouldn't believe it." + +Lyzhin listened and thought how he, Lyzhin, would go back sooner +or later to Moscow, while this old man would stay here for ever, +and would always be walking and walking. And how many times in +his life he would come across such battered, unkempt old men, +not "men of any worth," in whose souls fifteen kopecks, glasses +of vodka, and a profound belief that you can't get on in this +life by dishonesty, were equally firmly rooted. + +Then he grew tired of listening, and told the old man to bring +him some hay for his bed, There was an iron bedstead with a +pillow and a quilt in the traveler's room, and it could be +fetched in ; but the dead man had been lying by it for nearly +three days (and perhaps sitting on it just before his death), +and it would be disagreeable to sleep upon it now. . . . + +"It's only half-past seven," thought Lyzhin, glancing at his +watch. "How awful it is!" + +He was not sleepy, but having nothing to do to pass away the +time, he lay down and covered himself with a rug. Loshadin went +in and out several times, clearing away the tea-things; smacking +his lips and sighing, he kept tramping round the table; at +last he took his little lamp and went out, and, looking at his +long, gray-headed, bent figure from behind, Lyzhin thought: + +"Just like a magician in an opera." + +It was dark. The moon must have been behind the clouds, as the +windows and the snow on the window-frames could be seen +distinctly. + +"Oo-oo-oo!" sang the storm, "Oo-oo-oo-oo!" + +"Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!" wailed a woman in the loft, or it sounded +like it. "Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!" + +"B-booh!" something outside banged against the wall. "Trah!" + +The examining magistrate listened: there was no woman up there, +it was the wind howling. It was rather cold, and he put his fur +coat over his rug. As he got warm he thought how remote all this +-- the storm, and the hut, and the old man, and the dead body +lying in the next room -- how remote it all was from the life he +desired for himself, and how alien it all was to him, how petty, +how uninteresting. If this man had killed himself in Moscow or +somewhere in the neighborhood, and he had had to hold an inquest +on him there, it would have been interesting, important, and +perhaps he might even have been afraid to sleep in the next room +to the corpse. Here, nearly a thousand miles from Moscow, all +this was seen somehow in a different light; it was not life, +they were not human beings, but something only existing +"according to the regulation," as Loshadin said; it would leave +not the faintest trace in the memory, and would be forgotten as +soon as he, Lyzhin, drove away from Syrnya. The fatherland, the +real Russia, was Moscow, Petersburg; but here he was in the +provinces, the colonies. When one dreamed of playing a leading +part, of becoming a popular figure, of being, for instance, +examining magistrate in particularly important cases or +prosecutor in a circuit court, of being a society lion, one +always thought of Moscow. To live, one must be in Moscow; here +one cared for nothing, one grew easily resigned to one's +insignificant position, and only expected one thing of life -- +to get away quickly, quickly. And Lyzhin mentally moved about the +Moscow streets, went into the familiar houses, met his kindred, +his comrades, and there was a sweet pang at his heart at the +thought that he was only twenty-six, and that if in five or ten +years he could break away from here and get to Moscow, even then +it would not be too late and he would still have a whole life +before him. And as he sank into unconsciousness, as his thoughts +began to be confused, he imagined the long corridor of the court +at Moscow, himself delivering a speech, his sisters, the +orchestra which for some reason kept droning: "Oo-oo-oo-oo! +Oo-oooo-oo!" + +"Booh! Trah!" sounded again. "Booh!" + +And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to the +bookkeeper in the little office of the Rural Board, a thin, pale +gentleman with black hair and dark eyes walked in; he had a +disagreeable look in his eyes such as one sees in people who +have slept too long after dinner, and it spoilt his delicate, +intelligent profile; and the high boots he was wearing did not +suit him, but looked clumsy. The bookkeeper had introduced him: +"This is our insurance agent." + +"So that was Lesnitsky, . . . this same man," Lyzhin reflected +now. + +He recalled Lesnitsky's soft voice, imagined his gait, and it +seemed to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step +like Lesnitsky's. + +All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold. + +"Who's there?" he asked in alarm. + +"The conshtable!" + +"What do you want here?" + +"I have come to ask, your honor -- you said this evening that you +did not want the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told +me to go to him. Shouldn't I go?" + +"That's enough, you bother me," said Lyzhin with vexation, and he +covered himself up again. + +"He may be angry. . . . I'll go, your honor. I hope you will be +comfortable," and Loshadin went out. + +In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The +witnesses must have returned. + +"We'll let those poor beggars get away early to-morrow, . . ." +thought the examining magistrate; "we'll begin the inquest as +soon as it is daylight." + +He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were +steps again, not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was +the slam of a door, voices, the scratching of a match. . . . + +"Are you asleep? Are you asleep?" Dr. Startchenko was asking him +hurriedly and angrily as he struck one match after another; he +was covered with snow, and brought a chill air in with him. "Are +you asleep? Get up! Let us go to Von Taunitz's. He has sent his +own horses for you. Come along. There, at any rate, you will have +supper, and sleep like a human being. You see I have come for you +myself. The horses are splendid, we shall get there in twenty +minutes." + +"And what time is it now?" + +"A quarter past ten." + +Lyzhin, sleepy and discontented, put on his felt overboots, his +furlined coat, his cap and hood, and went out with the doctor. +There was not a very sharp frost, but a violent and piercing wind +was blowing and driving along the street the clouds of snow +which seemed to be racing away in terror: high drifts were heaped +up already under the fences and at the doorways. The doctor and +the examining magistrate got into the sledge, and the white +coachman bent over them to button up the cover. They were both +hot. + +"Ready!" + +They drove through the village. "Cutting a feathery furrow," +thought the examining magistrate, listlessly watching the action +of the trace horse's legs. There were lights in all the huts, as +though it were the eve of a great holiday: the peasants had not +gone to bed because they were afraid of the dead body. The +coachman preserved a sullen silence, probably he had felt dreary +while he was waiting by the Zemstvo hut, and now he, too, was +thinking of the dead man. + +"At the Von Taunitz's," said Startchenko, "they all set upon me +when they heard that you were left to spend the night in the hut, +and asked me why I did not bring you with me." + +As they drove out of the village, at the turning the coachman +suddenly shouted at the top of his voice: "Out of the way!" + +They caught a glimpse of a man: he was standing up to his knees +in the snow, moving off the road and staring at the horses. The +examining magistrate saw a stick with a crook, and a beard and a +bag, and he fancied that it was Loshadin, and even fancied that +he was smiling. He flashed by and disappeared. + +The road ran at first along the edge of the forest, then along a +broad forest clearing; they caught glimpses of old pines and a +young birch copse, and tall, gnarled young oak trees standing +singly in the clearings where the wood had lately been cut; but +soon it was all merged in the clouds of snow. The coachman said +he could see the forest; the examining magistrate could see +nothing but the trace horse. The wind blew on their backs. + +All at once the horses stopped. + +"Well, what is it now?" asked Startchenko crossly. + +The coachman got down from the box without a word and began +running round the sledge, treading on his heels; he made larger +and larger circles, getting further and further away from the +sledge, and it looked as though he were dancing; at last he came +back and began to turn off to the right. + +"You've got off the road, eh?" asked Startchenko. + +"It's all ri-ight. . . ." + +Then there was a little village and not a single light in it. +Again the forest and the fields. Again they lost the road, and +again the coachman got down from the box and danced round the +sledge. The sledge flew along a dark avenue, flew swiftly on. +And the heated trace horse's hoofs knocked against the sledge . +Here there was a fearful roaring sound from the trees, and +nothing could be seen, as though they were flying on into space; +and all at once the glaring light at the entrance and the +windows flashed upon their eyes, and they heard the good-natured, +drawn-out barking of dogs. They had arrived. + +While they were taking off their fur coats and their felt boots +below, "Un Petit Verre de Clicquot" was being played upon the +piano overhead, and they could hear the children beating time +with their feet. Immediately on going in they were aware of the +snug warmth and special smell of the old apartments of a mansion +where, whatever the weather outside, life is so warm and clean +and comfortable. + +"That's capital!" said Von Taunitz, a fat man with an incredibly +thick neck and with whiskers, as he shook the examining +magistrate's hand. "That's capital! You are very welcome, +delighted to make your acquaintance. We are colleagues to some +extent, you know. At one time I was deputy prosecutor; but not +for long, only two years. I came here to look after the estate, +and here I have grown old -- an old fogey, in fact. You are very +welcome," he went on, evidently restraining his voice so as not +to speak too loud; he was going upstairs with his guests. "I have +no wife, she's dead. But here, I will introduce my daughters," +and turning round, he shouted down the stairs in a voice of +thunder: "Tell Ignat to have the sledge ready at eight o'clock +to-morrow morning." + +His four daughters, young and pretty girls, all wearing gray +dresses and with their hair done up in the same style, and their +cousin, also young and attractive, with her children, were in the +drawingroom. Startchenko, who knew them already, began at once +begging them to sing something, and two of the young ladies spent +a long time declaring they could not sing and that they had no +music; then the cousin sat down to the piano, and with trembling +voices, they sang a duet from "The Queen of Spades." Again "Un +Petit Verre de Clicquot" was played, and the children skipped +about, beating time with their feet. And Startchenko pranced +about too. Everybody laughed. + +Then the children said good-night and went off to bed. The +examining magistrate laughed, danced a quadrille, flirted, and +kept wondering whether it was not all a dream? The kitchen of the +Zemstvo hut, the heap of hay in the corner, the rustle of the +beetles, the revolting poverty-stricken surroundings, the voices +of the witnesses, the wind, the snow storm, the danger of being +lost; and then all at once this splendid, brightly lighted room, +the sounds of the piano, the lovely girls, the curly-headed +children, the gay, happy laughter -- such a transformation seemed +to him like a fairy tale, and it seemed incredible that such +transitions were possible at the distance of some two miles in +the course of one hour. And dreary thoughts prevented him from +enjoying himself, and he kept thinking this was not life here, +but bits of life fragments, that everything here was accidental, +that one could draw no conclusions from it; and he even felt +sorry for these girls, who were living and would end their lives +in the wilds, in a province far away from the center of culture, +where nothing is accidental, but everything is in accordance with +reason and law, and where, for instance, every suicide is +intelligible, so that one can explain why it has happened and +what is its significance in the general scheme of things. He +imagined that if the life surrounding him here in the wilds were +not intelligible to him, and if he did not see it, it meant that +it did not exist at all. + +At supper the conversation turned on Lesnitsky + +"He left a wife and child," said Startchenko. "I would forbid +neurasthenics and all people whose nervous system is out of order +to marry, I would deprive them of the right and possibility of +multiplying their kind. To bring into the world nervous, invalid +children is a crime." + +"He was an unfortunate young man," said Von Taunitz, sighing +gently and shaking his head. "What a lot one must suffer and +think about before one brings oneself to take one's own life, . . +. a young life! Such a misfortune may happen in any family, and +that is awful. It is hard to bear such a thing, insufferable. . . +." + +And all the girls listened in silence with grave faces, looking +at their father. Lyzhin felt that he, too, must say something, +but he couldn't think of anything, and merely said: + +"Yes, suicide is an undesirable phenomenon." + +He slept in a warm room, in a soft bed covered with a quilt under +which there were fine clean sheets, but for some reason did not +feel comfortable: perhaps because the doctor and Von Taunitz +were, for a long time, talking in the adjoining room, and +overhead he heard, through the ceiling and in the stove, the +wind roaring just as in the Zemstvo hut, and as plaintively +howling: "Oo-oo-oo-oo!" + +Von Taunitz's wife had died two years before, and he was still +unable to resign himself to his loss and, whatever he was talking +about, always mentioned his wife; and there was no trace of a +prosecutor left about him now. + +"Is it possible that I may some day come to such a condition?" +thought Lyzhin, as he fell asleep, still hearing through the wall +his host's subdued, as it were bereaved, voice. + +The examining magistrate did not sleep soundly. He felt hot and +uncomfortable, and it seemed to him in his sleep that he was not +at Von Taunitz's, and not in a soft clean bed, but still in the +hay at the Zemstvo hut, hearing the subdued voices of the +witnesses; he fancied that Lesnitsky was close by, not fifteen +paces away. In his dreams he remembered how the insurance agent, +black-haired and pale, wearing dusty high boots, had come into +the bookkeeper's office. "This is our insurance agent. + . . ." + +Then he dreamed that Lesnitsky and Loshadin the constable were +walking through the open country in the snow, side by side, +supporting each other; the snow was whirling about their heads, +the wind was blowing on their backs, but they walked on, +singing: We go on, and on, and on. . . ." + +The old man was like a magician in an opera, and both of them +were singing as though they were on the stage: + +"We go on, and on, and on! . . . You are in the warmth, in the +light and snugness, but we are walking in the frost and the +storm, through the deep snow. . . . We know nothing of ease, we +know nothing of joy. . . . We bear all the burden of this life, +yours and ours. . . . Oo-oo-oo! We go on, and on, and on. . . ." + +Lyzhin woke and sat up in bed. What a confused, bad dream! And +why did he dream of the constable and the agent together? What +nonsense! And now while Lyzhin's heart was throbbing violently +and he was sitting on his bed, holding his head in his hands, it +seemed to him that there really was something in common between +the lives of the insurance agent and the constable. Don't they +really go side by side holding each other up? Some tie unseen, +but significant and essential, existed between them, and even +between them and Von Taunitz and between all men -- all men; in +this life, even in the remotest desert, nothing is accidental, +everything is full of one common idea, everything has one soul, +one aim, and to understand it it is not enough to think, it is +not enough to reason, one must have also, it seems, the gift of +insight into life, a gift which is evidently not bestowed on all. +And the unhappy man who had broken down, who had killed himself +-- the "neurasthenic," as the doctor called him -- and the old +peasant who spent every day of his life going from one man to +another, were only accidental, were only fragments of life for +one who thought of his own life as accidental, but were parts of +one organism -- marvelous and rational -- for one who thought of +his own life as part of that universal whole and understood it. +So thought Lyzhin, and it was a thought that had long lain hidden +in his soul, and only now it was unfolded broadly and clearly to +his consciousness. + +He lay down and began to drop asleep; and again they were going +along together, singing: "We go on, and on, and on. . . . We take +from life what is hardest and bitterest in it, and we leave you +what is easy and joyful; and sitting at supper, you can coldly +and sensibly discuss why we suffer and perish, and why we are not +as sound and as satisfied as you." + +What they were singing had occurred to his mind before, but the +thought was somewhere in the background behind his other +thoughts, and flickered timidly like a faraway light in foggy +weather. And he felt that this suicide and the peasant's +sufferings lay upon his conscience, too; to resign himself to the +fact that these people, submissive to their fate, should take up +the burden of what was hardest and gloomiest in life -- how awful +it was! To accept this, and to desire for himself a life full of +light and movement among happy and contented people, and to be +continually dreaming of such, means dreaming of fresh suicides of +men crushed by toil and anxiety, or of men weak and outcast whom +people only talk of sometimes at supper with annoyance or +mockery, without going to their help. . . . And again: + +"We go on, and on, and on . . ." as though someone were beating +with a hammer on his temples. + +He woke early in the morning with a headache, roused by a noise; +in the next room Von Taunitz was saying loudly to the doctor: + +"It's impossible for you to go now. Look what's going on outside. +Don't argue, you had better ask the coachman; he won't take you +in such weather for a million." + +"But it's only two miles," said the doctor in an imploring voice. + +"Well, if it were only half a mile. If you can't, then you can't. +Directly you drive out of the gates it is perfect hell, you would +be off the road in a minute. Nothing will induce me to let you +go, you can say what you like." + +"It's bound to be quieter towards evening," said the peasant who +was heating the stove. + +And in the next room the doctor began talking of the rigorous +climate and its influence on the character of the Russian, of the +long winters which, by preventing movement from place to place, +hinder the intellectual development of the people; and Lyzhin +listened with vexation to these observations and looked out of +window at the snow drifts which were piled on the fence. He gazed +at the white dust which covered the whole visible expanse, at the +trees which bowed their heads despairingly to right and then to +left, listened to the howling and the banging, and thought +gloomily: + +"Well, what moral can be drawn from it? It's a blizzard and that +is all about it. . . ." + +At midday they had lunch, then wandered aimlessly about the +house; they went to the windows. + +"And Lesnitsky is lying there," thought Lyzhin, watching the +whirling snow, which raced furiously round and round upon the +drifts. "Lesnitsky is lying there, the witnesses are waiting. . . +." + +They talked of the weather, saying that the snowstorm usually +lasted two days and nights, rarely longer. At six o'clock they +had dinner, then they played cards, sang, danced; at last they +had supper. The day was over, they went to bed. + +In the night, towards morning, it all subsided. When they got up +and looked out of window, the bare willows with their weakly +drooping branches were standing perfectly motionless; it was dull +and still, as though nature now were ashamed of its orgy, of its +mad nights, and the license it had given to its passions. The +horses, harnessed tandem, had been waiting at the front door +since five o'clock in the morning. When it was fully daylight the +doctor and the examining magistrate put on their fur coats and +felt boots, and, saying good-by to their host, went out. + +At the steps beside the coachman stood the familiar figure of the +constable, Ilya Loshadin, with an old leather bag across his +shoulder and no cap on his head, covered with snow all over, and +his face was red and wet with perspiration. The footman who had +come out to help the gentlemen and cover their legs looked at him +sternly and said: + +"What are you standing here for, you old devil? Get away!" + +"Your honor, the people are anxious," said Loshadin, smiling +naively all over his face, and evidently pleased at seeing +at last the people he had waited for so long. "The people are +very uneasy, the children are crying. . . . They thought, your +honor, that you had gone back to the town again. Show us the +heavenly mercy, our benefactors! . . ." + +The doctor and the examining magistrate said nothing, got into +the sledge, and drove to Syrnya. + +THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER + +A FIRST-CLASS passenger who had just dined at the station and +drunk a little too much lay down on the velvet-covered seat, +stretched himself out luxuriously, and sank into a doze. After a +nap of no more than five minutes, he looked with oily eyes at +his _vis-a-vis,_ gave a smirk, and said: + +"My father of blessed memory used to like to have his heels +tickled by peasant women after dinner. I am just like him, with +this difference, that after dinner I always like my tongue and my +brains gently stimulated. Sinful man as I am, I like empty +talk on a full stomach. Will you allow me to have a chat with +you?" + +"I shall be delighted," answered the _vis-a-vis._ + +"After a good dinner the most trifling subject is sufficient to +arouse devilishly great thoughts in my brain. For instance, we +saw just now near the refreshment bar two young men, and you +heard one congratulate the other on being celebrated. 