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Title: The humour of Russia
Author: Voynich, E. L. (Ethel Lillian)
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.
*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The humour of Russia" ***
_HUMOUR SERIES_
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS
THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
ALREADY ISSUED
_FRENCH HUMOUR_
_GERMAN HUMOUR_
_ITALIAN HUMOUR_
_AMERICAN HUMOUR_
_DUTCH HUMOUR_
_IRISH HUMOUR_
_SPANISH HUMOUR_
_RUSSIAN HUMOUR_
[Illustration:
“ONE DAY I WAS OUT FOR A SPREE WITH MY MAN JACK.”
—p. 167.
]
THE
HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED BY E. L.
VOYNICH, WITH AN
INTRODUCTION BY
STEPNIAK
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
PAUL FRÉNZENY
LONDON WALTER SCOTT
1895 LTD
CONTENTS
PAGE
MARRIAGE—_Gogol_ 1
AT THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S—_Gorbounòv_ 64
BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE—_Gorbounòv_ 69
INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER—_A. N. Ostròvsky_ 72
A MADMAN’S DIARY—_Gogol_ 107
PORRIDGE—_Nikolai Uspènsky_ 135
A DOMESTIC PICTURE—_A. N. Ostròvsky_ 142
“LA TRAVIATA”—_Gorbounòv_ 167
A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS—_Gorbounòv_ 170
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER—_N. Uspènsky_ 174
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ONÉSIME CHENAPAN—“_Shchedrìn_” 185
THE CROCODILE—_Fèdor Dostoyèvsky_ 205
THE STEAM-CHICKEN—_Glyeb Uspènsky_ 236
THE STORY OF A KOPECK—_S. Stepniak_ 254
THE DOG’S PASSPORT 273
A TRIFLING DEFECT IN THE MECHANISM—_Glyeb Uspènsky_ 276
THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT—“_Shchedrìn_” 309
CHOIR PRACTICE—_V. A. Slyeptzòv_ 317
THE EAGLE AS MECÆNAS—“_Shchedrìn_” 335
INTRODUCTION.
Of all manifestations of literary genius humour is the rarest, and I am
not sure that it is not the highest. Laughter is immortal. The
sentimental novels over which our grandfathers and grandmothers shed
floods of tears—the “Corinnas,” the “Clarissas,” and the “New
Heloises”—have become for us soporifics of an almost irresistible
strength. But the world still laughs, and will laugh for ever, over the
masterpiece of Cervantes and the burlesques of Voltaire. Who nowadays
can read from beginning to end Francesco Petrarca, and who can put down
Giovanni Boccaccio when once begun?
Then again, whilst the demand for refreshing, invigorating laughter has
been in all times the greatest, the number of authors who have come
forward to dispense it is surprisingly small, even in the richest
literatures. The Italians, for example, have had only one master of
immortal laughter—the above-mentioned Boccaccio. The great Manzoni
possessed the deep intrinsic qualities of a humorist but had not the
pungency. In the long list of Italian authors of our century there is
only one humorist of first magnitude—Carlo Porta, who wrote not in
literary Italian but in the Milanese dialect.
Of all races the stern, sad English are by far the richest in the
beautiful gift of genuine humour. The melancholy Slavonians come, I
think, next to the English. Melancholy does not exclude humour. On the
contrary, the richest pearls of humour are gathered at the bottom of the
sea of sadness. The greatest humorists have never been men of cheerful
mood, and this seems to be as true of nations as of men.
From the time when Russia first possessed a literature worthy of the
name, we have always had eminent humorists, some of them, like Gogol and
Shchedrìn, belonging to those makers of divine laughter who so rarely
appear among the nations.
But although justly popular in their own country, the Russian humorists
are hardly known abroad. This is certainly due not to want of
opportunity of knowing them. Gogol’s masterpieces, “Dead Souls” and “The
Inspector,” were translated years ago into English. But he is not half
so well known in this country as any of the three great Russian
novelists. Humour is so eminently national, it is so closely bound to
the soil where it is born, that it can rarely be transplanted to other
climes and skies. It certainly loses more in translation than ordinary
fiction, and it requires a peculiar gift on the part of the translator
that its distinctive characteristics should not be lost altogether.
However, translators have had the courage to try their skill upon Gogol,
who is not only the greatest but the most comprehensible of Russian
humorists. With him the comical effect results neither from the peculiar
manner of description nor from the contrasts presented, but from his
unique gift of bringing to the surface the comical traits of men’s
characters. His is the deepest and the most artistic form of humour,
which on this account becomes sometimes international. Gogol’s
heroes—some of them at least—are as comprehensible to the English as
Charles Dickens’s Mr. Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby are comprehensible to
the Russians.
The present volume contains two beautiful examples of Gogol’s art, which
has not been yet translated into English—“A Madman’s Diary” and
“Marriage.”
The “Diary” is a fanciful sketch, presenting perhaps the most typical
sample of “Humour,” as distinguished from other forms of the comical,
which can be found in any literature. It is an intensely pathetic, and
at the same time irresistibly droll, bit of autobiography of a poor
wretch of an official whose life has been one of insufferable
humiliation, and whose mind, upset by a fatal passion for a fashionable
girl, seeks refuge in the dream of greatness ending in total madness.
“Laughter through tears,” that was Gogol’s own definition of the
character of his muse, and in no other work has he shown so palpably
what he meant by that expression as in “A Madman’s Diary.”
“Marriage,” although bearing the author’s heading, “an utterly
incredible story,” and viewed by him as a mere joke, is recognised by
all Russia as one of Gogol’s truest and finest works. It contains two of
the best conceived and most delicately drawn characters of our great
character-maker, that of the hero, the old bachelor Podkolyòssin, an
amusing type of irresolution and pusillanimity, and of his friend
Kochkaryòv, the meddlesome busybody, who, just after he has abused the
professional matchmaker Fèkla for having married him to a fool, becomes
fired with an irresistible longing to confer upon his bosom friend
Podkolyòssin the blessing of an alliance with another fool of exactly
the same type. As a comedy of customs “Marriage” reproduces a
patriarchal life so remote from the modern English that some
explanations are necessary. Among the uneducated part of the Russian
middle-class, as well as among the peasantry, marriages are arranged by
the parents. The young people being considered too ignorant to be
consulted upon a matter of such importance. In the villages, among the
peasantry, where everybody is known by everybody else, no special
intermediaries are needed to arrange these matches. But it is different
with the middle-class living in large cities. Here a class of
professional matchmakers and go-betweens exists. Naturally enough, it
lends itself very much to ridicule, and two samples of it appear in the
present volume—one in Gogol, the other in Ostròvsky’s comedy.
Gogol, who was born in 1810 and died in 1852, is the oldest of our great
prose writers. To him we can trace the origin of the Russian realistic
novel as well as drama. Ostròvsky, who is his successor in the dramatic
art, is our contemporary. He was born in 1824, and died four years ago.
To him the Russians owe their theatre: he left us thirty-seven dramas
and comedies, varying in merit and popularity, but all keeping their
place upon the stage.
“Incompatibility of Temper”—one of the two of his comedies that are
given in the present volume—is a sample of that pure and deep humour
which we admire in Gogol. Serafìma, the heroine, with her extraordinary
stupidity, sentimentality, apparent whimsicalness, and practical
pigheadedness, is as living and striking a creation of Russian humour as
the best of Gogol’s types. But in the next comedy the sunny, sympathetic
humour changes into the harsh laughter of the satirist.
The “Domestic Picture,” the second of Ostròvsky’s dramas, is anything
but a picture of Russian domestic life. It is a bitter and merciless
satire, exposing the commercial dishonesty, the result of ignorance,
which prevailed in the bulk of our middle-class two generations ago, and
the shocking immorality nestling secretly in those families where
despotism has destroyed all natural ties of affection and uprooted all
sense of honour.
With Shchedrìn (Saltykòv) we are in presence of the greatest satirist
the Slavonic race has produced. He is a man of our time, Russia having
lost him only a few years ago. For about fifty years he was the moral
leader of liberal Russia, having devoted his life to the awakening of
the national conscience by all the ways and methods which his
incomparable genius could suggest. He was the political chronicler of
his time, reproducing in rough caricatures, which made the whole of
reading Russia roar with laughter, the principal events which took place
in the country. At the same time, in his more elaborate works, as the
“Story of the Golovlevs,” and others, he equals Dostoyèvsky in the power
of creating weird, gloomy, strikingly original figures, as well as in
the subtle delineation of the whole man from the inner side.
When the boldness of some idea or the virulence of some attack rendered
it impossible for Shchedrìn (on account of the censorship) to speak
plainly, he resorted to what he himself used to call the “slave’s
language,” employing the Oriental form of the fable, the allegory, the
fairy tale.
The best of Shchedrìn’s works are not translated into English, and
probably will never be. His unrivalled wit and humour are
untranslatable, because they depend chiefly upon the marvellous skill in
using the Russian language. This is not inferiority, but difference in
the quality of the talent. Rudyard Kipling’s military stories, to quote
an English example, are certainly very fine samples of genuine humour.
But what would remain of them if stripped of their racy idiom? And how
many second and third-rate authors are just as good (or as bad) in any
decent translation?
Our great satirist stands at the head of those authors who must be read
in their own tongue. The translator has shown much discernment in
choosing as samples of Shchedrìn’s art three minor works of his, in
which the language is of lesser importance. One is a burlesque, “The
Recollections of Onésime Chenapan,” which is an amusing caricature of
the Russian “administrators.” The other two are fables—“The
Self-Sacrificing Rabbit,” in which the satirist boldly ridicules nothing
less than _the feeling of loyalty under a régime which consists of
brutal violence erected into a system_, and “The Eagle as Mecænas,” a
skit on the Tzar himself.
The gloomy author of _Crime and Punishment_ once relieved his mind with
a queer, semi-fantastic little story, “The Crocodile,” which amuses by
its incongruities and contrasts. It has not been before translated, so
far as I know, into any foreign language, and the English admirers of
Dostoyèvsky will be the first to read it.
But the object of the translator was not merely to make a collection of
the best humoristic works of the best Russian authors. She wanted to
give samples of all kinds of Russian humour, and her list includes the
two Uspènskys, Glyeb and Nikolai, V. Slyeptzòv, and even some sketches
by Gorbounòv. There is hardly a name worth mentioning that could be
added to these. As to translation, it is as good as it possibly could
be. Only a person with the translator’s exceptional knowledge of the
Russian language could have overcome the difficulties inherent in a work
of such a kind. Yet, with all that, I doubt whether the English will
make a fair estimate of the above-mentioned authors, though among them
there is one—Glyeb Uspènsky—who enjoys an enormous and well-merited
popularity among the very exacting and discriminating Russian public.
What has been said about the untranslatableness of Shchedrìn applies _à
fortiori_ to the minor humorists. Their charm depends in a still greater
degree upon the language. The unique flexibility, richness, and freedom
of the Russian idiom allows those few who have got the mastery over it
to obtain with it truly wonderful effects. Some authors do this at the
expense of more substantial qualities. With our younger humorists the
language runs riot. They are like those injudicious painters who, having
a great command over the colouring, neglect to give the necessary
correctness and fulness to the _lines_, which alone know of no decay and
are preserved through time and space. The translation is like the plain
black and white reproduction of a picture. Only the substantial,
unperishable part of the work is preserved, the rest being lost almost
entirely. And in regard to the examples taken here from our minor
humorists,—if English readers enjoy the humour of “A Trifling Defect in
the Mechanism,” or “The Porridge,” it will be as high a compliment to
the translator as to the authors.
A trifle of my own—“The Story of a Kopeck”—has been kindly included by
the translator in the present collection. It is quite a youthful
production, and will not, I am afraid, be of much credit to Russian
humour. But in view of the catholicity of the translator’s choice, which
includes even Gorbounòv, I thought it might stand where it is.
Whatever be the reader’s opinion of the merit of separate stories, the
translator, as well as the publishers, deserve the thanks of the lover
of Russian literature for bringing out this collection.
The smile is the most characteristic trait of a human face. We do not
really know what a face is like before we have seen it smiling. Now with
a nation its humour is what a smile is with an individual.
S. STEPNIAK.
THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA, _marriageable girl of the merchant class_.
ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA, _her aunt_.
FÈKLA IVÀNOVNA, _professional matchmaker_.
PODKOLYÒSSIN, _aulic counsellor_.
KOCHKARYÒV, _his friend_.
YAÌCHNITZA, _usher_.
ANOÙCHKIN, _retired infantry officer_.
ZHEVÀKIN, _seafaring person_.
DOUNIÀSHKA, _a girl in the house_.
STARIKÒV, _shopkeeper_.
STEPÀN, _Podkolyòssin’s servant_.
[Illustration]
MARRIAGE.
AN UTTERLY INCREDIBLE INCIDENT.
IN TWO ACTS.
ACT I. SCENE I.
(_A bachelor’s apartment._ PODKOLYÒSSIN, _alone, lying on the sofa
smoking a pipe_.)
_Pod._ Really when a man’s alone, and thinks about it at his leisure, it
does seem after all as if one ought to get married. Indeed, if you think
of it, here one goes on, living and living; and one ends by getting
quite disgusted with everything. There, I’ve let the time slip by once
more; and it’s holy season[1] again. It’s too bad! Everything’s ready,
and the matchmaker’s been coming for the last three months. It makes me
feel quite ashamed. Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) Hasn’t the matchmaker
come?
_Step._ No, your honour.
_Pod._ Have you been to the tailor?
_Step._ Yes.
_Pod._ Is he making the dress-coat?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ How far has he got on with it?
_Step._ He is making the button-holes.
_Pod._ What do you say?
_Step._ I said he’s begun to make the button-holes.
_Pod._ And didn’t he ask you what your master wants with a dress-coat?
_Step._ No, sir; he didn’t.
_Pod._ Perhaps he asked you whether your master wasn’t going to get
married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t say anything about it.
_Pod._ Did you see any other dress-coats in the workshop? I suppose he
makes for other people too?
_Step._ Yes; there were a lot of coats hanging up.
_Pod._ But I’ll be bound the cloth of them isn’t as good as mine!
_Step._ No, sir; the stuff of yours looks nicer.
_Pod._ What do you say?
_Step._ I say the stuff of yours is nicer, sir.
_Pod._ That’s all right. Well, and didn’t the tailor ask why your master
wants a dress-coat of such fine cloth?
_Step._ No.
_Pod._ Didn’t he say anything about whether your master thought of
getting married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t talk about it at all.
_Pod._ But I suppose you told him what my position is, and where I
serve?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ What did he say to that?
_Step._ He said, “I’ll do my best.”
_Pod._ That’s all right. Now you may go. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) I am inclined
to think that a black dress-coat is the most decorous. Coloured coats
are all very well for secretaries, and clerks, and all that small
fry—they look just fit for milksops. People higher up in the service
ought to observe what is called a—a—a—a——There! I’ve forgotten the word!
It’s a fine word; and I’ve forgotten it! It’s all very well to put on
airs, little father, but an aulic counsellor takes the rank of colonel
too; the only difference is that he has a uniform without epaulettes.
Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) Did you buy the blacking?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ Where did you buy it? In the shop I told you about, on the
Voznesènsky Prospect?
_Step._ Yes, that was the shop.
_Pod._ And is it good?
_Step._ Very good.
_Pod._ Did you try it on the boots?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ And does it shine?
_Step._ It takes a beautiful shine, sir.
_Pod._ And when you bought it, didn’t the man ask you what your master
wants with such good blacking?
_Step._ No.
_Pod._ Perhaps he asked you whether your master was going to be married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t say anything.
_Pod._ All right; you can go. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) One would think boots
were a trifling thing; and yet if they are badly made, or not properly
blacked, no one will respect you in good society. It makes a great
difference, somehow.... Another horrid thing is, if one has corns. I’d
be ready to put up with almost anything rather than have corns. Hi!
Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.)
_Step._ What’s your honour’s pleasure?
_Pod._ Did you tell the shoemaker that the boots musn’t give me corns?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ And what did he say?
_Step._ He said, “All right.” (_Exit._)
_Pod._ The deuce take it all! It’s a difficult business, this getting
married. What with one thing and another—first this has to be set right,
and then that—the devil take it all! it’s not half so easy as people
say. Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) There’s another thing I wanted to
say——
_Step._ The old woman’s come.
_Pod._ Ah! she’s come? Send her in. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) Yes; it’s a sort of
thing—a sort of—a hard matter. (_Enter_ FÈKLA.) Ah! good-morning, Fèkla
Ivànovna! Well? What have you got to say? There’s a chair; sit down and
tell me about it. I want to hear all about her. What’s her name?
Melània——
_Fèkla._ Agàfia Tikhònovna.
_Pod._ Yes, yes, Agàfia Tikhònovna. I suppose she’s some old maid of
forty?
_Fèkla._ Well, then, you’re just wrong. I can tell you, if you marry
her, you’ll come to thank me and praise her up every day of your life.
_Pod._ I suppose that’s a lie, Fèkla Ivànovna?
_Fèkla._ I’m old to tell lies, little father; lying’s a dog’s work.
_Pod._ But the dowry? What about the dowry?
_Fèkla._ The dowry? Well, there’s a stone house in the Moscow
borough,[2] two-storied; it brings in such a profit that it’s a pleasure
to think of: one corndealer pays seven hundred for his shop; then there
are wine-vaults that attract plenty of customers; two wooden wings, one
entirely wooden and the other with a stone basement: they bring in an
income of four hundred roubles each. Well then, there’s a market-garden
on the Vỳborgskaya[3] side. The year before last a merchant took it for
cabbage-farming; and such a good sober fellow—never touches a drop of
drink—and he’s got three sons; he has married two of them, “but the
third,” says he, “is too young; he can stay in the shop and see after
the business. I’m getting old,” says he, “so it’s time for my son to
stay in the shop and see that the business goes on all right.”
_Pod._ Well, but tell me what she’s like to look at.
_Fèkla._ Like sugar-candy! Pink and white, like roses and cream....
Sweeter than honey; sweeter than I can say! I tell you, you’ll be over
head and ears in love with her; you’ll go about to all your friends and
enemies and say, “I’ve got something to thank Fèkla Ivànovna for.”
_Pod._ Well, I don’t know; she’s not a staff-officer’s daughter.
_Fèkla._ No; but she belongs to the third guild. And then she’s one that
even a general needn’t be ashamed of. Why, she won’t even hear of a
merchant. “I don’t care,” says she, “what my husband’s like; I don’t
even care if he’s ugly, but he must be a noble.” There’s a real lady for
you! And you should just see her on Sundays, when she puts on a silk
dress. Dear Lord! How it rustles! Like any princess.
_Pod._ Well, you see, that’s why I asked you, because I’m an aulic
counsellor; and so—you understand....
_Fèkla._ Of course I understand. There was an aulic counsellor that
tried for her already, but she refused him; she didn’t like him. But
then he had such a strange way with him; he was all right to look at,
but he couldn’t speak a word without telling lies. It wasn’t his fault,
poor fellow; the Lord made him so. He was sorry enough himself about it,
but he just couldn’t help lying; it was God’s will, that’s clear.
_Pod._ And is she the only girl you’ve got on hand?
_Fèkla._ Why, what do you want with another? She’s the best you could
possibly have.
_Pod._ You don’t really mean that?
_Fèkla._ If you look all over the world, you won’t find another like
her.
_Pod._ Well, little mother, we’ll think it over, we’ll think it over.
You’d better come again to-morrow. I’ll tell you what: you come again,
and we’ll have a comfortable time; I’ll lie on the sofa, and you shall
tell me about her.
_Fèkla._ Come, little father, that’s too much of a good thing! I’ve been
at your beck and call for more than two months, and nothing’s come of it
yet; all you ever do is to sit in your dressing-gown and smoke a pipe.
_Pod._ I suppose you think to get married is no more than to say “Hi!
Stepàn, bring my boots!” and just put them on, and go out. No, no! one
must think it over, and look about one.
_Fèkla._ Oh! there’s no harm in that. If you want to look, who minds
your looking? The goods are in the market to be looked at. Call for your
coat, and go off now, without wasting the morning!
_Pod._ Now? Why just look how dull the weather is. If I go out, I may
get caught in the rain.
_Fèkla._ Dear me! What a misfortune! Why, little father, the grey hairs
are coming on your head already. If you wait much longer, you won’t be a
marriageable man at all. A fine prize! An aulic counsellor! I can tell
you, we can get hold of such grand suitors, that we shan’t care to look
at you!
_Pod._ What rubbish are you talking? What’s put it into your head all of
a sudden that I’ve got a grey hair? Where’s a grey hair? (_Feels his
hair._)
_Fèkla._ Why shouldn’t you have grey hairs? Most people do, when they
live long enough. Take care, though; you won’t have this girl, and you
don’t like that girl—but I can tell you, I’ve got a captain in my eye
that’s a head and shoulders taller than you, and he talks just like a
brass trumpet. He serves in the ammaralty....
_Pod._ It’s not true! I’ll look in the glass: you’re only pretending
there are grey hairs! Hi! Stepàn! Bring the looking-glass!... No!
wait—I’ll go myself. What next? Heaven defend us! that’s worse than
small-pox! (_Exit into adjoining room. Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV, _running_.)
_Koch._ Where’s Podkolyòssin? (_Seeing_ FÈKLA.) _You_ here! Ah! you!...
Look here! What the devil did you marry me for?
_Fèkla._ What’s the harm? It’s right and lawful.
_Koch._ Right and lawful! What do you suppose a man wants with a wife?
Did you suppose I couldn’t get on without one?
_Fèkla._ Why, it was you yourself that wouldn’t let me alone. It was
always “Granny, find me a wife!”
_Koch._ Yah!... You old rat!... And what are you here for, I should like
to know! You don’t mean to say Podkolyòssin wants to get married?
_Fèkla._ And why not? God has blessed him.
_Koch._ No! really? What a rascal! he never told me a word about it! Now
what do you think of that, if you please? Isn’t he a sly rogue? (_Enter_
PODKOLYÒSSIN, _holding a mirror, and gazing into it intently_.
KOCHKARYÒV _slips up behind, and startles him_.)
_Koch._ Booh!
_Pod._ (_cries out, and drops the mirror_). Ah! you crazy fellow! Now
what is the use of doing that? Now what a silly thing to do! You just
brought my heart into my mouth!
_Koch._ There, I was only joking!
_Pod._ Fine sort of joke! I can’t get my breath yet; and there, you’ve
smashed the looking-glass! And it was an expensive one—I got it in the
English shop.
_Koch._ There, never mind! I’ll buy you another looking-glass.
_Pod._ Yes, I dare say! I know what those other looking-glasses are
like! One’s face comes out crooked, and they make one look ten years
older.
_Koch._ Look here! it’s I that ought to be angry with you, not you with
me. You hide everything from me, your friend. You think of marrying?
_Pod._ What nonsense! I never thought of such a thing.
_Koch._ My friend, you’re caught in the act! (_Points to_ FÈKLA.) There
she stands; everybody knows what sort of bird _she_ is. Ah, well! never
mind; there’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a good Christian
action—indeed, it’s necessary for the good of the State. I don’t mind;
I’ll take the whole responsibility of it. (_To_ FÈKLA.) Well, tell me
who she is, and all about her. What class does she belong to?—noble,
official, merchant? And what’s her name?
_Fèkla._ Agàfia Tikhònovna.
_Koch._ Agàfia Tikhònovna Brandakhlỳstova?
_Fèkla._ No, no! Kouperdyàgina.
_Koch._ Ah! she lives in the Shestilàvochna, doesn’t she?
_Fèkla._ No, she doesn’t, then! She lives near Peskì, in the Mỳlny Row.
_Koch._ Oh, yes; in the Mỳlny Row; a wooden house, next door to a shop,
isn’t it?
_Fèkla._ No, it isn’t. It’s beyond the wine-vaults.
_Koch._ Beyond the wine-vaults! Then I don’t remember.
_Fèkla._ Well, when you turn into the Row, you see a stall; and you pass
the stall and turn to the left; and there, straight in front of you,
just right before your eyes, there’s a wooden house, where a dressmaker
lives; you don’t go into the dressmaker’s, you go on to the next house
but one; it’s a stone house, and that’s where she lives—Agàfia
Tikhònovna.
_Koch._ All right, all right! now I can manage it all. You can go now;
we don’t want you any more.
_Fèkla._ What’s that? Do you mean to say that you mean to settle a
wedding yourself?
_Koch._ Yes, yes, myself—only don’t you interfere.
_Fèkla._ Oh, for shame! for shame! That’s not a man’s business! Little
father, keep out of it.
_Koch._ Be off! be off! you don’t understand anything about it; don’t
interfere; mind your own business, and get along with you!
_Fèkla._ All you care for is to take the bread out of people’s
mouths;—you’re no better than an infidel! A man! and to mix up in things
like that! If I’d known, I wouldn’t have told you a word. (_Exit
sulkily._)
_Koch._ Now, my lad, this business musn’t be put off—put on your hat and
come along.
_Pod._ Well, but I—I—I haven’t decided—I was only thinking——
_Koch._ Fiddle-de-dee! Only don’t be bashful: I’ll get you married as
finely as you like. We’ll go straight off to the lady now, and you’ll
see how fast we’ll get it all settled.
_Pod._ What, go off now! What next will you want?
_Koch._ Bless my soul, man, what would you have? Now, just think
yourself what comes of not being married. Look at the condition of your
room—there’s a muddy boot—there’s a washing basin—there’s a heap of
tobacco on the table; and here you lie on your side, the whole day long,
like a regular stick-in-the-mud.
_Pod._ It’s quite true; I know myself everything’s in a muddle in this
house.
_Koch._ Well now, when you have a wife everything’ll be so different
that you’ll hardly know yourself. Here there’ll be a sofa, there a
lap-dog, then a birdcage, and fancy-work lying about.... And just
imagine—you sit on the sofa, and suddenly a little woman comes and sits
down beside you, a pretty little girl ... and puts up a little hand——
_Pod._ Ah! the devil take it! when one thinks of it, what beautiful
hands there are—just as white as milk!
_Koch._ How you talk! Anybody would think women had got nothing but
hands!... My lad, they’ve got——in fact the deuce knows what they haven’t
got!
_Pod._ Do you know—I confess it to you—I _do_ like to have a pretty
woman sit beside me.
_Koch._ There now! there you see! Then all that’s wanted is to make the
arrangements. You needn’t take any trouble about that, though; I’ll
manage the wedding and the dinner, and all that.... You can’t possibly
do with less than a dozen of champagne—that there’s no question about.
We must have half a dozen of Madeira too; I expect the lady’s got a
whole tribe of aunts and cousins and all the rest of it, and they won’t
want to be done out of their share. Then there’s the Rhine-wine—what the
devil do you call it, eh? And as for the dinner, I’ll tell you what, old
chap: there’s a butler I know of that’ll settle it all for us; the dog
will give you such a feed as you never saw in your life.
[Illustration:
PODKOLYÒSSIN: “DO YOU KNOW—I CONFESS IT TO YOU—I _DO_ LIKE TO HAVE A
PRETTY WOMAN BESIDE ME.”
KOCHKARYÒV: “THERE NOW! THERE YOU SEE! THEN ALL THAT’S WANTED IS TO
MAKE THE ARRANGEMENTS.”
]
_Pod._ But my dear fellow! you set about the business as if I were going
to be married at once!
_Koch._ And why not? What’s the use of putting it off? You’ve decided?
_Pod._ Me? Oh, dear no! I haven’t decided at all!
_Koch._ Well I never did! But you just said you wanted to marry.
_Pod._ I only said it wouldn’t be a bad idea.
_Koch._ Well now, really! And we were just settling up everything....
What’s come to you? Don’t you like the idea of a married life?
_Pod._ Oh, yes, I like it.
_Koch._ Well then, what’s it all about? Where’s the difficulty?
_Pod._ There isn’t any difficulty; only it seems so strange....
_Koch._ What’s there strange about it?
_Pod._ Of course it’s strange. One’s always been a bachelor, and now to
be a married man——
_Koch._ Tut, tut, tut! I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself. No, my
friend, I see I must talk to you seriously. I’ll be quite frank with
you, like a father with a son. Now just look at yourself—look at
yourself attentively and seriously, just as you’re looking at me
now—what do you think of yourself? What are you like? You’re no better
than a log; you’re a mere cypher. Tell me what you live for? Now just
look in the glass and tell me what you see—nothing but a very stupid
face. Well now, suppose that you’ve got children round you, not just two
or three—you know, but a whole half-dozen—and every one as like you as
two peas. Here you are alone, an aulic counsellor, or a head of a
department, or director of some kind—what do you call yourself? But now
just suppose yourself surrounded with little directorkins, and tiny
rascals and small fry generally; and there they hold out their chubby
little fists and tug at your whiskers; and you’ll play doggie with them:
Bow—wow—wow! Now, can you imagine anything more delightful?
_Pod._ Ye-e-s, only you know they are such mischievous little monkeys;
they’ll spoil everything, and pull all my papers about.
_Koch._ Oh! that doesn’t matter! But just think; they’ll all be like
you—that’s the beauty of it.
_Pod._ After all, it really is a deucedly funny notion—a little white
puff-ball of a thing—no bigger than a puppy-dog—and yet it’s like you!
_Koch._ Of course it’s funny, tremendously funny; there, make haste and
come along!
_Pod._ All right; I don’t mind.
_Koch._ Hi! Stepàn! Come and help your master dress.
(_Enter_ STEPÀN.)
_Pod._ (_dressing before the glass_). I almost think, though, that I
ought to put on a white waistcoat.
_Koch._ Oh, nonsense! What does it matter?
_Pod._ (_putting on his collar_). Confound that washerwoman! How badly
she’s starched my collar! It won’t stand up a bit, Stepàn! You tell the
stupid woman that if she’s going to do her work that way, I shall find
another washerwoman. I expect she spends her time philandering with
sweethearts instead of ironing clothes.
_Koch._ There! there! man, make haste! What a dawdle you are!
_Pod._ All right—all right! (_Puts on coat, and sits down._) Look here,
Ilia Fòmich, do you know what? I think you’d better go alone.
_Koch._ What next! The man’s gone daft! _I_ go? Why, which of us is
going to get married—you or I?
_Pod._ The fact is, I don’t feel inclined for it to-day; let’s go
to-morrow.
_Koch._ Now, have you got one single grain of sense? Now, are you
anything in the world but a moon-calf? You get ready, and then,
suddenly, don’t want to go! Now be so kind as to tell me, don’t you call
yourself a pig and a camel after that?
_Pod._ Look here—what’s the use of bad language? I haven’t done you any
harm.
_Koch._ You’re a booby, a perfect booby, any fellow will tell you that.
I don’t care if you _are_ an aulic counsellor—you’re nothing in the
world but a fool. What do you suppose I’m taking all this trouble for?
Only for your good. Don’t I see that you’ll let the prize slip through
your fingers? And there you lie, you confounded old bachelor! Now just
have the kindness to tell me, what do you call yourself? You’re a dummy,
a milksop, a nincompoop, a—I’d tell you what you are if I could only
find a civil word for it. You’re worse than any old woman!
_Pod._ Look here, that’s too much of a good thing. (_Softly._) Are you
gone off your head? There’s a serf in the room, and you let him hear you
say bad words! Can’t you find another place to quarrel in?
_Koch._ I should like to know who could help quarrelling with you! Bad
language! What else could anybody turn their tongue to? You begin by
behaving reasonably, and arrange to get married, as any sensible man
would; and then, all of a sudden, without why or wherefore, you must get
a bee in your bonnet, and there’s no more sense in you than in a wooden
post....
_Pod._ There, that’ll do! I’ll come; why, you needn’t fly at me like
that!
_Koch._ Come? Of course you will—what else should you do? (_To_ STEPÀN.)
Give him his hat and cloak.
_Pod._ (_at the door_). What a queer fellow it is! There’s no making him
out at all. All of a sudden he sets to work and abuses you without rhyme
or reason. Doesn’t understand how to speak to a fellow.
_Koch._ There! I’m not going to scold you now. (_Exeunt._)
SCENE II.
(_A room in_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA’S _house_. AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA _spreading
cards for fortune-telling_, ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA _looking over her
shoulder_.)
_Agàfia._ Why, auntie! there’s a journey again! Some king of diamonds
takes an interest in me; then there are tears, and a love-letter; on the
left-hand side the king of clubs expresses great sympathy—but there’s a
wicked woman that stands between.
_Arìna._ Whom do you think the king of clubs stands for?
_Agàfia._ I don’t know.
_Arìna._ I know who it is.
_Agàfia._ Who?
_Arìna._ A good, honest cloth merchant, my girl—Alexièy Dmìtrievich
Starikòv.
_Agàfia._ That I know it isn’t; I’m positive it isn’t he.
_Arìna._ You can’t get out of it, Agàfia Tikhònovna; I can tell by the
fair hair. There’s only one king of clubs, you see.
_Agàfia._ Then you’re just wrong; the king of clubs here means a
nobleman—there’s a good deal of difference between a tradesman and a
king of clubs.
_Arìna._ Ah! Agàfia Tikhònovna! you wouldn’t talk like that, my girl, if
your poor papa, Tìkhon Pantlèymònovich, were alive. I remember how he
used to bang his fist on the table and shout out—“I don’t care a rap for
any man that’s ashamed to be a merchant; and I won’t give my daughter to
an officer. Other people can do that if they’re fools enough! And my son
shan’t be an officer, neither,” says he; “isn’t a merchant as good a
servant of the State as any one else?” And he’d bang his fist on the
table again, and, my girl, he _had_ got a fist of his own! Indeed, if
the truth must be told, your poor mother would have lived longer if he
hadn’t had such a heavy fist.
_Agàfia._ There you see! And you think I’d put up with such a brute of a
husband? I won’t marry a merchant for anything in the world!
[Illustration:
ARÌNA: “BUT WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO GET HOLD OF ANY NOBLE THAT’S WORTH
HAVING?”
]
_Arìna._ But Alexièy Dmìtrievich isn’t one of that kind.
_Agàfia._ No, no! not for the world! He’s got a beard! And when he eats
soup, it’ll all run down his beard. No, no, no! I won’t, I won’t!
_Arìna._ But where are you going to get hold of any noble that’s worth
having? You can’t go and pick him up in the street!
_Agàfia._ Fèkla Ivànovna will find me one; she promised to find me a
splendid one.
_Arìna._ But, my precious one, she’s a liar.
(_Enter_ FÈKLA.)
_Fèkla._ Oh no, Arìna Pantelèymovna; it’s a sin to give people a bad
name for nothing.
_Agàfia._ Ah! Fèkla Ivànovna! Now then, tell me quick, have you found
any one?
_Fèkla._ Yes, yes; only don’t hurry me. I’ve been tearing about so—let
me get my breath! I’ve been all over everywhere on your business—at the
Departments, at the Ministries, running all over the place.... Why, do
you know, little mother, I nearly got beaten on your account—it’s true!
That old woman that arranged the Afèrov’s marriage—you know—she just
flew at me. “What are you after here?” says she, “taking the bread out
of other people’s mouths. Keep to your own quarter!” says she. And I
told her right out, “I’ll do anything for my young lady,” says I, “so
you needn’t put yourself out about it.” However, I don’t mind the
trouble; I’ve got you a fine set of suitors. I can tell you there never
were such fine ones since the world began, and never will be. Some of
them will come to-day—that’s why I ran in to tell you.
_Agàfia._ To-day! Oh, Fèkla Ivànovna, I’m afraid!
_Fèkla._ There’s nothing to be afraid of, little mother. It’s a thing
that’s got to be. They’ll only come and take a look at you—nothing more.
Then you can take a look at them, and if you don’t like them they can go
away.
_Arìna._ I hope you are bringing good, respectable gentlemen?