'I +congratulate you,' he said; 'you are already a celebrity and are +beginning to win fame.' Evidently actors or journalists of +microscopic dimensions. But they are not the point. The question +that is occupying my mind at the moment, sir, is exactly what is +to be understood by the word _fame_ or _charity_. What do you +think? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a ragged garment; we +all understand it as Pushkin does -- that is, more or less +subjectively -- but no one has yet given a clear, logical +definition of the word. . . . I would give a good deal for such a +definition!" + +"Why do you feel such a need for it?" + +"You see, if we knew what fame is, the means of attaining it +might also perhaps be known to us," said the first-class +passenger, after a moment's thought. I must tell you, sir, that +when I was younger I strove after celebrity with every fiber of +my being. To be popular was my craze, so to speak. For the sake of +it I studied, worked, sat up at night, neglected my meals. And I +fancy, as far as I can judge without partiality, I had all the +natural gifts for attaining it. To begin with, I am an engineer +by profession. In the course of my life I have built in Russia +some two dozen magnificent bridges, I have laid aqueducts for +three towns; I have worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium. . . +. Secondly, I am the author of several special treatises in my +own line. And thirdly, my dear sir, I have from a boy had a +weakness for chemistry. Studying that science in my leisure +hours, I discovered methods of obtaining certain organic acids, +so that you will find my name in all the foreign manuals of +chemistry. I have always been in the service, I have risen to the +grade of actual civil councilor, and I have an unblemished +record. I will not fatigue your attention by enumerating my works +and my merits, I will only say that I have done far more than some +celebrities. And yet here I am in my old age, I am getting ready +for my coffin, so to say, and I am as celebrated as that black dog +yonder running on the embankment." + +"How can you tell? Perhaps you are celebrated." + +"H'm! Well, we will test it at once. Tell me, have you ever heard +the name Krikunov?" + +The _vis-a-vis_ raised his eyes to the ceiling, thought a minute, +and laughed. + +"No, I haven't heard it, . . ." he said. + +"That is my surname. You, a man of education, getting on in +years, have never heard of me -- a convincing proof! It is +evident that in my efforts to gain fame I have not done the right +thing at all: I did not know the right way to set to work, and, +trying to catch fame by the tail, got on the wrong side of her." + +"What is the right way to set to work?" + +"Well, the devil only knows! Talent, you say? Genius? +Originality? Not a bit of it, sir!. . . People have lived and +made a career side by side with me who were worthless, trivial, +and even contemptible compared with me. They did not do one-tenth +of the work I did, did not put themselves out, were not +distinguished for their talents, and did not make an effort to be +celebrated, but just look at them! Their names are continually in +the newspapers and on men's lips! If you are not tired of +listening I will illustrate it by an example. Some years ago I +built a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that the +dullness of that scurvy little town was terrible. If it had not +been for women and cards I believe I should have gone out of my +mind. Well, it's an old story: I was so bored that I got into an +affair with a singer. Everyone was enthusiastic about her, the +devil only knows why; to my thinking she was -- what shall I say? +-- an ordinary, commonplace creature, like lots of others. The +hussy was empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what's more, +she was a fool. + +"She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in the +afternoon -- and I fancy did nothing else. She was looked upon as +a cocotte, and that was indeed her profession; but when people +wanted to refer to her in a literary fashion, they called her an +actress and a singer. I used to be devoted to the theatre, and +therefore this fraudulent pretense of being an actress made me +furiously indignant. My young lady had not the slightest right to +call herself an actress or a singer. She was a creature entirely +devoid of talent, devoid of feeling -- a pitiful creature one may +say. As far as I can judge she sang disgustingly. The whole charm +of her 'art' lay in her kicking up her legs on every suitable +occasion, and not being embarrassed when people walked into her +dressing-room. She usually selected translated vaudevilles, with +singing in them, and opportunities for disporting herself in male +attire, in tights. In fact it was -- ough! Well, I ask your +attention. As I remember now, a public ceremony took place to +celebrate the opening of the newly constructed bridge. There was +a religious service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on. I +hung about my cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid +that my heart would burst with the excitement of an author. Its +an old story and there's no need for false modesty, and so I will +tell you that my bridge was a magnificent work! It was not a +bridge but a picture, a perfect delight! And who would not have +been excited when the whole town came to the opening? 'Oh,' I +thought, 'now the eyes of all the public will be on me! Where +shall I hide myself?' Well, I need not have worried myself, sir +-- alas! Except the official personages, no one took the +slightest notice of me. They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, +gazed like sheep at the bridge, and did not concern themselves to +know who had built it. And it was from that time, by the way, +that I began to hate our estimable public -- damnation take +them! Well, to continue. All at once the public became agitated; +a whisper ran through the crowd, . . . a smile came on their +faces, their shoulders began to move. 'They must have seen me,' I +thought. A likely idea! I looked, and my singer, with a train of +young scamps, was making her way through the crowd. The eyes of +the crowd were hurriedly following this procession. A whisper +began in a thousand voices: 'That's so-and-so. . . . Charming! +Bewitching!' Then it was they noticed me. . . . A couple of +young milksops, local amateurs of the scenic art, I presume, +looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: 'That's her +lover!' How do you like that? And an unprepossessing individual +in a top-hat, with a chin that badly needed shaving, hung round +me, shifting from one foot to the other, then turned to me with +the words: + +"'Do you know who that lady is, walking on the other bank? That's +so-and-so. . . . Her voice is beneath all criticism, but she has +a most perfect mastery of it! . . .' + +" 'Can you tell me,' I asked the unprepossessing individual, 'who +built this bridge?' + +" 'I really don't know,' answered the individual; some engineer, +I expect.' + +" 'And who built the cathedral in your town?' I asked again. + +" 'I really can't tell you.' + +"Then I asked him who was considered the best teacher in K., who +the best architect, and to all my questions the unprepossessing +individual answered that he did not know. + +" 'And tell me, please,' I asked in conclusion, with whom is that +singer living?' + +" 'With some engineer called Krikunov.' + +"Well, how do you like that, sir? But to proceed. There are no +minnesingers or bards nowadays, and celebrity is created almost +exclusively by the newspapers. The day after the dedication of +the bridge, I greedily snatched up the local _Messenger,_ and +looked for myself in it. I spent a long time running my eyes over +all the four pages, and at last there it was -- hurrah! I began +reading: 'Yesterday in beautiful weather, before a vast concourse +of people, in the presence of His Excellency the Governor of the +province, so-and-so, and other dignitaries, the ceremony of the +dedication of the newly constructed bridge took place,' and so +on. . . . Towards the end: Our talented actress so-and-so, the +favorite of the K. public, was present at the dedication looking +very beautiful. I need not say that her arrival created a +sensation. The star was wearing . . .' and so on. They might have +given me one word! Half a word. Petty as it seems, I actually +cried with vexation! + +"I consoled myself with the reflection that the provinces are +stupid, and one could expect nothing of them and for celebrity +one must go to the intellectual centers -- to Petersburg and to +Moscow. And as it happened, at that very time there was a work +of mine in Petersburg which I had sent in for a competition. The +date on which the result was to be declared was at hand. + +"I took leave of K. and went to Petersburg. It is a long journey +from K. to Petersburg, and that I might not be bored on the +journey I took a reserved compartment and -- well -- of course, I +took my singer. We set off, and all the way we were eating, +drinking champagne, and -- tra-la--la! But behold, at last we +reach the intellectual center. I arrived on the very day the +result was declared, and had the satisfaction, my dear sir, of +celebrating my own success: my work received the first prize. +Hurrah! Next day I went out along the Nevsky and spent seventy +kopecks on various newspapers. I hastened to my hotel room, lay +down on the sofa, and, controlling a quiver of excitement, made +haste to read. I ran through one newspaper -- nothing. I ran +through a second -- nothing either; my God! At last, in the +fourth, I lighted upon the following paragraph: 'Yesterday the +well-known provincial actress so-and-so arrived by express in +Petersburg. We note with pleasure that the climate of the South +has had a beneficial effect on our fair friend; her charming +stage appearance. . .' and I don't remember the rest! Much lower +down than that paragraph I found, printed in the smallest type: +first prize in the competition was adjudged to an engineer +called so-and-so.' That was all! And to make things better, they +even misspelt my name: instead of Krikunov it was Kirkutlov. So +much for your intellectual center! But that was not all. . . . By +the time I left Petersburg, a month later, all the newspapers +were vying with one another in discussing our incomparable, +divine, highly talented actress, and my mistress was referred to, +not by her surname, but by her Christian name and her father's. . +. . + +"Some years later I was in Moscow. I was summoned there by a +letter, in the mayor's own handwriting, to undertake a work for +which Moscow, in its newspapers, had been clamoring for over a +hundred years. In the intervals of my work I delivered five +public lectures, with a philanthropic object, in one of the +museums there. One would have thought that was enough to make one +known to the whole town for three days at least, wouldn't one? +But, alas! not a single Moscow gazette said a word about me +There was something about houses on fire, about an operetta, +sleeping town councilors, dr unken shop keepers -- about +everything; but about my work, my plans, my lectures -- mum. And +a nice set they are in Moscow! I got into a tram. . . . It was +packed full; there were ladies and military men and students of +both sexes, creatures of all sorts in couples. + +"'I am told the town council has sent for an engineer to plan +such and such a work!' I said to my neighbor, so loudly that all +the tram could hear. 'Do you know the name of the engineer?' + +"My neighbor shook his head. The rest of the public took a +cursory glance at me, and in all their eyes I read: 'I don't +know.' + +"'I am told that there is someone giving lectures in such and +such a museum?' I persisted, trying to get up a conversation. 'I +hear it is interesting.' + +"No one even nodded. Evidently they had not all of them heard of +the lectures, and the ladies were not even aware of the existence +of the museum. All that would not have mattered, but imagine, my +dear sir, the people suddenly leaped to their feet and struggled +to the windows. What was it? What was the matter? + +"'Look, look!' my neighbor nudged me. 'Do you see that dark man +getting into that cab? That's the famous runner, King!' + +"And the whole tram began talking breathlessly of the runner who +was then absorbing the brains of Moscow. + +"I could give you ever so many other examples, but I think that +is enough. Now let us assume that I am mistaken about myself, +that I am a wretchedly boastful and incompetent person; but apart +from myself I might point to many of my contemporaries, men +remarkable for their talent and industry, who have nevertheless +died unrecognized. Are Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, +mechanicians, and agriculturists popular with the public? Do our +cultivated masses know anything of Russian artists, +sculptors, and literary men? Some old literary hack, +hard-working and talented, will wear away the doorstep of the +publishers' offices for thirty-three years, cover reams of paper, +be had up for libel twenty times, and yet not step beyond his +ant-heap. Can you mention to me a single representative of our +literature who would have become celebrated if the rumor had not +been spread over the earth that he had been killed in a duel, +gone out of his mind, been sent into exile, or had cheated at +cards?" + +The first-class passenger was so excited that he dropped his +cigar out of his mouth and got up. + +"Yes," he went on fiercely, "and side by side with these people I +can quote you hundreds of all sorts of singers, acrobats, +buffoons, whose names are known to every baby. Yes!" + +The door creaked, there was a draught, and an individual of +forbidding aspect, wearing an Inverness coat, a top-hat, and blue +spectacles, walked into the carriage. The individual looked round +at the seats, frowned, and went on further. + +"Do you know who that is?" there came a timid whisper from the +furthest corner of the compartment. + +That is N. N., the famous Tula cardsharper who was had up in +connection with the Y. bank affair." + +"There you are!" laughed the first-class passenger. He knows a +Tula cardsharper, but ask him whether he knows Semiradsky, +Tchaykovsky, or Solovyov the philosopher -- he'll shake his head. +. . . It swinish!" + +Three minutes passed in silence. + +"Allow me in my turn to ask you a question," said the _vis-a-vis_ +timidly, clearing his throat. Do you know the name of Pushkov?" + +"Pushkov? H'm! Pushkov. . . . No, I don't know it!" + +"That is my name,. . ." said the _vis-a-vis,_, overcome with +embarrassment. "Then you don't know it? And yet I have been a +professor at one of the Russian universities for thirty-five +years, . . . a member of the Academy of Sciences, . . . have +published more than one work. . . ." + +The first-class passenger and the _vis-a-vis_ looked at each +other and burst out laughing. + +A TRAGIC ACTOR + +IT was the benefit night of Fenogenov, the tragic actor. They +were acting "Prince Serebryany." The tragedian himself was +playing Vyazemsky; Limonadov, the stage manager, was playing +Morozov; Madame Beobahtov, Elena. The performance was a grand +success. The tragedian accomplished wonders indeed. When he was +carrying off Elena, he held her in one hand above his head as he +dashed across the stage. He shouted, hissed, banged with his +feet, tore his coat across his chest. When he refused to fight +Morozov, he trembled all over as nobody ever trembles in reality, +and gasped loudly. The theatre shook with applause. There were +endless calls. Fenogenov was presented with a silver +cigarette-case and a bouquet tied with long ribbons. The ladies +waved their handkerchiefs and urged their men to applaud, many +shed tears. . . . But the one who was the most enthusiastic and +most excited was Masha, daughter of Sidoretsky the police +captain. She was sitting in the first row of the stalls beside +her papa; she was ecstatic and could not take her eyes off the +stage even between the acts. Her delicate little hands and feet +were quivering, her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks turned +paler and paler. And no wonder -- she was at the theatre for the +first time in her life. + +"How well they act! how splendidly!" she said to her papa the +police captain, every time the curtain fell. How good Fenogenov +is!" + +And if her papa had been capable of reading faces he would have +read on his daughter's pale little countenance a rapture that was +almost anguish. She was overcome by the acting, by the play, by +the surroundings. When the regimental band began playing between +the acts, she closed her eyes, exhausted. + +"Papa!" she said to the police captain during the last interval, +"go behind the scenes and ask them all to dinner to-morrow!" + +The police captain went behind the scenes, praised them for all +their fine acting, and complimented Madame Beobahtov. + +"Your lovely face demands a canvas, and I only wish I could wield +the brush!" + +And with a scrape, he thereupon invited the company to dinner. + +"All except the fair sex," he whispered. "I don't want the +actresses, for I have a daughter." + +Next day the actors dined at the police captain's. Only three +turned up, the manager Limonadov, the tragedian Fenogenov, and +the comic man Vodolazov; the others sent excuses. The dinner was +a dull affair. Limonadov kept telling the police captain how +much he respected him, and how highly he thought of all persons +in authority; Vodolazov mimicked drunken merchants and Armenians; +and Fenogenov (on his passport his name was Knish), a tall, stout +Little Russian with black eyes and frowning brow, +declaimed "At the portals of the great," and "To be or not to +be." Limonadov, with tears in his eyes, described his interview +with the former Governor, General Kanyutchin. The police captain +listened, was bored, and smiled affably. He was well satisfied, +although Limonadov smelt strongly of burnt feathers, and +Fenogenov was wearing a hired dress coat and boots trodden down +at heel. They pleased his daughter and made her lively, and that +was enough for him. And Masha never took her eyes off the +actors. She had never before seen such clever, exceptional +people! + +In the evening the police captain and Masha were at the theatre +again. A week later the actors dined at the police captain's +again, and after that came almost every day either to dinner or +supper. Masha became more and more devoted to the theatre, and +went there every evening. + +She fell in love with the tragedian. One fine morning, when the +police captain had gone to meet the bishop, Masha ran away with +Limonadov's company and married her hero on the way. After +celebrating the wedding, the actors composed a long and touching +letter and sent it to the police captain. + +It was the work of their combined efforts. + +"Bring out the motive, the motive!" Limonadov kept saying as he +dictated to the comic man. "Lay on the respect. . . . These +official chaps like it. Add something of a sort . . . to draw a +tear." + +The answer to this letter was most discomforting. The police +captain disowned his daughter for marrying, as he said, "a +stupid, idle Little Russian with no fixed home or occupation." + +And the day after this answer was received M asha was writing to +her father. + +"Papa, he beats me! Forgive us!" + +He had beaten her, beaten her behind the scenes, in the presence +of Limonadov, the washerwoman, and two lighting men. He +remembered how, four days before the wedding, he was sitting in +the London Tavern with the whole company, and all were talking +about Masha. The company were advising him to "chance it," and +Limonadov, with tears in his eyes urged: "It would be stupid and +irrational to let slip such an opportunity! Why, for a sum like +that one would go to Siberia, let alone getting married! When +you marry and have a theatre of your own, take me into your +company. I shan't be master then, you'll be master." + +Fenogenov remembered it, and muttered with clenched fists: + +"If he doesn't send money I'll smash her! I won't let myself be +made a fool of, damn my soul!" + +At one provincial town the company tried to give Masha the slip, +but Masha found out, ran to the station, and got there when the +second bell had rung and the actors had all taken their seats. + +"I've been shamefully treated by your father," said the +tragedian; "all is over between us!" + +And though the carriage was full of people, she went down on her +knees and held out her hands, imploring him: + +"I love you! Don't drive me away, Kondraty Ivanovitch," she +besought him. "I can't live without you!" + +They listened to her entreaties, and after consulting together, +took her into the company as a "countess" -- the name they used +for the minor actresses who usually came on to the stage in +crowds or in dumb parts. To begin with Masha used to play +maid-servants and pages, but when Madame Beobahtov, the flower of +Limonadov's company, eloped, they made her _ingenue_. She acted +badly, lisped, and was nervous. She soon grew used to it, +however, and began to be liked by the audience. Fenogenov was +much displeased. + +"To call her an actress!" he used to say. "She has no figure, no +deportment, nothing whatever but silliness." + +In one provincial town the company acted Schiller's " Robbers." +Fenogenov played Franz, Masha, Amalie. The tragedian shouted and +quivered. Masha repeated her part like a well-learnt lesson, and +the play would have gone off as they generally did had +it not been for a trifling mishap. Everything went well up to +the point where Franz declares his love for Amalie and she seizes +his sword. The tragedian shouted, hissed, quivered, and squeezed +Masha in his iron embrace. And Masha, instead of repulsing him +and crying "Hence! " trembled in his arms like a bird and did not +move, . . .she seemed petrified. + +"Have pity on me!" she whispered in his ear. "Oh, have pity on +me! I am so miserable!" + +"You don't know your part! Listen to the prompter!" hissed the +tragedian, and he thrust his sword into her hand. + +After the performance, Limonadov and Fenogenov were sitting in +the ticket box-office engaged in conversation. + +"Your wife does not learn her part, you are right there," the +manager was saying. "She doesn't know her line. . . . Every man +has his own line, . . . but she doesn't know hers. . . ." + +Fenogenov listened, sighed, and scowled and scowled. + +Next morning, Masha was sitting in a little general shop writing: + +"Papa, he beats me! Forgive us! Send us some money!" + +A TRANSGRESSION + +A COLLEGIATE assessor called Miguev stopped at a telegraph-post +in the course of his evening walk and heaved a deep sigh. A week +before, as he was returning home from his evening walk, he had +been overtaken at that very spot by his former housemaid, Agnia, +who said to him viciously: + +"Wait a bit! I'll cook you such a crab that'll teach you to ruin +innocent girls! I'll leave the baby at your door, and I'll have +the law of you, and I'll tell your wife, too. . . ." + +And she demanded that he should put five thousand roubles into +the bank in her name. Miguev remembered it, heaved a sigh, and +once more reproached himself with heartfelt repentance for the +momentary infatuation which had caused him so much worry and +misery. + +When he reached his bungalow, he sat down to rest on the +doorstep. It was just ten o'clock, and a bit of the moon peeped +out from behind the clouds. There was not a soul in the street +nor near the bungalows; elderly summer visitors were already +going to bed, while young ones were walking in the wood. Feeling +in both his pockets for a match to light his cigarette, Miguev +brought his elbow into contact with something soft. He looked +idly at his right elbow, and his face was instantly contorted by +a look of as much horror as though he had seen a snake beside +him. On the step at the very door lay a bundle. Something oblong +in shape was wrapped up in something -- judging by the feel of +it, a wadded quilt. One end of the bundle was a little open, and +the collegiate assessor, putting in his hand, felt something damp +and warm. He leaped on to his feet in horror, and looked about +him like a criminal trying to escape from his warders. . . . + +"She has left it!" he muttered wrathfully through his teeth, +clenching his fists. "Here it lies. . . . Here lies my +transgression! O Lord!" + +He was numb with terror, anger, and shame. . . What was he to do +now? What would his wife say if she found out? What would his +colleagues at the office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig +him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: "I congratulate you! . . . +He-he-he! Though your beard is gray, your heart is gay. . . . You +are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!" The whole colony of summer +visitors would know his secret now, and probably the respectable +mothers of families would shut their doors to him. +Such incidents always get into the papers, and the humble name +of Miguev would be published all over Russia. . . . + +The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could +distinctly hear his wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for +supper; in the yard close to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was +plaintively strumming on the balalaika. The baby had only to wake +up and begin to cry, and the secret would be discovered. Miguev +was conscious of an overwhelming desire to make haste. + +"Haste, haste! . . ." he muttered, "this minute, before anyone +sees. I'll carry it away and lay it on somebody's doorstep. . . +." + +Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with a deliberate +step to avoid awakening suspicion, went down the street. . . . + +"A wonderfully nasty position!" he reflected, trying to assume an +air of unconcern. "A collegiate assessor walking down the street +with a baby! Good heavens! if anyone sees me and understands the +position, I am done for. . . . I'd better put it on this +doorstep. . . . No, stay, the windows are open and perhaps +someone is looking. Where shall I put it? I know! I'll take it to +the merchant Myelkin's.. .. Merchants are rich people and +tenderhearted; very likely they will say thank you and adopt +it." + +And Miguev made up his mind to take the baby to Myelkin's, +although the merchant's villa was in the furthest street, close +to the river. + +"If only it does not begin screaming or wriggle out of the +bundle," thought the collegiate assessor. "This is indeed a +pleasant surprise! Here I am carrying a human being under my arm +as though it were a portfolio. A human being, alive, with soul, +with feelings like anyone else. . . . If by good luck the +Myelkins adopt him, he may turn out somebody. . . . Maybe he will +become a professor, a great general, an author. . . . Anything +may happen! Now I am carrying him under my arm like a bundle of +rubbish, and perhaps in thirty or forty years I may not dare to +sit down in his presence. . . . + +As Miguev was walking along a narrow, deserted alley, beside a +long row of fences, in the thick black shade of the lime trees, +it suddenly struck him that he was doing something very cruel and +criminal. + +"How mean it is really!" he thought. "So mean that one can't +imagine anything meaner. . . . Why are we shifting this poor baby +from door to door? It's not its fault that it's been born. It's +done us no harm. We are scoundrels. . . . We take our pleasure, +and the innocent babies have to pay the penalty. Only to think of +all this wretched business! +I've done wrong and the child has a cruel fate before it. If I +lay it at the Myelkins' door, they'll send it to the foundling +hospital, and there it will grow up among strangers, in +mechanical routine, . . . no love, no petting, no spoiling. . . . +And then he'll be apprenticed to a shoemaker, . . . he'll take to +drink, will learn to use filthy language, will go hungry. A +shoemaker! and he the son of a collegiate assessor, of good +family. . . . He is my flesh and blood, . . . " + +Miguev came out of the shade of the lime trees into the bright +moonlight of the open road, and opening the bundle, he looked at +the baby. + +"Asleep!" he murmured. "You little rascal! why, you've an +aquiline nose like your father's. . . . He sleeps and doesn't +feel that it's his own father looking at him! . . . It's a drama, +my boy. . . Well, well, you must forgive me. Forgive me, old +boy. . . . It seems it's your fate. . . ." + +The collegiate assessor blinked and felt a spasm running down his +cheeks. . . . He wrapped up the baby, put him under his arm, and +strode on. All the way to the Myelkins' villa social questions +were swarming in his brain and conscience was gnawing in his +bosom. + +"If I were a decent, honest man, he thought, "I should damn +everything, go with this baby to Anna Filippovna, fall on my +knees before her, and say: 'Forgive me! I have sinned! Torture +me, but we won't ruin an innocent child. We have no children; let +us adopt him!" She's a good sort, she'd consent. . . . And then +my child would be with me. . . . Ech!" + +He reached the Myelkins' villa and stood still hesitating. He +imagined himself in the parlor at home, sitting reading the paper +while a little boy with an aquiline nose played with the tassels +of his dressing gown. At the same time visions forced themselves +on his brain of his winking colleagues, and of his Excellency +digging him in the ribs and guffawing. . . . Besides the pricking +of his conscience, there was something warm, sad, and tender in +his heart. . . . + +Cautiously the collegiate assessor laid the baby on the verandah +step and waved his hand. Again he felt a spasm run over his face. +. . . + +"Forgive me, old fellow! I am a scoundrel, he muttered. "Don't +remember evil against me." + +He stepped back, but immediately cleared his throat resolutely +and said: + +"Oh, come what will! Damn it all! I'll take him, and let people +say what they like!" + +Miguev took the baby and strode rapidly back. + +"Let them say what they like," he thought. "I'll go at once, fall +on my knees, and say: 'Anna Filippovna!' Anna is a good sort, +she'll understand. . . . And we'll bring him up. . . . If it's a +boy we'll call him Vladimir, and if it's a girl we'll call her +Anna! Anyway, it will be a comfort in our old age." + +And he did as he determined. Weeping and almost faint with shame +and terror, full of hope and vague rapture, he went into his +bungalow, went up to his wife, and fell on his knees before her. + +"Anna Filippovna!" he said with a sob, and he laid the baby on +the floor. "Hear me before you punish. . . . I have sinned! This +is my child. . . . You remember Agnia? Well, it was the devil +drove me to it. . . ." + +And, almost unconscious with shame and terror, he jumped up +without waiting for an answer, and ran out into the open air as +though he had received a thrashing. . . . + +"I'll stay here outside till she calls me," he thought. "I'll +give her time to recover, and to think it over. . . ." + +The porter Yermolay passed him with his balalaika, glanced at him +and shrugged his shoulders. A minute later he passed him again, +and again he shrugged his shoulders. + +"Here's a go! Did you ever!" he muttered grinning. "Aksinya, the +washer-woman, was here just now, Semyon Erastovitch. The silly +woman put her baby down on the steps here, and while she was +indoors with me, someone took and carried off the baby. . . +Who'd have thought it!" + +"What? What are you saying?" shouted Miguev at the top of his +voice. + +Yermolay, interpreting his master's wrath in his own fashion, +scratched his head and heaved a sigh. + +"I am sorry, Semyon Erastovitch," he said, "but it's the summer +holidays, . . . one can't get on without . . . without a woman, I +mean. . . ." + +And glancing at his master's eyes glaring at him with anger and +astonishment, he cleared his throat guiltily and went on: + +"It's a sin, of course, but there -- what is one to do?. . . +You've forbidden us to have strangers in the house, I know, but +we've none of our own now. When Agnia was here I had no women to +see me, for I had one at home; but now, you can see for +yourself, sir, . . . one can't help having strangers. In Agnia's +time, of course, there was nothing irregular, because. . ." + +"Be off, you scoundrel!" Miguev shouted at him, stamping, and he +went back into the room. + +Anna Filippovna, amazed and wrathful, was sitting as before, her +tear-stained eyes fixed on the baby. . . . + +"There! there!" Miguev muttered with a pale face, twisting his +lips into a smile. "It was a joke. . . . It's not my baby, . . . +it's the washer-woman's! . . . I . . . I was joking. . . . Take +it to the porter." + +SMALL FRY + +"HONORED Sir, Father and Benefactor!" a petty clerk called +Nevyrazimov was writing a rough copy of an Easter congratulatory +letter. "I trust that you may spend this Holy Day even as many +more to come, in good health and prosperity. And to your family +also I . . ." + +The lamp, in which the kerosene was getting low, was smoking and +smelling. A stray cockroach was running about the table in alarm +near Nevyrazimov's writing hand. Two rooms away from the office +Paramon the porter was for the third time cleaning his +best boots, and with such energy that the sound of the +blacking-brush and of his expectorations was audible in all the +rooms. + +"What else can I write to him, the rascal?" Nevyrazimov wondered, +raising his eyes to the smutty ceiling. + +On the ceiling he saw a dark circle -- the shadow of the +lamp-shade. Below it was the dusty cornice, and lower still the +wall, which had once been painted a bluish muddy color. And the +office seemed to him such a place of desolation that he felt +sorry, not only for himself, but even for the cockroach. + +"When I am off duty I shall go away, but he'll be on duty here +all his cockroach-life," he thought, stretching. "I am bored! +Shall I clean my boots?" + +And stretching once more, Nevyrazimov slouched lazily to the +porter's room. Paramon had finished cleaning his boots. Crossing +himself with one hand and holding the brush in the other, he was +standing at the open window-pane, listening. + +"They're ringing," he whispered to Nevyrazimov, looking at him +with eyes intent and wide open. "Already!" + +Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter +chimes floated into the room with a whiff of fresh spring air. +The booming of the bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, +and above the chaos of sounds rose the brisk tenor tones +of the nearest church and a loud shrill laugh. + +"What a lot of people!" sighed Nevyrazimov, looking down into the +street, where shadows of men flitted one after another by the +illumination lamps. "They're all hurrying to the midnight +service. . . . Our fellows have had a drink by now, you may be +sure, and are strolling about the town. What a lot of laughter, +what a lot of talk! I'm the only unlucky one, to have to sit here +on such a day: And I have to do it every year!" + +"Well, nobody forces you to take the job. It's not your turn to +be on duty today, but Zastupov hired you to take his place. When +other folks are enjoying themselves you hire yourself out. It's +greediness!" + +"Devil a bit of it! Not much to be greedy over -- two roubles is +all he gives me; a necktie as an extra. . . . It's poverty, not +greediness. And it would be jolly, now, you know, to be going +with a party to the service, and then to break the fast. . . . +To drink and to have a bit of supper and tumble off to sleep. . . +. One sits down to the table, there's an Easter cake and the +samovar hissing, and some charming little thing beside you. . . . +You drink a glass and chuck her under the chin, and it's first- +rate. . . . You feel you're somebody. . . . Ech h-h! . . . I've +made a mess of things! Look at that hussy driving by in her +carriage, while I have to sit here and brood." + +"We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you'll +be promoted and drive about in your carriage one day." + +"I? No, brother, not likely. I shan't get beyond a 'titular,' not +if I try till I burst. I'm not an educated man." + +"Our General has no education either, but . . ." + +"Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand before he got his +position. And he's got very different manners and deportment from +me, brother. With my manners and deportment one can't get far! +And such a scoundrelly surname, Nevyrazimov! It's a hopeless +position, in fact. One may go on as one is, or one may hang +oneself . . ." + +He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. +The din of the bells grew louder and louder. . . . There was no +need to stand by the window to hear it. And the better he could +hear the bells and the louder the roar of the carriages, the +darker seemed the muddy walls and the smutty cornice and the more +the lamp smoked. + +"Shall I hook it and leave the office?" thought Nevyrazimov. + +But such a flight promised nothing worth having. . . . After +coming out of the office and wandering about the town, +Nevyrazimov would have gone home to his lodging, and in his +lodging it was even grayer and more depressing than in the +office. . . . +Even supposing he were to spend that day pleasantly and with +comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but the same gray walls, the +same stop-gap duty and