_Agàfia._ And how many are there?
_Fèkla._ Let me see—there are six of them.
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh!
_Fèkla._ Dear heart, you needn’t jump like that! It’s best to have a
choice; if you don’t like one you can take another.
_Agàfia._ Are they of noble birth?
_Fèkla._ Every one! The very noblest birth that ever was.
_Agàfia._ Well, what are they like?
_Fèkla._ Oh, regular good ones—nice and neat, all of them. First there’s
Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—a splendid gentleman—he used to serve in
the fleet—he would just do nicely for you. He wants a wife with a nice
plump figure—he hates bony women. Then there’s Ivàn Pàvlovich—he’s a
Court usher, and such a grand gentleman, that one’s afraid to go near
him. Big and stout, you know; just grand to look at. And you should have
heard him shout at me—“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about what the
girl’s like; just tell me plainly how much moveable and real estate
she’s got.”—“So much and so much, little father.”—“That’s a lie, you old
hag!” and, a—a—he said another word, little mother, that I don’t quite
like to repeat. I saw in a minute that he must be a _real grand_
gentleman!
_Agàfia._ Well, and who else is there?
_Fèkla._ Then there’s Nikanòr Ivànovich Anoùchkin—he’s a nice, fair,
pretty gentleman; and oh! little mother, such sweet lips, like cherries!
“All I want,” says he, “is that my bride should be pretty and refined;
and that she should be able to talk French.” He’s a gentleman with a lot
of breeding, and all sorts of fine Frenchified ways. Oh! he’s mighty
particular! And he’s got such slim little legs.
_Agàfia._ N—n—no; somehow or other these overparticular people ... I
don’t know ... I can’t see anything much in them
_Fèkla._ Well, if you want a more solid husband, you’d better take Ivàn
Pàvlovich; you couldn’t make a better choice; he’s a gentleman ... what
you may call a _real_ gentleman; he could hardly get in at that door,
he’s so big and grand.
_Agàfia._ And how old is he?
_Fèkla._ Oh! he’s a young man still—about fifty, or not quite fifty
even.
_Agàfia._ And what’s his name?
_Fèkla._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza.[4]
_Agàfia._ Do you mean to say that’s a name?
_Fèkla._ Of course it’s a name.
_Agàfia._ Goodness gracious! What a funny name! Why, Fèkloushka,
supposing I were to marry him, I should have to be called Agàfia
Tikhònovna Yaìchnitza—it sounds like I don’t know what!
_Fèkla._ Eh-h-h! little mother; there are such names in Russia, that all
you can do when you hear them is to spit and cross yourself. But if you
don’t like the name you may as well take Baltazàr Baltazàrovich
Zhevàkin—he’d be a fine bridegroom.
_Agàfia._ What sort of hair has he got?
_Fèkla._ Very nice hair.
_Agàfia._ And his nose?
_Fèkla._ H-m-m ... his nose is all right; everything’s in its right
place, and he’s a very nice gentleman. Only you musn’t mind one thing:
there’s no furniture in his rooms, only a pipe and nothing else at all.
_Agàfia._ And who else is there?
_Fèkla._ Àkinf Stepánovich Pantelèyev—he’s an official, a titular
counsellor.[5] He stutters a little; but then he’s such a very modest
gentleman.
_Arìna._ You always keep on “official” and “official” you’d better tell
us whether he doesn’t drink.
_Fèkla._ Yes, he does drink; I wouldn’t tell you a lie—he drinks. But
then, you see, he’s a titular counsellor. And then he’s so quiet and
gentle.
_Agàfia._ No, no; I don’t want to have a drunkard for a husband.
_Fèkla._ As you like, little mother. If you don’t care for one you can
take another. But after all, what does it matter if a man takes a drop
too much sometimes? He’s not drunk the whole week round, you know; some
days he’ll come home sober.
_Agàfia._ And who else is there?
_Fèkla._ There is one more, only he’s not quite the sort.... Never mind
him, the others will do better.
_Agàfia._ Well, but who is he?
_Fèkla._ Really, it’s not worth while talking about him. He’s in a good
position—aulic counsellor and all that—but such a slow stick-in-the-mud,
there’s no getting him out of the house.
_Agàfia._ Well, and who else? You have only told us about five, and you
said there were six.
_Fèkla._ Surely you don’t want any more? Why, a minute ago you were
frightened at so many, and now they’re not enough!
_Arìna._ What’s the use of all your noblemen? Even if you have got half
a dozen of them, one shopkeeper’s worth the whole lot.
_Fèkla._ Oh, no, Arìna Pantelèymovna, a noble is more distinguished,
somehow.
_Arìna._ What’s the use of being distinguished? Just look at Alexièy
Dmìtrievich—what a beautiful sledge he can drive in, and his cap is real
sable!...
_Fèkla._ Yes, but a nobleman with epaulettes on can drive past and call
out, “Out of the road, counterjumper!” or, “Show me your best velvet,
shopman!” and then the merchant will have to say, “Certainly, little
father!” and the nobleman will say, “Take off your hat, you clown!”
That’s what he’ll say.
_Arìna._ And if the merchant likes, he won’t give him the stuff; and
there’s your nobleman in rags without a thing to put on.
_Fèkla._ Then the nobleman will give the shopkeeper a black eye.
_Arìna._ Well then, the shopkeeper will go and complain to the police.
_Fèkla._ Then the nobleman will complain to the senator.
_Arìna._ And the merchant to the governor.
_Fèkla._ And the nobleman——
_Arìna._ Fiddlesticks! Fiddlesticks! You and your noblemen! The
governor’s grander than any senator! You’re just off your head about
noblemen! Don’t tell me—a nobleman can take off his hat as well as any
shopkeeper, when there’s a reason why.... (_Door-bell rings._) There’s
some one at the door.
_Fèkla._ Bless me! It must be they!
_Arìna._ Who?
_Fèkla._ They.... Some of the suitors.
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh!
_Arìna._ Holy Saints! Have mercy on us sinners! The room’s in such a
muddle! (_Catches up all the things on the table, and runs about the
room._) And the table-cloth! Just look at the table-cloth! It’s
perfectly black. Douniàshka! Douniàshka! (_Enter_ DOUNIÀSHKA.) Bring a
clean table-cloth—quick! (_Pulls off table-cloth and rushes about the
room._)
_Agàfia._ Oh, aunt! What shall I do? I’m half undressed!
_Arìna._ Little mother! Run and dress, quick! (_Rushes frantically about
room._ DOUNIÀSHKA _brings table-cloth. Door-bell rings._) Run! Make
haste! Say “Directly.” (DOUNIÀSHKA _exit, and calls without
“Directly.”_)
_Agàfia._ Auntie, my dress isn’t ironed!
_Arìna._ Oh! Merciful Heaven! Spare us! Put on another.
_Fèkla_ (_running in_). What are you standing about for? Agàfia
Tikhònovna! Little mother! Make haste! (_Door-bell rings_). There!
there! he’s waiting all this time.
_Arìna._ Douniàshka! Let him in, and ask him to wait. (DOUNIÀSHKA _runs
into hall and opens door. Voices without_: “At home?” “At home; come in,
please.” _All stoop down and try to look through keyhole._)
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh! what a fat man!
_Fèkla._ He’s coming! he’s coming. (_Exeunt in a headlong rush. Enter_
DOUNIÀSHKA _and_ IVÀN PÀVLOVICH YAÌCHNITZA.)
_Doun._ Wait here, please. (_Exit._)
_Yaìch._ It’s all very well to say “Wait,” but I can’t spend much time
waiting about for her; I only got a few minutes’ leave from the
Department. Supposing the General were to ask, “Where’s the usher gone?”
“Gone to look for a wife!” Tut, tut, tut! The general would give her
what for, I know.... I may as well look through the list again.
(_Reads._) “Two-storied stone house.” (_Looks up and examines room._)
Yes! (_Reads._) “Two wings—one wooden, one with stone basement.”...
H’m.... The wooden one is not up to much. (_Reads._) “Carriage; carved
two-horse sledge, with large and small rugs.”... I daresay they’ll be
only fit to break up. However, the old woman declares they’re
first-rate; well, let’s suppose they are. (_Reads._) “Two dozen silver
spoons.”... Of course one must have silver spoons for the house.... “Two
fox-fur cloaks.”... H’m.... “Four large feather-beds; two small ones.”
(_Compresses lips expressively._) “Twelve silk dresses; twelve cotton
ditto; two dressing-jackets; two....” H’m.... those are trifles.
“Under-linen; table-cloths....” All that’s her business. However, I
shall have to verify it all. It’s very likely they’ll promise a house
and carriage and all sorts of things now, and when once you’re married,
you find there’s not a thing but feather-beds and pillows. (_Door-bell
rings_; DOUNIÀSHKA _runs hastily through room into hall, and opens door.
Voices without_, “At home?” “At home.” _Enter_ ANOÙCHKIN _and_
DOUNIÀSHKA.)
_Doun._ Wait here, please; they’ll come presently. (_Exit._ ANOÙCHKIN
_and_ YAÌCHNITZA _bow to each other_.)
_Yaìch._ Your servant, sir!
_Anoùch._ Have I the honour to address the papa of the charming lady of
the house?
_Yaìch._ Certainly not, sir, I have not the pleasure of having any
children.
_Anoùch._ Oh! I beg your pardon! I really beg your pardon!
_Yaìch_ (_aside_). That man’s face looks to me very suspicious; I
shouldn’t wonder if he’s come about the same business that I have.
(_Aloud._) You doubtless have some ... some ... business with the lady
of the house?
_Anòuch._ N-n-no.... Oh, no! I have no business.... I just came in as I
was taking a walk.
_Yaìch_ (_aside_). He’s a liar! taking a walk, indeed! The scoundrel
wants to get married! (_Door-bell rings_, DOUNIÀSHKA _runs through into
hall and opens door_. _Voices without_: “At home?” “At home.” _Enter_
ZHEVÀKIN _and_ DOUNIÀSHKA.)
_Zhev._ (_to_ DOUNIÀSHKA). Just give me a brush, will you, my dear? One
gets so dusty in the street. And take off that cobweb, please. (_Turns
round._) That’s right; thank you, my dear. Just look on the other side;
I fancy there’s a spider running up me. Are you sure there’s nothing on
the back of my collar? Thank you, child. There! I’m sure there’s
something! (_Smooths coat-sleeve with his hand, and looks at_ ANOÙCHKIN
_and_ YAÌCHNITZA.) It’s real English cloth. In ’95, when I was only a
midshipman, and our squadron was in Sicily, I bought it and had a
uniform made; in 1801, under his late Majesty, Paul Petròvich, when I
was made lieutenant, the cloth was as good as new; in 1814, I went on an
expedition round the world, and it only began to get a little worn at
the seams; in 1815, when I retired from the service, I just had it
turned; and now I’ve worn it ten years, and it looks almost new still.
Thank you, my dear! My little beauty! (_Kisses his hand to her, goes up
to mirror, and arranges his hair._)
_Anoùch._ If I may take the liberty to ask, Sicily.... You were just
mentioning Sicily—it is a fine country, is it not?
_Zhev._ Oh, beautiful! We spent thirty-four days there. I can assure you
it’s a most charming place—such mountains; and the most beautiful
trees ... what they call _granite_ trees. And the loveliest Italian
girls—perfect little rosebuds, ... one can hardly refrain from kissing
them.
_Anoùch._ And are they well educated?
_Zhev._ Magnificently; as highly educated as any countess here. I
remember, when I used to go along the street,—well, of course you know,
a Russian lieutenant, epaulettes here (_points to his shoulder_), gold
embroidery, and all that,—well, and these little black-eyed beauties,—I
must tell you, they have verandahs to every house, and roofs as flat as
this floor—well, you look up as you pass, and there sits a little
rosebud; and of course one must keep up one’s reputation (_makes a
salute and waves his hand_), and she just answers like that (_makes
gesture with his hand_). Of course she’s always beautifully
dressed—little silk cords, and taffeta stuff, and earrings, and all
sorts of feminine trifles, ... in a word, the daintiest little
sugar-plum——
_Anoùch._ Allow me to ask you one more question. In what language do
people converse in Sicily?
_Zhev._ Oh, always in French, of course.
_Anoùch._ And do all the young ladies speak French?
_Zhev._ All, without exception. You perhaps will hardly believe me; but
we lived there thirty-four days, and in all that time I never heard one
of them speak a single word of Russian.
_Anoùch._ Not a word?
_Zhev._ Not one. And mind, I am not speaking of the nobles, and what
they call the Signors—those are their officers, you know—but just pick
out any common peasant that brings loads on his head, and try him; just
say: “Dai, bràtetz, khlyeba,”[6] he won’t understand—I assure you he
won’t understand. But if you say in French: “Dateci del pane,” or
“Portate vino,” he’ll understand you, and he’ll run and bring it at
once.
_Yaìch._ This same Sicily must be a very interesting country, I think.
You were talking about the peasants. What are they like? Do they have
broad shoulders, and plough the land like our Russian peasants?
_Zhev._ That I can’t tell you; I didn’t notice whether they ploughed or
not. But about the question of taking snuff, I can inform you that they
not only smell snuff, but even put it in their mouths. The carriage of
goods is very cheap there, too; you see there’s water everywhere, and
gondolas ... and in the gondola there’ll sit a sweet little rosebud of
an Italian girl, beautifully dressed, with the daintiest little kerchief
and camisole.... There were some English officers with us—sailors like
ourselves.... It seemed so strange at first; we couldn’t understand each
other. But after a bit, when we got to know each other well, we began to
understand all right. You just point to a bottle or a glass, you know,
and the Englishman knows at once that that means “Drink;” then you put
your fist up to your mouth, and just do so with your lips—“Puff, puff,”
and he knows you mean “Smoke a pipe.” Indeed, I assure you, it’s rather
an easy language; the crews got to understand each other in about three
days.
_Yaìch._ Life must be very interesting in foreign parts. It is a great
pleasure to me to become acquainted with a travelled gentleman. Allow me
to ask whom I have the honour of addressing?
_Zhev._ Zhevàkin, retired lieutenant. Permit me, on my side, to ask with
whom I have the pleasure to converse.
_Yaìch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza, government usher.
_Zhev._ (_not hearing well_). Thank you, I have already lunched. It’s
cold weather, and I knew I had a long walk before me, so I had a
marinated herring.
_Yaìch._ You have not quite understood me, I think; I said my name is
Yaìchnitza.
_Zhev._ (_bows_). Oh! I beg your pardon; I am a little hard of hearing.
I ... really ... understood you to say ... that you had lunched on an
omelette.
_Yaìch._ Yes; it’s very unfortunate. I thought of asking the General to
allow me to change my name to Yaìchnitzyn; but my friends dissuaded me;
they said it would sound like Sobachi Syn.[7]
_Zhev._ Yes, there are such cases. All our squadron, both officers and
crew, had the most extraordinary names: Pomòykin,[8] Yarỳzhkin,[9]
Lieutenant Pereprèyev;[10] and there was one midshipman—a very good
midshipman too—whose name was just Dỳrka;[11] it was so odd; the captain
would call, “Come here, Dỳrka;” and we all of us used to tease him, and
call him stop-gap, and bung-hole, and all sorts of things. (_Door-bell
rings_, FÈKLA _runs across stage_.)
_Yaìch._ Ah! Good-morning, little mother!
_Zhev._ Good-morning! How are you, my dear?
_Anoùch._ Glad to see you, little mother, Fèkla Ivànovna.
_Fèkla_ (_hurriedly_). Thank you, thank you; same to you. (_Exit into
hall; opens door. Voices without_: “At home?” “At home.” _Then several
half-inaudible words_; FÈKLA’S _voice answers angrily_: “Just you take
care!” _Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV, PODKOLYÒSSIN, _and_ FÈKLA.)
_Koch._ (_to_ PODKOLYÒSSIN). Now just keep up your courage—that’s all
that’s wanted. (_Glances round, and salutes the company with a surprised
expression._) (_Aside._) Oho! What a lot of people! What’s the meaning
of this? They can’t all be suitors. (_Nudges_ FÈKLA, _and speaks to her
softly_.) Where did all these crows come from, eh?
_Fèkla_ (_softly_). There are no crows here; they are all honest people.
_Koch._ (_to her_). There are plenty of them, but they’re precious
draggletailed.
_Fèkla_ (_softly_). I doubt they’ll fly better than yours, for all he’s
so grand. ’Tisn’t fine feathers make fine birds.
_Koch._ (_softly_). Yes, every crow thinks her own children the fairest.
(_Aloud._) What’s she doing now? I suppose that door leads to her
bedroom? (_Approaches door._)
_Fèkla._ For shame! I tell you she’s dressing.
_Koch._ Well, dear me! there’s no harm in that! I’ll only just look
in—nothing more. (_Peeps through keyhole._)
_Zhev._ Permit me to satisfy my curiosity too!
_Yaìch._ Let me have one little peep.
_Koch._ (_continuing to look_). There’s nothing to be seen, gentlemen;
there’s something white, but I can’t make out whether it’s a woman or a
pillow. (_They all crowd round door and try to peep through keyhole._)
_Koch._ There’s ... some one coming! (_All start back. Enter_ ARÌNA
PANTELÈYMOVNA _and_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA. _All bow._)
_Arìna._ To what are we indebted for the honour of this visit?
_Yaìch._ I read in the newspapers that you wished to enter into a
contract to supply timber; and therefore, as I hold the post of usher in
a Government Department, I called to inquire what kind of timber you can
supply, what quantity, and at what date.
_Arìna._ We don’t take contracts; but we are very glad to see you. Allow
me to ask your name.
[Illustration:
“ALL BOW.”
]
_Yaìch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza, collegiate assessor.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to take a seat. (_Turns to_ ZHEVÀKIN _and looks
at him_.) And may I ask——
_Zhev._ I ... you know ... I saw an advertisement about something.... I
thought I might as well look in.... It’s such fine weather to-day, and
the grass is growing so nicely along the road....
_Arìna._ And your name, if you please?
_Zhev._ Retired naval lieutenant Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin, Number
2. There was another Zhevàkin in the service, but he retired before I
did; he got a wound in the knee, and the ball went through it such an
odd way—it didn’t touch the knee itself, but it injured a vein, and drew
it all up, so that, if you were standing near him, it always seemed as
if he were going to kick you.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to sit down. (_To_ ANOÙCHKIN.) May I ask the
reason——
_Anoùch._ As a neighbour ... as I live so very near ... you see——
_Arìna._ Perhaps you live in widow Touloùbova’s house opposite?
_Anoùch._ No—n—no; I live at Peskì just now, but I have the intention of
moving to this quarter of the town sooner or later.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to sit down. (_To_ KOCHKARYÒV.) Allow me to ask——
_Koch._ Why, surely you recognise me? (_Turns to_ AGÀFIA.) And you,
madam?
_Agàfia._ I—I—don’t remember ever seeing you.
_Koch._ Why, think a minute; I’m sure we’ve met somewhere.
_Agàfia._ I don’t know, really. Was it at the Biriòushkins’?
_Koch._ Of course it was!
_Agàfia._ Oh! do you know what’s happened to her?
_Koch._ Of course I do—she’s married.
_Agàfia._ Oh no! that would be nothing; but she’s broken her leg.
_Arìna._ And very badly too. She was coming home late at night in a
_drozhki_, and the coachman was tipsy and overturned it.
_Koch._ Ah! yes; I remember, of course; I knew she’d got married, or
broken her leg, or something of that kind!
_Arìna._ And your name?
[Illustration:
ARÌNA: “WHAT IS THE GENTLEMAN’S NAME?”
KOCHKARYÒV: “PODKOLYÒSSIN—IVÀN KOUZMÌCH PODKOLYÒSSIN.”
]
_Koch._ My name? Why Ilia Fòmich Kochkaryòv. We’re almost relations, you
know. My wife is always talking about—but allow me, allow me. (_Takes
PODKOLYÒSSIN by the arm and leads him forward._) My friend Ivàn Kouzmìch
Podkolyòssin, aulic counsellor, sub-director in a Department. It’s he
that does all the business and manages everything in the most admirable
way.
_Arìna._ What is the gentleman’s name?
_Koch._ Podkolyòssin—Ivàn Kouzmìch Podkolyòssin. The director is simply
put there as a figure head: all the business is done by Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Arìna._ Indeed? Be so kind as to sit down.
(_Enter_ STARIKÒV.)
_Star._ (_bows to the company in a rapid, off-hand, business manner,
with one arm akimbo_). Arìna Pantelèymovna, how do you do, little
mother? The lads on the Arcade told me that you had some wool to sell.
_Agàfia_ (_turning her back contemptuously and speaking under her
breath, but so that he hears_). This isn’t a stall in a bazaar!
_Star._ Oh, oh! Seems I’ve come at the wrong time! I doubt you’ve
settled your business without me.
_Arìna._ Sit down, sit down, Alexièy Dmìtrievich; we’ve no wool to sell,
but we’re glad to see you; please sit down. (_All sit down; silence._)
_Yaìch._ It’s very strange weather to-day. Early in the morning it
looked quite like rain, but now it seems to have gone over.
_Agàfia._ Yes, indeed, this weather is quite extraordinary; sometimes
it’s bright, and then again it gets wet and rainy—it’s very
disagreeable.
_Zhev._ Ah, little mother! When our squadron was in Sicily it was
spring-time—with us it would be February—they have the new calendar, you
know—when we went out into the street it would be quite sunny, and then
it would begin to rain, and it would be just like real ordinary rain.
_Yaìch._ The most disagreeable thing is to sit alone in such weather.
It’s all very well for a married man—that’s quite another thing—but when
one lives alone it’s really——
_Zhev._ Oh! it’s more than any one can stand!
_Anoùch._ Yes, indeed, one may say——
_Koch._ Oh yes, it’s altogether unbearable—life’s not worth having.
Heaven defend anybody from such a position!
_Yaìch._ Now supposing, madam, that you were asked to choose who should
be the object of your affections. Allow me to ask, what would be your
taste? You will excuse my directness. What ... occupation ... do you
consider ... most ... worthy of respect in a husband?
_Zhev._ Would you choose, madam, a husband acquainted with the storms of
the ocean?
_Koch._ No! no! In my opinion the best sort of husband is a man who has
almost the whole management of a Department in his hands.
_Anoùch._ Why anticipate? Why treat with contumely a man capable of
appreciating the social intercourse of high-class society?
_Yaìch._ Madam, it is for you to decide! (_Silence._)
_Fèkla._ Speak up, little mother! Tell them something.
_Yaìch._ What have you to say?
_Koch._ What is your opinion, Agàfia Tikhònovna?
_Fèkla_ (_aside to her_). Make haste! say “Thank you,” or “With the
greatest pleasure,” or something.... It’s not proper to sit like that!
_Agàfia._ I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed, really. I shall go away. Auntie!
stop here instead of me!
_Fèkla._ No, no, you musn’t go away; it’s improper, it’s disgraceful.
They’ll think ... I don’t know what!
_Agàfia_ (_aside_). No, no, I can’t stand it, I can’t—I can’t! (_Runs
away. Arìna and Fèkla follow her._)
_Yaìch._ Well, that’s a good one—everybody’s gone away. What’s the
meaning of that?
_Koch._ I expect something’s happened.
_Zhev._ Oh, no doubt it’s some little matter of feminine toilet.... They
want to pin something, or to put the camisole straight, or—— (_Enter_
FÈKLA.)
_All_ (_crowding round her_). What is it? What’s the matter?
_Koch._ Has anything happened?
_Fèkla._ Of course not! What should happen?
_Koch._ Then why did she go away?
_Fèkla._ Why, you made the poor girl bashful, all of you—frightened and
upset her till she couldn’t stand it. She sends you her excuses, and
asks you to come in for a cup of tea in the evening. (_Exit._)
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Oh! now they’re going to begin with cups of tea!
That’s what I hate about all this match-making business—it’s such a
worry. To-day won’t do; and come again to-morrow; and the day after
to-morrow a cup of tea; and then they have to think it over, and can’t
make up their minds! But dear me! the matter’s simple enough; there’s
nothing to rack one’s brains over! Confound it all! I’m a busy man, I’ve
no time for this sort of thing!
_Koch._ (_to_ PODKOLYÒSSIN). She’s a nice-looking girl, isn’t she?
_Pod._ Yes, she’s nice-looking.
_Zhev._ I think the young lady is pretty.
_Koch._ (_aside_). The deuce take it, if that idiot hasn’t fallen in
love! He’ll be getting in the way! (_Aloud._) I don’t think she’s pretty
at all, not at all.
_Yaìch._ Her nose is too big.
_Zhev._ Now, there I don’t agree with you: she’s a regular rosebud.
_Anoùch._ I quite agree with you. The only thing is, she’s not quite—I
am inclined to doubt whether she is acquainted with the manners of
high-class society. Do you think she knows French?
_Zhev._ If I may take the liberty of asking, why didn’t you speak French
to her yourself, and try?—very likely she knows it.
_Anoùch._ You think I speak French? No, I did not enjoy such educational
advantages. My father was an eccentric personage, he never even thought
of having me taught French. I was a child in those days; it would have
been easy to teach me—a few good whippings were all that was needed, and
I should have known it perfectly well.
_Zhev._ Well, but as you don’t know French, why do you particularly
want——
_Anoùch._ Ah! no, no; it’s quite another matter with a woman. It’s quite
necessary that she should know it; otherwise, one thing and
another—(_helps himself out with gestures_)—nothing is as it should be.
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Well, those that like can care about that. For my
part, I shall go round the house and look at the wings from the
courtyard; if everything’s all right, I’ll settle the matter this very
evening. I’m not afraid of all these suitors; they’re nothing but
milksops, all the lot of them. Girls don’t like that sort of men.
_Zhev._ I think I’ll go and have a smoke. Perhaps our way lies in the
same direction. May I ask where you live?
_Anoùch._ At Peskì; in the Petròvski Row.
_Zhev._ Yes; it’s a bit out of my way; I live on the Island,[12] in the
Eighteenth Line. But all the same I’ll walk with you.
_Star._ No no; they’re getting too proud for me here. Ah! you’ll
remember your own folk some day, Agàfia Tikhònovna! Your servant,
gentlemen. (_Bows and exit. Exeunt all but_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_
KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Pod._ What are we waiting for?
_Koch._ Well, what do you think? She’s a charming girl, isn’t she?
_Pod._ Do you think so? I’m bound to confess that she doesn’t take my
fancy.
_Koch._ Come now, that’s too much! You agreed with me yourself a minute
ago that she was pretty.
_Pod._ Yes; but, you see ... her nose is too long; and she doesn’t know
French.
_Koch._ What next? What do you want with French?
_Pod._ After all, a girl ought to know French.
_Koch._ What for?
_Pod._ Why, because ... really I don’t know why. But it isn’t the same
if she doesn’t know French.
_Koch._ Well, you’re a simpleton! Somebody makes a remark, and you get
it into your head, and there it sticks! She’s a beauty; she’s a
downright beauty; you won’t find another such a girl anywhere.
_Pod._ Well, I thought she was very pretty. But afterwards, when they
began to talk so much about her nose being long, I thought it over, and
I see she really has a long nose.
_Koch._ Oh, you blind bat! Can’t you see through that trick? They talked
like that on purpose to get rid of you; and I abused her too; one always
does that. My lad, she’s a splendid girl! Just you look at her eyes!
There’s the very devil in eyes like that; they can talk, and breathe,
and anything. And as for her nose, it’s an exquisite nose; it’s as white
as alabaster; there’s plenty of alabaster that wouldn’t come up to it.
You should look with your own eyes, my man.
_Pod._ Yes; when I think of it, she really is pretty.
_Koch._ Of course she’s pretty. Look here—they’ve all gone away now;
let’s go to her and propose, and settle it all up.
_Pod._ That I certainly sha’n’t do.
_Koch._ Why not?
_Pod._ It would be downright effrontery. There are a lot of us; it’s for
her to choose.
_Koch._ What’s the use of taking any notice of them? You’re not afraid
of rivals, surely; if you like, I’ll get rid of them all in one minute.
_Pod._ How can you get rid of them?
_Koch._ That’s my business. Only give me your word that you won’t
wriggle out of it afterwards.
_Pod._ I’ve no objection to that; I’m willing.
_Koch._ Your hand on it!
_Pod._ (_gives hand_). My hand on it!
_Koch._ That’s all I ask of you. (_Exeunt._)
ACT II. SCENE I.
(_Agàfia Tikhònovna alone._)
_Agàfia._ Really, it is a very difficult thing to have to choose. If
there were only one or two of them—but to choose out of four!... Nikanòr
Ivànovich is very nice-looking, though he’s rather thin. Ivàn Kouzmìch
is not bad-looking either. Indeed, to say the truth, Ivàn Pàvlovich is a
very fine-looking man, too, although he’s fat. I should just like to
know what I am to do! Then Baltazàr Baltazàrovich has great merits, too.
Indeed, it’s so difficult to decide that I simply don’t know what to do.
If one could put Nikanòr Ivànovich’s lips on to Ivàn Kouzmìch’s nose,
and then take a little of Baltazàr Baltazàrovich’s easy way, and just a
bit of Ivàn Pàvlovich’s stoutness—I’d make up my mind at once; but now
one keeps on thinking and thinking ... really my head has begun to ache!
I think the best thing would be to cast lots. It must be as God
wills—whoever comes out shall be my husband. I’ll write all their names
on bits of paper, and roll them up tight, and then, what must be, will
be. (_Goes up to table, takes out of a drawer paper and scissors, cuts
little slips, writes, and rolls them up while speaking._) A girl’s
position is a very trying one, especially if she’s in love. No man can
ever enter into that; indeed, they don’t care to understand it. There!
now they’re all ready! I’ve only got to put them in my reticule, shut my
eyes tight, and what must be will be. (_Places slips in reticule, and
shuffles them with her hand._) I’m afraid.... Oh! if God willed that
Nikanòr Ivànovich should come out! No; why? Better Ivan Kouzmìch!
They’re all so nice.... No, no; I won’t decide.... I’ll take whichever
one comes out. (_Thrusts hand into reticule, and takes out all
together._) Oh! oh! they’ve all come out! And my heart beats so! No; it
won’t do; I must have one! (_Replaces slips in reticule, and shuffles
again._ KOCHKARYÒV _enters softly and stands behind her_.) Oh! if it
were Baltazàr.... No; I mean Nikanòr Ivànovich.... No, no; I won’t
think; it’s as fate decides!
_Koch._ Take Ivàn Kouzmìch; he’s the best.
_Agàfia._ Ah! (_Screams, and hides face with both hands, not daring to
look round._)
_Koch._ Why do you start so? Don’t be afraid, it’s I; you’d much better
take Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Oh! I’m ashamed! You’ve been listening.
_Koch._ Never mind; never mind; I’m like one of your own family, you
know; you needn’t be bashful with me. Come now, let me see your pretty
face.
_Agàfia_ (_half uncovering her face_). Indeed I’m ashamed!
_Koch._ There now! Take Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Oh! (_Screams, and hides face again._)
_Koch._ Really, he’s a splendid fellow; he manages that Department
wonderfully.... In fact he’s a marvellous fellow!
_Agàfia_ (_gradually uncovering her face_). Well, but what about the
other one, Nikanòr Ivànovich? He’s very nice, too.
_Koch._ Oh! he’s not fit to be mentioned in the same breath with Ivàn
Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Why not?
_Koch._ The reason’s plain. Ivàn Kouzmìch is a man.... Well, what you
may call a man ... such as you won’t find again.
_Agàfia._ And Ivàn Pàvlovich?
_Koch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich! He’s a regular good-for-nothing; they’re all
good-for-nothings.
_Agàfia._ Not all, surely?
_Koch._ Just look yourself; just compare them; there are all sorts of
people; but really, such a set—Ivàn Pàvlovich, Nikanòr Ivànovich—they’re
like, Heaven knows what!
_Agàfia._ Well, but really, they’re very ... modest.
_Koch._ Modest, indeed! They’re regular bullies and roughs. I suppose
you don’t want to be beaten the next day after the wedding?
_Agàfia._ Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That’s such a dreadful misfortune that
there couldn’t be anything worse!
_Koch._ I should think not! One can’t imagine anything worse.
_Agàfia._ Then your advice is that I should take Ivàn Kouzmìch?
_Koch._ Of course you should take Ivàn Kouzmìch. (_Aside._) The business
seems to go pretty smoothly. I’d better run to the confectioner’s and
fetch Podkolyòssin.
_Agàfia._ Then you think ... Ivàn Kouzmìch?
_Koch._ Certainly, Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ And must I refuse all the others?
_Koch._ Of course you must.
_Agàfia._ But how am I to do it? I’m ashamed to.
_Koch._ What’s there to be ashamed of? Just tell them that you’re too
young to marry yet.
_Agàfia._ Well, but they won’t believe me; they’ll begin asking why, and
how, and all that.
_Koch._ Well, if you want to put an end to it at once, you can simply
say, “Get along with you, blockheads!”
_Agàfia._ But how am I to say that?
_Koch._ Well, just try. I assure you that, after that, they’ll all run
away.
_Agàfia._ But ... but it sounds ... so rude.
_Koch._ Well, but you’ll never see them again, so what does it matter?
_Agàfia._ Even so it doesn’t seem nice; ... they’ll be offended.
_Koch._ What in the world does it matter if they are? If they could do
you any harm that would be another thing; but the worst that can happen
is for one of them to spit in your face—that’s all!
_Agàfia._ There! you see!
_Koch._ Well, what harm? Why, some people are spat at over and over
again! There’s a man I know—such a handsome, fresh-coloured fellow—he
was always coaxing and teasing his director to raise his salary, till at
last the director lost all patience, and turned round and spat in his
face. “There’s your salary!” he said; “let me alone, you demon!” But for
all that he raised the salary, and the man was none the worse for having
been spat at. What’s there to mind in that? It would be another matter
if you hadn’t got a handkerchief near, but you have one in your
pocket—you’ve nothing to do but to take it out and dry your face.
(_Door-bell rings._) There’s some one at the door—one of them, I expect.
I shouldn’t care to meet them just now. Isn’t there another way out?
_Agàfia._ Oh, yes, down the back stairs. But, indeed, I am trembling all
over!
_Koch._ Only keep your presence of mind; everything will be all right.
Good-bye! (_Aside._) I’ll run and fetch Podkolyòssin. (_Exit. Enter_
YAÌCHNITZA.)
_Yaìch._ I purposely came rather early, madam, in order to find you
alone and talk with you at leisure. As regards my position, madam, you
are, I presume, acquainted with it: I serve as collegiate assessor, I
enjoy the good-will of the authorities, and my subordinates are
obedient ... only one thing is wanting—a partner to share my life.
_Agàfia._ Y-yes....
_Yaìch._ I have at last found that desired partner. It is—yourself.
Answer me plainly—yes or no? (_Looking at her shoulders; aside._) She’s
not like those scraggy foreign women; there’s something of her.
_Agàfia._ I am still very young.... I do not wish to marry yet....
_Yaìch._ Don’t wish!... Why, what do you employ a matchmaker for?
Perhaps, though, you mean something else—explain to me.... (_Door-bell
rings._) Confound the people! They won’t let one settle one’s business
in peace!
(_Enter_ ZHEVÀKIN.)
_Zhev._ Pardon me, madam, if I have come too early. (_Turns round and
sees_ YAÌCHNITZA.) Ah! there’s one already.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, my
compliments.
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). You be hanged with your compliments! (_Aloud._)
Well, madam, your answer? Say only one word—yes or no?... (_Door bell
rings_; YAÌCHNITZA _spits on the floor_.) Damn that bell!
(_Enter_ ANOÙCHKIN.)
_Anoùchkin._ Perhaps, madam, I have arrived earlier than is becoming and
consistent with good breeding. (_Sees the others, utters an exclamation,
and starts back._) My respects, gentlemen!