complimentary letters. . . . + +Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank into +thought. The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart +with an intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find +himself suddenly in the street, to mingle with the living crowd, +to take part in the solemn festivity for the sake of which all +those bells were clashing and those carriages were rumbling. He +longed for what he had known in childhood -- the family circle, +the festive faces of his own people, the white cloth, light, +warmth . . . ! He thought of the carriage in which the lady had +just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was so +smart, the gold chain that adorned the secretary's chest. . . . +He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav order, of new boots, +of a uniform without holes in the elbows. . . . He thought of all +those things because he had none of them. + +"Shall I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is an easy +matter, hiding is what's difficult. Men run away to America, they +say, with what they've stolen, but the devil knows where that +blessed America is. One must have education even to steal, it +seems." + +The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages +and Paramon's cough, while his depression and anger grew more and +more intense and unbearable. The clock in the office struck +half-past twelve. + +"Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose +rapidly." + +Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which +the kerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and +threatening to go out. The stray cockroach was still running +about the table and had found no resting-place. + +"One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make +it up? I should want to make all sorts of innuendoes and +insinuations, like Proshkin, and I can't do it. If I made up +anything I should be the first to get into trouble for it. I'm an +ass, damn my soul!" + +And Nevyrazimov, racking his brain for a means of escape from his +hopeless position, stared at the rough copy he had written. The +letter was written to a man whom he feared and hated with his +whole soul, and from whom he had for the last ten years been +trying to wring a post worth eighteen roubles a month, instead of +the one he had at sixteen roubles. + +"Ah, I'll teach you to run here, you devil!" He viciously slapped +the palm of his hand on the cockroach, who had the misfortune to +catch his eye. "Nasty thing!" + +The cockroach fell on its back and wriggled its legs in despair. +Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The +lamp flared up and spluttered. + +And Nevyrazimov felt better. + +THE REQUIEM + +IN the village church of Verhny Zaprudy mass was just over. The +people had begun moving and were trooping out of church. The only +one who did not move was Andrey Andreyitch, a shopkeeper and old +inhabitant of Verhny Zaprudy. He stood waiting, with his elbows +on the railing of the right choir. His fat and shaven face, +covered with indentations left by pimples, expressed on this +occasion two contradictory feelings: resignation in the face of +inevitable destiny, and stupid, unbounded disdain for +the smocks and striped kerchiefs passing by him. As it was +Sunday, he was dressed like a dandy. He wore a long cloth +overcoat with yellow bone buttons, blue trousers not thrust into +his boots, and sturdy goloshes -- the huge clumsy goloshes only +seen on the feet of practical and prudent persons of firm +religious convictions. + +His torpid eyes, sunk in fat, were fixed upon the ikon stand. He +saw the long familiar figures of the saints, the verger Matvey +puffing out his cheeks and blowing out the candles, the darkened +candle stands, the threadbare carpet, the sacristan Lopuhov +running impulsively from the altar and carrying the holy bread to +the churchwarden. . . . All these things he had seen for years, +and seen over and over again like the five fingers of his hand. . +. . There was only one thing, however, that was somewhat strange +and unusual. Father Grigory, still in his vestments, was standing +at the north door, twitching his thick eyebrows angrily. + +"Who is it he is winking at? God bless him!" thought the +shopkeeper. "And he is beckoning with his finger! And he stamped +his foot! What next! What's the matter, Holy Queen and Mother! +Whom does he mean it for?" + +Andrey Andreyitch looked round and saw the church completely +deserted. There were some ten people standing at the door, but +they had their backs to the altar. + +"Do come when you are called! Why do you stand like a graven +image?" he heard Father Grigory's angry voice. "I am calling +you." + +The shopkeeper looked at Father Grigory's red and wrathful face, +and only then realized that the twitching eyebrows and beckoning +finger might refer to him. He started, left the railing, and +hesitatingly walked towards the altar, tramping with his heavy +goloshes. + +"Andrey Andreyitch, was it you asked for prayers for the rest of +Mariya's soul?" asked the priest, his eyes angrily transfixing +the shopkeeper's fat, perspiring face. + +"Yes, Father." + +"Then it was you wrote this? You?" And Father Grigory angrily +thrust before his eyes the little note. + +And on this little note, handed in by Andrey Andreyitch before +mass, was written in big, as it were staggering, letters: + +"For the rest of the soul of the servant of God, the harlot +Mariya." + +"Yes, certainly I wrote it, . . ." answered the shopkeeper. + +"How dared you write it?" whispered the priest, and in his husky +whisper there was a note of wrath and alarm. + +The shopkeeper looked at him in blank amazement; he was +perplexed, and he, too, was alarmed. Father Grigory had never in +his life spoken in such a tone to a leading resident of Verhny +Zaprudy. Both were silent for a minute, staring into each other's +face. The shopkeeper's amazement was so great that his fat face +spread in all directions like spilt dough. + +"How dared you?" repeated the priest. + +"Wha . . . what?" asked Andrey Andreyitch in bewilderment. + +"You don't understand?" whispered Father Grigory, stepping back +in astonishment and clasping his hands. "What have you got on +your shoulders, a head or some other object? You send a note up +to the altar, and write a word in it which it would be unseemly +even to utter in the street! Why are you rolling your eyes? +Surely you know the meaning of the word?" + +"Are you referring to the word harlot?" muttered the shopkeeper, +flushing crimson and blinking. "But you know, the Lord in His +mercy . . . forgave this very thing, . . . forgave a harlot. . . +. He has prepared a place for her, and indeed from the life of +the holy saint, Mariya of Egypt, one may see in what sense the +word is used -- excuse me . . ." + +The shopkeeper wanted to bring forward some other argument in his +justification, but took fright and wiped his lips with his sleeve + +"So that's what you make of it!" cried Father Grigory, clasping +his hands. "But you see God has forgiven her -- do you +understand? He has forgiven, but you judge her, you slander her, +call her by an unseemly name, and whom! Your own deceased +daughter! Not only in Holy Scripture, but even in worldly +literature you won't read of such a sin! I tell you again, +Andrey, you mustn't be over-subtle! No, no, you mustn't be +over-subtle, brother! If God has given you an inquiring mind, and +if you cannot direct it, better not go into things. . . . Don't +go into things, and hold your peace!" + +"But you know, she, . . . excuse my mentioning it, was an +actress!" articulated Andrey Andreyitch, overwhelmed. + +"An actress! But whatever she was, you ought to forget it all now +she is dead, instead of writing it on the note." + +"Just so, . . ." the shopkeeper assented. + +"You ought to do penance," boomed the deacon from the depths of +the altar, looking contemptuously at Andrey Andreyitch's +embarrassed face, "that would teach you to leave off being so +clever! Your daughter was a well-known actress. There were even +notices of her death in the newspapers. . . . Philosopher!" + +"To be sure, . . . certainly," muttered the shopkeeper, "the word +is not a seemly one; but I did not say it to judge her, Father +Grigory, I only meant to speak spiritually, . . . that it might +be clearer to you for whom you were praying. They write +in the memorial notes the various callings, such as the infant +John, the drowned woman Pelagea, the warrior Yegor, the murdered +Pavel, and so on. . . . I meant to do the same." + +"It was foolish, Andrey! God will forgive you, but beware another +time. Above all, don't be subtle, but think like other people. +Make ten bows and go your way." + +"I obey," said the shopkeeper, relieved that the lecture was +over, and allowing his face to resume its expression of +importance and dignity. "Ten bows? Very good, I understand. But +now, Father, allow me to ask you a favor. . . . Seeing that I am, +anyway, her father, . . . you know yourself, whatever she was, +she was still my daughter, so I was, . . . excuse me, meaning to +ask you to sing the requiem today. And allow me to ask you, +Father Deacon!" + +"Well, that's good," said Father Grigory, taking off his +vestments. "That I commend. I can approve of that! Well, go your +way. We will come out immediately." + +Andrey Andreyitch walked with dignity from the altar, and with a +solemn, requiem-like expression on his red face took his stand in +the middle of the church. The verger Matvey set before him a +little table with the memorial food upon it, and a little later +the requiem service began. + +There was perfect stillness in the church. Nothing could be heard +but the metallic click of the censer and slow singing. . . . Near +Andrey Andreyitch stood the verger Matvey, the midwife +Makaryevna, and her one-armed son Mitka. There was no one else. +The sacristan sang badly in an unpleasant, hollow bass, but the +tune and the words were so mournful that the shopkeeper little by +little lost the expression of dignity and was plunged in sadness. +He thought of his Mashutka, . . . he remembered +she had been born when he was still a lackey in the service of +the owner of Verhny Zaprudy. In his busy life as a lackey he had +not noticed how his girl had grown up. That long period during +which she was being shaped into a graceful creature, with +a little flaxen head and dreamy eyes as big as kopeck-pieces +passed unnoticed by him. She had been brought up like all the +children of favorite lackeys, in ease and comfort in the company +of the young ladies. The gentry, to fill up their idle time, +had taught her to read, to write, to dance; he had had no hand +in her bringing up. Only from time to time casually meeting her +at the gate or on the landing of the stairs, he would remember +that she was his daughter, and would, so far as he had leisure +for it, begin teaching her the prayers and the scripture. Oh, +even then he had the reputation of an authority on the church +rules and the holy scriptures! Forbidding and stolid as her +father's face was, yet the girl listened readily. She repeated +the prayers after him yawning, but on the other hand, when he, +hesitating and trying to express himself elaborately, began +telling her stories, she was all attention. Esau's pottage, the +punishment of Sodom, and the troubles of the boy Joseph made her +turn pale and open her blue eyes wide. + +Afterwards when he gave up being a lackey, and with the money he +had saved opened a shop in the village, Mashutka had gone away to +Moscow with his master's family. . . . + +Three years before her death she had come to see her father. He +had scarcely recognized her. She was a graceful young woman with +the manners of a young lady, and dressed like one. She talked +cleverly, as though from a book, smoked, and slept till midday. +When Andrey Andreyitch asked her what she was doing, she had +announced, looking him boldly straight in the face: "I am an +actress." Such frankness struck the former flunkey as the acme of +cynicism. Mashutka had begun boasting of her successes and her +stage life; but seeing that her father only turned crimson and +threw up his hands, she ceased. And they spent a fortnight +together without speaking or looking at one another till the day +she went away. Before she went away she asked her father to come +for a walk on the bank of the river. Painful as it was for him to +walk in the light of day, in the sight of all honest people, with +a daughter who was an actress, he yielded to her request. + +"What a lovely place you live in!" she said enthusiastically. +"What ravines and marshes! Good heavens, how lovely my native +place is!" + +And she had burst into tears. + +"The place is simply taking up room, . . ." Andrey Andreyvitch +had thought, looking blankly at the ravines, not understanding +his daughter's enthusiasm. "There is no more profit from them +than milk from a billy-goat." + +And she had cried and cried, drawing her breath greedily with her +whole chest, as though she felt she had not a long time left to +breathe. + +Andrey Andreyitch shook his head like a horse that has been +bitten, and to stifle painful memories began rapidly crossing +himself. . . . + +"Be mindful, O Lord," he muttered, "of Thy departed servant, the +harlot Mariya, and forgive her sins, voluntary or involuntary. . +. ." + +The unseemly word dropped from his lips again, but he did not +notice it: what is firmly imbedded in the consciousness cannot be +driven out by Father Grigory's exhortations or even knocked out +by a nail. Makaryevna sighed and whispered something, drawing in +a deep breath, while one-armed Mitka was brooding over something. +. . . + +"Where there is no sickness, nor grief, nor sighing," droned the +sacristan, covering his right cheek with his hand. + +Bluish smoke coiled up from the censer and bathed in the broad, +slanting patch of sunshine which cut across the gloomy, lifeless +emptiness of the church. And it seemed as though the soul of the +dead woman were soaring into the sunlight together with the +smoke. The coils of smoke like a child's curls eddied round and +round, floating upwards to the window and, as it were, holding +aloof from the woes and tribulations of which that poor soul was +full. + +IN THE COACH-HOUSE + +IT was between nine and ten o'clock in the evening. Stepan the +coachman, Mihailo the house-porter, Alyoshka the coachman's +grandson, who had come up from the village to stay with his +grandfather, and Nikandr, an old man of seventy, who used to come +into the yard every evening to sell salt herrings, were sitting +round a lantern in the big coach-house, playing "kings." Through +the wide-open door could be seen the whole yard, the big house, +where the master's family lived, the gates, the cellars, and the +porter's l odge. It was all shrouded in the darkness of night, +and only the four windows of one of the lodges which was let were +brightly lit up. The shadows of the coaches and sledges with +their shafts tipped upwards stretched from the walls to the +doors, quivering and cutting across the shadows cast by the +lantern and the players. . . . On the other side of the thin +partition that divided the coach-house from the stable were the +horses. There was a scent of hay, and a disagreeable smell of +salt herrings coming from old Nikandr. + +The porter won and was king; he assumed an attitude such as was +in his opinion befitting a king, and blew his nose loudly on a +red-checked handkerchief. + +"Now if I like I can chop off anybody's head," he said. Alyoshka, +a boy of eight with a head of flaxen hair, left long uncut, who +had only missed being king by two tricks, looked angrily and with +envy at the porter. He pouted and frowned. + +"I shall give you the trick, grandfather," he said, pondering +over his cards; "I know you have got the queen of diamonds." + +"Well, well, little silly, you have thought enough!" + +Alyoshka timidly played the knave of diamonds. At that moment a +ring was heard from the yard. + +"Oh, hang you!" muttered the porter, getting up. "Go and open the +gate, O king!" + +When he came back a little later, Alyoshka was already a prince, +the fish-hawker a soldier, and the coachman a peasant. + +"It's a nasty business," said the porter, sitting down to the +cards again. "I have just let the doctors out. They have not +extracted it." + +"How could they? Just think, they would have to pick open the +brains. If there is a bullet in the head, of what use are +doctors?" + +"He is lying unconscious," the porter went on. "He is bound to +die. Alyoshka, don't look at the cards, you little puppy, or I +will pull your ears! Yes, I let the doctors out, and the father +and mother in. . . They have only just arrived. Such crying and +wailing, Lord preserve us! They say he is the only son. . . . +It's a grief!" + +All except Alyoshka, who was absorbed in the game, looked round +at the brightly lighted windows of the lodge. + +"I have orders to go to the police station tomorrow," said the +porter. "There will be an inquiry . . . But what do I know about +it? I saw nothing of it. He called me this morning, gave me a +letter, and said: 'Put it in the letter-box for me.' And his +eyes were red with crying. His wife and children were not at +home. They had gone out for a walk. So when I had gone with the +letter, he put a bullet into his forehead from a revolver. When I +came back his cook was wailing for the whole yard to hear." + +"It's a great sin," said the fish-hawker in a husky voice, and he +shook his head, "a great sin!" + +"From too much learning," said the porter, taking a trick; "his +wits outstripped his wisdom. Sometimes he would sit writing +papers all night. . . . Play, peasant! . . . But he was a nice +gentleman. And so white skinned, black-haired and tall! . . . +He was a good lodger." + +"It seems the fair sex is at the bottom of it," said the +coachman, slapping the nine of trumps on the king of diamonds. +"It seems he was fond of another man's wife and disliked his own; +it does happen." + +"The king rebels," said the porter. + +At that moment there was again a ring from the yard. The +rebellious king spat with vexation and went out. Shadows like +dancing couples flitted across the windows of the lodge. There +was the sound of voices and hurried footsteps in the yard. + +"I suppose the doctors have come again," said the coachman. "Our +Mihailo is run off his legs. . . ." + +A strange wailing voice rang out for a moment in the air. +Alyoshka looked in alarm at his grandfather, the coachman; then +at the windows, and said: + +"He stroked me on the head at the gate yesterday, and said, 'What +district do you come from, boy?' Grandfather, who was that howled +just now?" + +His grandfather trimmed the light in the lantern and made no +answer. + +"The man is lost," he said a little later, with a yawn. "He is +lost, and his children are ruined, too. It's a disgrace for his +children for the rest of their lives now." + +The porter came back and sat down by the lantern. + +"He is dead," he said. "They have sent to the almshouse for the +old women to lay him out." + +"The kingdom of heaven and eternal peace to him!" whispered the +coachman, and he crossed himself. + +Looking at him, Alyoshka crossed himself too. + +"You can't pray for such as him," said the fish-hawker. + +"Why not?" + +"It's a sin." + +"That's true," the porter assented. "Now his soul has gone +straight to hell, to the devil. . . ." + +"It's a sin," repeated the fish-hawker; "such as he have no +funeral, no requiem, but are buried like carrion with no +respect." + +The old man put on his cap and got up. + +"It was the same thing at our lady's," he said, pulling his cap +on further. "We were serfs in those days; the younger son of our +mistress, the General's lady, shot himself through the mouth with +a pistol, from too much learning, too. It seems that by law such +have to be buried outside the cemetery, without priests, without +a requiem service; but to save disgrace our lady, you know, +bribed the police and the doctors, and they gave her a paper to +say her son had done it when delirious, not knowing what he was +doing. You can do anything with money. So he had a funeral with +priests and every honor, the music played, and he was buried in +the church; for the deceased General had built that church with +his own money, and all his family were buried there. Only this +is what happened, friends. One month passed, and then another, +and it was all right. In the third month they informed the +General's lady that the watchmen had come from that same church. +What did they want? They were brought to her, they fell at her +feet. 