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Keep your respects and be damned to you! The very
deuce brought your spindle-shanks here—if you’d only tumble and break
them!... (_Aloud._) Well, madam, how is it to be? Decide. I am a man in
office; my time is valuable—yes or no?
_Agàfia._ (_confused._) Oh, no, please, ... I don’t want.... (_Aside._)
I don’t know a bit what I’m saying!
_Yaìch._ You don’t want?... In what sense do you mean that?
_Agàfia._ Oh, I didn’t mean.... I.... Oh, indeed!... (_Gathering up her
courage._) Get along with you.... (_Aside, clasping her hands._) Oh,
dear! Oh, dear! what have I said!
_Yaìch._ “_Get_ ... _along_ with you”?!... What does “get along with
you” mean?... Permit me to ask, what do you mean by this? (_Places arms
akimbo, and advances towards her threateningly._)
_Agàfia_ (_stares at him; then screams_). Oh! oh! he’s going to beat me!
(_Exit running._ YAÌCHNITZA _stands open-mouthed_; ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA,
_hearing the noise, runs in, looks at him, and screams_.)
_Arìna._ Oh! he’s going to beat us! (_Exit running._)
_Yaìch._ What’s it all about? What can have happened? (_Door-bell rings;
voice heard without._)
_Koch._ (_without_). Go in; go in! What are you stopping for?
_Pod._ (_without_). You go first; I’ll come in a minute; I’ll just
fasten my strap; it’s come undone.
_Koch._ (_without_). I know you’ll sneak away again.
_Pod._ (_without_). No, I won’t; I won’t, indeed!
(_Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ What next! wants to set a strap right!
_Yaìch._ (_to him_). Be so kind as to tell me,—Is the young lady an
idiot?
_Koch._ What do you mean? Has anything happened?
_Yaìch._ Her behaviour is most extraordinary. All of a sudden she ran
away, screaming out, “He’ll beat me! he’ll beat me!” It’s enough to
mystify the devil!
_Koch._ Yes; she gets like that sometimes; she’s weak in her head.
_Yaìch._ May I ask if you’re a relative of hers?
_Koch._ Oh! yes; I’m a relative.
_Yaìch._ What is your relationship to her, if I may inquire?
_Koch._ A—a—a, really, I don’t know. Let me see—my mother’s aunt was
some relation to her father; or else her father was related to my aunt;
my wife knows all about it; that’s a woman’s business, you know.
_Yaìch._ Has her mind been affected long?
_Koch._ Ever since she was a little child.
_Yaìch._ A—a—a, yes—of course it would be better if she had more sense.
But, after all, it’s not bad to have a foolish wife—once the other
considerations are all right, you know.
_Koch._ But, my good sir, she hasn’t a sixpence!
_Yaìch._ What! But the stone house?
_Koch._ Oh! it’s only called stone; but if you knew the way it’s built!
It’s just coated over with stucco outside; but the walls are made of all
kinds of rubbish—chips, and splinters, and rubble, and what-not.
_Yaìch._ You don’t say so!
_Koch._ Of course. Why, don’t you know the way houses are built
nowadays? They only build houses so as to be able to mortgage them.
_Yaìch._ But this house isn’t mortgaged, surely?
_Koch._ How do you know that? It’s a good deal worse; it’s not only
mortgaged, but the interest hasn’t been paid for the last two years.
Then they’ve got a brother in the Senate, who has his eye on the house.
He’s the most pettifogging hair-splitter that ever was born; the rascal
would fleece his own mother of her last petticoat!
_Yaìch._ But the old matchmaker told me.... Oh! the old hag! A monster
in human.... (_Aside._) By the bye, though, he may be making it all up.
I’ll submit the old woman to a strict interrogation. And, if it’s
true, ... oh! I’ll give her something she won’t forget in a hurry!
_Anoùch._ (_to KOCHKARYÒV_). Permit me, too, to trespass on your time
with a question. Not being myself acquainted with the French language, I
have great difficulty in discovering whether a woman knows French or
not. Does the lady of the house——
_Koch._ She doesn’t know A from B.
_Anoùch._ Is it possible?
_Koch._ Oh! I know that very well! She was at boarding-school with my
wife; and she was the idle one of the school—always in the dunce’s cap.
And as for the French master, he used simply to beat her with a stick.
_Anoùch._ Just imagine! The first minute that I saw her I had a sort of
presentiment that she doesn’t know French.
_Yaìch._ French be hanged! But that confounded matchmaker.... Oh! the
old hag! the old brute! If only you knew the way she described it all!
Like a painter; for all the world like a painter! “A house, wings,
basements, silver spoons, sledges, nothing to do but to get in and
drive!” One hardly ever comes across such a page in a novel! Oh! you old
harridan! once I get hold of you!...
(_Enter_ FÈKLA. _All crowd round her and begin to speak at once._)
_Yaìch._ Ah—h—h! There she is! Just come here a minute, you old——! Just
come here a minute!
_Anoùch._ How could you deceive me so, Fèkla Ivànovna?
_Koch._ Now then, my beauty, stand up to the scratch!
_Fèkla._ I can’t make out a word you say when you deafen me like that.
_Yaìch._ The house is just built of stucco, you old hag, you! And you
told me lies! It’s nothing but garrets, and the very devil knows what.
_Fèkla._ I don’t know; I didn’t build it. I suppose if they built it
with stucco it’s because they liked stucco.
_Yaìch._ And it’s all mortgaged too, is it? May the devils eat you up,
you damned old hag! (_Stamps his foot._)
_Fèkla._ Oh! for shame! using such words! Anybody else would say “Thank
you” for all the trouble I’ve taken.
_Anoùch._ Ah! Fèkla Ivànovna! and you deceived me too; you told me she
knew French!
_Fèkla._ So she does, dear heart, so she does! And German; and all that
outlandish gibberish. She can talk all the ways you like.
_Anoùch._ No, no; I’m afraid she talks nothing but Russian.
_Fèkla._ And what’s the harm of that? Of course she talks Russian;
because Russian’s easier to understand. And if she could do all that
heathen jabber, it would be the worse for you, because you wouldn’t be
able to understand a word. What have you got against anybody talking
good, plain Russian? It’s the proper way to talk; all the saints talked
Russian.
_Yaìch._ Just come here a minute, confound you! Just come here to me!
_Fèkla_ (_backing towards the door_). Not I! I know you too well! You’ve
got a heavy hand; one never knows when you may strike!
_Yaìch._ Ah, my dove! I’ll pay you out for this! When I take you to the
police-station you’ll get a lesson how to deceive honest people. I’ll
let you know! And tell the girl from me that she’s a beast! Do you hear?
Be sure you tell her. (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Well, I never did! He’s in a fine fury! Just because he’s fat,
he thinks there’s no one like him in the world. And supposing I say that
you’re a beast yourself, what then?
_Anoùch._ I am bound to say, my good woman, that I did not expect you to
have deceived me so. If I had known that the young lady is so
uneducated, I ... I simply would never have set foot inside the place.
That’s the truth! (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Is the man drunk or daft? These fine folk are over hard to
please! All that foolish learning has just turned his head! (KOCHKARYÒV
_points to Fèkla with his finger, and bursts into a roar of laughter_.)
_Fèkla._ (_angrily_). What’s all that guffaw about? (KOCHKARYÒV _goes on
laughing_.) Well, you needn’t go into a fit!
_Koch._ Matchmaker! matchmaker! She knows her business! she knows how to
arrange marriages! (_Continues to laugh._)
_Fèkla._ You’re a wonderful one to laugh; I should think your mother
went daft the hour that you were born. (_Exit angrily._)
_Koch._ (_continues to laugh_). Oh! I can’t!... I can’t really!... It’s
too much!... I shall die of laughing!... (_Continues to laugh._ ZHEVÀKIN
_looks at him and begins to laugh too_.)
_Koch._ (_throws himself into a chair exhausted_). Oh!... Oh! dear!...
I’m half killed!... If I laugh any more I shall simply die!...
_Zhev._ I admire your merry character. When I was in the navy, there was
a midshipman in Captain Voldyrèv’s squadron—Pyetoukhòv his name was,
Antòn Ivànovich—he was very merry too; sometimes, if you’d just lift up
one finger—so—he’d set off laughing, and he’d laugh the whole day long.
Really, just to look at him was enough to put one into a laughing mood;
and at last you’d begin to laugh yourself.
_Koch._ (_recovering his breath_). Oh! Lord! have mercy upon us sinners!
What has the idiot got into her head? As if _she_ knew how to arrange a
marriage! She, indeed! Now, if I arrange a marriage, it’s another
matter!
_Zhev._ Do you seriously mean that you can get people married?
_Koch._ Of course I do. I can marry anybody to anybody.
_Zhev._ In that case, marry me to the lady of this house.
_Koch._ You? What do you want to be married for?
_Zhev._ How “what for?” Allow me to remark that is rather a strange
question. What do people want to get married for?
_Koch._ But you heard that she has no dowry.
_Zhev._ That can’t be helped. Of course it’s unfortunate; but with such
a very charming girl, so well brought up, one can live even without a
dowry. A modest room (_gesticulating_), here a little entrance-hall,
there a small screen or some kind of partition, you know——
_Koch._ What’s there in her you like so much?
_Zhev._ To tell you the truth, she took my fancy because she is plump.
I’m a great connoisseur in feminine plumpness.
_Koch._ (_looking askance at him; aside_). The old mummy may give
himself airs; but he’s for all the world like a pouch with the tobacco
shaken out. (_Aloud._) No; you have no business to be married at all.
_Zhev._ Why so?
_Koch._ It’s plain enough why. Look what your figure’s like! Between
ourselves, you’ve got a leg like a chicken’s.
_Zhev._ A chicken’s?
_Koch._ Certainly. Just see what you look like.
_Zhev._ What do you mean, though, about a chicken’s leg?
_Koch._ Just simply a chicken’s.
_Zhev._ It appears to me, sir, that this approaches to a personality....
_Koch._ I say this to you because I know you’re a sensible man. I
shouldn’t say it to everybody. However, I’ll get you married, if you
like, only to another woman.
_Zhev._ Thank you, no; I must ask you not to marry me to another woman.
If you will be so kind, I should prefer this one.
_Koch._ As you like. I’ll arrange it for you, only with one
condition—you musn’t interfere at all; you musn’t even let the young
lady see you; I’ll manage it all without you.
_Zhev._ I don’t quite understand. How “without me?” Of course the young
lady must see me.
_Koch._ Not at all; not at all! Just go home and wait; it’ll all be done
by this evening.
_Zhev._ (_rubbing his hands_). That’ll be splendid! That’ll be capital!
Don’t you think I ought to have my certificate, though—my list of
service? Perhaps the young lady would like to see it; I’ll fetch it this
minute.
_Koch._ You needn’t fetch anything; only go home; I’ll let you know this
very day. (_Exit_ ZHEVÀKIN.) Yes; and don’t you wish you may get it!...
I wonder why on earth Podkolyòssin doesn’t come! It’s very strange! He
surely can’t be setting his strap to rights all this time. I’d almost
better run and find him.
(_Enter_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA.)
_Agàfia_ (_looking around_). Have they all gone? Is there no one here?
_Koch._ There’s no one here; they’ve all gone.
_Agàfia._ Oh! if you knew how I shook and trembled! I never felt like
that in my life before. But what a dreadful man that Yaìchnitza is! What
a tyrant he would be to his wife! I keep fancying every minute that he’s
coming back!
_Koch._ Oh, no! he won’t come back. I’ll lay my head on it that neither
of the two will show his nose here again.
_Agàfia._ And the third?
_Koch._ What third?
_Zhev._ (_Poking his head in at the door; aside_). I’m simply wild to
know what she’ll say about me with that little rosebud of a mouth!
_Agàfia._ I mean Baltazàr Baltazàrovich.
_Zhev._ (_aside_). Ah! that’s it! that’s it! (_Rubs his hands._)
_Koch._ Oh! that creature! I was wondering who you could be talking
about. My dear lady, the man’s a complete idiot—Heaven knows what!
_Zhev._ (_aside_). What’s that? That I confess I don’t understand.
_Agàfia._ Do you know, he seems to me a very nice person?
_Koch._ A drunkard.
_Zhev._ (_aside_). I really don’t understand this!
_Agàfia._ You don’t mean to say he’s a drunkard too?
_Koch._ Oh! dear me! yes; a thoroughpaced scoundrel.
_Zhev._ (_aloud_). Allow me; _that_ I did not ask you to say. If you had
said something to my advantage, or in my praise—that would be another
matter; but to speak of me in such a manner, to use such words—you may
find some one else who will consent, but not your humble servant.
_Koch._ (_aside_). Whatever has brought him back again? (_Softly to_
AGÀFIA.) Look! look! he can hardly stand on his feet. He’s as drunk as a
lord; and it’s the same thing every day. Send him about his business and
make an end of the whole affair. (_Aside._) Podkolyòssin doesn’t come,
and doesn’t come, the scoundrel! Oh! I’ll be even with him! (_Exit._)
_Zhev._ (_aside_). He said he was going to praise me, and instead of
that he began abusing me! Very queer man! (_Aloud._) Don’t believe him,
madam.
_Agàfia._ Excuse me, I am not well; my head aches. (_Going._)
_Zhev._ It cannot be; there must be something about me that displeases
you. (_Points to his head._) I hope you don’t mind my having a little
bald place here; it’s nothing, really; it’s from fever; the hair will
soon grow again.
_Agàfia._ It is all the same to me whether it grows or not.
_Zhev._ Madam! indeed.... If I were to put on a black coat, my
complexion would be much lighter.
_Agàfia._ So much the better for you. Good-afternoon. (_Exit._)
_Zhev._ (_Alone; calls after her._) Madam! tell me the reason! Say why!
What is your objection? Is there any defect in me?... She’s gone! It is
a most extraordinary thing! This is the seventeenth time it has happened
to me; and always just in the same way. At first everything goes all
right; and then, when the critical moment comes, they always refuse me.
(_Walks up and down the room, meditating._) Yes, I believe this is
really the seventeenth girl. And what in the world is it that she wants?
I should like to know why ... on what grounds.... (_Meditates._) It’s
mysterious, very mysterious! Now, if there were anything to object to in
me! (_Inspecting himself._) I think nobody can say that of me, thank
Heaven! It’s very strange! I wonder if I hadn’t better go home, and hunt
about in my trunk. I used to have some verses there that no woman could
stand against.... There really is no understanding it! Everything seemed
to be going all right.... I see I shall have to alter my tack. It’s a
pity; it really is a pity. (_Exit._)
(_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_ KOCHKARYÒV, _looking behind them_.)
_Koch._ He didn’t see us. Did you notice what a long face he went out
with?
_Pod._ She surely hasn’t refused him as well as the others!
_Koch._ Point blank.
_Pod._ It must be dreadfully embarrassing to be refused!
_Koch._ I should think so!
_Pod._ I still can’t believe she really said straight out that she
prefers me to all the others.
_Koch._ Prefers indeed! She’s simply off her head about you. If you’d
heard all the sweet names she gave you—why, she’s over head and ears in
love!
_Pod._ (_sniggering contentedly_). And you know, really, when a woman
likes, she can say such words to you as no man would ever think
of—“piggykin-snout,” “my own little cockroach,” “blackie.”...
_Koch._ Oh, that’s nothing! Once you’re married you’ll find out before
two months are over what words a woman knows how to use—enough to melt
you all away, my lad!
_Pod._ (_laughing_). Really?
_Koch._ Word of honour! Look here, though, we must get to business. Lay
your heart bare before her this very minute, and ask for her hand.
_Pod._ This very minute! My dear fellow, how can you!
_Koch._ This minute, certainly; and here she comes. (_Enter AGÀFIA._)
Madam, I have brought to your feet the mortal whom you see. There never
was a man so desperately in love—poor fellow, I wouldn’t wish an enemy
to be in such a state....
_Pod._ (_nudging his arm; softly_). I say, old fellow, don’t lay it on
too thick....
_Koch._ (_aside to him_). All right. (_Aside to her._) Help him out,
he’s very shy; try to be as easy as possible. Make the most of your
eyebrows, or keep your eyes down and then flash them at him suddenly—you
know how!—or bend your shoulder somehow and let the dog look at it! I’m
sorry, though, you didn’t put on a dress with short sleeves; however,
it’s no matter. (_Aloud._) Well, I leave you in agreeable company. I’ll
just look into your dining-room and kitchen a minute; I must make
arrangements—the man I ordered the supper from will be here in a minute;
perhaps the wine has come already.... Good-bye! (_Aside to
PODKOLYÒSSIN._) Out with it; don’t be afraid! (_Exit._)
_Agàfia._ Will you sit down, please? (_They sit down; silence._)
_Pod._ Do you like the water, madam?
_Agàfia._ How do you mean—the water?
_Pod._ I mean—to go boating in summer, in the suburbs.
_Agàfia._ Yes, we sometimes make an excursion with friends.
_Pod._ I wonder what sort of summer we shall have?
_Agàfia._ It is to be hoped it will be fine. (_Silence._)
_Pod._ What is your favourite flower, madam?
_Agàfia._ The carnation; it smells so sweet.
_Pod._ Flowers are very becoming for ladies.
_Agàfia._ Yes, they make an agreeable occupation. (_Silence._) What
church did you go to last Sunday?
_Pod._ To the Voznessénsky, and the week before to the Kazansky
Cathedral. But it is all the same—one can pray in any church. (_Silence.
PODKOLYÒSSIN drums on the table with his fingers._) The Ekaterinhof
excursions will soon begin now.
_Agàfia._ In a month, I think.
_Pod._ Even less than a month.
_Agàfia._ I expect there will be some pleasant excursions.
_Pod._ To-day is the eighth—(_counts on his fingers_)—ninth, tenth,
eleventh—in twenty-two days.
_Agàfia._ Dear me, how soon!
_Pod._ I don’t count to-day in. (_Silence._) What a daring race the
Russians are!
_Agàfia._ How so?
_Pod._ The working men. They will stand right on the top of anything....
I passed a house to-day that was being plastered; and there stood the
plasterer ... afraid of nothing.
_Agàfia._ Indeed? And where was this?
_Pod._ On my way, where I always have to pass, going to the Department.
I attend regularly every day now. (_Silence. PODKOLYÒSSIN again drums on
the table; at last takes his hat, rises, and bows._)
_Agàfia._ Going already?
_Pod._ Yes.... Pardon me, I have perhaps bored you.
_Agàfia._ How could that be! On the contrary, I ought to thank you for
causing me to pass the time so pleasantly.
_Pod._ (_smiling_). Really, I am afraid I have bored you.
_Agàfia._ Oh no, indeed!
_Pod._ In that case, allow me to come in some other time—some evening.
_Agàfia._ With the greatest pleasure. (_They bow. Exit PODKOLYÒSSIN._)
_Agàfia_ (_alone_). What a superior person! I have only now learned to
know him well; it would be difficult not to love him; he is at once
modest and judicious. Yes, his friend spoke truly of him; I am only
sorry that he went away so soon—I should have liked to hear him talk
some more. How delightful it is to talk with him! The best of all is
that he doesn’t talk small talk. I wanted to say two or three words to
him, but I suddenly felt so timid, and my heart began to beat so....
What an excellent gentleman! ... I’ll go and tell auntie. (_Exit._)
(_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ Why go home? Whatever nonsense do you want to go home for?
_Pod._ What should I stop here for? I’ve said all that’s proper already.
_Koch._ Then you have made her an offer?
_Pod._ N—no, that’s the only thing—I haven’t done that yet.
_Koch._ Well you really are—why didn’t you?
_Pod._ I should like to know how you expect me, without talking about
anything else first, to plump the question that way—“Will you marry me,
madam?”
_Koch._ And _I_ should like to know whatever nonsense were you talking
about for a whole half-hour?
_Pod._ Oh, we talked about all sorts of things; and I acknowledge that
I’m delighted. I passed the time most agreeably.
_Koch._ Look here, man, think yourself; when are you going to get it all
done at that rate? It will be time to go to church and be married in an
hour.
_Pod._ Are you gone mad? Be married to-day!...
_Koch._ Why not?
_Pod._ To-day!
_Koch._ But you gave me your word; you said that as soon as the other
suitors were got rid of, you were ready to be married at once.
_Pod._ I’m quite willing to keep my word—only not at once. I must have
at least a month breathing-time.
_Koch._ A month!
_Pod._ Of course.
_Koch._ Are you gone right off your head?
_Pod._ I can’t do with less than a month.
_Koch._ But, you wooden block, you, I’ve ordered the supper!... Look
here, Ivàn Kouzmìch, don’t be obstinate, there’s a good fellow; get
married at once!
_Pod._ My good man, what are you thinking of? How could I do it at once?
_Koch._ Ivàn Kouzmìch, I ask it of you. If you don’t care to do it for
your own sake, do it for mine.
_Pod._ I tell you I can’t.
_Koch._ You can, my dear fellow, you can, perfectly well; there now,
don’t be so whimsical, don’t, please!
_Pod._ But indeed I can’t do it; just think how odd it would seem!
_Koch._ What is there odd about it? Who’s been putting that into your
head? Now just be sensible and think it over; you’re a clever fellow—I
don’t say that to flatter you, or creep into your good graces; I don’t
say it because you’re an aulic counsellor—I say it out of sincere
affection for you.... There now, dear old chap—make up your mind—look at
the thing as a reasonable man should.
_Pod._ If the thing were possible I would——
_Koch._ Ivàn Kouzmìch! My dear friend, my good fellow! If you like I’ll
go down on my knees to you!
_Pod._ But why?
_Koch._ (_kneeling_). There! I’m on my knees before you! There now, you
see, I entreat you! I’ll never forget it if you’ll do me this one
favour—give in, please; please give in!
_Pod._ I tell you, man, I can’t.
_Koch._ (_rising angrily_). PIG!!
_Pod._ Oh, you can rant if you like!
_Koch._ Idiot! Blockhead! There never was such an ass!
_Pod._ Rant away; I don’t care!
_Koch._ Who have I taken all this trouble for? Who have I been working
for? All for your good, you nincompoop! I declare I’ll just throw it all
up and leave you in the lurch; what’s it to me?
_Pod._ Certainly, throw it up if you like. Who asked you to give
yourself so much trouble?
_Koch._ But you’ll come to grief altogether—you can’t manage anything
without me. If I don’t get you safely married, you’ll be fooled for the
rest of your days.
_Pod._ What’s that to you?
_Koch._ Oh, you dunderhead! It’s you I’m trying to help!
_Pod._ I don’t want your help.
_Koch._ Then go to the devil!
_Pod._ Very well, I will.
_Koch._ That’s the right end for you!
_Pod._ All right.
_Koch._ Be off with you! Be off! And I wish you may break your leg! With
all my heart I wish a tipsy cabman would drive his shafts down your
throat! You’re an old rag, not an official! I give you my word that
everything’s over between us. Don’t you dare to show your face in my
house again!
_Pod._ I shan’t. (_Exit._)
_Koch._ (_alone_). Go to the devil—your old friend! (_Opens door and
bawls after him._) Fool! (_Walks up and down in great agitation._) Now,
did anybody in the world ever see such a man? The blockhead! Indeed, to
speak the truth, I’m a precious fellow, too! Now just tell me, please—I
appeal to you all—am I not an ass and a dolt? Why should I toil and moil
for him and argue till my throat aches? What’s he to me, please? He’s no
kin of mine! And what am I to him—nurse, maiden aunt, mother-in-law,
sponsor? Why, why, _why_ the devil should I take all this trouble and
give myself no rest? And all for him—may the foul fiend carry him away!
The deuce take it all! Sometimes there’s no making out what a man does a
thing for! What a scoundrel! What a sneaking, miserable cad! Oh! you
pig-headed brute, you! Wouldn’t I just like to punch your nose and box
your ears, and knock out your teeth and——Ah! (_Strikes at the air with
his fist._) This is the provoking thing about it—he just goes off, and
doesn’t care a rap; it all runs off him like water off a duck’s back;
that’s what I can’t stand! He’ll just go home to his lodgings and lie on
his back and smoke a pipe. Confounded sneak! There are plenty of ugly
brutes to be seen, but such a hideous mug passes any man’s power to
imagine; you couldn’t invent anything worse if you tried—you couldn’t,
really! And he’s just mistaken. I’ll go and fetch him back on purpose,
the scoundrel! I won’t let him give the slip like that; I’ll go and
bring the sneak back! (_Rushes away. Enter_ AGÀFIA.)
_Agàfia._ Really, my heart beats so, I can’t make it out! Whichever way
I turn, Ivàn Kouzmìch seems to stand before me. It seems as if one
couldn’t escape one’s fate. Just now I wanted to think of something
altogether different, but it’s all the same whatever I take up. I’ve
tried to wind off some silk and make a reticule, but Ivàn Kouzmìch keeps
getting under my hand. (_Silence._) And so now, at last, a change of
condition awaits me! They will take me, lead me to the church. Then they
will leave me alone with a man—oh! I shudder from head to foot when I
think of it. Farewell, my maiden life! (_Weeps._) All these years I have
lived in peace. I have just gone on living, and now I must be married!
And to think of all the cares of marriage: children, boys—they always
quarrel and fight—and then there’ll be girls, and they’ll grow up, and
one must get them married. And one is fortunate if they find good
husbands. But supposing they marry drunkards, or people that may any day
gamble away anything they have! (_Gradually begins to sob again._) I
haven’t had time to enjoy my girlhood; I haven’t lived even twenty-seven
years unmarried. (_Changing her tone._) I wonder why Ivàn Kouzmìch is so
long coming! (_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN, KOCHKARYÒV’S _hands are seen at the
door, shoving him forcibly on to the stage_.)
_Pod._ I have come, madam, to explain a certain matter—only I should
wish to know beforehand whether you will not think it strange——
_Agàfia_ (_dropping her eyes_). What is it?
_Pod._ No, madam; tell me first, will you think it strange?
_Agàfia._ I can’t. What is it?
_Pod._ But confess; I am sure what I am going to say will seem strange
to you.
_Agàfia._ How is that possible? It is a pleasure to hear anything from
you.
_Pod._ But you have never heard this thing from me. (AGÀFIA _drops her
eyes lower_. KOCHKARYÒV _enters softly, and stands behind_
PODKOLYÒSSIN.) It is about——But perhaps I had better tell you some other
time.
_Agàfia._ What is it?
_Pod._ It is——It’s true, I wanted to explain to you now; but I still
feel a little doubtful.
_Koch._ (_folding his arms, aside_). Oh! Gracious heavens! What a man!
He’s an old woman’s flannel shoe, not a man. He’s a parody of a man, a
burlesque of a man!
_Agàfia._ Why should you feel doubtful?
_Pod._ A sort of doubt keeps coming over me.
_Koch._ (_aloud_). Oh! how stupid! Oh! how stupid! This is what it’s
about, madam: he asks your hand, and wants to tell you that he can’t
live, can’t exist without you; he wants to know—do you consent to make
him happy?
_Pod._ (_half frightened, excitedly nudging him_). I say! don’t!
_Koch._ Can you decide, madam, to render this mortal happy?
_Agàfia._ I do not presume to think that I can give happiness——However,
I consent.
_Koch._ Of course, of course; ought to have been settled long ago! Give
me your hands!
_Pod._ In a minute. (_Tries to whisper in his ear._ KOCHKARYÒV _shakes
his fist and frowns at him_. PODKOLYÒSSIN _gives his hand_.)
_Koch._ (_joining their hands_). Well, may God bless you! I consent, and
I approve your union. Marriage is a kind of thing——It’s not like just
taking a sledge and going for a drive; it’s of quite a different
character; it’s an obligation——I haven’t time now, but I’ll tell you
afterwards what sort of obligation it is. Well, Ivàn Kouzmìch, kiss your
bride; it is your right to do that now; it is your duty to do it.
(AGÀFIA _drops her eyes_.) Never mind, madam, it is quite right and
proper; let him kiss you!
_Pod._ No, madam, you must permit me now. (_Kisses her, and takes her
hand._) What a lovely little hand! Why have you such a lovely little
hand? Allow me, madam. I wish that the wedding should be at once—at
once, without any delay.
_Agàfia._ At once? Perhaps that will be too soon.
_Pod._ I won’t hear of anything! I should like to have it this very
minute.
_Koch._ Bravo! That’s good! That’s a noble fellow! I always had great
hopes of you in the future! Indeed, madam, he’s quite right; you’d
better go and dress at once. To tell the truth, I’ve sent for the
carriage already, and invited the guests; they’re all gone straight to
the church. I know your wedding-dress is ready.
_Agàfia._ Oh! yes; ready long ago. I’ll dress in a minute. (_Exit._)
_Pod._ Well, I thank you, friend! Now I appreciate all your kindness. My
own father wouldn’t have done for me what you have done. I see now that
you acted from pure friendship. Thank you, old chap! I’ll remember it
all my life. (_With emotion._) Next spring I’ll certainly go and visit
your father’s grave.
_Koch._ It’s nothing, old man; I’m glad myself. There now; let’s
embrace. (_Kisses him, first on one cheek, then on the other._) May God
give you happiness and prosperity (_they kiss_), peace and plenty; may
you have many children.
_Pod._ Thank you, friend! Now, at last, only now, I know what life is; a
new world has opened before me. Now I see, as it were; that everything
moves and lives. I feel, I seem to go off into a mist—I don’t know
myself what has come to me. Up till now I never saw or understood all
this; I was just like a man that knew nothing; I never thought, never
pondered over things; I lived just as any ordinary man does.
_Koch._ I’m glad, very glad! I’ll just go and see how they’ve set the
table; I’ll be back in a minute. (_Aside._) All the same, I’d better
take away his hat, in case of anything. (_Exit, taking hat._)
[Illustration:
PODKOLYÒSSIN: “WELL, I DON’T KNOW; IT ISN’T SO HIGH; ONLY ONE STORY.”
]
_Pod_ (_alone_). Indeed, what have I been, until now? Have I understood
the meaning of life? No, I have understood nothing. What has my bachelor
life been worth? What have I done? Of what consequence have I been? I
have lived and lived, served, gone to the Department, dined, slept—in a
word, I have been a quite ordinary and frivolous man. It is only now I
see how foolish are all the people who do not marry. And yet, if you
think of it, what a number of people are in that state of blindness! If
I were a king anywhere, I would command that everybody should marry,
every single person, that there shouldn’t be one bachelor in all my
kingdom. Really, to think of it, in a few minutes I shall be married!
Suddenly I shall taste such bliss as one only hears about in
fairy-tales—bliss that there is no describing, there are no words to
describe it. (_After a short silence._) All the same, put it how you
like—but there’s really something almost dreadful in it when you think
it over. For all one’s life, for ever—you can’t get over the fact that
you’re tying yourself. And once it’s done, no excuse will help you, no
remorse, nothing, nothing—everything’s finished; all is over. Why, even
now there’s no way out of it; we shall be before the altar in a few
minutes. I couldn’t go away if I wanted to—the carriage is at the door;
everything’s ready. I wonder, though, couldn’t I go away? Why no, of
course not; there are heaps of people at the door, and everywhere, and
they’d ask me why. No, no, it won’t do! By the by, there’s the window
open; what if I jumped out. No, no; oh, no; it wouldn’t do; it wouldn’t
be proper—and then, it’s so high. (_Goes to window._) Well, I don’t
know; it isn’t so high; only one story, and that a low one. Why, no, no,
of course I can’t; I haven’t even got my hat; I can’t go without a hat,
it would seem so queer! Couldn’t I manage without a hat, though, after
all? What if I were to try? H—’m. I might as well try. (_Clambers on to
window-sill and crosses himself._) Lord, give Thy blessing![13] (_Jumps
down into the street. Heard grunting and groaning without._) Oh! oh!
It’s a good height though! Hi, _drozhki_!
_Cabman’s voice_ (_without_). _Drozhki_, sir?
_Pod._ (_without_). To the canal, by the Semyònovsky bridge.
_Cabman_ (_without_). I don’t mind going for ten kopecks.
_Pod._ (_without_). All right! Make haste!
(_Drozhki is heard to drive away. Enter_ AGÀFIA _in her wedding-dress,
walking timidly and hanging her head_.)
_Agàfia._ I really don’t know what is come to me. I feel ashamed again,
and I am trembling all over. Oh! I wish he weren’t in the room just this
minute; I wish he’d gone out! (_Looking round shyly._) Why, where is he?
There’s no one here! Where can he be gone? (_Opens door into hall and
calls._) Fèkla, where is Ivàn Kouzmìch gone?
_Fèkla_ (_without_). He’s there.
_Agàfia._ Where?
_Fèkla_ (_entering_). But he was sitting in this room!
_Agàfia._ Well, he isn’t here, you see.
_Fèkla._ He certainly hasn’t gone out of the room! I was sitting in the
hall.
_Agàfia._ Then where is he?
_Fèkla._ I’m sure I don’t know. He can’t have gone out by the back door.
I wonder if he’s sitting in Arìna Pantelèymovna’s room?
_Agàfia._ Auntie! Auntie! (_Enter_ ARÌNA, _dressed for wedding_.)
_Arìna._ What’s the matter?
_Agàfia._ Is Ivàn Kouzmìch in your room?
_Arìna._ No, he must be here; he hasn’t come into my room.
_Fèkla._ Well, I know he didn’t go through the hall, for I was sitting
there.
_Agàfia._ But you see yourself he isn’t here. (_Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ What’s the matter?
_Agàfia._ We can’t find Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Koch._ Can’t find him? Has he gone out?
_Agàfia._ No, he hasn’t gone out either.
_Koch._ What do you mean? Not here and not gone out?
_Fèkla._ I can’t think where he can have got to. I was in the hall the
whole time; never left it for a minute.
_Arìna._ Well, he certainly didn’t go out by the back stairs.
_Koch._ Well, but, the devil take it, he couldn’t vanish without going
out of the room! I expect he’s hidden himself.... Ivàn Kouzmìch! Where
are you? Leave off fooling! Come out, quick! There’s no time for jokes;
we ought to be at church by now! (_Looks into cupboard, and peeps
askance under chairs._) No making it out! But he can’t have gone away;
he can’t possibly have gone away! He’s here; there’s his hat in the next
room, I put it there on purpose.
_Arìna._ We’d better ask the girl, she was standing at the street door;
perhaps she knows something about it.... Douniàshka! Douniàshka!...
(_Enter_ DOUNIÀSHKA.) Where’s Ivàn Kouzmìch? Have you seen him?
_Doun._ Please’m, the gentleman jumped out of window. (AGÀFIA _screams
and clasps her hands_.)
_All three together._ The window?...
_Doun._ Yes’m. And if you please’m, when he was out he took a _drozhki_
and drove away.
_Arìna._ Are you speaking the truth?
_Koch._ It’s a lie! It can’t be!
_Doun._ No, it’s not then; he did jump out. And the man as keeps the
general shop saw him too. He took a _drozhki_ for ten kopecks, and he
drove away.
_Arìna_ (_advancing to_ KOCHKARYÒV). I suppose, then, little father,
that you meant to play off a joke on us, to make a laughing-stock of us?
You’ve come here to disgrace us, is that it? Sir, I’ve lived for more
than fifty years, and I’ve never been put to such shame as this. And,
little father, I’ll spit in your face if you call yourself an honest
man! You’re a villain and a scoundrel if you call yourself an honest
man! To shame a girl publicly—before every one! I—a peasant wouldn’t do
such a thing! And you a noble! All the nobility you’ve got is good for
nothing but lies and cheating and rascally tricks!
(_Exit, furious, taking the bride with her._ KOCHKARYÒV _stands as
petrified_.)
_Fèkla._ Well. So this is the gentleman that knows how to manage things!