'We can't go on serving, your excellency,' they said. 'Look +out for other watchmen and graciously dismiss us.' 'What for?' +'No,' they said, 'we can't possibly; your son howls under the +church all night.' " + +Alyoshka shuddered, and pressed his face to the coachman's back +so as not to see the windows. + +"At first the General's lady would not listen," continued the old +man. "'All this is your fancy, you simple folk have such +notions,' she said. 'A dead man cannot howl.' Some time +afterwards the watchmen came to her again, and with them the +sacristan. So the sacristan, too, had heard him howling. The +General's lady saw that it was a bad job; she locked herself in +her bedroom with the watchmen. 'Here, my friends, here are +twenty-five roubles for you, and for that go by night in secret, +so that no one should hear or see you, dig up my unhappy son, and +bury him,' she said, 'outside the cemetery.' And I suppose she +stood them a glass . . . And the watchmen did so. The stone with +the inscription on it is there to this day, but he himself, the +General's son, is outside the cemetery. . . . O Lord, forgive us +our transgressions!" sighed the fish-hawker. "There is only one +day in the year when one may pray for such people: the Saturday +before Trinity. . . . You mustn't give alms +to beggars for their sake, it is a sin, but you may feed the +birds for the rest of their souls. The General's lady used to go +out to the crossroads every three days to feed the birds. Once at +the cross-roads a black dog suddenly appeared; it ran up +to the bread, and was such a . . . we all know what that dog +was. The General's lady was like a half-crazy creature for five +days afterwards, she neither ate nor drank. . . . All at once she +fell on her knees in the garden, and prayed and prayed. . + . . Well, good-by, friends, the blessing of God and the Heavenly +Mother be with you. Let us go, Mihailo, you'll open the gate for +me." + +The fish-hawker and the porter went out. The coachman and +Alyoshka went out too, so as not to be left in the coach-house. + +"The man was living and is dead!" said the coachman, looking +towards the windows where shadows were still flitting to and fro. +"Only this morning he was walking about the yard, and now he is +lying dead." + +"The time will come and we shall die too," said the porter, +walking away with the fish -hawker, and at once they both +vanished from sight in the darkness. + +The coachman, and Alyoshka after him, somewhat timidly went up to +the lighted windows. A very pale lady with large tear stained +eyes, and a fine-looking gray headed man were moving two +card-tables into the middle of the room, probably with the +intention of laying the dead man upon them, and on the green +cloth of the table numbers could still be seen written in chalk. +The cook who had run about the yard wailing in the morning was +now standing on a chair, stretching up to try and cover the +looking glass with a towel. + +"Grandfather what are they doing?" asked Alyoshka in a whisper. + +"They are just going to lay him on the tables," answered his +grandfather. "Let us go, child, it is bedtime." + +The coachman and Alyoshka went back to the coach-house. They said +their prayers, and took off their boots. Stepan lay down in a +corner on the floor, Alyoshka in a sledge. The doors of the coach +house were shut, there was a horrible stench from the +extinguished lantern. A little later Alyoshka sat up and looked +about him; through the crack of the door he could still see a +light from those lighted windows. + +"Grandfather, I am frightened!" he said. + +"Come, go to sleep, go to sleep! . . ." + +"I tell you I am frightened!" + +"What are you frightened of? What a baby!" + +They were silent. + +Alyoshka suddenly jumped out of the sledge and, loudly weeping, +ran to his grandfather. + +"What is it? What's the matter?" cried the coachman in a fright, +getting up also. + +"He's howling!" + +"Who is howling?" + +"I am frightened, grandfather, do you hear?" + +The coachman listened. + +"It's their crying," he said. "Come! there, little silly! They +are sad, so they are crying." + +"I want to go home, . . ." his grandson went on sobbing and +trembling all over. "Grandfather, let us go back to the village, +to mammy; come, grandfather dear, God will give you the heavenly +kingdom for it. . . ." + +"What a silly, ah! Come, be quiet, be quiet! Be quiet, I will +light the lantern, . . . silly!" + +The coachman fumbled for the matches and lighted the lantern. But +the light did not comfort Alyoshka. + +"Grandfather Stepan, let's go to the village!" he besought him, +weeping. "I am frightened here; oh, oh, how frightened I am! And +why did you bring me from the village, accursed man?" + +"Who's an accursed man? You mustn't use such disrespectable words +to your lawful grandfather. I shall whip you." + +"Do whip me, grandfather, do; beat me like Sidor's goat, but only +take me to mammy, for God's mercy! . . ." + +"Come, come, grandson, come!" the coachman said kindly. "It's all +right, don't be frightened. . . .I am frightened myself. . . . +Say your prayers!" + +The door creaked and the porter's head appeared. "Aren't you +asleep, Stepan?" he asked. "I shan't get any sleep all night," he +said, coming in. "I shall be opening and shutting the gates all +night. . . . What are you crying for, Alyoshka?" + +"He is frightened," the coachman answered for his grandson. + +Again there was the sound of a wailing voice in the air. The +porter said: + +"They are crying. The mother can't believe her eyes. . . . It's +dreadful how upset she is." + +"And is the father there?" + +"Yes. . . . The father is all right. He sits in the corner and +says nothing. They have taken the children to relations. . . . +Well, Stepan, shall we have a game of trumps?" + +"Yes," the coachman agreed, scratching himself, "and you, +Alyoshka, go to sleep. Almost big enough to be married, and +blubbering, you rascal. Come, go along, grandson, go along. . . . + +The presence of the porter reassured Alyoshka. He went, not very +resolutely, towards the sledge and lay down. And while he was +falling asleep he heard a half-whisper. + +"I beat and cover," said his grandfather. + +"I beat and cover," repeated the porter. + +The bell rang in the yard, the door creaked and seemed also +saying: "I beat and cover." When Alyoshka dreamed of the +gentleman and, frightened by his eyes, jumped up and burst out +crying, it was morning, his grandfather was snoring, and the +coach-house no longer seemed terrible. + +PANIC FEARS + +DURING all the years I have been living in this world I have only +three times been terrified. + +The first real terror, which made my hair stand on end and made +shivers run all over me, was caused by a trivial but strange +phenomenon. It happened that, having nothing to do one July +evening, I drove to the station for the newspapers. It was a +still, warm, almost sultry evening, like all those monotonous +evenings in July which, when once they have set in, go on for a +week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, in regular unbroken +succession, and are suddenly cut short by a violent thunderstorm +and a lavish downpour of rain that refreshes everything for a +long time. + +The sun had set some time before, and an unbroken gray dusk lay +all over the land. The mawkishly sweet scents of the grass and +flowers were heavy in the motionless, stagnant air. + +I was driving in a rough trolley. Behind my back the gardener's +son Pashka, a boy of eight years old, whom I had taken with me to +look after the horse in case of necessity, was gently snoring, +with his head on a sack of oats. Our way lay along a narrow +by-road, straight as a ruler, which lay hid like a great snake in +the tall thick rye. There was a pale light from the afterglow of +sunset; a streak of light cut its way through a narrow, +uncouth-looking cloud, which seemed sometimes like a boat and +sometimes like a man wrapped in a quilt. . . . + +I had driven a mile and a half, or two miles, when against the +pale background of the evening glow there came into sight one +after another some graceful tall poplars; a river glimmered +beyond them, and a gorgeous picture suddenly, as though by +magic, lay stretched before me. I had to stop the horse, for our +straight road broke off abruptly and ran down a steep incline +overgrown with bushes. We were standing on the hillside and +beneath us at the bottom lay a huge hole full of twilight, of +fantastic shapes, and of space. At the bottom of this hole, in a +wide plain guarded by the poplars and caressed by the gleaming +river, nestled a village. It was now sleeping. . . . Its huts, +its church with the belfry, its trees, stood out against the +gray twilight and were reflected darkly in the smooth surface of +the river. + +I waked Pashka for fear he should fall out and began cautiously +going down. + +"Have we got to Lukovo?" asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily. + +"Yes. Hold the reins! . . ." + +I led the horse down the hill and looked at the village. At the +first glance one strange circumstance caught my attention: at the +very top of the belfry, in the tiny window between the cupola and +the bells, a light was twinkling. This light was like that of a +smoldering lamp, at one moment dying down, at another flickering +up. What could it come from? + +Its source was beyond my comprehension. It could not be burning +at the window, for there were neither ikons nor lamps in the top +turret of the belfry; there was nothing there, as I knew, but +beams, dust, and spiders' webs. It was hard to climb up into +that turret, for the passage to it from the belfry was closely +blocked up. + +It was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of +some outside light, but though I strained my eyes to the utmost, +I could not see one other speck of light in the vast expanse that +lay before me. There was no moon. The pale and, by now, +quite dim streak of the afterglow could not have been reflected, +for the window looked not to the west, but to the east. These and +other similar considerations were straying through my mind all +the while that I was going down the slope with the horse. At the +bottom I sat down by the roadside and looked again at the light. +As before it was glimmering and flaring up. + +"Strange," I thought, lost in conjecture. "Very strange." + +And little by little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At +first I thought that this was vexation at not being able to +explain a simple phenomenon; but afterwards, when I suddenly +turned away from the light in horror and caugh t hold of Pashka +with one hand, it became clear that I was overcome with terror. . +. . + +I was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery, and horror, as +though I had been flung down against my will into this great hole +full of shadows, where I was standing all alone with the belfry +looking at me with its red eye. + +"Pashka!" I cried, closing my eyes in horror. + +"Well?" + +"Pashka, what's that gleaming on the belfry?" + +Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn. + +"Who can tell?" + +This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, +but not for long. Pashka, seeing my uneasiness, fastened his big +eyes upon the light, looked at me again, then again at the light. +. . . + +"I am frightened," he whispered. + +At this point, beside myself with terror, I clutched the boy with +one hand, huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash. + +"It's stupid!" I said to myself. "That phenomenon is only +terrible because I don't understand it; everything we don't +understand is mysterious." + +I tried to persuade myself, but at the same time I did not leave +off lashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I +purposely stayed for a full hour chatting with the overseer, and +read through two or three newspapers, but the feeling of +uneasiness did not leave me. On the way back the light was not to +be seen, but on the other hand the silhouettes of the huts, of +the poplars, and of the hill up which I had to drive, seemed to +me as though animated. And why the light was there I don't know +to this day. + +The second terror I experienced was excited by a circumstance no +less trivial. . . . I was returning from a romantic interview. It +was one o'clock at night, the time when nature is buried in the +soundest, sweetest sleep before the dawn. That time nature was +not sleeping, and one could not call the night a still one. +Corncrakes, quails, nightingales, and woodcocks were calling, +crickets and grasshoppers were chirruping. There was a light mist +over the grass, and clouds were scurrying straight +ahead across the sky near the moon. Nature was awake, as though +afraid of missing the best moments of her life. + +I walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway +embankment. The moonlight glided over the lines which were +already covered with dew. Great shadows from the clouds kept +flitting over the embankment. Far ahead, a dim green light was +glimmering peacefully. + +"So everything is well," I thought, looking at them. + +I had a quiet, peaceful, comfortable feeling in my heart. I was +returning from a tryst, I had no need to hurry; I was not sleepy, +and I was conscious of youth and health in every sigh, every step +I took, rousing a dull echo in the monotonous hum of +the night. I don't know what I was feeling then, but I remember +I was happy, very happy. + +I had gone not more than three-quarters of a mile when I suddenly +heard behind me a monotonous sound, a rumbling, rather like the +roar of a great stream. It grew louder and louder every second, +and sounded nearer and nearer. I looked round; a hundred paces +from me was the dark copse from which I had only just come; there +the embankment turned to the right in a graceful curve and +vanished among the trees. I stood still in perplexity and waited. +A huge black body appeared at once at the turn, noisily darted +towards me, and with the swiftness of a bird flew past me along +the rails. Less than half a minute passed and the blur had +vanished, the rumble melted away into the noise of the night. + +It was an ordinary goods truck. There was nothing peculiar about +it in itself, but its appearance without an engine and in the +night puzzled me. Where could it have come from and what force +sent it flying so rapidly along the rails? Where did it come +from and where was it flying to? + +If I had been superstitious I should have made up my mind it was +a party of demons and witches journeying to a devils' sabbath, +and should have gone on my way; but as it was, the phenomenon was +absolutely inexplicable to me. I did not believe my eyes, and +was entangled in conjectures like a fly in a spider's web. . . . + +I suddenly realized that I was utterly alone on the whole vast +plain; that the night, which by now seemed inhospitable, was +peeping into my face and dogging my footsteps; all the sounds, +the cries of the birds, the whisperings of the trees, seemed +sinister, and existing simply to alarm my imagination. I dashed +on like a madman, and without realizing what I was doing I ran, +trying to run faster and faster. And at once I heard something to +which I had paid no attention before: that is, the plaintive +whining of the telegraph wires. + +"This is beyond everything," I said, trying to shame myself. +"It's cowardice! it's silly!" + +But cowardice was stronger than common sense. I only slackened my +pace when I reached the green light, where I saw a dark +signal-box, and near it on the embankment the figure of a man, +probably the signalman. + +"Did you see it?" I asked breathlessly. + +"See whom? What?" + +"Why, a truck ran by." + +"I saw it, . . ." the peasant said reluctantly. "It broke away +from the goods train. There is an incline at the ninetieth mile . +. .; the train is dragged uphill. The coupling on the last truck +gave way, so it broke off and ran back. . . . There is + no catching it now! . . ." + +The strange phenomenon was explained and its fantastic character +vanished. My panic was over and I was able to go on my way. + +My third fright came upon me as I was going home from stand +shooting in early spring. It was in the dusk of evening. The +forest road was covered with pools from a recent shower of rain, +and the earth squelched under one's feet. The crimson glow of +sunset flooded the whole forest, coloring the white stems of the +birches and the young leaves. I was exhausted and could hardly +move. + +Four or five miles from home, walking along the forest road, I +suddenly met a big black dog of the water spaniel breed. As he +ran by, the dog looked intently at me, straight in my face, and +ran on. + +"A nice dog!" I thought. "Whose is it?" + +I looked round. The dog was standing ten paces off with his eyes +fixed on me. For a minute we scanned each other in silence, then +the dog, probably flattered by my attention, came slowly up to me +and wagged his tail. + +I walked on, the dog following me. + +"Whose dog can it be?" I kept asking myself. "Where does he come +from?" + +I knew all the country gentry for twenty or thirty miles round, +and knew all their dogs. Not one of them had a spaniel like that. +How did he come to be in the depths of the forest, on a track +used for nothing but carting timber? He could hardly have +dropped behind someone passing through, for there was nowhere for +the gentry to drive to along that road. + +I sat down on a stump to rest, and began scrutinizing my +companion. He, too, sat down, raised his head, and fastened upon +me an intent stare. He gazed at me without blinking. I don't know +whether it was the influence of the stillness, the shadows and +sounds of the forest, or perhaps a result of exhaustion, but I +suddenly felt uneasy under the steady gaze of his ordinary doggy +eyes. I thought of Faust and his bulldog, and of the fact that +nervous people sometimes when exhausted have hallucinations. +That was enough to make me get up hurriedly and hurriedly walk +on. The dog followed me. + +"Go away!" I shouted. + +The dog probably liked my voice, for he gave a gleeful jump and +ran about in front of me. + +"Go away!" I shouted again. + +The dog looked round, stared at me intently, and wagged his tail +good-humoredly. Evidently my threatening tone amused him. I ought +to have patted him, but I could not get Faust's dog out of my +head, and the feeling of panic grew more and more acute. . . +Darkness was coming on, which completed my confusion, and every +time the dog ran up to me and hit me with his tail, like a coward +I shut my eyes. The same thing happened as with the light in the +belfry and the truck on the railway: I could not stand it and +rushed away. + +At home I found a visitor, an old friend, who, after greeting me, +began to complain that as he wa s driving to me he had lost his +way in the forest, and a splendid valuable dog of his had dropped +behind. + +THE BET + +IT WAS a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and +down his study and remembering how, fifteen years before, he had +given a party one autumn evening. There had been many clever men +there, and there had been interesting conversations. Among other +things they had talked of capital punishment. The majority of the +guests, among whom were many journalists and intellectual men, +disapproved of the death penalty. They considered that form of +punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitable for Christian +States. In the opinion of some of them the death penalty ought to +be replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. + +"I don't agree with you," said their host the banker. "I have not +tried either the death penalty or imprisonment for life, but if +one may judge _a priori_, the death penalty is more moral and +more humane than imprisonment for life. Capital punishment kills +a man at once, but lifelong imprisonment kills him slowly. Which +executioner is the more humane, he who kills you in a few minutes +or he who drags the life out of you in the course of many years?" + +"Both are equally immoral," observed one of the guests, "for they +both have the same object -- to take away life. The State is not +God. It has not the right to take away what it cannot restore +when it wants to." + +Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of +five-and-twenty. When he was asked his opinion, he said: + +"The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, +but if I had to choose between the death penalty and imprisonment +for life, I would certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is +better than not at all." + +A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more +nervous in those days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; +he struck the table with his fist and shouted at the young man: + +"It's not true! I'll bet you two millions you wouldn't stay in +solitary confinement for five years." + +"If you mean that in earnest," said the young man, "I'll take the +bet, but I would stay not five but fifteen years." + +"Fifteen? Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two +millions!" + +"Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!" said +the young man. + +And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt +and frivolous, with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted +at the bet. At supper he made fun of the young man, and said: + +"Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me +two millions are a trifle, but you are losing three or four of +the best years of your life. I say three or four, because you +won't stay longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that +voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear than +compulsory. The thought that you have the right to step out in +liberty at any moment will poison your whole existence in prison. +I am sorry for you." + +And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and +asked himself: "What was the object of that bet? What is the good +of that man's losing fifteen years of his life and my throwing +away two millions? Can it prove that the death penalty is better +or worse than imprisonment for life? No, no. It was all +nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a +pampered man, and on his part simple greed for money. . . ." + +Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided +that the young man should spend the years of his captivity under +the strictest supervision in one of the lodges in the banker's +garden. It was agreed that for fifteen years he should not +be free to cross the threshold of the lodge, to see human +beings, to hear the human voice, or to receive letters and +newspapers. He was allowed to have a musical instrument and +books, and was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to +smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he +could have with the outer world were by a little window made +purposely for that object. He might have anything he wanted -- +books, music, wine, and so on -- in any quantity he desired by +writing an order, but could only receive them through the +window. The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle +that would make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the +young man to stay there _exactly_ fifteen years, beginning from +twelve o'clock of November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve +o'clock of November 14, 1885. The slightest attempt on his part +to break the conditions, if only two minutes before the end, +released the banker from the obligation to pay him two millions. + +For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge +from his brief notes, the prisoner suffered severely from +loneliness and depression. The sounds of the piano could be heard +continually day and night from his lodge. He refused wine and +tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are the +worst foes of the prisoner; and besides, nothing could be more +dreary than drinking good wine and seeing no one. And tobacco +spoilt the air of his room. In the first year the books he sent +for were principally of a light character; novels with a +complicated love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so +on. + +In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the +prisoner asked only for the classics. In the fifth year music was +audible again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched +him through the window said that all that year he spent doing +nothing but eating and drinking and lying on his bed, frequently +yawning and angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. +Sometimes at night he would sit down to write; he would spend +hours writing, and in the morning tear up all that he had +written. More than once he could be heard crying. + +In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealously +studying languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself +eagerly into these studies -- so much so that the banker had +enough to do to get him the books he ordered. In the course +of four years some six hundred volumes were procured at his +request. It was during this period that the banker received the +following letter from his prisoner: + +"My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show +them to people who know the languages. Let them read them. If +they find not one mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the +garden. That shot will show me that my efforts have not been +thrown away. The geniuses of all ages and of all lands speak +different languages, but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if +you only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feels now from +being able to understand them!" The prisoner's desire was +fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the +garden. + +Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the +table and read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the +banker that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred +learned volumes should waste nearly a year over one thin book +easy of comprehension. Theology and histories of religion +followed the Gospels. + +In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an +immense quantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time he +was busy with the natural sciences, then he would ask for Byron +or Shakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at the +same time books on chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a +novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology. His reading +suggested a man swimming in the sea among the wreckage of his +ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutching first at +one spar and then at another. + +II + +The old banker remembered all this, and thought: + +"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By our +agreement I ought to pay him two millions. If I do pay him, it is +all over with me: I shall be utterly ruined." + +Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; +now he was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or +his assets. Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild +speculation and the excitability whic h he could not get over +even in advancing years, had by degrees led to the decline of his +fortune and the proud, fearless, self-confident millionaire had +become a banker of middling rank, trembling at every rise and +fall in his investments. "Cursed bet!" muttered the old man, +clutching his head in despair "Why didn't the man die? He is only +forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will marry, +will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look +at him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the +same sentence: 'I am indebted to you for the happiness of my +life, let me help you!' No, it is too much! The one means of +being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the death of that +man!" + +It struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep +in the house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling +of the chilled trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a +fireproof safe the key of the door which had not been opened for +fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house. + +It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp +cutting wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the +trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see +neither the earth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the +trees. Going to the spot where the lodge stood, he twice called +the watchman. No answer followed. Evidently the watchman had +sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleep somewhere +either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse. + +"If I had the pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old +man, "Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman." + +He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into +the entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little +passage and lighted a match. There was not a soul there. There +was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there +was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the +prisoner's rooms were intact. + +When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, +peeped through the little window. A candle was burning dimly in +the prisoner's room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could +be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open +books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the +carpet near the table. + +Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen +years' imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker +tapped at the window with his finger, and the prisoner made no +movement whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke +the seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole. The rusty +lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The banker +expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but +three minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in the room. He +made up his mind to go in. + +At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. +He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with +long curls like a woman's and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow +with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long +and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped was +so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair +was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, +aged-looking face, no one would have believed that he was only +forty. He was asleep. . . . In front of his bowed head there lay +on the table a sheet of paper on which there was something +written in fine handwriting. + +"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most +likely dreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this +half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the +pillow, and the most conscientious expert would find no sign + of a violent death. But let us first read what he has written +here. . . ." + +The banker took the page from the table and read as follows: + +"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to +associate with other men, but before I leave this room and see +the sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. +With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds +me, that I despise freedom and life and health, and all that in +your books is called the good things of the world. + +"For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It +is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I +have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags +and wild boars in the forests, have loved women. . . . +Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your +poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered +in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In +your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont +Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched +it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops +with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning +flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have +seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard +the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' +pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to +converse with me of God. . . . In your books I have flung myself +into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, +preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms. . . . + +"Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought +of man has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass +in my brain. I know that I am wiser than all of you. + +"And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of +this world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and +deceptive, like a mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but +death will wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were +no more than mice burrowing under the floor, and your posterity, +your history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together +with the earthly globe. + +"You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have +taken lies for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would +marvel if, owing to strange events of some sorts, frogs and +lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead of fruit, +or if roses began to smell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at +you who exchange heaven for earth. I don't want to understand +you. + +"To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, I +renounce the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise +and which now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the +money I shall go out from here five hours before the time fixed, +and so break the compact. . . ." + +When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, +kissed the strange man on the head, and went out of the lodge, +weeping. At no other time, even when he had lost heavily on the +Stock Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for himself. +When he got home he lay on his bed, but his tears and emotion +kept him for hours from sleeping. + +Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him +they had seen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the +window into the garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker +went at once with the servants to the lodge and made sure +of the flight of his prisoner. To avoid arousing unnecessary +talk, he took from the table the writing in which the millions +were renounced, and when he got home locked it up in the +fireproof safe. + +THE HEAD-GARDENER'S STORY + +A SALE of flowers was taking place in Count N.'s greenhouses. The +purchasers were few in number -- a landowner who was a neighbor +of mine, a young timber-merchant, and myself. While the workmen +were carrying out our magnificent purchases and packing them +into the carts, we sat at the entry of the greenhouse and chatted +about one thing and another. It is extremely pleasant to sit in a +garden on a still April morning, listening to the birds, and +watching the flowers brought out into the open air and basking +in the sunshine. + +The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a +full shaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat, +superintended the packing of the plants himself, but at the same +time he listened to our conversation in the hope of hearing +something new. He was an intelligent, very good-hearted man, +respected by everyone. He was for some reason looked upon by +everyone as a German, though he was in reality on his father's +side Swedish, on his mother's side Russian, and attended the +Orthodox church. He knew Russian, Swedish, and German. He had +read a good deal in those languages, and nothing one could do +gave him greater pleasure than lending him some new book or +talking to him, for instance, about Ibsen. + +He had his weaknesses, but they were innocent ones: he called +himself the head gardener, though there were no under-gardeners; +the expression of his face was unusually dignified and haughty; +he could not endure to be contradicted, and liked to be listened +to with respect and attention. + +"That young fellow there I can recommend to you as an awful +rascal," said my neighbor, pointing to a laborer with a swarthy, +gipsy face, who drove by with the water-barrel. "Last week he was +tried in the town for burglary and was acquitted; they +pronounced him mentally deranged, and yet look at him, he is the +picture of health. Scoundrels are very often acquitted nowadays +in Russia on grounds of abnormality and aberration, yet these +acquittals, these unmistakable proofs of an indulgent attitude +to crime, lead to no good. They demoralize the masses, the sense +of justice is blunted in all as they become accustomed to seeing +vice unpunished, and you know in our age one may boldly say in +the words of Shakespeare that in our evil and corrupt age virtue +must ask forgiveness of vice." + +"That's very true," the merchant assented. "Owing to these +frequent acquittals, murder and arson have become much more +common. Ask the peasants." + +Mihail Karlovitch turned towards us and said: + +"As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, I am always delighted to +meet with these verdicts of not guilty. I am not afraid for +morality and justice when they say 'Not guilty,' but on the +contrary I feel pleased. Even when my conscience tells me the +jury have made a mistake in acquitting the criminal, even then I +am triumphant. Judge for yourselves, gentlemen; if the judges and +the jury have more faith in _man_ than in evidence, material +proofs, and speeches for the prosecution, is not that faith _in +man_ in itself higher than any ordinary considerations? Such +faith is only attainable by those few who understand and feel +Christ." + +"A fine thought," I said. + +"But it's not a new one. I remember a very long time ago I heard +a legend on that subject. A very charming legend," said the +gardener, and he smiled. "I was told it by my grandmother, my +father's mother, an excellent old lady. She told me it in +Swedish, and it does not sound so fine, so classical, in +Russian." + +But we begged him to tell it and not to be put off by the +coarseness of the Russian language. Much gratified, he +deliberately lighted his pipe, looked angrily at the laborers, +and began: + +"There settled in a certain little town a solitary, plain, +elderly gentleman called Thomson or Wilson -- but that does not +matter; the surname is not the point. He followed an honorable +profession: he was a doctor. He was always morose and unsociable, +and only spoke when required by his profession. He never visited +anyone, never extended his acquaintance beyond a silent bow, and +lived as humbly as a hermit. The fact was, he was a learned man, +and in those days learned men were not like other people. They +spent their days and nights in contemplation, in reading and in +healing disease, looked upon everything else as trivial, and had +no time to waste a word. The inhabitants of the town understood +this, and tried not to worry him with their visits and empty +chatter. They were very glad that God had sent them at last a +man who could heal diseases, and were proud that such a +remarkable man was living in their town. 