This is the way you get on without a matchmaker! It’s all very well to
laugh at my suitors. They may be draggletailed, and anything else you
like, but, whatever they are, they don’t jump out of the window. I don’t
have that sort, anyhow!
_Koch._ That’s all nonsense; it can’t be! I’ll run after him and bring
him back. (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Yes, bring him back, I daresay. Much _you_ know about
marriages! If he’d run out by the door it would have been another thing,
but when the bridegroom pops out of window all I can say is—I wish you
joy!
CURTAIN.
_AT THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S._
[Illustration]
BY GORBOUNÒV.
PERSONS.
THE POLICE INSPECTOR.
GRIGÒRIEV, _his servant_.
A SHOPKEEPER.
IVÀN ANÀNIEV, _a factory hand_.
TIME: _morning. The Inspector sits in his office reading documents._
_Inspector_ (_reads_). “Therefore, the Moscow Administration of Public
Order——” Grigòriev!
_Grigòriev._ What is it, yer honour?
_Inspector._ Tell the cook to do me a herring with apple sauce.
_Grigòriev._ Yes, yer honour.
_Inspector_ (_reads_). “To make all proper investigations——” (_Enter
the_ SHOPKEEPER.) Who’s that?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s only me, little father.
_Inspector._ And who are you?
_Shopkeeper._ An inhabitant of the town.
_Inspector._ What do you want?
_Shopkeeper._ I came, little father, to humbly beg a favour of you.
_Inspector._ Well, what now?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s an odd business, little father.
_Inspector._ Odd? What sort of business?
_Shopkeeper._ Well, you see, it’s this way—don’t be angry, your honour,
just take three silver roubles for your household expenses.
_Inspector._ Sit down, please.
_Shopkeeper._ Oh, I can stand, your honour; ... I don’t mind standing.
_Inspector._ What’s your business?
_Shopkeeper._ Your honour is aware that I have a ’ouse in your district,
with a wooden fence....
_Inspector._ Yes.
_Shopkeeper._ Well, in that ’ouse I’ve got a factory—a weaving factory.
_Inspector._ Well?
_Shopkeeper._ Well, you see, sir——
_Inspector._ Sit down, sit down....
_Shopkeeper._ Don’t trouble.... Well, on Saturday I was in the town, and
I was kept a bit late. Well, I tore off home as hard as my legs would
carry me—There! I thought, my wife’ll be waiting—family matters, you
know—and the tea’ll all be kept about——
_Inspector._ Yes, yes, family matters....
_Shopkeeper._ Well, there’s a hand in my factory—Ivàn Anàniev——
_Inspector._ Well? I suppose he got drunk, or made a row, or something?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s worse than that, sir—I’d ’ave put up with that—he’s
stolen my cutter.
_Inspector._ What’s a cutter?
_Shopkeeper._ Why, you see, sir, it’s a sort of thing, ... for the stuff
like that we weave, you know, in our line of business....
_Inspector._ Ah! I understand.
_Shopkeeper._ So I said to him: “Ivàn Anàniev, you come with me to the
Police Inspector.” And what d’you think he said? “I don’t care for your
Inspector,” says he!
_Inspector._ What’s that!—Grigòriev!...
_Shopkeeper._ So I said to him: “What d’you mean?” I says; “why, any
gentleman can hit you over the head if he likes, and you can’t do
anything—let alone, his honour the Inspector,” says I.
_Inspector._ Grigòriev!
_Shopkeeper._ You see, your honour, people like us can’t pass over
things of that sort, ’cause why?—we should just lose all our capital....
_Inspector._ Gri—gòriev!
_Shopkeeper._ And I do say, sir, that for us the Inspector ... it’s like
this, you see, ... as if——
(_Enter_ GRIGÒRIEV.)
_Grigòriev._ What is it, yer honour?
_Inspector._ Blockhead!
_Grigòriev._ At your honour’s service.
_Inspector._ Fetch Ivàn Anàniev here.
_Grigòriev_ (_opening the door_). Kondràtiev! Where’s Ivàn Anàniev? Dost
thou know who it is? Fetch him to the master.... Ivàn Ana—à—aniev!
(_Enter_ IVÀN ANÀNIEV.)
_Inspector._ What is your name?
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Ha’nt got none; time to die soon.
_Inspector._ What do you say?
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Don’t know nothin’.
_Inspector._ Take him to the lock-up.
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Koùzma Petròvich ’as jes’ made it all up agin me, ’cause
I wouldn’t mix up in any o’ his fine tricks.
_Inspector._ Take him away.
_Grigòriev._ Kondràtiev!...
_Shopkeeper._ Thank you very much, sir. Nothing more to be done, I
suppose?
_Inspector._ Just step into the other office and write out a formal
statement.
_Shopkeeper._ Certainly, sir. (_Exit._)
_Inspector._ Grigòriev!
_Grigòriev._ What is it, your honour?
_Inspector._ Give me my uniform.
_Grigòriev._ Why, your honour, ’tis all mucky and spotty.
_Inspector._ What!
_Grigòriev._ _I_ don’t know nothing about it!
_Inspector._ Can the spots be taken out?
_Grigòriev._ Oh ay, your honour.
_Inspector._ How?
_Grigòriev._ I don’t know.
_Inspector._ I think with turpentine?
_Grigòriev._ And _I_ think with turpentine.
_Inspector._ Only I’m afraid it’ll smell.
_Grigòriev._ ’Twill stink, your honour.
_Inspector._ I don’t know, though—perhaps it won’t.
_Grigòriev._ Of course it won’t, your honour! (_Brings back the
uniform._) ’Tis ready, your honour.
_Inspector._ What?
_Grigòriev._ Nothin’.
_Inspector._ Does it smell?
_Grigòriev._ ’T stinks, your honour.
_Inspector._ Badly?
_Grigòriev._ Terrible bad, your honour.
_Inspector._ I don’t know—it’s nothing to hurt, I think; one can’t smell
it.
_Grigòriev._ Of course one can’t. Let me hold it, sir; there you be!
_BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE._
[Illustration]
BY GORBOUNÒV.
(_The Justice’s Court. Before the table stand two shopmen from the
Apràksin market._)
_The Justice of the Peace._ You are accused of smearing mustard on the
face of a waiter in the hotel Yàgodka.
_First Defendant._ We had a lark—that’s true enough.
_Justice._ You broke the mirror.
_First Defendant._ There—all that’s paid for, and we have given the boy
his due.
_Justice._ Then you acknowledge yourselves guilty?
_First Defendant._ Guilty? What have I done wrong? If I pay my money
down——
_Justice._ You were together?
_Second Defendant._ Yes, your honour.
_Justice._ Do you acknowledge yourself guilty?
_Second Defendant._ Certainly not!
_Justice._ It is stated in the accusation that you——
_Second Defendant._ I dare say! I’d write you all the accusations you
like for 2¾d.
_Justice._ I cannot permit you to express yourself in this manner.
_Second Defendant._ I wasn’t expressing anything at all!
_Justice_ (_to witness_). State what happened.
_Witness._ I dun’no wot ever money they’re a-talkin’ about—_I_ never got
no money! They jes’ come in, an’ they was pretty well screwed, both on
’em, an’ they ordered a stew, an’ a big decanter, an’ then a bottle o’
sherry. So when they got very tight, they began blusterin’ away——
_First Defendant._ If I smeared your ugly face——
_Justice._ Silence!
_First Defendant._ Cert’nly sir, only he’s tellin’ a pack of lies!
_Advocate._ I beg permission to put a question to the witness.
_Justice._ Who are you?
_Advocate._ Retained for the defence.
_Justice._ Afterwards.
_Witness._ Well, they was blusterin’ away, an’ then they set to an’
began a-cruelly ill-usin’ o’ me.
_Justice._ How “ill-using”?
_Witness._ By the air o’ the ‘ed, y’r worship.
_Justice._ Which of them?
_Witness._ Why, them there, both on ’em.
_First Defendant._ That’s all rot.
_Advocate._ I beg permission to put a question to the witness.
_Justice._ I told you—afterwards.
_Witness._ Well, then they begins smearin’ o’ mustard all over me. One
gent as was in the coffee-room, he up an’ says, “This is dis—graceful,”
says ‘e; and they told ’im, “We’ve paid our money down.”
_Justice._ Is this a true account?
_First Defendant._ Maybe; I was screwed pretty tight; I don’t quite
recollect. But, even if we did smear him a bit, what’s there to make
such a fuss about? It wasn’t turpentine we smeared him with—and then,
besides, we paid our money down for it. Well, it’s all one to me; I’ll
say “guilty,” if you like.
_Justice_ (_to Second Defendant_). And you?
_Second Defendant._ We keep to our former statement.
_Advocate._ May I speak now?
_Justice._ You may.
_Advocate._ May it please y’r worship! The heartfelt repentance brought
into court, in accordance with the new statute, dimin’shes.... The law
permits of moral conviction, and I therefore beg you to judge my client
by moral conviction. I deny—a—any guilt in this case. I have long served
in the Administrash’n of Benevo——
_Justice._ Excuse me. In what condition are you?
_Advocate._ I beg y’r p—pard’n?
_Justice._ In what condition have you come here?
_Advocate._ In w w-what con-d-dish’n?
_Justice._ I must fine you three roubles. Please to leave the Court.
_Advocate._ Prompt, just, and merciful.
_INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER._
[Illustration]
PICTURES FROM MOSCOW LIFE.
BY A. N. OSTRÒVSKY.
PICTURE I.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PRÈZHNEV, _an old man, completely in his dotage, official of high
rank; has lost the use of his limbs; is wheeled about in a chair_.
SÒFIA IVÀNOVNA PRÈZHNEVA, _his wife, aged forty-five_.
PAUL, _a young man, her son_.
OUSTÌNYA FILIMÒNOVNA PERESHÌVKINA, _an elderly woman, formerly_ PAUL’S
_nurse; now a kind of toady and hanger-on in several families_.
_A large drawing-room; very rich paper-hangings, grown old and shabby,
peeling off the walls. Polished parquet, sunk and uneven. Windows,
left, looking into garden. Door opening on wooden balcony, with
pillars. At back of stage, a door leading to hall. Door, right, to
inner rooms. In narrow niches, little marble tables with bronze
legs; over them hang long narrow pier-glasses with gilded frames.
Furniture old, heavy, with gilding rubbed off. Old bronze-work on
tables. Glass chandelier with lozenge-shaped drops. Two or three
ivy-screens. A general appearance of former luxury now become
shabby._
SCENE I.
(PRÈZHNEV _asleep in wheel-chair beside window. Fur dressing-gown;
white woollen rug over feet_. MADAME PRÈZHNEVA, _in elegant morning
négligé, lies on sofa with a book_.)
_Madame P._ (_lays down book_). That is cruel! That is dreadful! I would
never have acted so! _Nous autres femmes_ ... we ... oh! we believe, we
trust blindly, we never analyse. No, I cannot finish this novel. A young
man of good birth, handsome, clever, an officer in the army, declares
his love to her in such exquisite language; and she—she has the heart to
refuse him! No; she is no woman! Woman is a weak creature of impulse! We
live only through the heart. And how easy it is to deceive us! We are
willing to make all sacrifices for the man we love. If men deceive
us—which, alas! happens very often—the blame lies not upon us, but upon
them. They, for the most part, are cunning and deceitful.... We women
are so loving, so trustful, so ready to believe everything, that only
after bitter (_meditates_)—yes, bitter—experience we realise the
immorality of the beings we adore. (_Silence._) But, no! Even after a
betrayal, even after several betrayals, we are ready again to yield to
impulse, to believe once more in the possibility of pure and honourable
love! Yes! it is our fate! All the more so, when the whole thing takes
place amid such poetical surroundings as in this novel: spring-time,
flowers, a beautiful park, gurgling streams; he came to her attired for
the hunt, the gun upon his shoulder, the hound at his feet, ah! But
men ... how often do they abuse the exquisite tenderness of our loving
hearts; they care not to know how much we suffer through them, we poor
women! (_Silence._) Of course there _are_ women whose whole interest in
life consists in vulgar, material considerations and household affairs.
But that is prose, prose! Nothing shall make me regard it as anything
but prose. There are even women who discuss various learned topics as if
they were men; but I cannot recognise their womanhood. They may be
clever; they may be learned; but instead of a heart they have a lump of
ice. (_Silence._) When such ideas come into my mind, I always think of
my Paul. Oh! how successful he will be with women! It is a joy to me in
anticipation! How sweet is that thought for a mother! Oh! children!
children! (_smells vinaigrette and rings bell. Enter footman._)
_Footman._ Did madame ring?
_Madame P._ Has your master come in yet?
_Footman._ No, madame.
_Madame P._ When he comes, say I wish to see him.
_Footman._ Yes, madame. (_Exit._)
_Madame P._ He is such a sensitive, nervous boy! He has inherited my
temperament. He should be watched over and tenderly cared for. But what
can I do? I have no fortune! After receiving such a high-class
education, he is reduced to the necessity of serving in a Government
office! All those head-clerks.... They do wear such extraordinary
coats!... and he is so nervous, so nervous!... I believe that they all
persecute him out of envy.
(_Enter_ PAUL.)
_Paul_ (_irreproachably dressed in summer costume, with an exhausted and
somewhat affected air_). _Bonjour, Maman!_
_Madame P._ (_kisses his forehead_). _Bonjour_, Paul! Where have you
been?
_Paul_ (_sits on sofa_). Where! In that charming place to which it
pleased you to send me.
_Madame P._ What can we do, Paul?
_Paul._ I have come home on foot in this dreadful heat!
_Madame P._ It is charmingly cool in this room.
_Paul._ Yes; but what is it like in the winter? All the walls are
damp-rotted; the floor is sunk in.
_Madame P._ Yes, my dear one; our affairs are in a very bad condition.
_Paul._ Your affairs! What affairs have you? There’s papa only half
alive; and you, too, have had your day, and finished it. Look at _my_
position!
_Madame P._ I know, my dear one. I can understand how hard it is for
you!
_Paul._ Hard! I should think so! Listen to me, _Maman_. By birth, by
education, by the circle in which I move—in fact, by everything—I
belong, every inch of me, to the best rank of society.
_Madame P._ Oh, yes!
_Paul._ And what is wanting? It is shameful, infamous! A fortune! And,
indeed, what does it matter that I have no fortune? All the same, I
ought to live and do like other people. Am I to go and register myself
as an artizan? A cobbler, perhaps! All because I have no fortune! That
amounts to an absurdity.
_Madame P._ We had a fortune once, Paul.
_Paul._ I know you had. And where is it now? I know more than that.... I
know that you squandered it.
_Madame P._ Ah, Paul! do not blame me! You know that we women are so
weak, so confiding. Before your father’s illness we were considered very
wealthy people; we had a fine estate in the Simbìrsk country. He knew
how to manage all those things. Afterwards, when he was struck down with
paralysis, I lived not at all luxuriously, only respectably.
_Paul._ How much did Mons. Péché cost you? Confess, _Maman_!
_Madame P._ Oh! my dear one, he was indispensable for your education.
Then I went abroad twice. But I never ran into any heavy expense. And
suddenly I was informed that I had spent all the fortune, that we had
nothing left. It is dreadful! In all probability it was our stewards and
bailiffs that were to blame for the whole thing.
_Paul._ _Canaille!_
_Madame P._ What can we do, my dear one? People are so wicked, so
cunning; and you and I are so confiding!
_Paul._ It’s you that are confiding, _Maman_. If they got into my hands,
I would tell them quite another story! One, two, ... (_Makes gesture
with his hand._) There’s nothing else to be done with those creatures.
It’s good for them to get a thrashing sometimes. It really makes me
quite angry; just because of these scoundrels I have to go every
morning, on foot, to a miserable office of which I need never have
heard; and then either walk home, or jolt along with a wretched cabman.
I cannot live in the same fashion as all these copying-clerks that I
have to sit side by side with. They buy onion-pies at the
costermonger’s, and stand eating them at the street door. _They_ can do
that sort of thing—they are made that way—but _I_ can’t. Now, you see, I
am in debt to every one—to the cabman, to the tailor, to Chevalier: all
our set go to Chevalier, and all the young barristers.... You can hardly
expect _me_ to eat onion-pies! And now, I’ve got to go through an
examination in some District Institution. It’s dreadful! You see, if I
had a fortune, I should never even hear of all these things—Law Courts,
and District Institutions, and copying-clerks, with their onion-pies!
What do I want with them all?
_Madame P._ Yes, yes, I understand.... With your sensitive nature....
You are so nervous!
_Paul._ I really don’t know what to do! If there were a chance, I should
have no scruples about cheating some one at cards.
_Madame P._ Well indeed, in your position——
_Prèzhnev_ (_waking up_). Paul, have you been to the theatre lately?
_Paul._ Quite lately.
_Prèzhnev._ Who plays the marquises now?
_Paul._ No one has done for some time.
_Prèzhnev._ I used to play marquises very well once.
(MADAME PRÈZHNEVA _rings_. _Enter_ FOOTMAN.)
_Madame P._ Wheel your master out on to the balcony, and take some old
newspapers and read aloud to him. (_Footman takes newspapers and wheels
Prèzhnev on to balcony._)
_Paul._ Then there’s my amiable uncle. Just because he’s been a judge
somewhere, he puts on superior airs: “You want too much,” he says. What
do I want? Have I ever asked for luxury and extravagance? I only want
what is necessary, what a man in my set cannot do without. Surely that
is plain enough. But no; my kind uncle tells me, “You have no right to
want all these things, because you have no fortune.” Why! is it my fault
that I have no fortune? What sort of logic is that?
_Madame P._ No logic at all; it’s absurd.
_Paul._ He says, “You ought to work!” Many thanks! Your humble servant!
I’m not a horse, I suppose.
_Madame P._ Your uncle has no refinement.
_Paul._ No, _Maman_; it is a tragedy.
_Madame P._ A tragedy, indeed, _mon cher_!
_Paul._ And a terrible one! There’s no need of murder and poison to make
a tragedy.
_Madame P._ Do you know, Paul, I think the best thing would be for you
to marry.
_Paul._ I’ve no objection. But whom should I marry?
_Madame P._ Ah, that is the question. I know you well, Paul. Why are you
so highly educated? Why have you such a sensitive nature? It will make
you unhappy all your life long. There is no mate for you! To win your
love and make you happy, a girl would need too many virtues.
_Paul._ You perhaps imagine, _Maman_, that domestic felicity has
attractions for me? I’m not a child; I am twenty-one. That is too
Arcadian! (_Bursts out laughing._) I simply want money.
_Madame P._ None the less, my dear one, I know your character; I know
that you would not care to marry any sort of person.
_Paul._ Any one you like; I want money in order to be _comme il faut_;
in order to play my proper part in society—in a word, to do that for
which I am fitted. I do not know how to save up money; I only know how
to spend it with elegance and dignity. For that I have all the necessary
gifts. I have tact, I have taste, I am fitted to take a leading position
in society.
_Madame P._ Still, my dear——(_Enter_ FOOTMAN.)
_Footman._ Pereshìvkina asks to see madame.
_Madame P._ She always comes at the wrong time!
_Paul._ We shall have time to talk afterwards.
_Madame P._ Let her come in. (_Exit_ FOOTMAN. _Enter_ PERESHÌVKINA.)
_Madame P._ What is it, Oustìnya Filimònovna?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_kisses_ PRÈZHNEVA _on the shoulder, and then stands a
little back_.) I came to ask after your health, little mother; I never
forget my benefactors.
_Paul._ Well, old vinegar face, where have you come from?
_Pereshìvkina._ Ah, Mr. Paul, you’re always full of your jokes!
_Paul._ She actually expects one to talk seriously with her!
_Pereshìvkina._ I have a friend, little mother, who makes dimmy-tule.
(_Paul laughs._) Laugh away, little father; it’s a fine thing to laugh
at an old woman.... So I thought perhaps you’d like to buy some; I get
it cheap. It’s capital quality, and very wide. Shall I bring you some?
You won’t get it for the same price down town.
_Madame P._ Very well; I’ll look at it.
_Paul._ How much money have you hoarded up, old hag?
_Pereshìvkina._ “Old hag,” now, is it!
_Paul._ Why, dear me! You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?
_Pereshìvkina._ It’s not right of you, sir, to speak to me like that!
I’m an old woman; and I have carried you in my arms.
_Paul._ She’s going to get offended now; that’ll be the next thing.
_Madame P._ Let her alone, my dear.
_Pereshìvkina._ Never mind, little mother, never mind. Let him do as he
likes, he was always such a one to joke. When he was quite a little
fellow he set my cap on fire behind.
_Paul._ Ah! so you haven’t forgotten.
_Pereshìvkina._ Not I. Why, you burnt off all my hair, and even my face
got scorched. But you needn’t laugh at me, sir. Maybe I shall come in
useful to you yet.
_Paul._ Why, what use can I make of you? Stick you up in the kitchen
garden for a scarecrow?
_Pereshìvkina._ Maybe I can do you a better service than that, Pàvel
Petròvich—who knows? Little mother, you won’t get angry with my
nonsense, will you? Maybe, after all, I shall say something worth
hearing before I’ve done.
_Madame P._ Well, what is it?
_Pereshìvkina._ There’s a lady I know—Serafima Kàrpovna, her name is.
She always allows me into her house. You see how it is, little mother.
Her people are in trade, but she’s been married to a very grand
gentleman—Mr. Aslàmevich. He was an official, you know. Why, little
mother, he was a general once.
_Paul_ (_laughing_). How did that happen?
_Pereshìvkina._ Why, this way, sir. The general where he served was away
for a holiday, so he was general for a whole month.
_Paul._ I daresay! Well, let’s hear some more lies.
_Pereshìvkina._ It’s the truth I’m telling you, sir. They were only
married one year, and now she’s been a widow for more than a year....
But you won’t be angry with me, little mother?
_Madame P._ Well, go on!
_Pereshìvkina._ She’s just a beauty to look at; and very good and
kind—and then so modest! It’s quite wonderful. And she’s saving, too,
and doesn’t throw away her money on dresses and foolery.
_Paul._ That’s to say, she’s miserly.
_Pereshìvkina._ No, no, not miserly, only saving—just a careful
housewife. Now, you see, the dowry that she had when she was married all
belongs to her. She’s got a hundred and fifty thousand in money alone.
_Paul._ A hundred and fifty thousand!
_Pereshìvkina._ I saw it myself, sir. She’s got all the notes in her
dressing-case; I saw her count it. Dear me, what a silly old woman I am!
You’d much better tell me to hold my tongue, or it’ll get me into
trouble. She’s a good woman, and she’s been kind to me, but all the same
she’s not the first thing in the world to me. I don’t want you to be
angry with me because of her.
_Madame P._ and _Paul_. Never mind; go on, go on!
_Pereshìvkina._ Well, I’ll tell you, if you wish it. You see, little
mother, it’s like—well, you know how it is with women.... She’s young,
and she’s been a widow for over a year, and so you see ... and don’t
think I’m telling you lies—I’d count it a sin. I always wished you well,
madame; I haven’t forgotten! Of course, I’m only a poor woman, but all
the same, I don’t forget kindnesses. And if ever I can do you a
service——
_Paul._ There, there! (_With an impatient gesture._)
_Madame P._ Well, but go on.
_Pereshìvkina._ Yes, little mother. Well, you see, she’s a near
neighbour of yours—it’s the white stone house on the left-hand side.
Pàvel Petròvich often passes.
_Madame P._ Well, what of that?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_whispers_). She’s fallen in love.
_Madame P._ What?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_louder_). She’s fallen in love. Yes; it’s quite true.
_Madame P._ Well, what is there wonderful in that? You’re very simple,
my good woman. How could she help falling in love with him? She’s not
the only one!
_Pereshìvkina._ Oh! of course, of course, ma’am. Only, you see, she’s
rich.
_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”
_Pereshìvkina._ “Oustìnya Filimònovna,” says she, “I’m in love.” So I
asked her, “With who, little mother?” “You look,” says she, “he’ll pass
in a minute.” So I looked out of the window, and there was Pàvel
Petròvich going past, and she says to me, “That’s he,” says she. You
could have knocked me down with a feather.
_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”
_Pereshìvkina._ Of course Pàvel Petròvich must look at her himself, and
see whether he likes her. And if you feel any doubt you might go to the
Warden Council and see that the money’s all right; there’s no harm in
making sure. Love’s all very well, but money’s money. You see, it’s for
all your life.
_Paul_ (_goes up to his mother_). _Maman_, I’m going for a walk.
_Madame P._ Good-bye, my dear. (_Kisses his forehead._)
_Paul_ (_whispers_). Try your hardest. (_Exit._)
_Madame P._ You see, my dear Oustìnya Filimonòvna, it’s not a very great
stroke of fortune for my Paul that some Madame Aslàmevich has fallen in
love with him. However, if he sees her she may possibly take his
fancy.... Of course, for my part, I shall make no difficulties, although
she’s only from the merchant class.... All I care for is his happiness.
(_Rises._) Come with me; I’ll tell the servants to give you some tea....
Only I beg you to behave with discretion.
_Pereshìvkina._ Little mother, I’d as soon——(_Exeunt._)
PICTURE II.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
KARP KÀRPYCH TOLSTOGORÀZDOV, _merchant; short, fat, grey haired_.
OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA, _his wife; an elderly woman, without any noteworthy
characteristics_.
SERAFÌMA KÀRPOVNA, _Tolstogoràzdov’s daughter; widow; tall, slender,
remarkably handsome; walk and gestures of boarding-school girl;
often meditates; sighs and lifts her eyes to heaven when she speaks
of love; also when she counts her money; and sometimes without any
reason_.
MATRYÒNA, _maid-servant; distant connection of the Tolstogoràzdov’s, a
young girl; plump, exquisitely white skin, red cheeks, black eyes
and brows. Costume: Pelisse, ornamental chemise, with muslin
sleeves, and coins woven into plait of hair._
FIRST COACHMAN, _Tolstogoràzdov’s_.
SECOND COACHMAN, _Serafima’s_.
_Courtyard, gallery of house, right. Garden in background. Stables, &c.,
left. Two doors: one into cellar, one into hay-loft._
SCENE I. IN COURTYARD.
(FIRST COACHMAN _sits on cellar steps_. _Enter_ MATRYÒNA.)
_First Coachman_ (_sings, falsetto_).
“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,
Gold had I to spare and give;—
Now my joys are vanished with my treasure,
As a wretched slave I live.”
_Matryòna._ The master and mistress have waked up; you might carry in
the samovar, Ivànych.
_First C._ Oh! you’re a fine lady, I suppose. Why, you’ve got so fat
that one can’t pinch you anywhere; just as if you’d been hammered on an
anvil. (_Sings._)
“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?
Who shall tell its bitterness?”
_Matryòna._ Talk about me being fat! Why, your own cheeks are blown out
like wind-bags! Can’t you take in the samovar when I ask you?
_First C._ Come again to-morrow. (_Sings._)
“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,
Gold had I to spare and give——”
_Matryòna._ Wait a bit! I’ll tell Oulìta Nikìtishna that you’re an idle
fellow, and one never can get you to do anything.
_First C._ I’m the coachman; do you understand that? I have my own work
to do. And what are you? A beggarly fine lady! If you go so fine, you’ll
freeze your stockings. So you can just carry the samovar yourself.
_Matryòna._ Why, the thing weighs twelve stone, man; how can a girl
carry it?
_First C._ All I have to say is—it’s not my business.
_Matryòna._ Then you’re a brazen, shameless fellow! A girl may break her
back, for all you care!
(_Lifts samovar with great difficulty, and carries it to gallery,
turning her head away from the steam._)
_First C._ (_calls after her_). Don’t romp in your earrings, the gilding
will come off!
[Illustration:
MATRYÒNA: “THEN YOU’RE A BRAZEN, SHAMELESS FELLOW! A GIRL MAY BREAK
HER BACK, FOR ALL YOU CARE.”
]
_Matryòna_ (_going up steps: looks back_). Impertinence! (_Puts samovar
on table._)
_First C. (sings)._
“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?
Who shall tell its bitterness?”
(_Enter on gallery_ KARP KÀRPYCH _and_ OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA. COACHMAN
_stops singing, and exit_.)
SCENE II. ON GALLERY.
(KARP KÀRPYCH _and_ OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA _sit down at table_.)
_Oulìta_ (_makes tea_). Moiré antique is all the fashion now.
_Karp._ What do you mean by moiré antique?
_Oulìta._ It’s a kind of material.
_Karp._ Well, it’s all one to me.
_Oulìta._ Yes; I was only thinking.... Supposing Serafimochka were to
marry, I really think I’d have a dress made of it.... All the ladies are
wearing it.
_Karp._ And you call yourself a lady?
_Oulìta._ Well, what else am I?
_Karp._ You might have found out by now that I can’t bear to hear you
call yourself a lady. I hate the word!
_Oulìta._ What’s the matter with the word? There’s
nothing—(_hesitates_)—nothing to be ashamed of.
_Karp._ If I don’t like it, that’s enough, I suppose!
_Oulìta._ Well, Serafimochka’s a lady, anyway.
_Karp._ Of course she is! She’s had learning; and she was married to a
gentleman. But what are you? You were always a goodwife like any other.
And now, just because your husband’s got rich, you must be a lady! Climb
on your own feet if you want to be so high!
_Oulìta._ No, no! But all the same ... you know——
_Karp._ If I tell you to hold your tongue, that’s enough. (_Silence._)
_Oulìta._ When was that battle fought?
_Karp._ What battle?
_Oulìta._ Why, lately, you know. Don’t you remember?
_Karp._ And what about it?
_Oulìta._ Such a lot of common soldiers got made into officers.
_Karp._ Why not? They weren’t women. Everybody gets a fair reward for
his services.
_Oulìta._ But, do you know, there’s a pedlar woman that comes here; and
she says that, when her nephew passes his examination, she’ll be made a
noble too.
_Karp._ When the sky rains potatoes!
_Oulìta._ But they say there are countries where they have women for
soldiers.
_Karp_ (_laughs_). Life Guards, no doubt! (_Silence._)
_Oulìta._ They say it’s sinful to drink tea.
_Karp._ What do you mean by that?
_Oulìta._ Because it comes from a heathen country.
_Karp._ Heaps of things come from heathen countries.
_Oulìta._ No; it’s quite true; now, bread grows on Christian soil, and
we eat it at the proper time; but when do we drink tea? People go to
mass, and we sit drinking tea; now its vesper-time, and here we are
drinking tea. So you see it’s a sin.
_Karp._ Well, then, drink it at the proper time.
_Oulìta._ Yes; but still——
_Karp._ Yes; but still, hold your tongue. You haven’t much of a
headpiece, but you’re very fond of talking. Just hold your tongue!
(_Silence._)
_Oulìta._ How lucky our Serafimochka is! She married a gentleman, and
that made her a lady; and now that she’s a widow, she’s still a lady.
Supposing she should marry a prince now, perhaps she’ll be a princess.
_Karp._ Only through her husband.
_Oulìta._ Well, now, if she were to marry a prince, what should I be?
Surely, something; she’s my child.
_Karp._ It’s enough to addle one’s head to talk half an hour with you! I
wanted to think about business, and here you keep worrying me with your
chattering and nonsense. Life isn’t long enough to hear all you women
have got to say; I think the quickest way will be for you to hold your
tongue! (_Meditates. Silence. Enter_ MATRYÒNA, _hurriedly_.)
_Matryòna._ Oulìta Nikìtishna! Little mother! Serafima Kàrpovna has
come.
_Oulìta._ Goodness gracious! (_Rises hastily, and exit with_ MATRYÒNA.)
_Karp._ If one didn’t manage one’s women by fear, there’d be no doing
anything with them at all. They’ve got their own business; and yet
nothing will satisfy them but to interfere in other people’s. And to see
the way a woman will get round her husband, to make him tell her all his
affairs and secrets, and work on him with her beauty and her cunning
ways, and make eyes at him; and it’s all nothing but ruin and
destruction. And if you tell them your affairs, they interfere, and lead
you astray, and make you do everything their way instead of your own.
Many men have gone to ruin through women. Of course, a young,
inexperienced man can be led away by their beauty; but when a man has
reached years of discretion, and grown serious and wise, a woman’s
beauty is nothing to him at all, it only disgusts him.
SCENE III. IN THE COURTYARD.
(_Enter_ FIRST _and_ SECOND COACHMAN.)
_Second C._ Why, there’s no comparing it; you’re a thousand times better
off. If you knew what my mistress is like! She’s more of a Jew than a
lady; she measures the very oats out herself. (_Exeunt into stable.
Enter on gallery_ OULÌTA, SERAFÌMA, _and_ MATRYÒNA.)
SCENE IV. ON GALLERY.
(KARP KÀRPYCH. OULÌTA _sits down at her place and pours out tea_.
SERAFÌMA, _in hat and cloak, with parasol and green gloves_.
MATRYÒNA _places on table a figured china cup which she has brought
from the room, and stands a little way off_.)
[Illustration:
SERAFIMA: “GOOD EVENING, PAPA.”
]
_Serafima._ Good evening, papa. (_Goes up to him. They kiss._)
_Karp._ Good evening. Sit down, my girl.
_Serafima_ (_sits down_). And where’s my brother, Onesìme?
_Karp._ Where’s Onesìme? Off on the spree. He’s been playing the devil
for five days.
_Serafima._ And Anna Vlàsyevna?
_Karp._ Well, you see, whatever we do, we can’t make Onesìme leave off
drinking. So your mother has sent your sister round to the prisons to
give out white bread; so perhaps God will forgive us.
_Oulìta._ Yes, yes; I sent her to take round white rolls to the
prisoners.... You know they’ve most of them got into trouble for
nothing....
_Karp._ Oho! For nothing? They’re to rob and murder to their heart’s
content, and not get locked up for it!
_Oulìta._ Well, but the robbers and murderers are in the great prison;
what do people get put into the jail for?
_Karp._ For debt.
_Oulìta._ It’s all very well to talk about debt; they say Kòn Kònych is
in jail for interest.
_Karp._ For what—interest?
_Oulìta._ Yes, indeed; for interest. And it’s not right! What a man
borrows, he should give back; but interest is a sin.
_Karp._ Going to begin your chattering again, now! (OULÌTA _pours out
tea_; MATRYÒNA _carries cup on tray to_ SERAFÌMA; _she takes it with her
gloves on_.)
_Oulìta._ Serafimoushka, you’d better take off your hat and cloak; and
you might as well unlace your dress at the back; there are no strangers
here. Matryòna will do it for you.
_Serafima._ Oh! mamma, how _can_ you? I don’t feel the heat. I just came
to you for a minute to ask your advice.
_Karp_ (_blowing on his saucer_). What about?
_Serafima._ I want to marry.
_Oulìta_ (_clasping her hands_). Good gracious!
_Karp._ Well, why not? Why shouldn’t she? You might do worse....
_Oulìta_ (_shaking her head, and folding both hands on her breast_). My
beauty!
_Karp._ Who is the man? I should like to hear that.
_Serafima._ He’s quite a young man, papa; he serves in the Law Court;
and, I ought to tell you, he’s not well off. I wouldn’t marry a poor
man, only that I am so very much in love with him. (_Raises eyes to
heaven; sighs, and meditates._)
_Oulìta_ (_clasping her hands_). Dear heart!
_Karp._ And who is he?
_Serafima._ His name is Prèzhnev. He’s a noble, of good family; and may
get a good situation. I’ve thought it over; you see, I have my own
fortune. If I am careful with the money, there will be enough for me and
a husband. I am willing to deny myself many things rather than live
without him. (_Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs._)
_Karp._ Perhaps there’s something remarkable about him?
_Serafima._ I haven’t heard of anything at all.
_Karp._ Well, Serafima, my girl, remember one thing: you’re a cut-off
twig; I shan’t give you any more money; so mind you don’t run through
what you’ve got.