'He knows everything,' +they said about him. + +"But that was not enough. They ought to have also said, 'He loves +everyone.' In the breast of that learned man there beat a +wonderful angelic heart. Though the people of that town were +strangers and not his own people, yet he loved them like +children, and did not spare himself for them. He was himself ill +with consumption, he had a cough, but when he was summoned to the +sick he forgot his own illness he did not spare himself and, +gasping for breath, climbed up the hills however high they might +be. He disregarded the sultry heat and the cold, despised thirst +and hunger. He would accept no money and strange to say, when one +of his patients died, he would follow the coffin with the +relations, weeping. + +"And soon he became so necessary to the town that the inhabitants +wondered how they could have got on before without the man. Their +gratitude knew no bounds. Grown-up people and children, good and +bad alike, honest men and cheats -- all in fact, respected him +and knew his value. In the little town and all the surrounding +neighborhood there was no man who would allow himself to do +anything disagreeable to him; indeed, they would never have +dreamed of it. When he came out of his lodging, he never +fastened the doors or windows, in complete confidence that there +was no thief who could bring himself to do him wrong. He often +had in the course of his medical duties to walk along the +highroads, through the forests and mountains haunted by numbers +of hungry vagrants; but he felt that he was in perfect security. + +"One night he was returning from a patient when robbers fell upon +him in the forest, but when they recognized him, they took off +their hats respectfully and offered him something to eat. When he +answered that he was not hungry, they gave him a warm + wrap and accompanied him as far as the town, happy that fate had +given them the chance in some small way to show their gratitude +to the benevolent man. Well, to be sure, my grandmother told me +that even the horses and the cows and the dogs knew him +and expressed their joy when they met him. + +"And this man who seemed by his sanctity to have guarded himself +from every evil, to whom even brigands and frenzied men wished +nothing but good, was one fine morning found murdered. Covered +with blood, with his skull broken, he was lying in a ravine, and +his pale face wore an expression of amazement. Yes, not horror +but amazement was the emotion that had been fixed upon his face +when he saw the murderer before him. You can imagine the grief +that overwhelmed the inhabitants of the town and the surrounding +districts. All were in despair, unable to believe their eyes, +wondering who could have killed the man. The judges who conducted +the inquiry and examined the doctor's body said: 'Here we have +all the signs of a murder, but as there is not a man in the +world capable of murdering our doctor, obviously it was not a +case of murder, and the combination of evidence is due to simple +chance. We must suppose that in the darkness he fell into the +ravine of himself and was mortally injured.' + +"The whole town agreed with this opinion. The doctor was buried, +and nothing more was said about a violent death. The existence of +a man who could have the baseness and wickedness to kill the +doctor seemed incredible. There is a limit even to wickedness, +isn't there? + +"All at once, would you believe it, chance led them to +discovering the murderer. A vagrant who had been many times +convicted, notorious for his vicious life, was seen selling for +drink a snuff-box and watch that had belonged to the doctor. When +he was questioned he was confused, and answered with an obvious +lie. A search was made, and in his bed was found a shirt with +stains of blood on the sleeves, and a doctor's lancet set in +gold. What more evidence was wanted? They put the criminal in +prison. The inhabitants were indignant, and at the same time +said: + +" 'It's incredible! It can't be so! Take care that a mistake is +not made; it does happen, you know, that evidence tells a false +tale.' + +"At his trial the murderer obstinately denied his guilt. +Everything was against him, and to be convinced of his guilt was +as easy as to believe that this earth is black; but the judges +seem to have gone mad: they weighed every proof ten times, looked +distrustfully at the witnesses, flushed crimson and sipped water. +. . . The trial began early in the morning and was only finished +in the evening. + +"'Accused!' the chief judge said, addressing the murderer, 'the +court has found you guilty of murdering Dr. So-and-so, and has +sentenced you to. . . .' + +"The chief judge meant to say 'to the death penalty,' but he +dropped from his hands the paper on which the sentence was +written, wiped the cold sweat from his face, and cried out: + +"'No! May God punish me if I judge wrongly, but I swear he is +not guilty. I cannot admit the thought that there exists a man +who would dare to murder our friend the doctor! A man could not +sink so low!' + +"'There cannot be such a man!' the other judges assented. + +"'No,' the crowd cried. 'Let him go!' + +"The murderer was set free to go where he chose, and not one soul +blamed the court for an unjust verdict. And my grandmother used +to say that for such faith in humanity God forgave the sins of +all the inhabitants of that town. He rejoices when people +believe that man is His image and semblance, and grieves if, +forgetful of human dignity, they judge worse of men than of dogs. +The sentence of acquittal may bring harm to the inhabitants of +the town, but on the other hand, think of the beneficial +influence upon them of that faith in man -- a faith which does +not remain dead, you know; it raises up generous feelings in us, +and always impels us to love and respect every man. Every man! +And that is important." + +Mihail Karlovitch had finished. My neighbor would have urged some +objection, but the head-gardener made a gesture that signified +that he did not like objections; then he walked away to the +carts, and, with an expression of dignity, went on looking after +the packing. + +THE BEAUTIES + +I + +I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or sixth +class, I was driving with my grandfather from the village of +Bolshoe Kryepkoe in the Don region to Rostov-on-the-Don. It was a +sultry, languidly dreary day of August. Our eyes were glued +together, and our mouths were parched from the heat and the dry +burning wind which drove clouds of dust to meet us; one did not +want to look or speak or think, and when our drowsy driver, a +Little Russian called Karpo, swung his whip at the horses and +lashed me on my cap, I did not protest or utter a sound, but +only, rousing myself from half-slumber, gazed mildly and +dejectedly into the distance to see whether there was a village +visible through the dust. We stopped to feed the horses in a big +Armenian village at a rich Armenian's whom my grandfather knew. +Never in my life have I seen a greater caricature than that +Armenian. Imagine a little shaven head with thick overhanging +eyebrows, a beak of a nose, long gray mustaches, and a wide +mouth with a long cherry-wood chibouk sticking out of it. This +little head was clumsily attached to a lean hunch-back carcass +attired in a fantastic garb, a short red jacket, and full bright +blue trousers. This figure walked straddling its legs and +shuffling with its slippers, spoke without taking the chibouk out +of its mouth, and behaved with truly Armenian dignity, not +smiling, but staring with wide-open eyes and trying to take as +little notice as possible of its guests. + +There was neither wind nor dust in the Armenian's rooms, but it +was just as unpleasant, stifling, and dreary as in the steppe and +on the road. I remember, dusty and exhausted by the heat, I sat +in the corner on a green box. The unpainted wooden walls, the +furniture, and the floors colored with yellow ocher smelt of dry +wood baked by the sun. Wherever I looked there were flies and +flies and flies. . . . Grandfather and the Armenian were talking +about grazing, about manure, and about oats. . + . . I knew that they would be a good hour getting the samovar; +that grandfather would be not less than an hour drinking his tea, +and then would lie down to sleep for two or three hours; that I +should waste a quarter of the day waiting, after which there +would be again the heat, the dust, the jolting cart. I heard the +muttering of the two voices, and it began to seem to me that I +had been seeing the Armenian, the cupboard with the crockery, the +flies, the windows with the burning sun beating on them, for +ages and ages, and should only cease to see them in the far-off +future, and I was seized with hatred for the steppe, the sun, the +flies.. . . + +A Little Russian peasant woman in a kerchief brought in a tray of +tea-things, then the samovar. The Armenian went slowly out into +the passage and shouted: "Mashya, come and pour out tea! Where +are you, Mashya?" + +Hurried footsteps were heard, and there came into the room a girl +of sixteen in a simple cotton dress and a white kerchief. As she +washed the crockery and poured out the tea, she was standing with +her back to me, and all I could see was that she was of a +slender figure, barefooted, and that her little bare heels were +covered by long trousers. + +The Armenian invited me to have tea. Sitting down to the table, I +glanced at the girl, who was handing me a glass of tea, and felt +all at once as though a wind were blowing over my soul and +blowing away all the impressions of the day with their dust and +dreariness. I saw the bewitching features of the most beautiful +face I have ever met in real life or in my dreams. Before me +stood a beauty, and I recognized that at the first glance as I +should have recognized lightning. + +I am ready to swear that Masha -- or, as her father called her, +Mashya -- was a real beauty, but I don't know how to prove it. It +sometimes happens that clouds are huddled together in disorder on +the horizon, and the sun hiding behind them colors them and the +sky with tints of every possible shade--crimson, orange, gold, +lilac, muddy pink; one cloud is like a monk, another like a fish, +a third like a Turk in a turban. The glow of sunset enveloping a +third of the sky gleams on the cross on the church, flashes on +the windows of the manor house, is reflected in the river and the +puddles, quivers on the trees; far, far away against the +background of the sunset, a flock of wild ducks is flying +homewards. . . . And the boy herding the cows, and the surveyor +driving in his chaise over the dam, and the gentleman out for a +walk, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them thinks it +terribly beautiful, but no one knows or can say in what its +beauty lies. + +I was not the only one to think the Armenian girl beautiful. My +grandfather, an old man of seventy, gruff and indifferent to +women and the beauties of nature, looked caressingly at Masha for +a full minute, and asked: + +"Is that your daughter, Avert Nazaritch?" + +"Yes, she is my daughter," answered the Armenian. + +"A fine young lady," said my grandfather approvingly. + +An artist would have called the Armenian girl's beauty classical +and severe, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which +-- God knows why!-- inspires in one the conviction that one is +seeing correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, +bosom, and every movement of the young body all go together in +one complete harmonious accord in which nature has not blundered +over the smallest line. You fancy for some reason that the +ideally beautiful woman must have such a nose as Masha's, +straight and slightly aquiline, just such great dark eyes, such +long lashes, such a languid glance; you fancy that her black +curly hair and eyebrows go with the soft white tint of her brow +and cheeks as the green reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha's +white neck and her youthful bosom were not fully developed, but +you fancy the sculptor would need a great creative genius to mold +them. You gaze, and little by little the desire comes over you to +say to Masha something extraordinarily pleasant, sincere, +beautiful, as beautiful as she herself was. + +At first I felt hurt and abashed that Masha took no notice of me, +but was all the time looking down; it seemed to me as though a +peculiar atmosphere, proud and happy, separated her from me and +jealously screened her from my eyes. + +"That's because I am covered with dust," I thought, "am sunburnt, +and am still a boy." + +But little by little I forgot myself, and gave myself up entirely +to the consciousness of beauty. I thought no more now of the +dreary steppe, of the dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the +flies, no longer tasted the tea, and felt nothing except that a +beautiful girl was standing only the other side of the table. + +I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor +ecstacy, nor enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful +though pleasant sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as +a dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for my +grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the girl herself, and +I had a feeling as though we all four had lost something +important and essential to life which we should never find again. +My grandfather, too, grew melancholy; he talked no more about +manure or about oats, but sat silent, looking pensively at +Masha. + +After tea my grandfather lay down for a nap while I went out of +the house into the porch. The house, like all the houses in the +Armenian village stood in the full sun; there was not a tree, not +an awning, no shade. The Armenian's great courtyard, overgrown +with goosefoot and wild mallows, was lively and full of gaiety in +spite of the great heat. Threshing was going on behind one of the +low hurdles which intersected the big yard here and there. Round +a post stuck into the middle of the threshing-floor ran a dozen +horses harnessed side by side, so that they formed one long +radius. A Little Russian in a long waistcoat and full trousers +was walking beside them, cracking a whip and shouting in a tone +that sounded as though he were jeering at the horses and showing +off his power over them. + +"A--a--a, you damned brutes! . . . A--a--a, plague take you! Are +you frightened?" + +The horses, sorrel, white, and piebald, not understanding why +they were made to run round in one place and to crush the wheat +straw, ran unwillingly as though with effort, swinging their +tails with an offended air. The wind raised up perfect clouds +of golden chaff from under their hoofs and carried it away far +beyond the hurdle. Near the tall fresh stacks peasant women were +swarming with rakes, and carts were moving, and beyond the stacks +in another yard another dozen similar horses were running round +a post, and a similar Little Russian was cracking his whip and +jeering at the horses. + +The steps on which I was sitting were hot; on the thin rails and +here and there on the window-frames sap was oozing out of the +wood from the heat; red ladybirds were huddling together in the +streaks of shadow under the steps and under the shutters. +The sun was baking me on my head, on my chest, and on my back, +but I did not notice it, and was conscious only of the thud of +bare feet on the uneven floor in the passage and in the rooms +behind me. After clearing away the tea-things, Masha ran down +the steps, fluttering the air as she passed, and like a bird flew +into a little grimy outhouse--I suppose the kitchen--from which +came the smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry talk in +Armenian. She vanished into the dark doorway, and in her place +there appeared on the threshold an old bent, red-faced Armenian +woman wearing green trousers. The old woman was angry and was +scolding someone. Soon afterwards Masha appeared in the doorway, +flushed with the heat of the kitchen and carrying a big black +loaf on her shoulder; swaying gracefully under the weight of the +bread, she ran across the yard to the threshing-floor, darted +over the hurdle, and, wrapt in a cloud of golden chaff, vanished +behind the carts. The Little Russian who was driving the horses +lowered his whip, sank into silence, and gazed for a minute in +the direction of the carts. Then when the Armenian girl darted +again by the horses and leaped over the hurdle, he followed her +with his eyes, and shouted to the horses in a tone as though he +were greatly disappointed: + +"Plague take you, unclean devils!" + +And all the while I was unceasingly hearing her bare feet, and +seeing how she walked across the yard with a grave, preoccupied +face. She ran now down the steps, swishing the air about me, now +into the kitchen, now to the threshing-floor, now through the +gate, and I could hardly turn my head quickly enough to watch +her. + +And the oftener she fluttered by me with her beauty, the more +acute became my sadness. I felt sorry both for her and for myself +and for the Little Russian, who mournfully watched her every time +she ran through the cloud of chaff to the carts. Whether it was +envy of her beauty, or that I was regretting that the girl was +not mine, and never would be, or that I was a stranger to her; or +whether I vaguely felt that her rare beauty was accidental, +unnecessary, and, like everything on earth, of short duration; +or whether, perhaps, my sadness was that peculiar feeling which +is excited in man by the contemplation of real beauty, God only +knows. + +The three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to me that +I had not had time to look properly at Masha when Karpo drove up +to the river, bathed the horse, and began to put it in the +shafts. The wet horse snorted with pleasure and kicked his +hoofs against the shafts. Karpo shouted to it: "Ba--ack!" My +grandfather woke up. Masha opened the creaking gates for us, we +got into the chaise and drove out of the yard. We drove in +silence as though we were angry with one another. + +When, two or three hours later, Rostov and Nahitchevan appeared +in the distance, Karpo, who had been silent the whole time, +looked round quickly, and said: + +"A fine wench, that at the Armenian's." + +And he lashed his horses. + +II + +Another time, after I had become a student, I was traveling by +rail to the south. It was May. At one of the stations, I believe +it was between Byelgorod and Harkov, I got out of the tram to +walk about the platform. + +The shades of evening were already lying on the station garden, +on the platform, and on the fields; the station screened off the +sunset, but on the topmost clouds of smoke from the engine, which +were tinged with rosy light, one could see the sun had not yet +quite vanished. + +As I walked up and down the platform I noticed that the greater +number of the passengers were standing or walking near a +second-class compartment, and that they looked as though some +celebrated person were in that compartment. Among the curious +whom I met near this compartment I saw, however, an artillery +officer who had been my fellow-traveler, an intelligent, cordial, +and sympathetic fellow--as people mostly are whom we meet on our +travels by chance and with whom we are not long acquainted. + +"What are you looking at there?" I asked. + +He made no answer, but only indicated with his eyes a feminine +figure. It was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a +Russian dress, with her head bare and a little shawl flung +carelessly on one shoulder; not a passenger, but I suppose a +sister or daughter of the station-master. She was standing near +the carriage window, talking to an elderly woman who was in the +train. Before I had time to realize what I was