_Oulìta._ The other one was old; but you say this one’s young, so very
likely you may have children; you must keep the money for them.
_Serafima._ With my character, I can’t squander my money. (_Gives cup
to_ MATRYÒNA.)
_Karp._ H’m!——You say he’s young; and you’re a widow, not a girl; I
doubt you’ll feel a bit ashamed before your husband; he’ll just make a
fool of you and get hold of your money.
_Serafima_ (_takes cup from_ MATRYÒNA). Do you think that men love only
for money? (_Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs._)
_Karp._ Why, what did you suppose? Everybody knows that.
_Serafima_ (_suddenly waking out of meditation_). I won’t give him any
money.
_Karp._ That’s right; that’s capital; you do as I told you.
_Serafima._ Of course I will, papa. You needn’t think I’m going to be
silly.
_Karp._ We’re going to have a wedding too, soon. Matryòna was found in
the garden with one of the shopmen; so I’m going to marry them.
(MATRYÒNA _hides her face in her sleeve_.) I shall give him a thousand
roubles, and have the wedding at my cost.
_Oulìta._ It’s all very well for you to get up weddings; you just want a
chance to have a drunken spree.
_Karp._ Well, what now?
_Oulìta._ Nothing.
_Karp_ (_sternly_). No; you say what you mean.
_Oulìta._ Nothing; really nothing.
_Karp_ (_very sternly_). No; I will have you speak out; I want to hear.
_Oulìta._ There’s no use speaking when you never listen.
_Karp._ What should I listen for? It’s not worth while when _you_ talk.
Ah-h-h-, Oulìta Nikìtishna! (_Threatens with his finger._) You were told
to hold your tongue! I want the lass to feel what I’m doing for her; and
here you come in with your chattering!... (MATRYÒNA _hides her face with
the other sleeve_.) She’s only my second cousin twice removed, and yet I
give her a dowry. I’m the benefactor of all my kindred. There’s another
little one; I shall take her in Matryòna’s place, and bring her up, and
settle her in life. (_Silence._)
_Oulìta._ Are you quite sure he will love you, my dear?
_Serafima._ Why not, mamma? There’s nothing objectionable in my
character. The only thing is ... when I was at boarding-school they used
to say that I had no comprehension of music whatsoever, and that I was
dreamy, and given to meditating about nothing; and then, I’m very fond
of sweets—perhaps he won’t notice that though. There is one thing more:
I’m very bad at counting silver money——
_Karp._ Oh, that’s nothing! You’ll soon get into it.
_Serafima._ Perhaps he won’t like my being economical; but then, how
could I manage otherwise? I only try to live within my income, and not
run into my capital. What should I be without capital? I should have no
value at all!
_Karp._ Of course not!
_Serafima._ And I know how to add up interest—on paper; I was taught
that at boarding-school. I can’t do it without paper, though.
(_Meditates._)
_Oulìta._ What are you thinking about, child?... Why, what a silly I am!
It’s not much wonder that you think, poor girl! Such a change in your
life! And there’s no telling beforehand how it’ll turn out.
_Serafima._ No, mamma, it’s not that. I’ve just been buying some
ribbon—seven ells at eighty kopecks, paper money; and I was just
thinking how much that would be in silver money, and how much change I
ought to have from three roubles. (_Takes out purse and looks into it._)
_Karp._ Rouble sixty kopecks—one rouble forty change.
_Serafima._ Are you sure, papa?
_Karp._ Why, bless the girl, what else could it be?
_Serafima_ (_puts back purse_). All right.
_Oulìta._ Are you sure he doesn’t drink?
_Karp._ There you are again! Everybody drinks nowadays.
_Oulìta._ I mean, you’d better ask what he’s like when he’s drunk.
_Karp._ Ah! that’s another matter!
_Oulìta._ Because, you know, some people are so quiet in drink that it
really doesn’t matter. It’s just as if they weren’t drunk.
_Serafima._ All right, mamma; I’ll ask. I must go now.
_Oulìta._ Oh, no! You mus’n’t, indeed; stop a bit. You’re so fond of
sweet things.... We’ve got some splendid fruit. Run and fetch it,
Matryòna; it’s on my bedroom window-sill. (MATRYÒNA _goes out, comes
back with fruit, offers it to_ SERAFÌMA, _and then places it on table_.)
Take some, dear child; take some. Won’t you have some liqueur?
_Serafima._ Really, mamma!
_Oulìta._ Have a glass of beer, darling.
_Serafima._ You know I never drink it.
_Oulìta._ Well then, mead?
_Serafima._ I can’t, really.
_Oulìta._ Jam, then?
_Serafima._ I’ll have some jam.
_Oulìta_ (_taking keys out of pocket_). Go to the store-room, Matryòna,
and bring me two kinds.
_Serafima._ And tell my coachman to bring the carriage round.
(MATRYÒNA _crosses stage, and exit_.)
_Oulìta._ Have some more fruit, Serafimoushka. (SERAFÌMA _takes some_.)
Won’t you have any, Karp Kàrpych?
_Karp._ What next? As if I were going to eat all sorts of rubbish now!
Put some aside for me, and have the rest cleared away. I’ll eat an
orange with my brandy. (OULÌTA _eats fruit_. _Silence._)
SCENE V. IN THE COURTYARD.
_Matryòna_ (_crosses stage with two plates, goes up to stable-door, and
pushes it with her foot_). Here, you ragamuffins! (_Enter_ COACHMEN
_from stable_.) Bring the horses round; Madame wants to go.
_Second C._ You see, at that time, my master was angry with me about
something, and wanted to sell me for a soldier.
_First C._ Bless my soul!
_Second C._ So you see, my dear fellow, I’d got my head just full of the
war, and never talked about anything but war with every man I met. And I
got so worked up in my feelings like, that I was ready to go at the
Circassians themselves.
_First C._ I’ve got a neighbour here, a friend of mine; he’s an
officer’s servant, and he was with his master in the Hungarian campaign;
and you should just hear what he can tell about the Austrians!
_Second C._ What about them?
_First C._ Why, my good fellow, they told him beforehand, with the
Frenchmen standing by—there were Frenchmen, you know—“Do you think you
can stand against me? If I choose, I’ll tear you in pieces.”
_Second C._ And they can do it too!
_First C._ Ah! that they can!
_Second C._ Because they’re so strong, you see!
_First C._ Nothing can stand against them. It’s like when they had the
militia ... eleven _vershkòv_ high, and could lift fifteen _poods_. And
there they’d advance on you! Then, bang, bang, bang goes the big drum,
and they all shout, Forwards! March! Treason! And there they come on and
on, and what can you do?
_Second C._ In course they must get the better of them; that’s plain.
_First C._ You see, the one that wins, that’ll be which ever is
strongest.
_Matryòna._ I’m perfectly tired of hearing you. You’re fine soldiers ...
do your fighting sitting by the oven. War can’t be such a very dreadful
thing after all.
_First C._ (_glances sideways at_ MATRYÒNA _with absolute contempt_):
Brazen hussy!
_Matryòna._ Madame’s waiting; do you hear?
_Second C._ (_hangs whip on right arm, and gives left hand to First
C._). Good-bye!
_First C._ Good-bye, my lad! (_Exit behind house_. MATRYÒNA _goes on to
gallery_.)
SCENE VI. ON THE GALLERY.
_Oulìta._ Serafimoushka! I’d almost forgotten! There’s one more thing
you must certainly do; now mind you don’t forget. When you’ve found out
all about your lover, and are sure he’s not a spendthrift, or a
drunkard, or a gambler, go to the wise woman, Paràsha. You must go in
quietly, and ask: “Will God’s servant, Serafima, be happy with God’s
servant”——what’s his name?
_Serafima._ Paul.
_Oulìta._ “With God’s servant, Paul?” And whatever she tells you, do
accordingly.
_Karp._ Don’t you do anything of the kind.
_Oulìta._ Look here, Karp Kàrpych, I always obey you in everything; but
this is not your business; it’s woman’s business! Don’t listen to him,
Serafimoushka; do as I tell you. I’m your mother; I shan’t advise you
wrong.
_Serafima._ Very well. (_Rises._) Good-bye, mamma; good-bye, papa.
(_Kisses them._)
_Karp._ And listen here! You tell your lover that, if he behaves to me
respectfully and properly, I’ll give him a good fur cloak; and if he
doesn’t, I’ll take it away again. (_Exeunt._)
PICTURE III.[14]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PAUL.
SERAFÌMA, _his wife_.
MADAME PRÈZHNEV.
A PERSON UNKNOWN, _a friend of Paul, middle-aged, with Greek profile and
gloomy expression of face_.
A MAID-SERVANT.
A FOOTMAN.
(_A richly-furnished study._ PAUL _sits at the table writing. Enter_
FOOTMAN.)
_Foot._ Pàvel Petròvich, the tailor and carriage-builder are waiting.
_Paul_ (_turning round_). Send them off!
_Foot._ They won’t go, sir.
_Paul._ Then tell them to come next week.
_Foot._ I told them; but they won’t go.
_Paul._ You surely don’t expect me to come out and speak to them myself?
Tell them anything you like. You see I’m busy. You’re always disturbing
me; be off with you!
_Foot._ There’s a gentleman that asks to see you too, sir.
_Paul._ Turn him out too.
(_The person unknown comes in at the door. The_ FOOTMAN _sees him, and
exit_.)
_Unknown._ Turn Nature out at the door, she’ll come in at the window.
_Paul_ (_rises_). Oh! my dear fellow! I didn’t know it was you; I really
beg your pardon.
_Unknown._ No; you didn’t know. (_Inspects Paul from head to foot; then
begins examining the room._)
_Paul._ Indeed I didn’t know. You don’t suppose I should have refused to
see you?
_Unknown_ (_sits down_). There, that’ll do, that’ll do.
_Paul._ Won’t you have a cigar?
_Unknown_ (_smiling ironically_). A cigar? And when am I to have the
money?
_Paul._ Very soon now.
_Unknown._ Which do you mean by that—now? or very soon?
_Paul._ Soon; quite soon.
_Unknown._ You’ll pay it soon? (_Looks intently at_ _Paul_.) And
supposing I don’t believe you?
_Paul._ How can you help believing, when the document is in your hands?
_Unknown._ That’s just it! The date in the document is up; and all this
is not yours, but your wife’s.
_Paul._ That’s all the same.
_Unknown._ No; not all the same.
_Paul._ Well, then, what do you want?
_Unknown._ I’ll tell you. Either you give me all the money to-morrow, or
else we’ll re-write the document.
_Paul._ Certainly. We’ll re-write it now if you like.
_Unknown_. No; we’ll re-write it to-morrow; only then your wife must
sign her name as security.
_Paul._ What for?
_Unknown._ Oh! well, the broker will know what for; otherwise I shall
simply go to law. (_Rises._)
_Paul._ All right; all right.
_Unknown._ Mind, then, to-morrow. (_Goes to door._) You’re not thinking
of getting out of it anyway, are you? You can’t do that with me.
(_Exit._)
_Paul._ This sort of thing is really quite annoying! Here I am, as rich
as you please, and yet I can’t get any money. I shall have to ask my
wife for it; it’s all the same now whether the money is hers or mine; we
have everything in common. It’s even better that it should be in my
hands. And what is the use of my putting it off so long? I only get more
and more entangled.
(_Enter_ SERAFÌMA. PAUL _writes_.)
_Serafima._ Leave off, Paul! Don’t write! (_Embraces him. He leaves off
writing._) I am so happy! so happy! What have I done to deserve such
happiness! (_Meditates._) I have abundance of everything; I have such a
dear husband! (_Kisses him._) So handsome! so clever! only one thing
distresses me: you are out so much. Now that we are married, you ought
to be always with me; I believe I should love you still more then.
_Paul._ It’s impossible, my love; I have the office.
_Serafima._ Are you going to-day?
_Paul._ Yes; it’s time for me to start now.
_Serafima._ Take me with you.
_Paul._ Where? To the Senate House?
_Serafima._ Yes; why not?
_Paul._ What things you say! How could I?
_Serafima._ It’s always, “I can’t” with you! You simply don’t love me;
that’s why you don’t want to take me. If you loved me, you’d take me!
You’d say to every one, “This is my wife.” You’ll never have cause to be
ashamed of me; I was educated at a boarding-school.
_Paul._ If you don’t believe me, ask any one you like whether men take
their wives to Government offices.
_Serafima._ They don’t take us because they don’t love us; they would
take us if they did. If you men loved us as we love you, you’d fulfil
every whim we have. We’re ready to do everything in the world for you;
and you don’t care to do the merest trifle for us.
_Paul._ I, too, am willing to do anything you ask; only this is
impossible.
_Serafima._ Well then, at least do me one kindness: don’t go to-day;
stop with me.
_Paul_ (_shrugs his shoulders_). All right, if you like!
_Serafima._ No! Do you really mean you won’t go?
_Paul._ I won’t go, if you wish me not to.
_Serafima._ Dear Paul! How good you are! How you spoil me! What is there
in the world I wouldn’t do for you! Now tell me—tell me what you would
like! you must tell me! (_Caresses him._) Ask me for anything you
like—anything—anything in the world! Come now, tell me what you would
like; I’ll drive straight into town and buy it for you.
(_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT.)
_Maid._ If you please, ma’am, the dressmaker has come.
_Serafima._ Paul, dear Paul! I will come back in a minute. (_Exit._)
_Paul._ What extraordinary fancies she has sometimes! I really can’t
make out whether it’s from stupidity or from love for me. For that
matter, it’s a very good thing that she’s so much in love with me. The
idea of her asking me what I want! What I want? Why, money, of course.
It seems it’s quite a true saying that women’s hearts are much tenderer
than ours. I confess I used not to believe that; but now I see that,
once love has taken a firm hold upon them, you can get anything you like
out of them.... And then, she’s so pretty! Even if you look at it from
quite another point of view—it’s delightful, there certainly is nothing
else to be said about it.... I’d better ask her for a big sum at once; I
must take advantage of her momentary exaltation. (_Re-enter_ SERAFÌMA.)
Ah! Serafima! I wanted to speak to you.
_Serafima._ And I wanted to speak to you, _Paul_.
_Paul._ Very well; what is it?
_Serafima._ No, you speak first.
_Paul._ No, you, Serafima.
_Serafima._ No, you.
_Paul._ I give the precedence to you, as a lady, Serafima.
_Serafima._ This is what I wanted to say, my Paul: you change your shirt
every day; that is rather extravagant.
_Paul._ Are you gone off your head! You can’t call that an extravagance,
in our position! No; I wanted to talk to you about something altogether
different.
_Serafima._ All the same, my dear (_kisses him_), we must think about
economy; there’s nothing unreasonable in that.
_Paul._ Forgive me, Serafima! I understand you, my love; indeed it is a
good thing that you are economical in trifles. Trifles are an important
matter in life. I am glad that I have found in you such a housewife. But
I want to speak to you about more serious business.
_Serafima._ About what, Paul? No, no, stop! Why should we talk about
business? We haven’t done talking about love, yet. We have nothing to
do, now, as you didn’t go to the office. Why should we talk about
business? Let us talk about love! (_Sighs, and raises eyes to heaven._)
_Paul._ We can talk about love afterwards, whenever you like; but I must
speak about business now.
_Serafima._ Ah! Paul! you have stayed at home with me. Indeed I don’t
want to think of anything else now!
_Paul._ No, Serafima; I really must have a serious talk with you.
_Serafima_ (_a little offended_). Well, what is it you want?
_Paul._ How do you wish to employ your capital?
_Serafima._ What a question! I don’t want to employ it anyhow. It can
stop in the Council,[15] and we’ll live on the interest.
_Paul._ But the interest is very little, my love; we had better put the
capital into circulation.
_Serafima._ Into what circulation?
_Paul._ We might buy an estate, for instance.
_Serafima._ No, no, no! Not for the world! What estate?
_Paul._ Why, a village in some good fertile province—Orèl, or somewhere
there.
_Serafima._ Not for anything on earth! The peasants won’t pay; the
village may burn down; or the crops will fail five years running; what
should we do then?
_Paul._ Crops don’t fail five years running.
_Serafima._ But they may do; you’re not a prophet, you know.
_Paul._ Well then, let’s buy a house and put in tenants.
_Serafima._ But the tenants won’t pay.
_Paul._ How do you mean, they won’t pay? One can prosecute if they
don’t.
_Serafima._ And if the house burns down?
_Paul._ We must insure it.
_Serafima._ Then invaders will come and destroy everything! No, no, not
for the world!
_Paul._ Well, well, we won’t talk any more about it.
_Serafima._ Think of it yourself; you’re a young man still; we may have
children.
_Paul._ Of course we shall have children; but what of that? The more
money we get, the more there will be for the children.
_Serafima._ No, no; I don’t want even to hear about it, or I shall only
get miserable; you musn’t put me out. What’s the use of circulation? We
can live as we are; we have enough of everything. (_Meditates._) You are
free to-day; you haven’t gone to the office.... (_Embraces him._)
_Paul_ (_detaching himself from her arms_). No, Serafima; as you like,
but I must have a talk with you.
_Serafima_ (_seriously_). What now?
_Paul._ This, my dear: if you really love me, give me five thousand
silver roubles. I need the money pressingly for a certain business. It
is a very profitable business, Serafima; I won’t tell you what it is
now; but we may get the amount doubled, or perhaps even more. Indeed, I
am almost sure that it will be more.
[Illustration:
SERAFIMA: “FIVE—THOUSAND—SILVER—ROUBLES! HOW MUCH WILL THAT BE IN
PAPER MONEY?”
PAUL: “HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”
]
_Serafima._ Five—thousand—silver—roubles! How much will that be in paper
money?
_Paul._ How should I know?
_Serafima._ Stop; I’ll calculate it. (_Takes paper and pencil out of
pocket and calculates._) Ah! ah! (_Rushes away._)
_Paul._ What can be the matter now? What’s frightened her? I can’t make
it out! Does she suppose I’m going to spend all my life in making love?
That’s a good idea! Is she miserly? or what is it? I must find out which
she loves best—me or money. If she loves me best, the matter can be set
right. But if she loves the money best, I’ve run my neck into a halter.
(_Enter_ MADAME PRÈZHNEV.)
_Madame P._ _Bonjour_, Paul!
_Paul._ _Bonjour, Maman!_
_Madame P._ (_sits down_). I’ve just been into your wife’s room. What is
the matter with her? She’s crying, and getting ready to go out.
_Paul._ We’ve had a little scene.
_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! already? So soon after the wedding! Did you do
anything to hurt her feelings? Woman is such a frail and tender
creature.
_Paul._ Why the devil should I hurt her feelings? I only asked her for
money.
_Madame P._ Were you gentle enough with her?
_Paul._ Why, dear me, I’ve been spooning with her a whole month, like a
turtle-dove. (_Bursts out laughing._) I never once asked her for money
till just now. First of all, she got as sentimental as you please: “Ask
anything you like; I’ll do anything in the world for you; I’ll go
straight to town and buy whatever you want.” What should she buy me?—a
china poodle? or a hussar in sugar? Well, directly I asked her for five
thousand, she just screamed and ran away ... and now she’s in tears! The
deuce knows what to make of it!
_Madame P._ She has no heart, my dear. Women are ready to give up
everything on earth for the man they love. No, my Paul, she is no woman.
_Paul._ Oh, she’s a woman all right enough; only she won’t give the
money.
_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! I am convinced that she will appreciate you in
time, and will come to love you so much, so much (_with enthusiasm_)
that she will entirely give into your keeping both herself and—and all
her possessions.
_Paul._ Yes; but she hasn’t done it yet; and I can’t wait.
_Madame P._ Wait a little, Paul! Think what bliss awaits you in the
future. (_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT _and gives_ PAUL _letter and
pocket-book_.)
_Paul._ What is that?
_Maid._ Madame has gone away in the carriage, and told me to give you
these. (_Exit._)
_Paul._ A pocket-book! That’s good! (_Puts it in pocket._)
_Madame P._ I told you so!
_Paul._ Now let’s read the letter. (_Reads._) “DEAR PAUL—Much as I love
you, we must separate. My heart will bleed all my life; and I shall weep
for you day and night. I wish to go and live with my papa, like a
prisoner, and bewail my fate; and I shall sell this house. You will
never see me any more. I love you with all my soul; but you showed me
to-day that you love me for my money’s sake. In our merchant class, it
is not the custom to give away one’s money. Of what significance shall I
be, if I have no money? I shall be of no importance at all! If I have no
money, and I love a man, he will not love me. But if I have money, and I
love any one, he will love me, and we shall be happy. I made a
pocket-book for your birthday, and embroidered it myself, and as I hoped
that a present from me would be a great pleasure to you, I send it to
you now. Don’t ever come to my papa’s house; he is very passionate, and
will be very angry with you when he knows all about it; and I cannot
conceal anything. Farewell, Paul! When you are in need of money I shall
always be glad to give you help without letting my relatives know; but
only small sums—a hundred roubles, not more. Be happy. I shall pass all
my life in tears. Yours for ever, SERAFÌMA.” What in the world is this?
It’s so extraordinary that I can’t even believe it. I expect she’s
joking, or wants to frighten me. Let’s see, though, what there is in
this pocket-book. I daresay there’s something in it. (_Takes out
pocket-book._)
_Madame P._ I am almost sure of it, Paul. No doubt she wanted to give
you a surprise.
_Paul._ It’s a charming little pocket-book. (_Opens and examines it._)
Empty!
_Madame P._ Look; perhaps there’s a secret compartment.
_Paul._ Here’s the secret compartment, but there’s nothing in it either.
(_Enter_ FOOTMAN.) What do you want?
_Foot._ Sir, sir, I never heard of such a thing! They’ve taken away the
fur cloak!
_Paul._ What fur cloak?
_Foot._ Yours, sir! Madame told us to put it in the carriage with her,
and took it away. Anyoùtka and I held out as long as we could; but what
could we do? I really don’t know what to think of it!
_Paul._ Mamma, that’s more than a joke.
_Foot._ It’s a disgrace, sir! I’ve been in service for many years
(_clasps his hands_), but I never saw such a thing, never! Paul
Petròvich! Think of it!
_Paul._ There, get along with you!
_Foot._ And to have to say such a thing to people! It’s enough to make
one die for shame. I never heard of such a thing, _never_! (_Exit._)
_Paul._ (_Sits down and looks fixedly at his mother_). _Maman!_
_Madame P._ Women have no hearts nowadays, no hearts at all.
_Paul._ Permit me, _Maman_, to thank you, now, for two things: firstly,
for squandering my fortune; and, secondly, for bringing me up in such a
way that I am fit for nothing. I only know how to spend money. And where
is the money to spend? Where? (_Passionately._) Where is the money? Give
it to me! You liked to see me, at eight years old, in a velvet tunic,
dancing better than all the other children in Moscow, and knowing how to
make love to the little girls. You liked to see me at sixteen, looking
so well on horseback! You looked on proudly when I used to gallop about
our ancestral fields with my tutor, your favourite! You enjoyed all
that. After such an education, one must have money, if one would play a
leading part in our society. Why did you squander everything? Where are
our estates gone? Where are our peasants gone? What is to become of us
now? Now, perhaps, you will have the pleasure of seeing me dismissed
from the service, a vagrant, a card-sharper, and maybe even worse! What
am I to do? I can’t marry again, with a wife living! (_Covers his face
with his hands._)
CURTAIN FALLS.
_A MADMAN’S DIARY._
_October 3rd._
An extraordinary circumstance happened to-day. I got up rather late, and
when Mavra brought me my boots I asked her what time it was. Hearing
that it was long past ten I dressed hurriedly. I confess I did not want
to go to the Department at all, knowing beforehand what black looks I
should get from the chief of our division. For some time he’s taken to
saying to me, “What ever sort of rot have you always got in your head
now, man? Sometimes you tear about like a possessed creature; sometimes
you muddle the papers so that the very devil couldn’t make them out; you
write the titles without capital letters, and leave out all the dates
and numbers!” Hang the fellow! He’s envious, of course, because I sit in
the director’s study and mend his excellency’s pens. In short, I
shouldn’t have gone to the Department at all if I hadn’t hoped to meet
the treasurer, and, perhaps, get the confounded Jew to give me, anyway,
a little of my salary in advance. I never came across such a creature!
For him to ever advance one the money a single month—why, doomsday will
come before that happens! You can beg him, entreat him—however hard up
you are the old grey devil won’t give it you. And yet at home his own
cook boxes his ears. She does—everybody knows that. I can’t understand
what advantage it is to serve in the Department. There are no resources
whatsoever. Now, in the Provincial Administration, or in the Common
Courts, or Court of Exchequer—that’s quite another thing; there
sometimes you’ll see a fellow squeezed up in the corner writing away, in
a shabby old coat, and such a fright to look at, and yet see what a nice
little villa he rents! You can’t offer him a gilded china cup, for
instance; he’ll say, “That’s a doctor’s present.” No, you must give him
a pair of carriage horses, or a fine sledge, or beaver fur worth three
hundred roubles. He’ll look as meek as meek can be, and talk so
sweetly—“May I trouble you to lend me your penknife?” and then he’ll
fleece you—till he leaves nothing but the shirt on your back. It’s true,
though, our service is more genteel—everything’s so clean, the tables
are of red wood, and all the directors say “you.” Indeed, but that it’s
a genteel service, I’d have left the Department long ago.
[Illustration:
“I LOOKED ROUND AND SAW TWO LADIES UNDER AN UMBRELLA, AN OLD LADY AND
A YOUNG ONE.”
]
I put on my old cloak and took my umbrella because it was pouring with
rain. There was no one in the streets; I saw nothing but a few women
with shawls over their heads and some Russian shopkeepers with
umbrellas. There was no one of the upper classes about except an
official like myself. I saw him at a crossing, and said to myself, “Aha!
No, my friend, you’re not going to the Department; you’re running after
the woman in front of you and looking at her ankles.” What a set of
brutes our officials are! They’re just as bad as any officer; can’t see
a woman’s hat at all without going for it. Just as I was thinking that,
I saw a carriage driving up to a shop I was passing. I knew it at once;
it was our director’s carriage. “But he wouldn’t be going shopping,” I
thought; “it must be his daughter.” I stopped, and leaned against the
wall; a footman opened the carriage door, and she sprang out like a
bird. How she glanced round with those eyes and brows of hers! Heaven
defend me! I am done for! And why ever should she drive out in this
pouring rain? And then people say that women are not devoted to
chiffons! She did not recognise me, and indeed I purposely muffled
myself up, because my cloak was very muddy and old-fashioned too. Now
they are worn with deep capes, and mine had little capes one above the
other; and the cloth wasn’t good either. Her lap-dog didn’t get in
before the shop-door was shut, and was left out in the street. I know
that dog; it is called Medji. The next minute I suddenly heard a little
voice, “Good-morning, Medji.” Why! what the deuce! Who said that? I
looked round and saw two ladies under an umbrella, an old lady and a
young one; but they went past; and suddenly I heard again, “Oh, for
shame, Medji!” What the devil! There were Medji and the ladies’ lap-dog
smelling each other. “I say,” thought I to myself, “I must be drunk!”
And yet it is a rare thing with me to be drunk. “No, Fidèle, you are
quite mistaken” (I actually saw Medji saying that). “I have
been—bow-wow-wow—I have been—bow-wow-wow—very ill.” Well, there now! I
really was very much surprised to hear the lap-dog talking in human
speech. But afterwards, when I thought it over, it didn’t astonish me.
Indeed, there have been many such cases in the world. It is said that
there appeared in England a fish that said two words in such a strange
language that the learned men have been three years trying to make out
what it said, and can’t understand it yet. And I remember reading in the
newspapers about two cows that went into a shop and asked for a pound of
tea. But I was very much more astonished when Medji said, “I wrote to
you, Fidèle; Polkàn can’t have brought the letter.” Well! may I lose my
salary if ever I heard in my life that dogs could write! It quite amazed
me. Lately, indeed, I have begun to see and hear sometimes things that
nobody ever saw or heard before. “I’ll follow that lap-dog,” thought I,
“and find out what it is and what it thinks.” So I shut up my umbrella
and followed the two ladies. They went along Goròkhovaya Street, turned
into Myeshchànskaya, then into a carpenter’s shop, and at last up to the
Kokoushkin Bridge, and there they stopped before a big house. “I know
that house,” said I to myself; “that’s Tvyerkov’s house.” What a
monster! Just to think of the numbers of people that live there—such a
lot of strangers, servant maids, and as for my fellow officials, they
are packed together like dogs! I have a friend living there who plays
the trumpet very well. The ladies went up to the fifth story. “All
right,” thought I, “I won’t go in now, but I will mark the place, and
take advantage of the first opportunity.”
_October 4th._
To-day is Wednesday, so I have been on duty in the director’s study. I
purposely went early, sat down and mended all the pens. Our director
must be a very clever man—all his study is fitted up with bookshelves. I
read the titles of several books, but they were all so learned, so
fearfully learned, that they are no use for a poor fellow like me; they
are all either in French or in German. And just to look at his face! See
the importance beaming in his eyes! I have never even heard of his
saying an unnecessary word. Only, you know, when you hand him a paper he
will ask, “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your excellency.” Yes; we
are not up to his level; he’s a statesman. Nevertheless, I have remarked
that he is peculiarly fond of me. Now if only his daughter.... Confound
it all! Never mind; never mind; hush! I began to read _The Little Bee_.
What a stupid nation the French are! On my honour, I’d take them and
flog them all round. Well, I was reading a charming account of a ball,
written by a country squire from Koursk. The Koursk squires write very
well. After that I observed that it was half-past twelve, and that the
director hadn’t come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one there
happened an occurrence that no pen can describe. The door opened, and,
thinking it was the director, I jumped up with my papers; but it
was—She; She herself! Holy saints! how she was dressed! All in white,
like a swan, and so gorgeously! And how she looked! like the sunlight, I
swear. She bowed to me and said, “Has papa been here?” Aï, aï, aï, what
a voice! A perfect canary bird! “Your excellency,” I would have said,
“have mercy on me. But, if I must die, let me die by your august hand.”
But, the devil take it, all that would come on to my tongue was, “No,
madam.” She looked at me; she looked at the books; she dropped her
handkerchief. I rushed for it, slipped on the confounded polished floor,
and nearly broke my nose. Still I managed to get the handkerchief.
Heavens and earth! What a handkerchief! So fine; pure cambric;
amber-scented; exhaling the aroma of high rank. She thanked me, laughed
just a little, so that her sweet lips hardly moved, and went away. I
waited another hour, and then a lackey came in and said, “You can go
home, Aksèntyi Ivànovich. My master has gone out.” I cannot endure the
footman class; they always lounge about in the ante-room, and don’t so
much as take the trouble to nod to you. Indeed, that’s not all; once,
one of these brutes had the insolence to offer me some tobacco without
getting up. Why, can’t you understand, you stupid flunkey, that I am an
official, that I am of noble birth! Nevertheless I took my hat, put on
my cloak myself (these gentry never think of helping one), and went out.
At home I spent most of the day lying on my bed. Then I copied out some
charming verses:—
“An hour I had not seen my dearest,
That hour was as a year to me;
Oh life, how hateful thou appearest!
Oh let me die and cease to be!”
[Illustration:
‘SHE DROPPED HER HANDKERCHIEF. I RUSHED FOR IT, AND SLIPPED ON THE
CONFOUNDED FLOOR.’
]
They must have been written by Poushkin. In the evening I muffled myself
in my cloak, went to her excellency’s doorstep, and waited long on the
chance of seeing her for a moment coming out and getting into her
carriage; but she did not come.
_November 6th._
I have infuriated the chief of the section. When I came to the
Department he called me into his room, and began talking after this
fashion, “Now just tell me, my man, what you’re after.” “How? What? I’m
not after anything,” said I. “Now, think it over and be reasonable! Why,
you’re past forty; you ought to have come to years of discretion. What
have you got into your head? Do you imagine I don’t know all you’re up
to? Why, you are dangling about after the director’s daughter! Now just
look at yourself, and think a minute what you are like. You know you’re
a complete nonentity. You know you haven’t got a farthing in the world.
Look at your face in the looking-glass—how can you think of such a
thing?” The devil take it! Just because he has a face something like an
apothecary’s drug-bottle and one little wisp of hair on his head twisted
up into a barber’s cock’s-comb, and holds up his head and smears it with
a bandoline stick, he thinks he must be over everybody. But I
understand, I understand perfectly well why he’s so angry—he’s envious;
very likely he has noticed the signs of special favour shown to me. But
what do I care for him? How very important—a D.C.L.! He’s got a gold
watch-chain and pays thirty roubles for his boots—and the devil take
him! Does he imagine that I am one of the common people; that I’m the
son of a tailor or a corporal? I am a noble! I, too, may rise in the
service; I am only forty-two—just the proper age to begin one’s career.
Wait a bit, my friend! Perhaps we shall be a colonel some day, or higher
up than that even, by God’s grace; and we’ll have a better reputation
than yours is. I should like to know what put it into your head that no
one can be a decent fellow except yourself. Give me a fashionably cut
dress-coat and a fine necktie like yours, and you won’t be fit to hold a
candle to me. I have no fortune, that’s the trouble.
_November 8th._
I went to the theatre. They played the Russian fool, _Filàtka_, and I
laughed heartily. Then there was some sort of vaudeville with very funny
verses about lawyers, especially about a certain collegiate registrar.
They were written in so free a style that I wondered at the censorship
passing them; and about shopkeepers it was said, right out, that they
cheat the public, and that their sons are dissipated and always trying
to get into the nobility. There was a very comic verse about
journalists—that they are always finding fault, and so the author begs
the public to take his part. Very amusing things are written nowadays. I
love the theatre; whenever I have a few pence in my pocket I can’t
resist going. Now, a good many of our officials are regular pigs; they
care no more about the theatre than if they were peasants. Of course, if
you give them a ticket free, they’ll go. One actress sang very well. I
thought of Her.... Oh! hang it all!... Never mind.... Hush!
_November 9th._
At eight o’clock I went to the Department. The chief of the section
pretended not to notice my entrance at all. For my part, I behaved as if
nothing had happened between us. I looked over a lot of papers, examined
them; and went away at four o’clock. I passed the director’s house, but
there was no one to be seen. After dinner, I lay on my bed most of the
time.
_November 11th._
To-day I sat in our director’s study and mended twenty-three pens for
him, and four pens for Her—aï, aï—for Her Excellency. He likes there to
be plenty of pens. What a head he must have! He never speaks; but I
suppose he is always thinking over things. I should like to know what he
thinks about most, what is going on in that head. I should like to see
more closely the life of these grand people; all their little
conventionalisms and court tricks: how they live and what they do in
their sphere,—that is what I should like to know. I have often thought
of getting into conversation with his Excellency; but my confounded
tongue won’t do as I want; all I can say is that the weather’s cold or
warm—not another thing. I should like to have a look at that
drawing-room that one sometimes sees the door of open; and at the room
beyond the drawing-room. How richly it is all furnished. What mirrors,
what porcelain! I should like to see the part of the house where Her
Excellency lives! Oh! I know where I should like to go! Into her
boudoir, where stand all the little toilet-trays and boxes, and flowers
that one dare not even breathe upon; and where her dress lies flung
down, more like air than a dress. I should like to peep into her
bedroom.... There must be wonders! There indeed must be Paradise! Only
to see the footstool that she steps on when she gets out of bed, when
she draws the little stocking on to that snowy foot ... aï! aï! aï!
Never mind; never mind.... Hush!