seeing, I was +suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had once experienced in +the Armenian village. + +The girl was remarkably beautiful, and that was unmistakable to +me and to those who were looking at her as I was. + +If one is to describe her appearance feature by feature, as the +practice is, the only really lovely thing was her thick wavy fair +hair, which hung loose with a black ribbon tied round her head; +all the other features were either irregular or very ordinary. +Either from a peculiar form of coquettishness, or from +short-sightedness, her eyes were screwed up, her nose had an +undecided tilt, her mouth was small, her profile was feebly and +insipidly drawn, her shoulders were narrow and undeveloped for +her age -- and yet the girl made the impression of being really +beautiful, and looking at her, I was able to feel convinced that +the Russian face does not need strict regularity in order to be +lovely; what is more, that if instead of her turn-up nose the +girl had been given a different one, correct and plastically +irreproachable like the Armenian girl's, I fancy her face would +have lost all its charm from the change. + +Standing at the window talking, the girl, shrugging at the +evening damp, continually looking round at us, at one moment put +her arms akimbo, at the next raised her hands to her head to +straighten her hair, talked, laughed, while her face at one +moment wore an expression of wonder, the next of horror, and I +don't remember a moment when her face and body were at rest. The +whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in these tiny, +infinitely elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of her +face, in her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the +subtle grace of her movements with her youth, her freshness, the +purity of her soul that sounded in her laugh and voice, and with +the weakness we love so much in children, in birds, in fawns, +and in young trees. + +It was that butterfly's beauty so in keeping with waltzing, +darting about the garden, laughter and gaiety, and incongruous +with serious thought, grief, and repose; and it seemed as though +a gust of wind blowing over the platform, or a fall of rain, +would be enough to wither the fragile body and scatter the +capricious beauty like the pollen of a flower. + +"So--o! . . ." the officer muttered with a sigh when, after the +second bell, we went back to our compartment. + +And what that "So--o" meant I will not undertake to decide. + +Perhaps he was sad, and did not want to go away from the beauty +and the spring evening into the stuffy train; or perhaps he, like +me, was unaccountably sorry for the beauty, for himself, and for +me, and for all the passengers, who were listlessly and +reluctantly sauntering back to their compartments. As we passed +the station window, at which a pale, red-haired telegraphist with +upstanding curls and a faded, broad-cheeked face was sitting +beside his apparatus, the officer heaved a sigh and said: + +"I bet that telegraphist is in love with that pretty girl. To +live out in the wilds under one roof with that ethereal creature +and not fall in love is beyond the power of man. And what a +calamity, my friend! what an ironical fate, to be stooping, +unkempt, gray, a decent fellow and not a fool, and to be in love +with that pretty, stupid little girl who would never take a scrap +of notice of you! Or worse still: imagine that telegraphist is in +love, and at the same time married, and that his wife is as +stooping, as unkempt, and as decent a person as himself." + +On the platform between our carriage and the next the guard was +standing with his elbows on the railing, looking in the direction +of the beautiful girl, and his battered, wrinkled, unpleasantly +beefy face, exhausted by sleepless nights and the jolting of the +train, wore a look of tenderness and of the deepest sadness, as +though in that girl he saw happiness, his own youth, soberness, +purity, wife, children; as though he were repenting and feeling +in his whole being that that girl was not his, and that for him, +with his premature old age, his uncouthness, and his beefy face, +the ordinary happiness of a man and a passenger was as far away +as heaven. . . . + +The third bell rang, the whistles sounded, and the train slowly +moved off. First the guard, the station-master, then the garden, +the beautiful girl with her exquisitely sly smile, passed before +our windows. . . . + +Putting my head out and looking back, I saw how, looking after +the train, she walked along the platform by the window where the +telegraph clerk was sitting, smoothed her hair, and ran into the +garden. The station no longer screened off the sunset, the plain +lay open before us, but the sun had already set and the smoke lay +in black clouds over the green, velvety young corn. It was +melancholy in the spring air, and in the darkening sky, and in +the railway carriage. + +The familiar figure of the guard came into the carriage, and he +began lighting the candles. + +THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL + +IT was Christmas Eve. Marya had long been snoring on the stove; +all the paraffin in the little lamp had burnt out, but Fyodor +Nilov still sat at work. He would long ago have flung aside his +work and gone out into the street, but a customer from Kolokolny +Lane, who had a fortnight before ordered some boots, had been in +the previous day, had abused him roundly, and had ordered him to +finish the boots at once before the morning service. + +"It's a convict's life!" Fyodor grumbled as he worked. "Some +people have been asleep long ago, others are enjoying themselves, +while you sit here like some Cain and sew for the devil knows +whom. . . ." + +To save himself from accidentally falling asleep, he kept taking +a bottle from under the table and drinking out of it, and after +every pull at it he twisted his head and said aloud: + +"What is the reason, kindly tell me, that customers enjoy +themselves while I am forced to sit and work for them? Because +they have money and I am a beggar?" + +He hated all his customers, especially the one who lived in +Kolokolny Lane. He was a gentleman of gloomy appearance, with +long hair, a yellow face, blue spectacles, and a husky voice. He +had a German name which one could not pronounce. It was +impossible to tell what was his calling and what he did. When, a +fortnight before, Fyodor had gone to take his measure, he, the +customer, was sitting on the floor pounding something in a +mortar. Before Fyodor had time to say good-morning the contents +of the mortar suddenly flared up and burned with a bright red +flame; there was a stink of sulphur and burnt feathers, and the +room was filled with a thick pink smoke, so that Fyodor sneezed +five times; and as he returned home afterwards, he +thought: "Anyone who feared God would not have anything to do +with things like that." + +When there was nothing left in the bottle Fyodor put the boots on +the table and sank into thought. He leaned his heavy head on his +fist and began thinking of his poverty, of his hard life with no +glimmer of light in it. Then he thought of the rich, +of their big houses and their carriages, of their hundred-rouble +notes. . . . How nice it would be if the houses of these rich men +-- the devil flay them! -- were smashed, if their horses died, if +their fur coats and sable caps got shabby! How splendid it would +be if the rich, little by little, changed into beggars having +nothing, and he, a poor shoemaker, were to become rich, and were +to lord it over some other poor shoemaker on Christmas Eve. + +Dreaming like this, Fyodor suddenly thought of his work, and +opened his eyes. + +"Here's a go," he thought, looking at the boots. "The job has +been finished ever so long ago, and I go on sitting here. I must +take the boots to the gentleman." + +He wrapped up the work in a red handkerchief, put on his things, +and went out into the street. A fine hard snow was falling, +pricking the face as though with needles. It was cold, slippery, +dark, the gas-lamps burned dimly, and for some reason there was +a smell of paraffin in the street, so that Fyodor coughed and +cleared his throat. Rich men were driving to and fro on the road, +and every rich man had a ham and a bottle of vodka in his hands. +Rich young ladies peeped at Fyodor out of the carriages and +sledges, put out their tongues and shouted, laughing: + +"Beggar! Beggar!" + +Students, officers, and merchants walked behind Fyodor, jeering +at him and crying: + +"Drunkard! Drunkard! Infidel cobbler! Soul of a boot-leg! +Beggar!" + +All this was insulting, but Fyodor held his tongue and only spat +in disgust. But when Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, a +master-bootmaker, met him and said: "I've married a rich woman +and I have men working under me, while you are a beggar and have +nothing to eat," Fyodor could not refrain from running after him. +He pursued him till he found himself in Kolokolny Lane. His +customer lived in the fourth house from the corner on the very +top floor. To reach him one had to go through a long, dark +courtyard, and then to climb up a very high slipp ery stair-case +which tottered under one's feet. When Fyodor went in to him he +was sitting on the floor pounding something in a mortar, just as +he had been the fortnight before. + +"Your honor, I have brought your boots," said Fyodor sullenly. + +The customer got up and began trying on the boots in silence. +Desiring to help him, Fyodor went down on one knee and pulled off +his old, boot, but at once jumped up and staggered towards the +door in horror. The customer had not a foot, but a hoof like a +horse's. + +"Aha!" thought Fyodor; "here's a go!" + +The first thing should have been to cross himself, then to leave +everything and run downstairs; but he immediately reflected that +he was meeting a devil for the first and probably the last time, +and not to take advantage of his services would be foolish. He +controlled himself and determined to try his luck. Clasping his +hands behind him to avoid making the sign of the cross, he +coughed respectfully and began: + +"They say that there is nothing on earth more evil and impure +than the devil, but I am of the opinion, your honor, that the +devil is highly educated. He has -- excuse my saying it -- hoofs +and a tail behind, but he has more brains than many a student." + +"I like you for what you say," said the devil, flattered. "Thank +you, shoemaker! What do you want?" + +And without loss of time the shoemaker began complaining of his +lot. He began by saying that from his childhood up he had envied +the rich. He had always resented it that all people did not live +alike in big houses and drive with good horses. Why, he asked, +was he poor? How was he worse than Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, +who had his own house, and whose wife wore a hat? He had the same +sort of nose, the same hands, feet, head, and back, as the rich, +and so why was he forced to work when others were enjoying +themselves? Why was he married to Marya and not to a lady +smelling of scent? He had often seen beautiful young ladies in +the houses of rich customers, but they either took no notice of +him whatever, or else sometimes laughed and whispered to each +other: "What a red nose that shoemaker has!" It was true that +Marya was a good, kind, hard-working woman, but she was not +educated; her hand was heavy and hit hard, and if one had +occasion to speak of politics or anything intellectual before +her, she would put her spoke in and talk the most awful nonsense. + +"What do you want, then?" his customer interrupted him. + +"I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased +to make me a rich man." + +"Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before +the cocks crow, go and sign on this paper here that you give me +up your soul." + +"Your honor," said Fyodor politely, "when you ordered a pair of +boots from me I did not ask for the money in advance. One has +first to carry out the order and then ask for payment." + +"Oh, very well!" the customer assented. + +A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick +smoke came puffing out, and there was a smell of burnt feathers +and sulphur. When the smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes +and saw that he was no longer Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker, but +quite a different man, wearing a waistcoat and a watch-chain, in +a new pair of trousers, and that he was sitting in an armchair at +a big table. Two foot men were handing him dishes, bowing low and +saying: + +"Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!" + +What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton +and a dish of cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast +goose, and a little afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish +cream. And how dignified, how genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, +and before each dish drank a big glass of excellent vodka, like +some general or some count. After the pork he was handed some +boiled grain moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with +bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eating and was +delighted. What more? They served, too, a pie with onion and +steamed turnip with kvass. + +"How is it the gentry don't burst with such meals?" he thought. + +In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey. After dinner +the devil appeared in blue spectacles and asked with a low bow: + +"Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?" + +But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after his +dinner. The feeling of repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and +to distract his thoughts he looked at the boot on his left foot. + +"For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a +half roubles. What shoemaker made it?" he asked. + +"Kuzma Lebyodkin," answered the footman. + +"Send for him, the fool!" + +Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw soon made his appearance. He stopped +in a respectful attitude at the door and asked: + +"What are your orders, your honor?" + +"Hold your tongue!" cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. "Don't +dare to argue; remember your place as a cobbler! Blockhead! You +don't know how to make boots! I'll beat your ugly phiz to a +jelly! Why have you come?" + +"For money." + +"What money? Be off! Come on Saturday! Boy, give him a cuff!" + +But he at once recalled what a life the customers used to lead +him, too, and he felt heavy at heart, and to distract his +attention he took a fat pocketbook out of his pocket and began +counting his money. There was a great deal of money, but Fyodor +wanted more still. The devil in the blue spectacles brought him +another notebook fatter still, but he wanted even more; and the +more he counted it, the more discontented he became. + +In the evening the evil one brought him a full-bosomed lady in a +red dress, and said that this was his new wife. He spent the +whole evening kissing her and eating gingerbreads, and at night +he went to bed on a soft, downy feather-bed, turned from side to +side, and could not go to sleep. He felt uncanny. + +"We have a great deal of money," he said to his wife; "we must +look out or thieves will be breaking in. You had better go and +look with a candle." + +He did not sleep all night, and kept getting up to see if his box +was all right. In the morning he had to go to church to matins. +In church the same honor is done to rich and poor alike. When +Fyodor was poor he used to pray in church like this: "God, +forgive me, a sinner!" He said the same thing now though he had +become rich. What difference was there? And after death Fyodor +rich would not be buried in gold, not in diamonds, but in the +same black earth as the poorest beggar. Fyodor would burn in the +same fire as cobblers. Fyodor resented all this, and, too, he +felt weighed down all over by his dinner, and instead of prayer +he had all sorts of thoughts in his head about his box of money, +about thieves, about his bartered, ruined soul. + +He came out of church in a bad temper. To drive away his +unpleasant thoughts as he had often done before, he struck up a +song at the top of his voice. But as soon as he began a policeman +ran up and said, with his fingers to the peak of his cap: + +"Your honor, gentlefolk must not sing in the street! You are not +a shoemaker!" + +Fyodor leaned his back against a fence and fell to thinking: what +could he do to amuse himself? + +"Your honor," a porter shouted to him, "don't lean against the +fence, you will spoil your fur coat!" + +Fyodor went into a shop and bought himself the very best +concertina, then went out into the street playing it. Everybody +pointed at him and laughed. + +"And a gentleman, too," the cabmen jeered at him; "like some +cobbler. . . ." + +"Is it the proper thing for gentlefolk to be disorderly in the +street?" a policeman said to him. "You had better go into a +tavern!" + +"Your honor, give us a trifle, for Christ's sake," the beggars +wailed, surrounding Fyodor on all sides. + +In earlier days when he was a shoemaker the beggars took no +notice of him, now they wouldn't let him pass. + +And at home his new wife, the lady, was waiting for him, dressed +in a green blouse and a red skirt. He meant to be attentive to +her, and had just lifted his arm to give her a good clout on the +back, but she said angrily: + +"Peasant! Ignorant lout! You don't know how to behave with +ladies! If you love me you will kiss my hand; I don't allow you +to beat me." + +"This is a blasted existence!" thought Fyodor. "People do lead a +life! You mustn't sing, you mustn't play the concertina, you +mustn't have a lark with a lady. . . . Pfoo!" + +He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil +spirit in the blue spectacles appeared and said: + +"Come, Fyodor Pantelyeitch, I have performed my part of the +bargain. Now sign your paper and come along with me!" + +And he dragged Fyodor to hell, straight to the furnace, and +devils flew up from all directions and shouted: + +"Fool! Blockhead! Ass!" + +There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to +suffocate one. And suddenly it all vanished. Fyodor opened his +eyes and saw his table, the boots, and the tin lamp. The +lamp-glass was black, and from the faint light on the wick came +clouds of stinking smoke as from a chimney. Near the table stood +the customer in the blue spectacles, shouting angrily: + +"Fool! Blockhead! Ass! I'll give you a lesson, you scoundrel! You +took the order a fortnight ago and the boots aren't ready yet! Do +you suppose I want to come trapesing round here half a dozen +times a day for my boots? You wretch! you brute!" + +Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots. The customer +went on swearing and threatening him for a long time. At last +when he subsided, Fyodor asked sullenly: + +"And what is your occupation, sir?" + +"I make Bengal lights and fireworks. I am a pyrotechnician." + +They began ringing for matins. Fyodor gave the customer the +boots, took the money for them, and went to church. + +Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro +in the street; merchants, ladies, officers were walking along the +pavement together with the humbler folk. . . . But Fyodor did not +envy them nor repine at his lot. It seemed to him now that rich +and poor were equally badly off. Some were able to drive in a +carriage, and others to sing songs at the top of their voice and +to play the concertina, but one and the same thing, the same +grave, was awaiting all alike, and there was nothing in life for +which one would give the devil even a tiny scrap of one's soul. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Schoolmistress and other Stories by +Chekhov + diff --git a/old/tschm10.zip b/old/tschm10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2df4825 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tschm10.zip |