To-day, however, a kind of light broke in upon me; I remembered the
conversation between the two lap-dogs that I heard on the Nevsky
Prospect. “All right,” thought I to myself, “now I’ll know everything. I
must intercept the letters of those horrid little dogs. Then, of course,
I shall find out something.” Indeed, I once called Medji to me, and
said: “Now look here, Medji, we’re quite alone; and, if you like, I’ll
lock the door, so that no one shall see. Tell me everything you know
about your mistress—what she is like, and all about her. I swear to you
that I will not repeat it to any one.” But the cunning little dog put
its tail between its legs, screwed itself all up, and went quietly out
of the room as if it hadn’t heard anything. I have suspected for a long
time that dogs are far cleverer than people; indeed, I felt sure that
they can speak, but for some sort of obstinacy. They are wonderfully
politic; they notice everything a man does. No; whatever happens, I will
go to-morrow to Tvyerkov’s house, interrogate Fidèle, and, if possible,
seize upon all Medji’s letters to her.
_November 12th._
At two o’clock in the afternoon I started to find Fidèle and interrogate
her. I can’t endure cabbage; and all the little provision shops in
Myeshchànskaya Street simply reek of it; and then there’s such a stench
from the yard of every house, that I simply held my nose and ran along
as fast as ever I could. And then those confounded artizans send out
such a lot of soot and smoke from their workshops, that really there’s
no walking in the street. When I got up to the sixth floor and rang the
bell, there came out a girl, not bad-looking, with little freckles. I
recognised her; it was the same girl who had walked with the old lady.
She grew a bit red, and it flashed upon me at once, “You want a lover,
my dear.” “What can I do for you?” “I must have an interview with your
lap-dog.” The girl was stupid; I saw at once she was stupid. At that
moment the dog ran out, barking. I wanted to catch her, but the nasty
little thing nearly snapped my nose off. However, I saw her basket in
the corner. Ah! that was what I wanted. I went up to it, turned over the
straw, and, to my immense delight, pulled out a little packet of tiny
papers. Seeing that, the horrid little dog first bit me in the calf of
the leg; and then, realising that I had got the papers, began to whine
and fawn on me; but I said, “No, my dear! Good-bye!” and rushed away. I
think the girl took me for a maniac, for she was terribly frightened.
When I got home I wanted to set to work at once and read the letters,
because my sight is not very good by candle-light. But of course Mavra
had taken it into her head to wash the floor; these idiotic Finns are
always cleaning at the wrong time. So I went for a walk to think over
the occurrence. Now at last I shall find out all their affairs, all
their thoughts, all the wires they are pulled by; these letters will
disclose everything to me. Dogs are a clever race, they understand all
the political relations; and so, no doubt, everything will be here—this
man’s portrait and all his affairs. And no doubt there will be something
about Her, who.... Never mind; silence! In the evening, I came home. I
spent the time lying on my bed.
_November 13th._
Now let us see! The letter is fairly legible; but, somehow or other,
there is something a little bit doggish about the handwriting. Let’s
see:—
MY DEAR FIDÈLE,—I still have not been able to accustom myself to your
vulgar name. Why couldn’t they find a better name for you? Fidèle,
Rosa, what bad taste! However, this is off the point. I am very glad
that we have agreed to correspond.
The letter is quite correctly written; there are no mistakes in the
stopping, or even in the use of the letter _yat’_. Why, the chief of the
section can’t write as well as that, although he talks about having been
educated in the University. Let’s see further on:—
It appears to me that to share our thoughts, feelings, and impressions
with another is one of the greatest blessings in the world.
H’m.... That idea is cribbed from some work translated from the German;
I can’t remember the title.
I say this from experience, although I have seen little of the world
beyond the gates of our house. My life passes peacefully and joyously.
My mistress, whom papa calls Sophie, loves me passionately.
Aï! Aï! Never mind, never mind; silence!
Papa, too, often caresses me. I drink my tea and coffee with cream.
Ah! _ma chère_, I must tell you that I cannot understand what pleasure
there can be in the big gnawed bones that our Polkàn devours in the
kitchen. Bones are only good if they are from game, and if no one has
sucked the marrow out of them. It is a very good idea to mix several
kinds of sauce together, only there must be no capers or herbs; but I
know nothing worse than the custom of rolling bread into little balls
and giving it to dogs. Some gentleman, sitting at the table, who has
been holding all sorts of nasty things in his hands, will begin
rolling a bit of bread with his fingers, and then call you and put it
in your mouth. It’s impolite to refuse, so you eat it, with disgust,
of course, but you eat it.
What the deuce is all this rubbish? As if they couldn’t find anything
better to write about. Let’s look at the next page, perhaps it will be
more sensible.
I shall have the greatest pleasure in informing you of all that
happens in our house. I have already spoken to you about the principal
gentleman whom Sophie calls papa. He is a very strange man.
Ah, now, at last! Yes, I knew it. They look at all things from a politic
point of view. Let us see what there is about papa:—
... Strange man. He hardly ever speaks. But a week ago he kept on
constantly saying to himself, “Shall I get it or not?” Once he asked
me, “What do you think, Medji? Shall I get it or not?” I didn’t
understand anything about it, so I smelled at his boot and went away.
Then, _ma chère_, a week afterwards papa was in the greatest state of
delight. The whole morning long gentlemen in uniform came to him and
congratulated him on something or other. At table he was merrier than
I have ever seen him before.
Ah! so he’s ambitious; I must take note of that.
Good-bye, _ma chère_! I run ... &c. To-morrow I will finish the
letter.
Well, good-morning, I am with you again. To-day my mistress, Sophie.——
Ah! now we shall see—something about Sophie. Oh! confound it!... Never
mind! never mind! Let’s go on:
My mistress, Sophie, was in a great muddle. She was getting ready for
a ball, and I was very glad she would be out, so that I could write to
you. My Sophie is perfectly devoted to balls, although she nearly
always gets cross when she’s dressing for them. I cannot conceive, _ma
chère_, what can be the pleasure of going to balls. Sophie comes home
from them at six o’clock in the morning, and nearly always looks so
pale and thin that I can see at once they haven’t given the poor girl
anything to eat there. I confess that I couldn’t live like that. If I
didn’t get my woodcock with sauce, or the wing of a roast chicken,
I—really I don’t know what I should do. I like pudding with sauce,
too, but carrots or turnips or artichokes are no good at all.
What an extraordinarily uneven style! One can see at once it wasn’t
written by a human being; it begins all right and properly, and ends in
this doggish fashion. Let’s see another letter. This seems rather a long
one. H’m, and it isn’t dated.
Oh, my dearest, how I feel the approach of spring! My heart beats as
if yearning for something. There is a constant singing in my ears, so
that I often raise one foot and stand for several moments listening at
the doors. I will confide to you that I have many suitors. Oh! if you
knew how hideous some of them are! Sometimes there’s a great, coarse,
mongrel watch-dog, fearfully stupid—you can see it written on his
face—who struts along the street and imagines that he’s a very
important personage and that everybody is looking at him. Not a bit of
it! I take no more notice than if I didn’t see him at all. Then
there’s such a frightful mastiff that stops before my window. If he
were to stand on his hind paws (which the vulgar creature probably
doesn’t know how to do) he’d be a whole head taller than my Sophie’s
papa, who is rather a tall man, and stout too. This blockhead appears
to be frightfully impertinent. I growled at him, but he took no notice
at all; he didn’t even frown. He lolled out his tongue, hung down his
monstrous ears, and stared in at the window—like a common peasant! But
do you imagine, _ma chère_, that my heart is cold to all entreaties?
Ah! no.... If you could see one young beau who jumps across the fence
from next door! His name is Trèzor.... Oh, my dearest! what a sweet
muzzle he has!
The devil take it all! What rubbish! And fancy filling up one’s letter
with nonsense of that kind. Give me a man! I want to see a human being,
I demand that spiritual food that would satisfy my thirsting soul, and
instead of that, all this stuff.... Let’s see another page, perhaps
it’ll be better.
Sophie was sitting at the table sewing something. I was looking out of
the window, because I like watching the passers-by. Suddenly a footman
came in and announced, “Teplòv.” “Ask him in,” cried Sophie, and flew
to embrace me. “Oh, Medji, Medji! if only you knew who it is: a
Kammerjunker,[16] dark, and with such eyes! Quite black, and as bright
as fire.” And she ran away to her room. A minute afterwards there came
in a young Kammerjunker, with black whiskers. He went up to the
mirror, set his hair straight, and looked about the room. I growled
and sat down in my place. Presently Sophie came in, looking very
happy. He clinked his spurs and she bowed. I pretended not to notice
anything, and went on looking out of the window, but I turned my head
a little on one side and tried to overhear their conversation. Oh, _ma
chère_, what rubbish they talked! They talked about how, at a dance,
one lady had made a mistake and done the wrong figure; then about how
a certain Bobòv, with a _jabot_ on, looked very like a stork and
nearly tumbled down; then about how a certain Lìdina imagines that her
eyes are blue, whereas they are green—and so on. I cannot think, _ma
chère_, what she finds in her Teplòv. Why is she so enchanted with
him?...
It seems to me, too, that there’s something wrong here. It’s quite
impossible that Teplòv could bewitch her so. What comes next?
Really, if she can like this Kammerjunker, it seems to me she might as
well like the official who sits in papa’s study. Oh, _ma chère_, if
you knew what a fright he is! Exactly like a tortoise in a bag....
What official can that be?
He has a most peculiar name. He always sits and mends pens. The hair
on his head is very much like hay. Papa always sends him on errands
instead of the servant....
I believe that beastly little dog is alluding to me. Now, _is_ my hair
like hay?
Sophie simply cannot keep from laughing when she looks at him.
You lie, you confounded dog! What an abominable style! As if I didn’t
know that this is simply a case of envy; as if I didn’t know it’s an
intrigue. It’s an intrigue of the chief of the section. The man has
sworn implacable hate against me, and now he does everything he can to
injure me, to injure me at every step. Well, I’ll look at just one more
letter, perhaps the affair will explain itself.
MA CHÈRE FIDÈLE,—Forgive me for having been so long without writing; I
have been in a state of absolute intoxication. It is perfectly true
what some writer has said, that love is second life. And then there
are great changes going on in our house. The Kammerjunker comes every
day now. Sophie is madly in love with him. Papa is very happy. I even
heard from our Grigòrii, who sweeps the floors and almost always talks
to himself, that there will soon be a wedding, because papa is very
anxious to see Sophie married, either to a general, or to a
Kammerjunker, or an army colonel.
Deuce take it all! I can read no more. A Kammerjunker or a general! I
should like to become a general myself, not in order to obtain her hand
or anything like that—no, I should like to be a general, only to see
them put on all their airs and graces and show off all their Court ways;
and then tell them that I don’t care a brass farthing for either of
them. It really is annoying, confound it all! I tore the silly little
dog’s letters into bits.
_December 3rd._
It cannot be; it’s impossible; there sha’n’t be a wedding. What if he is
a Kammerjunker! That’s nothing more than a title; it’s not a tangible
thing that you can pick up in your hand. Why, his being a Kammerjunker
doesn’t give him a third eye in the middle of his forehead. After all,
his nose is not made of gold; it’s just like mine or anybody else’s;
after all, he has it to smell with, not to eat with; to sneeze with, not
to cough with. I have often wished to understand what is the cause of
all these differences. Why am I a Government clerk? And for what purpose
am I a Government clerk? Perhaps I am really a count or a general, and
only appear to be a Government clerk. Perhaps I myself don’t know what I
am. There have been so many cases in history: some ordinary man, not a
noble at all, but some common artizan or even peasant, will all of a
sudden turn out to be a great lord or baron, or what do you call it?
Well, if a peasant can turn out like that, what should a noble turn out?
Now, suppose I suddenly come in with a general’s uniform on, an
epaulette on the right shoulder and an epaulette on the left shoulder,
and a blue ribbon across—what will my beauty say, then, ah? What will
papa himself say, our director? Oh! he’s a very ambitious man! He’s a
Freemason; I’m convinced he’s a Freemason; he makes all sorts of
pretences, but I noticed at once that he’s a Freemason; if he shakes
hands with you, he only puts out two fingers. And does anybody suppose
that I can’t be appointed governor-general this very moment, or a
commissary, or something else of the kind? I should like to know why I
am a clerk? Why particularly a clerk?
_December 5th._
I spent the whole of this morning reading the newspapers. Most
extraordinary things are going on in Spain. I can’t even quite make them
out. It is said that the throne is vacant; that the statesmen in office
are in a great dilemma, having to choose an heir apparent; and that this
has resulted in disturbances. All this seems to me exceedingly strange.
How can the throne be vacant? They say that some donna will succeed to
the throne; but a donna cannot be sovereign, it is quite impossible.
There must be a king on the throne. They say there is no king; but it
cannot happen that there is no king; a State cannot exist without a
king. Undoubtedly there is a king, only he is living incognito somewhere
or other. It is very likely that he is living there, only he is obliged
to hide himself for some family reasons, or on account of some dangers
threatened by neighbouring states—France and the other countries.
Anyway, there must be some reason.
_December 8th._
I had quite made up my mind to go to the Department, but was prevented
by various causes and meditations. I could not get the affairs of Spain
out of my head. How is it possible that a woman should become sovereign?
It will not be permitted. To begin with, England will not allow it. And
then the diplomatic affairs of all Europe; the Emperor of Austria.... I
acknowledge that these matters have so upset and unnerved me that I have
been utterly unable to settle to anything the whole day. Mavra remarked
to me that I was extremely absent-minded at table. And indeed I believe
that, while absorbed in meditation, I threw two plates on to the floor
and smashed them. After dinner I went for a walk by the hill. I couldn’t
find out anything worth knowing. Most of the time I lay on my bed and
meditated on the affairs of Spain.
_Year 2000, April 48th._
This day is a day of great solemnity! There is a king in Spain. He has
been found. I am the king. It was only to-day that I found it out. It
suddenly flashed across me like lightning. I cannot conceive how I could
imagine that I was a clerk! How could such a crazy notion get into my
head? It’s a good thing that nobody thought of putting me into a
madhouse. Now all is open before me. I see all as from a mountain
summit. But formerly—I can’t understand it—formerly everything was in a
sort of fog before me. It seems to me that all this results from people
imagining that the human brain is situated in the head; that is not the
case: it travels on the wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea.
First of all, I announced my identity to Mavra. When she heard that
before her stood the King of Spain she clasped her hands and half died
of terror. The foolish woman had never seen a Spanish king before.
However, I did my best to quiet her; and told her that I am not at all
angry with her for sometimes cleaning my boots badly. Of course she is
one of the common people, and you cannot talk to them of high matters.
The reason she was so terrified was because she is quite convinced that
all Spanish kings must be like Philip II. But I explained to her that
there is no resemblance between me and Philip II. I did not go to the
Department. The devil take the Department! No, my friends, you won’t
catch me now; I am not going to copy your nasty papers.
_Marchober 86th,
Between Day and Night._
To-day our usher came to me to insist that I should go to the
Department; he said it was more than three weeks since I had been there.
I went, just for a joke. The chief of the section thought that I should
bow to him and make excuses; but I glanced at him with indifference,
neither too sternly nor too graciously, and sat down at my place as if I
observed nothing. I looked round at all the rag-tag-and-bob-tail, and
thought, “Oh! if you knew who is sitting with you.... Good heavens! what
a fuss there would be! And the chief of the section himself would begin
bowing and scraping to me just as he does now to the director.” They
laid some papers before me, telling me to make an extract; but I did not
so much as touch them with a finger. A few minutes afterwards they all
began bustling about, saying that the director was coming. Several of
the officials hurried out, one after another, to present themselves to
him; but I never moved. When he passed through our section they all
buttoned up their coats; but I took no notice whatsoever. The director!
What’s he? Do they think I’m going to stand up before him? Never! What
sort of director is he? He’s a dummy, not a director; an ordinary,
common dummy, like a dummy in a barber’s shop, and nothing else at all.
The most amusing thing of all was when they handed me a paper to sign.
They thought I was going to write at the very bottom of the sheet,
“Clerk So-and-so.” I daresay! I signed, in the most conspicuous place,
just where the Director of the Department signs, “Ferdinand VIII.” It
was worth while to see what a reverential silence there was! However, I
just waved my hand to them and said, “You needn’t trouble about tokens
of allegiance,” and went away. I went straight to the director’s house.
He was not at home, and the footman did not want to let me in, but I
said something to him that made him just collapse. I went straight into
her dressing-room. She was sitting before the looking-glass, but started
up and shrank away from me. I did not tell her, however, that I am the
king of Spain; I only told her that there lies before her such happiness
as she cannot even imagine; and that, in spite of the snares of our
foes, we shall be together. I did not want to say any more than that,
and therefore went away. Oh! what a wily being is woman! It is only now
I have fully understood what woman really is. Up till now no one has
ever known with whom she is in love. I am the first to discover it.
Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, it is a fact. Physiologists write
all sorts of nonsense; but really she loves no one and nothing but the
devil. There, you see, she sits in the dress-circle with her
opera-glass; do you think she’s looking at that fat man with the star on
his breast? Not a bit of it! She’s looking at the devil behind his back.
The devil is hidden in the fat man’s coat. There! he is beckoning to her
with his finger! And she’ll marry him—she’ll certainly marry him! All
that comes from ambition; and the cause of ambition is a little blister
under the tongue with a tiny worm inside it no bigger than a pin’s head;
and all that is the doing of a certain hairdresser who lives in the
Goròkhovaya. I can’t remember his name; but I know positively that he
and a certain midwife are trying to spread Mahometanism throughout the
whole world; and it is said that in France the greater part of the
population has already accepted the Mahometan faith.
[Illustration:
“I SAID, ‘YOU NEEDN’T TROUBLE ABOUT TOKENS OF ALLEGIANCE,’ AND WENT
AWAY.”
]
_No date at all; the day was
without any date._
I walked incognito along the Nevsky Prospect, giving no sign at all that
I am the king of Spain. I thought it would be a breach of etiquette to
disclose my identity to every one now, because, first of all, I must
present myself at Court. The only thing that hinders me is the want of a
Spanish national costume. I must get hold of some sort of mantle. I
thought of ordering one, but the tailors are such absolute donkeys; and
then, besides, they have quite neglected their work and taken to
speculating. And now they have gone in for paving the streets. I finally
decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only put on
twice; but, for fear these scoundrels should spoil my work, I decided to
sit with the door locked, so that no one should see me make it. I
snipped the uniform all to pieces with the scissors, because it must
have quite a different cut.
_I don’t remember the day, and
there wasn’t any month. The
deuce knows what there was._
The mantle is made and quite ready. Mavra shrieked out when I put it on.
I cannot make up my mind, though, to present myself at Court yet. There
is still no deputation from Spain; and to present myself without a
deputation would be a breach of etiquette. I think it would prejudice my
dignity. I expect the deputies every minute.
_Date 1._
I am amazed at the tardiness of the deputies! What can be the cause of
their delay? Can it be France? Yes; that is a most objectionable
country. I went to the postoffice to inquire whether the Spanish
deputies had arrived; but the postmaster was exceedingly stupid, and
knew nothing about it. “No,” he said, “there are no Spanish deputies
here; but if you like to write a letter, we can forward it at the
ordinary postage rate.” The devil take it! What’s the use of a letter?
Letters are all nonsense! Apothecaries write letters....
MADRID, _February 30_.
So I am really in Spain; and it all happened so quickly that I can
hardly realise it. This morning the Spanish deputies presented
themselves to me, and I got into the carriage with them. I was surprised
at the great speed with which we travelled. We went so fast that in half
an hour we reached the Spanish frontier. For that matter, of course
there are railways all over Europe now; and the steamers go tremendously
fast. Spain is an extraordinary country! When we went into the first
room, I saw a lot of people with shaven heads. I guessed at once that
they must be either grandees or soldiers, because they always shave
their heads. I was very much struck with the behaviour of the Lord
Chancellor, who led me by the hand; he pushed me into a little room, and
said, “You sit here; and if you begin calling yourself King Ferdinand,
I’ll knock that rubbish out of you.” But I, knowing that this was
nothing more than a trial of my constancy, answered firmly. Whereupon
the Chancellor struck me on the back twice with a stick so hard that I
nearly cried out, but restrained myself, remembering that in chivalry
this was a custom on a man’s entering any high office, and that the
customs of chivalry are still in force in Spain. Remaining alone, I
decided to occupy myself with affairs of State. I discovered that China
and Spain are all the same country; it is only from ignorance that
people suppose them to be different. I advise every one, as an
experiment, to write “Spain” on a piece of paper, and it will come out
“China.” I was profoundly grieved, though, at an event which is to
happen to-morrow. At seven o’clock to-morrow morning there will occur a
strange phenomenon: the earth will sit down on the moon. The famous
English chemist, Wellington, has written about that. I confess that my
heart throbbed with anxiety when I pictured to myself the extreme
delicacy and fragility of the moon. The thing is that the moon is
generally made in Hamburg, and is very badly made. I cannot understand
why England takes no notice of the fact. It is made by a lame cooper,
who is quite evidently a fool, and understands nothing about the moon at
all. He puts in tarred rope and cheap oil; and it makes such an awful
stink all over the earth that everybody has to hold their nose. And this
makes the moon itself so fragile that people can’t live on it at all;
and nothing lives on it but noses. That is the reason why we cannot see
our own noses, because they are all in the moon. And when I thought what
a heavy substance the earth is, and how, by sitting down, it may crush
all our noses to powder, I was so overpowered by anxiety that I put on
my shoes and socks, and ran into the State Council Chamber, to give
orders to the police not to let the earth sit down on the moon. The
shaven grandees, whom I found in the Council Hall in great numbers,
proved to be a very sensible people; and when I said, “Gentlemen, we
must save the moon, for the earth is going to sit down on it!” they all
instantly rushed to fulfil my royal wish; and many tried to climb up the
walls to get at the moon. But at that moment the Lord Chancellor came
in; and when they saw him they all ran away. I, as king, alone remained.
But the Chancellor, to my great amazement, struck me with his stick, and
sent me into my room. What an extraordinary power national customs have
in Spain!
[Illustration:
“WHEN I SAID, ‘GENTLEMEN, WE MUST SAVE THE MOON, FOR THE EARTH IS
GOING TO SIT DOWN ON IT!’ THEY ALL RUSHED TO FULFIL MY ROYAL WISH.”
]
_January in the same year; following
after February._
So far, I cannot make out what sort of country Spain is. The popular
customs and Court etiquette are altogether extraordinary. I can’t
understand them; I can’t understand; I simply _cannot_ understand.
To-day they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice
that I would not consent to be a monk. But what it was like, when they
began to drop cold water on to my head, I cannot bear even to remember.
I never suffered such a hell in my life. I got into such a state of
frenzy that they could scarcely hold me. I can’t understand the meaning
of this strange custom. It’s an utterly stupid and senseless custom! Nor
can I make out the foolishness of the kings who have not abolished it
before now. Considering all the probabilities of the case, it occurs to
me that I must have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; and the
person whom I took for the Chancellor is, no doubt, the Grand Inquisitor
himself. Only it is quite incomprehensible how a king can be subject to
the Inquisition. It is true, that might happen through the influence of
France, and especially of Polignac. Oh, that brute, Polignac! He has
sworn to persecute me to the death; and now he hunts and hunts me down.
But I know, my friend, whose puppet you are. It’s the English that pull
the wires. The English are great diplomatists; they worm their way in
everywhere. For that matter, all the world knows that when England takes
snuff France sneezes.
_Date 25._
To-day the Grand Inquisitor came into my room, but, hearing his steps
approaching, I hid myself under a chair; and not seeing me, he began to
call out. First of all he called, “Poprìshchin!” I held my tongue. Then,
“Aksèntyi Ivànovich! Government official! Nobleman!” I remained silent.
“Ferdinand VIII., King of Spain!” I was just going to put out my head,
but I thought, “No, my friend, you won’t catch me that way. I know what
you are after: you’ll be pouring cold water on to my head again.”
However, he saw me, and drove me out from under the chair with a stick.
It’s most extraordinary how that confounded stick hurts! Ah, well! my
last discovery repays me for all. I have found out that every cock has a
Spain of its own hidden away under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor
went away very angry, and threatening me with some kind of punishment;
but I remained completely indifferent to his impotent rage, knowing that
he acts as a mere machine, as the tool of England.
_Da 34 te. Month yrae
February 349._
No; I can endure no more. Good God! what things they do to me! They pour
cold water on to my head! They neither see, nor hear, nor understand me.
What have I done to them? Why do they torment me so? Alas! what would
they have of me? What can I give them, I that have nothing? It is too
much; I cannot bear all this misery. My head burns, and everything
whirls before me. Save me! take me! Give me steeds swifter than the
hurricane. Come, come, my yamshchìk![17] Ring, my sledge-bells! Bound,
my noble steeds, and bear me from this world! On, on, that I may see no
more, no more! See! the heavens whirl before me; a star gleams in the
distance; the forest rushes past, with the moon and the dark trees; the
blue mist is unrolled beneath my feet; and through the mist I hear the
vibration of a string. On one side of me is the sea, on the other side
is Italy.... Ah, and there are Russian cottages! Is that my house in the
blue distance? Is that my mother that sits beside the window? Oh,
mother, save thy wretched son! Weep one tear over his fallen head! See
how he is wronged and tormented! Clasp thy sad orphan to thy breast! He
is driven and hunted down! There is no place for him on earth! Mother,
have pity on thy weary child!... But _do_ you know that the Dey of
Algiers has a wart just under his nose?
_PORRIDGE._
BY NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY.
A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village
deacon[18] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over
the shafts, a peasant in a _kaftan_.[19]
“Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking.
“Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[20] answered the deacon. “It is
all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling
you about in the posting station.”
“And is there any sort of man above the governor?”
“Of course there is.... Look here, Yeremèi; when we get to the inn, I’ll
go into the Consistorium, and you order dinner for yourself here; there
is bread in the bag, so you needn’t get any here.”
“As your honour likes; of course I’ll eat our own bread, as if I didn’t
know! ’Tis all the same to me. How much oats shall I take? I doubt ’tis
terrible dear in these parts?”
“Take half a measure, not more; everything’s dear hereabouts. That’s why
it’s so dear to live in the town.”...
“Lord bless you, yes, sir, ’tis all so dear, so dear, that it is!”
When they reached the posting inn the deacon put on his ecclesiastical
dress, and went to the Consistorium; the peasant, meanwhile, went
straight into the kitchen, where the dinner was cooking.
On the fire was a huge cauldron filled with pieces of beef, boiling, and
emitting clouds of steam; a workman in a cotton shirt was ranging on a
shelf steaming wheaten loaves, and a woman was turning a whole leg of
veal on the spit, and sucking her fingers between whiles.
The peasant held his breath as he looked.
Meanwhile there came into the kitchen several travelling merchants and
well-to-do sledge-drivers in fur coats; they were smoking their pipes
and talking about the forthcoming dinner.
At last the dinner was ready; Yeremèi sat down to table with the
travellers.
During the dinner (which lasted for three hours) Yeremèi experienced a
misty sensation in the head, and occasionally a pain in the stomach; but
he continued eating just the same, though he still remembered the
deacon.
On rising from table he sighed profoundly, said grace with peculiar
fervour, and lay down on a bench, but he could not sleep. He kept
thinking of how the deacon would appear before him, and say, “Well, have
you had your dinner? How much is it?”...
Yeremèi began to regret that he had not left table directly after the
_shchi_ (cabbage soup).
Two hours later the deacon arrived. He called the peasant into the other
room and began—
“Well, Yeremèi, it’s time to go home. God be thanked, I have settled my
business up all right, and had a bite of something at a friend’s house.
You’ve had dinner, I suppose?”
The peasant stood in the middle of the room, looking at the floor.
“Have you had dinner or not?” said the deacon, standing with the
abacus[21] in his hand.
“Oh, ay, I had my dinner, ... only ’tis something ... if I hadn’t eaten
it....”
“What do you mean?”
The peasant held his tongue.
“I don’t understand; what did you have? Can’t you tell me? I’ve got to
pay the bill, you know. Well, what was there? I suppose you had
something to drink?”
“Oh, ay, something to drink, I had.”
“What was it—cider?” And the deacon lifted his hand to mark it off.
“Ay, sir, there was cider, of course there was....”
“Plain cider? No, something in it, I dare say?”
“Ay, sir, ... there was cider....”
“Well, what else did they give you? Speak up, man! Why, we shall stand
here all day!... What else was there?”
“Ah ... well, sir, there was a kind of quaking jelly stuff, ... sort of
sloppy mess it was, ... I don’t rightly know....”
“Doesn’t matter to me whether it was sloppy or not; I shall have to pay
for it just the same. Well, and after the jelly what? Shchi, no doubt.
Did you eat shchi?”
“Oh, ay, I ate it up, sartain sure....”
“Well, then?”
“Only, you see, sir, ’tis almost as if I hadn’t eaten it, like ...”
The deacon put on a stern expression and continued gravely—
“Well, and what did you have with the shchi? I suppose there was some
kind of soup-meat with it, wasn’t there?”
“Ay, ay, there were a wee bit, for sure ... but ’twas terrible
fat—terrible fat, it was....”
“What’s that to me? You ate it, I doubt, even if it was fat? Well,
that’s all, I suppose. Or perhaps you had porridge too?”
“No, there was something else ... the porridge come arter that....”
“What then? Some kind of soup? Yes?”
“Ay, ay, sir! That’s just it ... and all sorts of trotter things ...
mucky stuff it was....”
The peasant scratched his head.
“Trotters! Well, you ate them, I suppose?”
“Ah ... sir! ’Twas the weest bit I ate ... tru-_ly_!”
“_What—the—deuce_ do you think any one cares _how much_ you ate? Well,
get on; porridge now, is it?”
Silence.
“There can’t have been anything _more_? Something with the porridge, was
it?”
“Ay, sir, seems like as if there was something else besides the
porridge.”
“Pudding, was it?”
“Something of that kind.”
“And with what was the pudding served?”
“Eh, sir, they always do put that fancy bread ... cake stuff ... you
know, with pudding, but it was right old and hard, it were like a
stone....”
“H’m! and what did you have with the porridge?”
“Eh, no, the porridge come arter that....”
“After what?”
“Ah ... fecks, sir, I don’t rightly know ... kind of mess ... the Lord
knows what....”
“Well, what kind of thing?
[Illustration:
“THE PEASANT SCRATCHED HIS HEAD.”
]
The peasant began to help himself out by gesticulating with his hands.
“You know, sir, kind of ... veal, isn’t? Veal ... something of that
like.... All white and flabby....”
“Con ... found the blockhead! And you gobbled that up too, did you?”
“Of course, ... but ’twas all burnt to a chip....”
“Never mind that!... Well, _is_ that all, at last?”
Silence.
“When are we coming to that porridge, I’d like to know?”
“The porridge come arter that.”
“After what?”
Silence once more.
“Can’t you speak?”
“Eh-h! There was a turkey, or something of that like ... I don’t rightly
mind what it was ... or maybe the mutton came first....”
“Anything else?”
“There was honey; only ’twas in the comb....”
“My stars! The landlord’ll bring me in a fine bill for that! Is that
all? Ah, no, the porridge!”
“No, no, the porridge come arter that.”
The deacon flung down the abacus, and, plunging his hands into his
pockets, began to pace the room. The peasant moved away to the corner,
so as not to disturb him.
Presently the innkeeper came in.
“Landlord,” said the deacon, “what do I owe you for my man’s dinner?”
“He had everything on the bill of fare, didn’t he?”
“Well ... I suppose he did.”
“Then it comes to a silver rouble.”
“Can’t you make it a bit less.”
“No, no, little father, we never bargain; we make all our little profit
off the oats; the dinners cost us what we get for them.”
The deacon discontentedly took a silver rouble out of his pocket.
Yeremèi, meanwhile, stood in the corner, equally discontented.
They had passed the town boundaries and got out into the open country
two versts back, but the deacon remained perfectly silent. Yeremèi,
anxious to know whether his master was still angry with him, ventured a
question—
“And is there any kind of body grander than the archbishop?”
The deacon turned his head away in silence.
_A DOMESTIC PICTURE._
A SCENE FROM MOSCOW LIFE.
BY N. OSTRÒVSKY.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ANTÌP ANTÌPYCH POUZÀTOV, _merchant, 35 years old._
MATRYÒNA SÀVISHNA, _his wife, aged 25._
MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s sister, a girl of 19._
STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s mother, aged 60._
PARAMÒN FERAPÒNTYCH SHIRYÀLOV, _merchant, aged 60._
DÀRYA, _servant maid._
_A room in Pouzàtov’s house, furnished in glaringly bad taste.
Portraits hanging above the sofa; Birds of Paradise painted on the
ceiling; bright-coloured window-curtains; bottles on the
window-sills._ MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA _sits by the window with an
embroidery-frame._
_Màrya (singing softly as she works)._
“Black colour, sad colour,
Yet for ever dear to me.”
(_Breaks off, stops working, and meditates._)
[Illustration:
MÀRYA: “THERE! LOOK! OH! HE BOWED TO US! OH! THE WICKED MAN!”
]
There! The summer’s nearly over; here we have September already, and you
just sit cooped up within four walls, for all the world like a nun, and
don’t dare to look out of window. That’s an inte_rest_ing life for a
young lady! (_A pause._) I daresay! It’s all very well to shut us up and
turn the key on us; but I know what we’ll do! We’ll ask leave to go to
midnight mass at the convent, and then we’ll put on our best things and
go off to the park or somewhere. There’s nothing for it, one _has_ to do
things on the sly. (_Goes on embroidering; a pause._) I wonder how it is
that Vasìli Gavrìlych hasn’t passed by once to-day? (_Looks out of
window._) Sister! sister! There’s an officer riding past! Sister! Quick!
With a white plume!
_Matryòna (runs into the room)._ Where, sister, where?
_Màrya._ There! Look! (_They look out._) Oh! he bowed to us! Oh! the
wicked man! (_They hide behind the window-curtains._)
_Matryòna._ How handsome he is!
_Màrya._ Sister, let’s sit here; perhaps he will pass again.
_Matryòna._ Oh! Màsha! how can you? You’ll just encourage him, and he’ll
take to passing half-a-dozen times a day; and then we shall never be
able to get rid of him. I know what these military men are. Why, there
was that hussar that Anna Màrkovna encouraged so; he used to ride past,
and she’d look out of window and smile at him; and do you know what he
did, my dear? He rode his horse right into the hall.
_Màrya._ Oh! how disgraceful!
_Matryòna._ I should think so! Nothing happened, you know; but she was
just the talk of Moscow. (_Looks out of window._) Màsha! there comes
Dàrya. Oh! what message will she bring?
_Màrya._ Oh! if mamma were to see her!
(_Enter_ DÀRYA, _hurriedly._)
_Dàrya._ Matryòna Sàvishna, little mother! I as near as anything got
caught! I was just running upstairs, and who must come running slap
against me but Stepanìda Trofimovna! Of course I said I’d been to shop
for a skein of silk. You know, she’s up to anything. Why, only
yesterday, our Petrùsha——
_Màrya._ Yes, yes! But what about _them_?
_Dàrya._ Yes, miss; they sent their respects. I went in, ma’am, and
there was Ivàn Petròvich lying on the sofa, and Vasìli Gavrìlych on the
bed.... Leastways, it was Vasìli Gavrìlych as was on the sofa, and
they’d been a-smoking, ma’am, till you fair couldn’t breathe.
_Matryòna._ Yes; but what did they say?
_Dàrya._ Well, they said, ma’am, if you please, that you was both of you
to come this evening to Ostànkino at vesper-time. And he said, “Dàrya,”
says he, “tell them to be sure and come, even if it rains.”
_Màrya._ Of course we’ll go, sister!
_Matryòna._ All right. Run back again, Dàrya, and say we’ll come.
_Dàrya._ Yes’m. Anything else, please’m?
_Màrya._ Yes, Dasha. Tell them to bring some books to read. Say the
young ladies desired it.
_Dàrya._ Yes, miss; is that all?... Oh! ma’am! I clean forgot! I was to
tell you to bring some Madeira with you; that was Ivàn Petròvich’s
orders. “It’s so nice,” says he, “in the open air.”
_Matryòna._ All right.
_Dàrya (comes up to_ MATRYÒNA _and speaks softly)._ Matryòna Sàvishna,
Vasìli Gavrìlych was saying to Ivàn Petròvich, “Of course,” says he,
“it’s quite a different thing for you,” says he. “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a
married woman ... and, of course ... But Màrya Antìpovna,” says he,
“she’s a young girl ... and it isn’t ... like as if, you know ... and
somehow or other,” says he, “’tis a bad business. Why,” says he, “for
all I know, they may go and marry her to some shopkeeper with a beard;
and then what’s the use of my putting myself out?” says he. “Of course
that don’t mean as I’m not”—there, you understand me, ma’am.... “But I’m
a poor man,” says he.... “I’d be glad enough to marry her,” says he,
“but,” says he, “what’s the use of my going poking my nose in?” It was
Vasìli Gavrìlych as said this to Ivàn Petròvich, you know, ma’am. “It’s
quite a different thing for you,” says he; “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a
married woman ... any sort of thing can happen with an official, you
know.... Wintertime,” says he, ... “Well, and a fine cloak of racoon
fur.... Anyways”——
_Matryòna._ Oh! you silly girl! Why, you should have said——
_Dàrya (listening)._ Little mother! it’s the master hisself come in!
(_Goes to the window._) Yes, it is; he’s going in at the door.
_Matryòna._ Well, then, you take the message while we’re at tea.
_Dàrya._ Yes’m.
_Voice in the ante-room._ Wife! I say! wife! Matryòna Sàvishna!
_Matryòna._ What’s the matter?
_Antìp (enters)._ Good evening, wife. Why, how you jump! Who did you
think it was? (_Kisses her._) Give us another kiss. (_Caressing her
playfully._)
_Matryòna (shrinking away)._ That’ll do, Antìp Antìpych! Let me alone!
Oh! what a nuisance you are!
_Antìp._ But I want a kiss.
_Matryòna._ Oh! leave off, for goodness’ sake!
_Antìp._ I daresay! (_Kisses her._) What a jolly little wife it is!
That’s the sort of wife to have! (_Sits on the sofa._) Do you know what,
Matryòna Sàvishna?
_Matryòna._ What now?
_Antìp._ It would be jolly to have some tea now. (_Stares at the
ceiling, and puffs._)
_Matryòna._ Dàrya!
(_Enter_ DÀRYA.)
_Matryòna._ Bring the samovar; and ask Stepanìda Trofimovna for the
keys. (_Exit_ DÀRYA. _Silence._ MÀRYA _sits at her embroidery_; MATRYÒNA
_beside her_; ANTÌP _looks about the room, sighing._)
_Antìp (sternly)._ Wife! come here!
_Matryòna._ What now?
_Antìp (striking the table with his fist)._ Come here, I tell you!
_Matryòna._ Why, are you gone crazy?
_Antìp (drumming on the table)._ What do you expect me to do with you?
_Matryòna._ Whatever can it be? (_Timidly._) Antìp Antìpych?
_Antìp._ Eh? Frightened you? (_Bursts out laughing._) No, my lass! It
was only my little joke. (_Sighs._) Can’t we have tea?
_Matryòna._ In a minute. Why, bless my heart, you won’t die!
_Antìp._ Well, it’s so dull to sit and do nothing.
(_Enter_ STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA; _then_ DÀRYA _carrying the samovar._)
_Stepanìda._ Lord, save us! You’re in a mighty hurry, my girl! What are
you rushing about like a wild thing for? Nothing is going to fall on our
heads. And as for you, little father, you must be gone clean daft! How
many more times in the day do you want to drink tea? This is the third
time at home; and I doubt you had some down in the town too? (_Pours out
tea._)
_Antìp._ Well, dear heart! what does it matter? A fellow can’t get tipsy
on tea. Yes; I had some tea with Brioùkhov, and again with Sàvva
Sàvvich. What harm is there in drinking tea with a jolly good fellow? I
say, mamma, I did Brioùkhov out of a thousand roubles to-day. (_Takes
teacup._)
_Stepanìda._ What next, child! Why, you get fleeced yourself on all
sides. You never keep an eye upon your shopmen; you never look after the
business. Why, Antìpoushka, what sort of business man are you? All you
do is to sit from morning till night in a tavern and drink tea. Ah!
dear, dear! it’s just a grief to look at you; there’s not a bit of
method in you; even _I_ can’t manage to keep order in this house. The
samovar stands on the table till eleven o’clock in the morning; first
the men have their breakfast and go off to the shop; then you get up and
dawdle over your breakfast till goodness knows when; and then your fine
lady here comes down. And as for going to mass before breakfast, why,
you don’t so much as cross yourselves, the Lord forgive you! Ah!
Antìpoushka! if you’d give up your new-fangled ways and live as all
respectable people should! You ought to get up at four in the morning
and see that everything’s in order, and go out into the yard and look
after everything there, and go to mass. Yes, my dear, and rout your good
lady here out of bed too, and tell her it’s time to get up and look
after the house; that’s what you ought to do. Yes, you needn’t look at
me like that, Matryòna Sàvishna; I’ve said nothing but what’s right and
true.
_Matryòna._ I suppose you are going to begin and preach now!
_Stepanìda._ Ah! little mother! And what would become of the house if it
wasn’t for me? _You’re_ not much of a housekeeper; you’re too young yet,
little mother; you’ve a good deal to learn yet! Why, just look at
you—you don’t get up till after ten o’clock—it’s a shame to say it, my
girl, but it’s the Lord’s own truth—and here I have to sit by the
samovar and wait till you please to come down; and I’m older than you
are, madam. You’re too much of a fine lady, Matryòna Sàvishna, too much
by a long way! It’s no use for you to give yourself airs, my lass;
you’re naught but a shopkeeper’s wife, and you can’t be a real lady,
however hard you try. Why, my good man, what’s the use of her dressing
herself up, and hanging herself all over with gew-gaws and furbelows
like a heathen savage, and making a sight of herself, the Lord forgive
us our sins! and rustling about with a long tail like a peacock ... why,
it’s a sin and a shame, so it is! You can flaunt about in your furbelows
as much as you like, Matryòna Sàvishna; but you’re none the more of a
lady for that.... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
_Matryòna._ Yes; you’d like me to go about with an old shawl over my
head!
_Stepanìda._ You’ve no call to be ashamed of your own class, my girl.
_Antìp._ Why, heart alive! Why shouldn’t she dress herself up fine if
the money’s there? There’s no harm in it. And as for being a lady, hang
me if she isn’t handsomer than any lady when she’s dressed in her best
things! By your leave, mother, I don’t think all these fine ladies are
worth the trouble of looking at. But just see what my little wife is
like.... That’s to say, I mean, what a figure she’s got!... and all
that, you know.
_Matryòna._ Really, Antìp Antìpych, what things you do say!
_Màrya._ I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself, brother! You always
make one blush.
_Antìp._ What’s the matter now? I haven’t said anything so dreadful.
Another day a man may say worse things than that, and nobody cares. Why,
the other day, before his Excellency the General, such a word slipped
off my tongue, I was quite frightened myself; but what can a fellow do?
A word isn’t a sparrow, that you can put salt on its tail. And as for
what you were saying, mother, I stick to my point. My wife shall dress
as fine as she likes; I don’t care if she isn’t a lady, all the same....
_Stepanìda._ Yes; I know, my boy, I know. When she goes out with you
dressed up like that, with a train two yards long, what do you suppose
she’s thinking about? Well, I’ll tell you my son, she thinks—“Here have
I got to put up with a great clumsy husband with a beard, instead of
having a proper sort of beau that pomades his hair and puts scent on his
handkerchief!”
_Antìp._ Do you think she’d change me for any one else? A handsome
fellow like me! (_Strokes his moustache._) I say, wife, give us a kiss!
(MATRYÒNA _kisses him with feigned tenderness._)
_Stepanìda._ Ah! my child! the enemy of man is cunning. Look at the way
my poor dear husband and I lived. We were a happier couple than you are;
and all the same he kept me in fear and submission, as a man should, the
Lord rest his soul! However much he loved and cherished me, he always
kept a little whip hanging on a nail in the bedroom, just in case of
anything.
_Matryòna._ You’re always making mischief between me and my husband! Why
can’t you let me alone?
_Stepanìda._ You’d best hold your tongue, my good girl!
_Matryòna._ I’m to hold my tongue! What next! Anybody would think I was
the dirt under your feet. I’m a merchant’s wife of the first guild!
_Stepanìda._ You and your guild! You needn’t talk like that to me, my
girl! I’ve had to do with your betters in my time....
_Matryòna._ Even so, you’ve no right to shut me up. I’m not going to
hold my tongue for anybody.
_Stepanìda._ And what do you suppose I care? There! go your own way;
it’s all one to me; but when you drive me to it I must speak out; it’s
my way. I’m not going to make myself over again for your pleasure.
(_Silence. They all sit and sulk._) You’ve just spoiled my Màsha between
you.
_Antìp._ I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband?
_Stepanìda._ ’Twas time to think of that long ago. Seems to me you’ve
clean forgotten that you have a sister; and she getting on, too.
_Màrya._ Really, mamma! Always “getting on,” and “getting on”! I’m not
so old as all that comes to.
_Stepanìda._ Don’t try your fine airs on me, miss! I was married at
thirteen; and you—I’m downright ashamed to tell people of it—you’re
twenty.
_Antìp._ Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov?
_Màrya._ Well, really, brother! You know he smells of onions all the
year round; and in Lent it’s just dreadful!
_Antìp._ Well, then, Perepyàtkin; he’d be a fine lover. (_Laughs._)
_Màrya._ You just pick out all the frights on purpose.
_Antìp._ Well, they’re all right. I think they’re very fine lovers,
Màsha; first-rate lovers! (_Bursts out laughing._)
_Màrya (almost in tears)._ You’re just laughing at me!
_Stepanìda._ Come, leave off your foolishness! I’m talking seriously,
Antìp Antìpych! What do you mean by all this rubbish? As for you, my
girl, don’t be afraid; you shall have suitors enough to choose from.
Bless my heart! You’re not a gipsy beggar-wench; you’re a marriageable
girl with a position. Only you needn’t think I’ll let you marry a
nobleman ... I won’t; so don’t imagine it.
_Antìp._ Why, mamma, any one would think there are no decent folks among
noblemen. Dear me! there are plenty. (_Laughs._)
_Stepanìda._ Of course there are, little father! there are decent people
in every class; only everybody should keep to their own. Our
grandfathers were no worse than we are, and they weren’t always trying
to get in among the nobles.
_Antìp._ I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her to a noble. There’s no
harm in it; why should you mind?
_Stepanìda._ Eh! my lad! A real proper noble, that’s worth having,
wouldn’t take her; he’d want at the very least a hundred thousand, or
may be two or three; and as for the others, they might as well not be
there at all for me. All they know how to do is to turn up their noses
and give themselves airs, as much as to say, “I’m a noble, and you’re
common people!” And after all, they’re nothing but a lot of dressed up
beggars! Goodness gracious! As if I didn’t know! Look at Lopàtikha,[22]
she married her girl to a noble, without asking any respectable person’s
advice. I told her of it at the time. “Eh! Maxìmovna,”[23] said I,
“‘Don’t try to drive in strange sledges.’[24] You’ll remember my words
when it’s too late.” Well, of course she began and answered me that she
wasn’t going to stand in her own child’s way, and all that. “I only want
the best,” says she; “after all,” says she, “he’s a gentleman, not a
shopkeeper; and maybe he’ll get on in the service and get a handle to
his name.” And now, you see what’s come of it! Ah! it’s a poor tale when
a frog will be a bull! There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip!
Half her dowry he’s drunk away; and the rest he’s gambled away, good
man! (_Sighs._) Yes; I was at the wedding; such a set out as they had at
the dinner, Lord save us! “Where’s the bridegroom?” said I. And what do
you think, my lad? When I looked round, as it might be now, a nasty
little slimy toad buttoned up into a tight jacket with the tails cut
off, for all the world like a blind kitten that’s been licked down. And
there he was, wriggling and twisting about, like any heathen
flibberty-gibbet—Lord forgive us our sins!—as if he couldn’t find a
place to sit down. Nobody’d ever have known him for a bridegroom, that
they wouldn’t. He might just as well have been all hung on wires. I
thought to myself when I looked at him, “You’ve made a fine choice, my
friends!” (_They all laugh._) But, dear heart! What am I talking about?
Everybody knows that. And even if you do get one that isn’t a
drunkard—of course there are decent ones here and there—he’ll only smoke
you out of your own house with his tobacco; or else he’ll bring deadly
sin into your house eating meat on fast days. (_Spits._) Good Lord! it’s
just sickening to think of.... No doubt there are good sensible people
among them, that do their business properly; only all I say is, we and
they don’t belong together, and we’re best apart. Now, a good,
well-to-do shopkeeper, Màsha——
_Antìp._ Plump and fresh-coloured, you know, Màsha, like me. That’s the
sort of fellow to love; not a dried-up scarecrow, eh, Màsha?
_Màrya._ Really, brother, how should I know?... (_Casts down her eyes._)
_Antìp._ How should you know? Well, anyway, Matryòna knows; I say,
Matryòna, don’t you think I’m right? Best have a shopkeeper, eh?
_Matryòna._ It’s always the same talk with you.
_Stepanìda._ He’s quite right, Màsha, my girl. At least there’s some one
worth kissing.
_Màrya._ Mamma! How can you! I declare I shall go away! Come, sister!
(_Runs out of the room_, MATRYÒNA _follows her._)
_Antìp._ Oho! my lass; it’s not much use to run away.
_Stepanìda._ You made her bashful, Antìpoushka; she’s only a girl, you
see.
_Antìp._ Well, I don’t mind if it’s a merchant. Give her to a merchant,
you may as well.
_Stepanìda (Moves nearer to him and speaks softly)._ By the bye,
Antìpoushka, I heard from neighbour Terèntyevna that Paramòn Ferapòntych
thinks of marrying again, and is looking for a wife. That’s a chance we
oughtn’t to miss, you know. Of course I know he’s getting old, and a
widower, and all that; but he has plenty of money, Antìpoushka—heaps of
money. And then, you know, he’s respectable and religious, and a capital
business man.
_Antìp._ Ye—es, mamma; only he’s an awful cheat.
_Stepanìda._ Dear heart alive! What do you mean by a cheat, I’d like to
know? He goes to church on all the holidays; and he always comes before
any one else; he keeps all the fasts; and in Lent he doesn’t even drink
sugar in his tea, only honey or raisins. Yes, my dear, you might take
example by him! And if he does play a trick sometimes, like any business
man, who’s the worse for it? He’s neither the first nor the last. Why,
there’d be no trade without that, Antìpoushka. It’s a true saying—“No
lies, no sale.”
_Antìp._ That’s true enough! Why shouldn’t one trick a chap if it comes
easy? There’s no harm in that. Only you see, mamma, ... a man must have
a bit of conscience sometimes. (_Scratches his head._) After all, you
know, ... one must think of one’s latter end. (_Silence._) I know I can
be as cunning as he is, when it comes in my way; but I always tell a
chap honestly afterwards. I always say:—“Look here, friend, I fleeced
you a little bit over such and such a business.” Last year, for
instance, I did Sàvva Sàvvich out of five hundred roubles when we were
settling up accounts; but I told him about it afterwards:—“Sàvva
Sàvvich,” said I, “you’ve let a nice little five hundred slip through
your fingers; but it’s too late now, friend,” said I; “only another time
keep your eyes open.” He was a bit riled up about it; but we’re the best
of friends again. There’s no harm in that!... Why, just lately I did
that German, Karl Ivànych, out of three hundred roubles. That was a good
joke! Matryòna had been buying a lot of furbelows and things in his
shop, and he sent me in a little bill for two thousand.
_Stepanìda._ What! I never heard of such a thing!
_Antìp._ There, that’s no harm! Let her dress up if she likes! Well, so
I thought to myself—“Surely I’m not going to give the German all that
money. No, no,” thought I, “he may wait till he gets it.” So I gave him
a little over three hundred roubles short. “The rest, mounseer,
afterwards,” says I. “All right, all right,” says he, as polite as you
please. So after that, of course he began nagging at me; every time I
met him it was the same thing—“What about the money?” I got just sick of
it; and one day, when I’d got my back up, that German must needs come
along. “What about the money?” says he. “What money?” says I; “I paid
you long ago, man; let me alone, for the Lord’s sake!” Eh! there was my
German in a rage! “That’s dishonest,” says he; “that’s underhand
dealing,” says he; “it’s written down in my books,” says he. And I said
to him:—“The deuce knows what you’ve got written down in your books;
you’d have one always paying you.” “Ah!” says he, “that’s the Russian
way of doing business; no German would do that. I’ll go to law,” says
he. Well, what can you do with a man like that? It’s for all the world
like a sick man and his nurse! (_Both laugh._) “All right,” says I;
“much you’ll get from lawyering!” Well, he went to law; and of course I
simply denied it. I stuck to my point, that I’d paid and knew nothing
more about it. Oh! what a laugh we had over that German! He was just
wild. “It’s dishonest,” says he. So after it was all over, I said to
him—“Karl Ivànych, I’d have given you that money, only I couldn’t spare
it.” You should have seen how our shopkeepers shook their fat paunches
with laughing! (_Both laugh._) For that matter, why should I pay up all
his bill? That’s too much of a good thing. They stick on any price they
like; and people are silly enough to believe them. I’d do the same thing
again if a man won’t give credit. That’s my way, mamma, and I see no
harm in it. But Shiryàlov—he’s no better than a Jew; he’d cheat his own
father! It’s true, mamma; and he’ll look you right in the face and tell
you lies—and then pretends to be a saint! (_Enter_ SHIRYÀLOV.) Ah!
Paramòn Ferapòntych, glad to see you; how do you do?
_Shiryàlov._ How do you do, neighbours? (_Bows._) Antìp Antìpych! Good
evening, friend. (_They kiss._) Little mother, Stepanìda Trofimovna,
good evening. (_They kiss._)
_Antìp._ Sit down, Paramòn Ferapòntych.
_Stepanìda._ Sit down, little father.
_Shiryàlov (sits down)._ Well, little mother, and how are you getting
on?
_Stepanìda._ Badly enough, little father; I’m getting old. And how goes
the world with you?
_Shiryàlov._ Ah! little mother! last week I was taken bad all on a
sudden. Good Lord I how sharply it did catch me; I was downright
frightened, I can tell you. First of all, ma’am, I got a pain in my
bones; I assure you, every little bone and joint ached of itself; just
ached as if it would all go to pieces, ma’am. The Lord sends us these
trials, little mother, as a chastisement for our sins. And then, ma’am,
it went into the middle of my back.
_Stepanìda._ You and I are getting old, little father.
_Shiryàlov._ I turned this way and that, on one side and the other; no
use, ma’am; it would just leave off a minute, and then catch me again.
It seemed to go right to my heart.
_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear!
_Antìp._ I say, Paramòn Ferapòntych, haven’t you been going it rather
too much with your chums?
_Shiryàlov._ No indeed, sir; I haven’t had a drop of liquor in my mouth;
not for over a month, Stepanìda Trofimovna! That is, I don’t say that
I’ve given it up for altogether; only for a little while. I won’t say
I’ll never touch it again; the flesh is weak, as the Holy Scripture
says.
_Stepanìda._ Very true, little father!
_Shiryàlov._ I’ll tell you what I think, neighbours; I must have caught
cold, somehow; maybe going out in the street without buttoning my coat,
or standing out in the garden in my shirt after dark.
_Stepanìda._ Yes, yes; it’s so easy to go wrong, little father! Let me
give you some tea, Paramòn Ferapòntych.
_Shiryàlov (bows)._ Thank you, ma’am, thank you; I’ve just had tea.
_Stepanìda._ Never mind, little father, have some more.
_Antìp._ With us, for company’s sake.
_Shiryàlov._ Just one cup, then. (STEPANÌDA _pours out tea. He takes his
cup and drinks._) So this is what I did, ma’am. I thought to myself—“All
this doctor’s stuff is just rubbish! it’s nothing but stealing people’s
money.” And I never have taken doctor’s stuff, little mother; it’s a sin
that I’ve never taken on my soul. So I thought to myself—“I’ll go to the
bath; that’s what I’ll do.” Well, I went to the bath, neighbour; and
then I sent out for a bottle of wine, and two or three red peppers,
ma’am; and I had them mixed in properly; then I drank one half and made
the bath-man rub me down with the other half; and when I got home I had
some punch; and at night, ma’am, I came out all in a sweat; and that
threw it off.
_Stepanìda._ Yes, yes, little father! My Antìpoushka always takes punch
if he’s not well.
_Antìp._ That’s good stuff for every sort of illness, friend; you
remember my words. (SHIRYÀLOV _puts down cup._)
_Stepanìda._ Take another cup.
_Shiryàlov (bows)._ Thank you, no more. Very grateful, Stepanìda
Trofimovna.
_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony, little father. (_Pours out tea._) How’s
your business getting on?
_Shiryàlov_ (_takes cup_). Thanks be to God, Stepanìda Trofimovna,
fairly well. I’ve only one trouble: my Sènka’s gone to the bad
altogether. I can’t think what I’m to do about it: it’s a real trial and
affliction.
_Antìp._ Wild oats, I suppose?
_Shiryàlov._ Worse than that, Antìp Antìpych, worse than that! I
wouldn’t mind if he’d take to drinking; he couldn’t throw away so much
on that; but he runs over head and ears into debt. Ah! little mother!
what are young people coming to nowadays?
_Stepanìda._ You’ve no one to blame but yourself, Paramòn Ferapòntych;
you’ve regularly spoiled the boy; you should have broken him in when he
was a child, it’s too late now. He should have gone into town with your
shopmen, and learned to keep his eyes open and bring in money.
_Shiryàlov._ Ah! little mother! you see, he’s my only one. In these days
a young man has to get into society. It was very different when we were
young: we whipped our tops until we were eighteen; and then our elders
took and married us and started us in business. Nowadays, a young man
that’s had no schooling gets called a fool; the world’s grown so wise!
And then you see, neighbour, God has blessed us; we’ve a tidy little
fortune. What would people say if I couldn’t manage to give an only son
learning, with all my capital? I don’t want to be worse than my
neighbours. One’s always hearing that So-and-So’s sent his boy to a
simminry and another’s sent his to the Commercial ’Cademy. So I sent my
Sènka to a simminry, and paid my money down for a year in advance. And
if you’ll believe it, ma’am, before three months was up, he cut an’ run;
so I thought I’d eddicate him at home; and I got a tutor, cheap. But I’d
nothing but ill luck, ma’am; the tutor turned out wild, and Sènka took
to wheedling money out of his mother and going off on the spree with his
tutor, now to the drink-shops, now to the gipsy wenches.... Well, of
course I turned the tutor out o’ doors; and now I’m left to get on with
my Sènka how I can. Dear Lord! dear Lord! how wicked the people are
grown nowadays!
[Illustration:
SHIRYÀLOV: “LAST WINTER HE SPENT THREE HUNDRED ROUBLES ON GLOVES
ALONE—_THREE HUN—DRED_ ROUBLES!”
]
_Antìp._ He seems to have taken after his father!
_Shiryàlov._ And indeed you wouldn’t believe what he costs me: a hundred
here, two hundred there; just lately I paid his tailor a thousand
roubles; it’s dreadful to think of; I don’t wear out a thousand roubles’
worth in ten years. I don’t know how it is; he can’t be content with a
waistcoat that’s just a waistcoat and a coat that’s just a coat. Ah! it
must be a judgment on me for my sins! (_Almost in a whisper._) Last
winter he spent three hundred roubles on gloves alone—_three hun—dred_
roubles!
_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear! dear!
_Antìp._ Wh-whew!
_Shiryàlov._ The worst of it is that they give him credit everywhere;
they know that I can pay. He owes four thousand now in some restaurant
or other. No fortune in the world would stand that sort of thing.
(_Drinks tea; silence._) By the bye, Antìp Antìpych, did I tell you the
joke?
_Antìp._ What joke?
_Shiryàlov._ About the Armenian.
_Antìp._ No; what is it?
_Shiryàlov._ Eh! It’s as good as a play. (_Laughs, moves his chair
nearer, and speaks in a whisper._) Last year, my good sir, this Armenian
came to the town with silk to sell; and he got playing ducks and drakes
with his money, just like my Sènka. People began to talk about him in
the town—you know how ... and I’d got I O U’s of his for fifteen
thousand. It’s a bad business, thinks I. There was no getting rid of
them in the town; everybody smelled a rat. Just about that time our
manufacturer turned up; his factory’s in a town some way off, you know.
I went straight to him, before he’d heard about it; and what do you
think, sir? Got rid of them all in a lump!
_Antìp._ Well, and what was the end of it?
_Shiryàlov._ Just twenty-five kopecks. (_Laughs._)
_Antìp._ No? Really? That’s capital! (_Laughs._)
_Shiryàlov._ But Sènka’s not like that; no, no, sir, not that sort at
all. Verily the Almighty chastises me in my son! He keeps company with
the Lord knows what sort of rag-tag-and-bobtail (_puts down cup_), with
people not fit to speak to....
_Stepanìda._ Another cup?
_Shiryàlov._ No more, little mother, no more.
_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony——
_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, little mother, can’t, indeed. (_Bows._)
_Stepanìda._ As you like; but there’s plenty more.
_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, really. (_Rises and bows._)
_Stepanìda._ Dàrya, clear away the tea. (DÀRYA _enters, clears away tea,
and goes out_). Good-bye, little father.
_Shiryàlov._ Good-bye, little mother. (_They kiss._)
_Stepanìda._ Don’t forget to look in on us.
_Shiryàlov._ Always a pleasure, ma’am; always a pleasure.
_Antìp._ I say, mamma, let’s have some brandy in; and a bite of
something, and a bottle of Madeira, or something of that kind. Let’s
have a drink, neighbour, eh?
_Shiryàlov._ Eh! Antìp Antìpych, that would be too much trouble.
_Antìp._ Not a bit of it; there’s no trouble. (STEPANÌDA _goes out_.)
_Shiryàlov._ Yes, neighbour; he keeps away from home; he never goes near
the shop. What does he care how his father has to get the money? It’s
time I should have a little rest in my old age. But I’ve no one to
depend on. The other day I went and served in the shop myself; I hadn’t
done it for fifteen years. “I’ll just go and show my lazy louts how to
do business,” said I to myself. And would you believe it, sir——(_Draws
his chair nearer. Wine is brought in._)
_Antìp._ Have a drink, neighbour! (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ There was a piece of stuff that was left on hand. Two years
ago the price of it was two roubles forty the _arshin_; but this year
they’d marked it eighty kopecks. Well, sir, as I sat in the shop there
came in two ladies, and asked for some stuff for blouses to wear in the
house. “Certainly, ma’am,” says I. “Mìtya, bring that last new material.
Here’s a fine stuff,” said I. “And what’s the price?” said the lady.
“Two and a half roubles it cost me,” says I; “and profit—what you
please, ma’am.” “I’ll give one rouble eighty,” says she. What do you
think of that, Antìp Antìpych? One rouble eighty. “Oh! no, ma’am,” says
I; “I couldn’t possibly let it go for that.” Well, they haggled a bit,
and said they’d give two roubles. Hear that? Two roubles! (_Laughs._)
“How much do you want?” says I. “Twenty-five arshin” “Can’t do it,
ma’am,” says I; “if you’ll take the whole piece, I don’t mind letting it
go at two roubles.” You see, the thing was that I didn’t dare touch the
stuff. (_Laughs._) I was afraid to lay a finger on it. For anything I
knew, it might be all rotten inside. Well, my ladies talked it over, and
took the whole piece. You should just have seen how the shopmen stared.
(_Laughs._)
_Antìp._ Why, that’s capital! That’s first-rate! Have a drink,
neighbour. (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ But Sènka’s not that sort; oh, no! Sènka’s not that sort at
all. (_Sighs._) My good sir, he goes to the theatre every blessed day.
He knows everybody there; he’s made friends with them all; every sort of
rabble comes dangling after him. What do you think! The other day I
called in at Ostolòpov’s. “Just give me that money,” says he. “What
money?” says I. “For the shawl.” “What shawl?” “Why, that your son
bought.” I thought to myself: “What in the world can he want with a
shawl?” Of course, I knew I shouldn’t get the truth out of _him_, so I
began making inquiries; and would you believe it, sir, he’s got one of
these actress girls!
_Antìp._ Well, I never did!...
_Shiryàlov._ What would you have me do with him? That’s more than I can
stand; I’m ashamed to acknowledge him.
_Antìp._ The fact is, that it’s time to marry him. You must find the boy
a wife.
_Shiryàlov._ Wait a bit, Antìp Antìpych; that’s not the worst of it; the
worst is that there’s no end; it’s just like pouring water into a sieve.
It’s a shawl to-day, it’ll be a sable cloak to-morrow; and for all I
know a furnished house next day; and then a carriage and pair; and then
heaven knows what; its worse than the horseleech!
_Antìp._ Very true.
_Shiryàlov._ And you know, when a man gets entangled with them, he’s
like one blind. That sort of company is just ruin, Antìp Antìpych.
_Antìp._ You’re right there; a man loses his head altogether. There’s
only one thing to do, neighbor—to get him married quick.
_Shiryàlov._ It’s easy to say, “Get him married”; but how am I to do it?
_Antìp._ How are you to do it? Well, of course, I don’t mean that you
should tie him hand and foot. Just hunt up a girl with a nice little
dowry, you know; and I doubt he won’t kick at it. Why should any one
mind marrying? It’s nothing but a pleasure!
_Shiryàlov_, Why, who do you think would have him? No one but a mad
woman would marry such a rake!
_Antìp._ You think the girls care for that? Bless my soul, that’s
nothing! Why man, young bachelors are always like that. Do you remember
what I was like as a bachelor? I used to drink, and sow my wild oats,
and be up to all sorts of larks. My poor father just gave me up for good
and all. You talk about theatres! We didn’t go to theatres, we used to
be off to the dancing saloons, or to the gipsies at Grouzìna; and go on
spree, drinking, for a fortnight at a time. Why, the factory hands at
Preobrazhènskoye nearly murdered me over a wench; all Moscow knew about
it. None the less I got Matryòna Sàvishna. All that’s stuff and
nonsense; that doesn’t matter.
_Shiryàlov._ Ah! it’s all very well to say, “Marry him, and find a girl
with a dowry.” Why, my dear fellow, now that he hasn’t got any money, he
carries on like mad; but if once he were to get money into his hands,
heaven knows what he’d do—he’d play old Harry with everything.
_Antìp._ He’d set the money in circulation. (_Laughs._)
_Shiryàlov._ No, sir; the thing I think of doing is to put a notice in
the newspapers. Like this you know: “I entrust no commissions to my son;
and have no intention of paying his debts in future.” Then I’ll sign it:
“Manufacturer-Counsellor-Merchant-Temporarily-of-the-First-Moscow-Guild,
Paramòn, son of Ferapònt Shiryàlov.”
_Antìp._ Yes; that’s not a bad idea.
_Shiryàlov._ And another thing I think of doing to punish him, is to get
married myself and cut him out.
_Antìp._ Yes, why not? Marriage is a good thing.
_Shiryàlov._ It’s just possible, you know, that the good Lord will hear
my prayers and send me a son and heir to comfort my old age. I’ll leave
everything to him. The other is like a stranger to me; and my heart
turns away from him. Only think of it; if I were to leave the fortune to
him, what would he do? He’d just squander my money, the sweat of my
brow, among his tailors and his actress wenches!
_Antìp._ Well then, marry; there’s no harm in that. Have you got any
girl in particular in your eye?
_Shiryàlov._ No, friend; that’s just my trouble.
_Antìp._ Would you like me to find you one? Let’s have a drink first of
all. (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ Are you in earnest?
_Antìp._ Quite. Why shouldn’t I find you one?
_Shiryàlov_ (_looks keenly at him_). You’re fooling me!
_Antìp._ What should I fool you for? I haven’t got far to look, man;
I’ve got a marriageable sister.
_Shiryàlov._ What did you say? Eh-h-h!
_Antìp._ Didn’t that occur to you? Well, you are a simple minded fellow!
_Shiryàlov._ My dear lad, of course I thought of it. (_Lowers his
eyes._) But I doubt she wouldn’t care to have me.
_Antìp._ What next. Why shouldn’t she? Never fear, she’ll have you.
_Shiryàlov_ (_drops his eyes lower_). She’ll say: “He’s old.”
_Antìp._ Old? What does that matter? There’s no harm in that. Never
fear, she’ll have you. And then, my mother’s fond of you. Why, what more
can the girl want? A good respectable man: why shouldn’t she have
you?—quiet and peaceable in his cups.... By the bye, you are quiet in
drink, aren’t you? You don’t get fighting?
_Shiryàlov._ As quiet as any innocent babe, Antìp Antìpych. Whenever I
get a drop too much, it just sends me off to sleep; I never get rowdy
and wild.
_Antìp._ You didn’t used to come to blows with your first wife, did you?
_Shiryàlov._ Never, so help me, God!
_Antìp._ Very well then, why should she object to a decent fellow? Never
fear, she’ll have you. You can send the matchmaker. There now, let’s
drink health and happiness to you. (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ Antìp Antìpych, you’re my benefactor, my—I’ll tell you
what: we’ve had a little drink here; come to me and we’ll make a regular
jolly night of it. There’s more room in my place, and there are no
women-folk, and we’ll fetch in the factory hands to give us a song.
_Antìp._ All right. You go on and get everything ready, and I’ll come in
a minute; I’ll just get my cap. (SHIRYÀLOV _goes out_.)
_Antìp_ (_alone, winks_). What a beast it is! And such a sly fox! To see
the doleful ways he puts on. It’s all poor Sènka’s fault. It’s very well
for you to talk, my man, you’ve just got a sweet tooth in your old age.
Well, for my part, I don’t care; it’s all one to me. But I know one
thing, Paramòn Ferapòntych; when it comes to the dowry, who’ll get the
best of who—that’s quite another matter. Mamma and I are not quite so
green as you think. (_Goes out._)
(MATRYÒNA _enters, showily dressed_; DÀRYA _follows her_.)
_Matryòna._ Has Antìp Antìpych gone out?
_Dàrya._ Yes, ma’am.
_Matryòna._ Off on the spree! What a nuisance it is. He’ll disappear for
two or three days now!
(MÀRYA _enters, in her best clothes_.)
_Màrya._ Come along, sister! Do you know how I got leave?
_Matryòna._ How?
_Màrya._ Said I wanted to go to vespers! (_They burst out laughing; and
exeunt._)
[Illustration]
“_LA TRAVIATA._”
(AS DESCRIBED BY A SHOPKEEPER).
BY GORBOUNÒV.
[Illustration]
One day I was out for a spree with my man Jack, that serves in the shop,
you know, and we passed a stone theatre. Jack went up and began reading
the advertisement bill that they’d got stuck up, and says he, “I can’t
understand this; ’tisn’t written plain in our talk.” Well, a gent came
by and Jack says: “Please, mister, what’s written here?” So he read it.
“_Frou-Frou_” says he. “And what does that mean?” “Oh,” says he, “that’s
foreign for any real good thing.” “Really now! thank you kindly, sir....
Mister Policeman, you belong in these parts; perhaps you can tell us
what sort of thing a _frou-frou_ is?” “You’d better go to the
ticket-office,” says he; “they’ll tell you all about it there.” So we
went to the ticket-office and asked for two tickets, right up top, as
high as you can go. “For which performance?” “_Frou-Frou._” “This is the
opera here,” says he. “Oh well, it’s all one to us; give us two tickets;
we don’t mind what you show us. Now Jack! Hurry up!” So we went in and
sat down and these I-talian actor-folk were singin’ away as hard as they
could go. First of all, they were sitting at dinner, eating and drinking
and singin’ about how they was havin’ a jolly time and was quite
satisfied. Then Mrs. Patty poured out a glass of claret and gave it to
Mr. Canzelari, an’ says she: “Have a drink, won’t you?” So he drank it
off and said: “My dear, I’m in love with you!” “You don’t mean it?”
“True.” “Then if so,” says she, “you can go off about your business and
I’ll sit and think over my life, because that’s the right and proper
thing for a woman to do when she thinks of takin’ a sweetheart.” So Mrs.
Patty sat and thought over all her life, and then another man came in.
“Look here, ma’am,” says he, “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your
name, but I’ve come to talk to you about my lad; he’s got himself into
hot water, and now he’s hiding in your house. Just you kick him out.”
“Let’s go into the garden, sir,” said she, “it’s nicer talking in the
open air.” So out they went into the garden, and there she says to him,
says she: “I tell you what I’ll do, sir; I’ll write and give him a piece
of my mind, and I’ll give it him so plain that he won’t come hanging
about me any more, because I don’t hold with wildness and bad ways
myself.” So then we went out into a sort of passage place and had some
apples to cool our throats, for it was that hot that I was just stifled.
When we got back again I says to Jack: “Now, mind you look at it and see
all they do.” “I’m a-lookin’,” says he. “What’s going to come of it
all?” “Why,” says he, “the young man’s come back to her—silly fellah—to
make his apologies and tell her it was none of his doin’, an’ his
guv’nor made the whole think up.” So then she up an’ says to him:
“You’ve not done the genteel thing by me; you’ve put me to the blush
before all these people; but all the same,” says she, “I’m over head and
ears in love with you! An’ there’s my photygraph for a keepsake, an’ I’m
very sorry,” says she, “but it’s time for me to die.”... She just went
on singing for another half-hour, and then she gave up the ghost.
_A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS._
BY GORBOUNÒV.
[Illustration]
Most Orthodox Tzar! Thy faithful slave strikes the earth with his brow
before thy glory! In this present year (377) received I the letter which
Thou didst deign to write to me. In that letter is it written: “Go thou,
oh Ivàn, and journey through the towns of the realm of Germany, and look
upon the folk that dwell therein and write of them to me, thy great
master. And thou shalt take with thee much goods and riches. And when
thou journeyest through the towns of the land of Germany, so shalt thou
neither rob nor steal, nor shalt thou drink of strong drink to be
drunken therewith, but thou shalt speak with the men of Germany; softly
and fair shalt thou speak with them, and shalt give answer in soberness
and truth, and in the fear of my displeasure, that I chastise thee not
in my wrath. And if any man that is a chieftain among the men of Germany
shall ask of thee for what need has thy mighty lord sent thee hither,
thou shalt say unto him: ‘For State matters of great moment.’ And gifts
shalt thou not give unto him. And if any man of Germany shall ask of
thee help, so shalt thou give unto him food that he may eat and coins
that he may have wherewithal to drink, even three pennies unto every
one.”
Therefore, oh Most Orthodox Tzar, by Thy command did I go out from the
borders of the land of Muscovy in the month of May, on the seventeenth
day of the month, even the day of the memory of the holy Saint N.N. And
on my right hand I beheld the wide sea, and ships thereon, and by the
sea standeth the town which is called Königsberg. And in the olden days
that town and land were ruled over by the King of Poland, but now all
these men of Poland are become changed into Germans, and are commanded
to live after the fashion of the Germans, but to believe in the Catholic
faith, even as their fathers before them. Yet if any man of them shall
turn to the Lutheran faith, to that man shall be shown much honour. And
the town of Ems is but a little town, and it standeth in the mountains,
and the water therein is alive, and the water hisseth and bubbleth, and
the water floweth from a stony mountain and many trees grow thereon. And
if any man have a sickness in his entrails, or an evil, or any
unsoundness, then the doctors in their wisdom look upon his sickness and
command him that he drink the hissing waters, and that he sit in them
naked. But the men of the land of Muscovy drink not of the water; they
drink much Rhine-wine and are whole and sound. And the wine of the
Rhineland is good, and every day do I drink to Thee, Most Orthodox Tzar.
And in that town is built a great stone hall, and a German sitteth
therein and turneth a foolish toy like a wheel. And the German is small
of stature and fair. And around the German is a mighty multitude of
people from far-off lands, both Jews and Jesuits, and maidens and
matrons and aged women, and an evil folk of thieves and robbers, and
they lay coins of gold and silver before the German, and the German
gathereth up the coins and turneth his wheel, ceasing not. And in the
doorway is the sound of trumpets and the beating of drums and the
playing of instruments, to tempt the people that they fall away from
righteousness.
[Illustration:
“THEY LAY COINS OF GOLD AND SILVER BEFORE THE GERMAN.”
]
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL MASTER.
[Illustration]
BY N. USPÈNSKY.
An elderly gentleman, sitting on the verandah of his house, called to a
workman who was passing with a water-cart—
“Hi! Prokòfyi! Prokòfyi!”
The cart stopped.
“Are you deaf?”
“The wheels makes such a noise, Grigòryi Naòmich; one can’t hear
anything. They wants greasing.”
“Oh, they’re all right. What have you got there? water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From the pond?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” said the master after a moment’s pause, “you can go.”
A soldier came up to the verandah.
“Wish your honour good-day!”
“Who are you?”
“From Verkhogliàdov in the Merkoùlovsky district; perhaps you know
it?—by the river Kostra....”
“What d’ you want?”
“I’m looking for a place, sir, as doorkeeper, or bailiff.”
“What have you been up till now?”
“Well, when I served in the army, I used to be postillion for the
commander; then, in Mouràvki, I was cook for the examining magistrate.
I’m a Jack-of-all trades, your honour—gardener, whipper-in,
cook—anything you like!”
“Can you break stones?”
“Why, no, your honour, I can’t do that kind of work!”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, the army life breaks a chap down so; I was in a line
regiment, not in the guards, and a man never gets over that.”
“Oh, you’re healthy enough, I can see that, and yet you want to do such
little fiddling work! What sort of career is it to be a bailiff or a
whipper-in?”...
“Surely, your honour, it’s better than stone-breaking!”
“I think stone-breaking a very fine occupation.... H’m.... Have you
recommendations from your former employers?”
“No, your honour.”
“I can’t take you without a character, my good man.”
“Yes, sir, you’re quite right, sir.”
“Perhaps you’re some good-for-nothing fellow—a thief or drunkard for all
I know....”
“Just so, your honour.”
“You must bring me a character.”
“Yes, sir; good-morning, sir.”
The soldier went away. Presently the steward came up to his master and
announced—
“If you please, sir, a strange gentleman came while your honour was
asleep; he calls himself a village schoolmaster.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in the office.”
“Let him in.”
There came on to the verandah a sunburnt man of about forty, in a
nankeen coat and high boots. The master of the house offered him a
chair.
“Who are you?”
“Schoolmaster from the Pobiràkhinsky district, from the village of
Bezzùbov. I humbly venture to trouble you with a request; can I not
obtain some kind of situation?”
“I don’t want a schoolmaster,” said the owner of the house.
“I can take other situations. I have heard that you are looking for a
clerk?”
“Why did you leave your situation in Bezzùbov?”
“The school was destroyed by fire.”
“Long ago?”
“On All Soul’s day. The cause is not known—the whole village was burnt
down.”
“Yes, one is constantly hearing of fires nowadays. A village close to us
has been burnt down too.... Allow me to ask, though, how did you become
a teacher?”
“After completing my education I lived in my brother’s house in the
village of Khmyèlnoye. I did not work, but he supported me. Then I took
a situation as tutor in a country gentleman’s house at Ogoùrtzov, at a
salary of two roubles a month. But I did not stop with him long, and
while there I served chiefly as coachman....”
“But why?”
“Because my pupil did not like studying, and his parents let him have
his own way, and employed me temporarily as coachman....”
“That’s strange!”
“I did the work properly! I had no choice....”
“How much did you get for it?”
“Nothing! only board and lodging, and a cast-off dressing-gown that the
gentleman gave me. In that dressing-gown I went back to my brother, and
he said: ‘What are you hanging about here for, doing nothing? can’t you
set to and learn something, if it’s only singing—you might get to be
choir-master in time.’ So I began to study singing, and then my brother
got tired of hearing me. ‘Confound it all!’ he said, ‘I’m sick of this;
go home to father.’ Well, then I went home. Of course my people abused
me:—‘Always hanging about in the way! We’ve had enough of this!’ What
would you have me do, sir, when I couldn’t get a situation anywhere? I
thought one time of going into a monastery; but just then I got a letter
from my brother, telling me to come to him. I went, and he said, ‘The
prince’s steward wants to start a choir. You must engage yourself as
choir-master.’ I asked him how did he suppose I was to do that when I
don’t know how to sing myself? But all he would say was: ‘Don’t be
afraid! you’ll learn in teaching your class.’ So I took the post. They
gave me a tuning-fork——”
“May I ask,” interrupted the gentleman, “whether you were attired in the
dressing-gown?”...
“No, in my mother’s cloak; the dressing-gown was worn out.... It was a
short cloak, ... home-made....”
“Well, and how did you get on?”
“Very well. There was quite a fair choir. My brother sang tenor; Ivàn
Alexèyich (at the present moment a teacher of patrology and
hermeneutics) bass; then there were a few more volunteers. We got
perfect in ‘Kol Slàven,’[25] and two sort of ... a ... choral
part-songs, ‘Vzỳde’ and’ Polozhìl yesi.’ The steward was quite surprised
at us; he was a critic in musical matters; and he wrote a letter to
Moscow, to the prince, about a salary for the choir-master. Meanwhile we
began to practice: ‘Kto Bog?’ and ‘Kheruvìmskaya Razòrennaya’[26]....
All of a sudden the prince wrote back, ‘I don’t want a choir; I am going
away for my health.’...
“So after that I got appointed at the village school at Bezzùbov. The
people there are very poor; many of the peasants used to sleep in their
ovens in winter-time. One day the priest came into a cottage to bless
the household; he looked round, and there was no one there, so he began
to sing the _tropar_.[27] Suddenly the people crawled out from the oven
and came up to kiss the crucifix.... A good many of my pupils went about
begging. For all that, though, a great gentleman from St. Petersburg
passed through our village, and he said the people were not averse to
education—really.”
“Do you mean that ironically?” asked the master of the house.
“Oh dear no!”
“Of course, even a poor man may desire education; just take the case of
Lomonòsov: he was a peasant and became an academician.”
“Exactly so.”
“Well, what else did the great gentleman from St. Petersburg remark?”
“He said that it would be a good thing for our administration to
introduce a uniform for the scholars.”
“A capital idea!” exclaimed the master of the house; “there ought to be
discipline in a school. Without discipline no institution can exist.
H’m.... What subjects were taught in your school?”
“We used the New Testament in the Russian and Slavonic tongues, a
hundred and four selections from the Old and New Testaments, the
‘Elements of Christian Doctrine,’ ‘Examples of Piety,’ and the Breviary,
for the children to learn by heart; the first hour’s division[28] of the
Thirty-third Psalm, and the Book of Six Psalms, with ‘All that has
breath.’”...
“Is that all?”
“No, we had a library, containing the following books:
“Selected Passages from Schreck’s ‘Universal History.’”
“The Programme for Acceptance into the Military Service.”
“Food for the Mind and Heart.”
The Psalter, without red lettering.
The Breviary, with red lettering.
A work of Glinka, entitled, “Hurrah.”
“The Life of St. Prokopius the Natural.”
“Reader for the People.”
“Domestic Conversations.”
“The Clever Reader.”
And a few others.”
“The books are good,” remarked the gentleman; “I’ll order ‘Domestic
Conversation’ and the ‘Clever Reader’ myself. How long did you retain
your post?”
“Eight years. I received no rise in my salary for the whole time. One
day the inspector came, and he asked me, ‘How long have you been
teaching here?’ ‘Eight years,’ said I. ‘Has your salary been raised?’
‘No,’ said I; ‘I receive the minimum salary.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘I don’t
know.’ Then he turned to the chief of the district and said, ‘The
teacher is to receive a rise in his salary.’ The inspector observed,
too, that the school-house garden was neglected, and ordered it to be
put to rights, saying, ‘that it would then have a favourable moral
influence on the minds of the scholars, who would, in time, become
agriculturists.’”
“I agree with him. The bad tendencies must be restrained in these people
from the very tenderest years.”
“The inspector ordered flowers to be planted in the garden——”
“H’m, in my opinion that is superfluous. He should have had birch trees
planted; that would have influenced the pupils more favourably.”
“There were birch trees already——”
“Ah! Birch trees are as valuable as the ‘Clever Reader’ and ‘Domestic
Conversations.’ Are you married?”
[Illustration:
“I SHOULD HAVE LIKED TO MARRY.”
]
“I should have liked to marry, but I was afraid to. The parish clerk of
Ogoùrtzov offered me his sister-in-law in marriage. I knew her—she was a
first-rate girl. I went to see her.”
“Was she clever?”
“A-a! Really, sir, I don’t know whether she was clever or not.”
“But you talked with her?”
“Oh yes, of course! I said, ‘We are acquaintances, Olga Mìtrevna.’”
“Oh yes,” she said, “I am quite aware of that.”
“I have been brought here,” said I, “to ask you in marriage.”
“Indeed!” said she.
“Do you know where I have seen you? At a christening at Ogoùrtzov,” said
I, and she answered—
“Yes, I remember. And you are from Khmièlnoye?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Ah! the scenery is pretty round there.”
“And that was about all her cleverness!... Her father kept on begging me
to marry quickly, because a man can’t live properly without some one to
keep his house. ‘We shall get on much better together,’ she used to
say.... So we stayed up till dawn, singing and dancing.”
“Sacred songs?”
“No, sir, various—sacred and secular.”
“Well, and did your betrothed sing?”
“No; afterwards, when I left her—she sang that romance—you know—
‘’Twas my fault for thus betraying
All too soon my love to thee;
Now thou hast beheld my weakness,
Ah! thou hast forsaken me.’”
“That’s to say, you jilted her?”
“I don’t know—anyway, I hadn’t anything to keep her on.”
“H’m—so you say the school burned down?”
“To the ground.”
“And are all the books and things burnt too?”
“No; they were saved. The fire was in the day-time, and our people had
time to get the books out.”
“That’s good. So I suppose it will soon be built again, and you can go
on being teacher?”
“I don’t wish to take that work.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sick of it! You wouldn’t believe me, I’ve often thought of putting
an end to myself.”
“So you prefer to be a clerk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“H’m’m—I am sorry that I can’t help you; it’s true that I’ve just
dismissed my clerk, but I don’t want another. You see, in these times
one must look after everything oneself. I do all my accounts myself.
Now, I have a vacancy for a bailiff, but you wouldn’t care for that ...
the salary is so small ... three roubles a month.”
“That is very little,” said the teacher.
“There you see! and I don’t want a clerk. Besides, I can’t understand
why you don’t wish to be a teacher.”
“I can’t stand it, indeed I can’t!”
“It’s true that the root of learning is bitter, but, you see, the fruits
are sweet.... No, I would advise you to disseminate instruction among
the people.... At the present time, when education has become a positive
necessity, we ought all of us to assist in the work, to the limit of our
powers. For my part, I am quite willing to do what I can. I will make a
donation of books to your school. Here! Aliòshka! Fetch the hamper that
stands under the ante-room sofa.”
The footman brought in a hamper of books, gnawed all over by rats.
[Illustration:
“THE FORMER TEACHER, IT IS SAID, HAD HANGED HIMSELF.”
]
“Now,” said the gentleman, “here’s a book for you; ‘Nature’s Vengeance,’
a capital book; I’ve forgotten what it’s about. Ah! and here ... ‘The
Oath, taken at the Holy Sepulchre.’... In fact, you can have the whole
lot. When your new school is built, kindly range all these works in your
library with an inscription: ‘Presented by Mr. Yàkov Antònovich
Svinooùkhov,[29] the squire of Prokhòrovka.’ Posterity will remember
me.... I am very glad that fortune brought you here, otherwise my books
would have lain by uselessly, but now they will do good; and not to one
generation only, but to future ages.... Hi! Aliòshka. Tell the man to
harness a horse and conduct these books and the schoolmaster with them
to the village of Bezzùbov.”
* * * * *
Two months later the new school was built. The educational library had
been enriched by the following works, the gift of Mr. Svinooùkhov:—
“The Correspondence of the Nobility of Hell.”
“Hunting with the Hounds.”
“The Russian Theatre.”
“Nature’s Vengeance.”
“The Works of Bulgarin.”
“Political and Moral Fables.”
“_The Moscow Gazette._”
“A New Latin Alphabet.”
“Words to Scholars, Concerning the Attributes of True Wisdom.”
“A Guide to Didactics.”
“A Short Dissertation upon the Rules of True Wisdom.”
&c., &c.
Nothing was wanting, except a teacher. The former teacher, it is said,
had hanged himself.
_THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ONÉSIME CHENAPAN._
“Une triste histoire. Souvenirs d’un voyage dans les steppes du Nord,”
par Onésime Chenapan, ancien agent provocateur, ayant servi sous les
ordres de Monseigneur Maupas, Préfet de Police, 1853. Paris: Librairie
nouvelle, 1 vol.
_From “Opinions of distinguished foreigners concerning
Pompadours,”_—(_Appendix to “Pompadours and Pompadouresses.”_)
BY “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).
I take up my pen to show how one rash step may ruin a man’s whole life,
destroy all the fruits gained at the cost of long-continued humiliation,
and turn to dust all hopes of further advancement in his special
career—nay, it may even rob from a man his dearest earthly right—the
right to be called a faithful son of the holy Roman Church!
All this was brought upon me by a worthless being who called himself a
Pompadour; he did it simply, calmly, without an instant’s hesitation,
leaving me without even the faintest hope of obtaining any recompense
whatsoever for all the losses he caused me!
Oh, young man! Thou who readest these tear-stained pages, consider them
and ponder deeply. And if ever, in the Closerie de Lilas, or any other
such place, thou meetest with a man called a Pompadour, flee from him!
For the name of that man is frivolity and hardness of heart!
* * * * *
In the year 1852, not long after the famous _coup d’état_ of December,
chance brought me together with the Prince de la Klioukwà, a man still
young although a little _tarè_, a man whom I, seeing only his personal
appearance and cheerful manners, should never have guessed to be a high
official. It appeared, however, that such he was.
We met in one of the Parisian _cafés chantans_ which I frequented in the
exercise of my professional duties, as these agreeable places were the
favourite resorts of those mistaken young people who failed to show due
unconditional confidence in the changes of December 2nd. Here also were
to be found many foreigners, acquainting themselves with Paris from the
point of view of the _dolce far niente_.
Our conversation began _à propos_ of the song, “Ah! j’ai un pied qui
r’mue,” which at that time had just come into fashion, and was
charmingly sung by Mdlle. Rivière. It appeared that my neighbour (we
were sitting at the same table, in leisurely enjoyment of our _petits
verres_) was not only a fine connoisseur of _genre_, but himself
performed admirably the principal pieces of the _Cascade_ repertoire. I
cannot explain how it was, but, to my sorrow, I experienced a kind of
blind, unreasoning attraction towards this man, and, after not more than
a quarter of an hour’s conversation, I frankly acknowledged to him that
I was an _agent provocateur_, honoured by the peculiar confidence of
Monseigneur Maupas. To my astonishment, he not only did not start up to
strike me (as mistaken young people almost invariably do), but he even
held out both his hands to me, and, in his turn, informed me that he was
a Russian, occupying in his native land the rank of Pompadour.
[Illustration:
“WE MET IN ONE OF THE PARISIAN _CAFÉS CHANTANS_.”
]
“I will explain to you afterwards,” said he, observing the perplexity
expressed in my face, “what constitute the attributes and jurisdiction
of a Pompadour’s office; at present I will only say that no other
meeting could cause me such pleasure as this meeting with you. I was
just seeking to make the acquaintance of a good, thoroughly reliable
_agent provocateur_. Tell me, is your business a profitable one?”
“Monseigneur,” I replied, “I receive a regular salary of 1,500 francs a
year, and, besides that, as encouragement, extra pay for every
denunciation.”
“Why ... that’s not bad!”
“If I were paid by the line, though only at the rate of the newspaper
penny-a-liners, it would really be not bad; but the thing is,
monseigneur, that I am paid by the job.”
“But, no doubt, at Christmas or Easter there are some little
perquisites?”
“No, monseigneur. All the perquisites go to Monseigneur Maupas, and his
most gracious Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III. The only addition to the
salary I told you of consists in a special sum, reserved for cases of
mutilation and fatal injuries, which are very common occurrences in my
profession. On the 2nd of December I literally presented the appearance
of a mass of flesh streaming with blood, so that in one day I earned
more than a thousand francs!”
“A thousand francs ... _mais c’est très joli_!”
“But I have an aged mother, monseigneur! I have a maiden sister, whom I
do my utmost to settle in life!”
“Oh! _quant à cela_ ... the deuce take them!”
This exclamation was very noteworthy, and should have served as a
warning to me. But it pleased Providence to darken my reason, doubtless
in order that I might drain to the very dregs the chalice of bitterness
which this terrible man was to bring to me.
“Well, and now tell me, has it ever happened to you—in the exercise of
your functions, _s’entend_—to open other people’s letters?” he
continued, after a momentary silence, which followed his exclamation.
“Very often, _excellence_!”
“Understand my idea. Formerly, when letters were fastened down merely
with sealing-wax, when envelopes were not gummed at the edges, it was
quite simple, of course. All that was necessary was to insert a thin
wooden needle, roll the letter upon it and draw it out of the envelope.
But now that the envelope presents an unbroken, impenetrable surface,
what is one to do? I have repeatedly tried the use of saliva, but I
confess that my efforts have never once been crowned with success. The
persons who received the letters have always observed it and made
complaints.”
“And yet nothing is simpler, _excellence_. Here, in such cases, we take
the following course: we approach the letter to boiling water and hold
in the steam that side of the envelope on which are the gummed edges,
until the gum melts. Then we open it, take out the letter, read it, and
replace it in the envelope; and there remain no signs of indiscretion.”
“So simple—and I never knew! Yes, the French are in advance of us in all
respects! Oh, generous nation! How sad that revolutions so often disturb
thee! Et moi, qui, à mes risques et périls, me consumais à dépenser ma
salive! Quelle dérision!”[30]
“But does the opening of other people’s letters appertain to your ...
attributes, monseigneur?”
“Everything connected with internal policy appertains to my duties,
especially the opening of private letters and the exaction of
_nedoimki_.[31]
“Do you know, my new friend, that you have helped me out of a very great
difficulty?”
He pressed my hand warmly, and was so generous as to invite me to supper
with him at the Café Anglais, where we passed the time in the most
agreeable manner till almost morning. Finally, he very amiably proposed
that I should accompany him to his native Steppes, where, according to
him, a highly advantageous career was open to me.
“You will travel with me, and at my expense,” said he; “your salary will
amount to four hundred francs a month; besides that, you will live with
me and receive free board, light, and fuel. Your duties will be as
follows: to teach me all the secrets of your profession and to find out
all that is said about me in the town. And, in order to attain my
purpose more easily, you will frequent society and the clubs, and there
abuse me right and left.”
I was bewildered and delighted. Oh, ma pauvre mère! Oh, ma soeur, dont
la jeunesse se consume dans la vaine attente d’un mari!...[32]
Yet, notwithstanding my agitation, I observed a certain inconsistency in
his proposition, and instantly remarked it to him.
“Permit me to make one respectful comment, monseigneur,” said I. “You
were so kind as to say that I should live in your house, yet at the same
time you desire me to malign you. Although I fully understand that the
latter measure may be one of utility (for ascertaining the direction of
public opinion), still, would it not be better if I were to live, not in
your house, but in a separate lodging—just in the character of a
distinguished foreigner living on his income?”
“That’s of no consequence,” he replied, with a fascinating smile.
“Please do not disturb yourself about that. In our Steppes it is a
customary thing to foul your own nest; when you eat a man’s bread,
you’re supposed to abuse him.”...
I decided.
Parting with thee, oh, my beloved France, I felt that my heart was torn
in pieces!
Oh, ma mère!
Oh, ma pauvre sœur chérie!
But I said to myself, “Oh, ma belle France! If only the Steppes do not
swallow me up, I will scrape together a small capital, and will set up
in Paris a matrimonial and divorce agency. Then shall nothing ever
separate us more, oh, beloved—oh, incomparable native land!”
Looking forward to that longed-for moment, I decided to give up all my
salary to my poor mother. For myself, I intended to live on casual
gains, of which, by the exercise on my part of a certain amount of skill
and inventive capacity, there would certainly be no lack.
On the journey the prince was exceedingly obliging. He always permitted
me to sit at the same table with him, and gave me good food. Several
times he attempted to explain to me in detail in what consist the
“attributes of a Pompadour”; but I must confess that these explanations
produced on me no other effect than complete bewilderment. This
bewilderment was still further increased by the fact that during these
explanations his face wore so ambiguous an expression that I never was
able to make out whether he was speaking seriously or romancing.
“The Pompadourical profession,” said he, “is almost a superfluous one,
but just that very superfluity is what gives to it the _piquante_
significance which it has in our country. It is unnecessary, and yet it
is ... you understand me?”
“Not quite, monseigneur.”
“I will try to express myself more clearly. A Pompadour has no special
business; it would be better to say _no_ business,” he added, correcting
himself. “He produces nothing, manages nothing directly, and decides
nothing. But he has internal policy and time to spare. The former gives
him the right to interfere in the affairs of others; the latter enables
him to vary that right without limit. I hope that now you understand
me?”
“Pardon me, _excellence_, but I am so imperfectly initiated into the
wire-pulling of the policy of the Steppes that there is much which I
cannot comprehend. Thus, for instance, why do you _interfere_ in other
people’s affairs? Surely all those ‘others’ are servants of the same
bureaucratic principle of which you are a representative. For, in so far
as I understand, the constitution of the Steppes——”
“First of all, we have no constitution whatever. Our Steppes are free—as
Steppes should be—or as the hurricane that sweeps across them from end
to end. Who shall control the hurricane? I ask you, What constitution
can attain to it?”
He interrupted me so sternly that I became somewhat embarrassed and felt
it necessary to apologise.
“I expressed myself badly, monseigneur,” said I; “I used the word
‘constitution’ in quite another sense from the one you were pleased to
give to it. According to the opinion of scientific men, any state, when
once _constituted_, by that very fact declares itself to have a
_constitution_. It is a matter admitting of no doubt that there may be
constitutions which are pernicious, and others again which are useful——”
“All that is very fine, but I beg of you not to employ in our
conversations the hateful word ‘constitution’—never! Entendez vous:
jamais! Et maintenant que vous êtes averti, continuons.”
I therefore explained that I could not understand of what use the
interference of one set of bureaucrats in the affairs of another set
could possibly be. I was just going to add: “Possibly you share? In that
case ... I understand. Oh, comme je comprends cela, monseigneur!” But,
not being, as yet, _quite_ intimate with my illustrious friend, I
refrained from that remark. Apparently, however, he guessed my secret
thought, for he grew as red as a boiled lobster, and exclaimed, in an
agitated voice—
“I protest with all my soul! Do you hear—I protest!”
“But, in that case, I really do not understand what is the purpose of
this constant interference.”
“You are stupid, Chenapan!” (Yes, he said that to me, although at that
time he was still very polite to me.) “You don’t understand that the
more interference there is on my part, the more right I attain to the
notice of the higher authorities. If I put down one revolution a year,
that is well; but if I put down two in a year, that is excellent! And
you, who are in the service of the greatest of suppressors of
revolutions—you cannot understand that!”
“I understand—I understand that very well, monseigneur. But I confess I
had supposed that the condition of your country——”
“All countries are in the same condition for a man who desires to
attract to himself the attention of the authorities—_vous m’entendez_!
But that is not all! I have my personal _amour-propre_.... _Sacrebleu!_
I have my internal policy; I have my prerogatives! I wish to introduce
my view—_sapristi!_ I wish that people should act in harmony with my
views, not in contradiction to them. It is my right; if you like to put
it so, it is my caprice. You lay a responsibility on me; you demand of
me this and that ... allow me, too, to have my caprice. I hope that this
does not amount to any monstrous pretentiousness on my part?”
“But the law, monseigneur? How can you reconcile caprices with the law?”
“La loi! Parlez moi de ça! nous en avons quinze volumes, mon cher!”[33]
Here our conversation broke off. Although the administrative theory
expressed in the last exclamation of my interlocutor was quite new to
me, still I acknowledge frankly that the coolness with which he spoke of
the law pleased me. Monseigneur Maupas had often said to me, “In case of
need, _mon cher_, even the law can alter,” but he said it softly, as if
afraid that any one should hear. And now suddenly—this clearness, this
daring, this _élan_—how could one fail to be charmed by them! The
Cossacks are a bold race altogether, and inclined to see enemies where
we, people of an older civilisation, see only protection and surety.
These people are absolutely fresh, and are free from all those
prejudices which burden the life of a Western. They look upon the
so-called “moral duties” with the most easy-going cheerfulness, but, on
the other hand, no one can compare with them in matters of physical
exertion; and as for their activity at table, with the bottle, with
women—there they are undoubtedly the first warriors in the whole world.
I, for instance, have never once seen my amphytrion drunk, although the
quantity of liquor consumed by him before my eyes is, indeed, hardly
credible. Never once did he lay down his arms before the enemy, and all
the effect that wine ever produced on him consisted in a change of
colour and a certain extra animation in romancing.
[Illustration:
“I CANNOT REMEMBER HOW THE CEREMONY WAS PERFORMED.”
]
I am none the less bound to acknowledge that the significance of
Pompadours in Russian society continued to appear to me wanting in
clearness. I could not conceive that there could exist anywhere an
administrative caste, the duties of which should consist in _hindering_
(I consider the word “intervene” too serious for such an occupation),
and which, when reminded of the law, could answer, “’Pristi! nous en
avons quinze volumes!” For the rest, I ascribed my doubts, not to my own
want of comprehension, but rather to the prince’s incapacity to
formulate his thought clearly. It was evident that he himself did not
understand in what his administrative _rôle_ consists; and this is quite
comprehensible if we remember that in Russia up to the present time[34]
the corps of cadets are regarded as the nurseries of the administration.
In these institutions the pupils are put through a detailed course of
study in only one science, which bears the name of “_Zwon popêta
razdawaiss_”[35] (the prince was in an exceedingly merry humour when he
told me this long name, and I am convinced that in no other European
country is there a science with such a name); the other sciences,
without which it is impossible to get on in any human society, are
passed over more than superficially. It is, therefore, not in the least
surprising that persons who have received such an education prove
incapable of expressing their thoughts coherently and consequentially,
but get along how they can with such senseless exclamations as
“Sapristi!” “Ventre de biche!” “Parlez moi de ça!” and so on.
Only when the inhospitable Steppe received us in its stern embrace, that
is to say, when we arrived at our destination, did I even to some extent
realise what my exalted amphytrion meant by his prerogatives.
Until we entered the confines of that tract of country over which the
Prince de la Klioukwà’s Pompadourical sway extended, his conduct was in
some degree moderate. He beat the drivers with a leniency of which I can
only speak with the greatest admiration (as for his behaviour when
abroad, of that I need not speak—it was the very pink of courtesy). But
no sooner did he see the boundary-post which marks the beginning of his
jurisdiction, than he drew his sword from its scabbard, made the sign of
the cross, and, turning to the driver, uttered a cry of gloomy
significance. We flew along like an arrow from the bow, and the
remaining fifteen versts to the posting station were taken at a gallop.
He, however, considered that we were not going fast enough, for every
five minutes he would encourage the driver with violent blows of his
sword.
I was unable to understand the cause of his anger, but I have never seen
any human being so enraged. I confess that I was very much afraid the
axle-tree of our carriage would break, as, if that had happened, we
should inevitably have perished. But to persuade him not to hurry the
driver was impossible, for furious driving along the roads is one of
those prerogatives to which the Pompadours most passionately cling.
“I’ll teach him how to drive—_canaille_!” he repeated, addressing me,
and appearing to enjoy the terror depicted on my countenance.
And indeed we travelled more than two hundred versts in twelve hours,
and yet, notwithstanding this unheard of speed, at the stations he used
to order the drivers to be flogged, remarking to me:
“C’est notre manière de leur donner le pourboire!”[36]
On arriving at the principal town we stopped at a large state building,
in which we were absolutely lost, as in a desert. (The Prince had no
family.) It was early morning, and I was dying for want of sleep; but he
insisted on having the official reception at once, and despatched
couriers in all directions with the news of his arrival. Two hours later
the state-rooms of the house were filled with trembling officials.
Although prerogatives play an important part in our fair France, yet I
could never have conceived of anything like what I saw here.
Among us such words as “scoundrel” (“vaurien,” “polisson”
and—unfortunately—“Chenapan”) constitute the severest reprimand which a
guilty official can possibly deserve from an angry superior. Here, on
the contrary, independently of plenteously-scattered personal insults,
it is customary to add emphatic remarks concerning the genealogy of the
person abused.
The prince was as scarlet as a boiled lobster, and hurried on from one
subordinate to another, pouring out deluges of virulent abuse. He was
especially hard upon a certain lame major, whom he ironically introduced
to me with the remark, “This is my Maupas.” I at first imagined that
this unhappy man must have attempted to usurp the prince’s power during
his absence (which, of course, would have justified his wrath), but it
appeared that nothing of the kind had happened. Up to this day I cannot
explain to myself what was the cause of those grievous scenes which I
witnessed on that memorable morning. The prince explained them to me as
resulting from a desire to defend his prerogatives, but that reason
appeared to me insufficient, as no one, apparently, had infringed those
prerogatives. In a word, the official reception ended in a complete
victory for my exalted amphytrion, who paced about the rooms, bridling
like a spirited horse and proudly rejoicing in his easily-won triumph.
It was only at dinner that I began to feel at ease. It went off rather
pleasantly, for there were present several favourites of the prince,
young men, evidently very well educated. One of them, who had lately
returned from St. Petersburg, very cleverly mimicked Mdlle. Paget,[37]
at her _soirées intimes_, singing, “Un soir à la barrière.” This song,
though far from new, and almost gone from my memory, gave me the
greatest pleasure.
That evening the prince introduced me to the lady of his affections,
whom he had taken away a short time before from one of the local
municipal counsellors.[38] This most charming woman produced on me a
profound impression, which was still further strengthened when I felt
under the table the pressure of her foot against mine. Her husband was
present, and greatly amused us by his jests at the expense of betrayed
husbands, from which category the simple-hearted man did not exclude
himself. Some of these jests, under the mask of _naïveté_, were so
biting that the Pompadour reddened and lost his temper; but his
morganatic friend, apparently, was accustomed to such scenes, for she
looked on as if she had been an unconcerned outsider.
Our merry supper was drawing to a close, when suddenly some one came
running in to announce that a fire had broken out at the end of the
town.
“That is capital!” said the Pompadour to me. “Vous allez me voir à
l’œuvre!”[39]
But I, for my part, was far from glad, for I observed that the prince,
for the first time in our acquaintance, was quite drunk. Whether the
proximity of the object of his affections acted on him as a stimulant,
or whether it was the direct result of the intoxication of power—be that
as it may, he could hardly keep on his feet. It turned out, however,
that even this was to his advantage. As a general rule, no fire ever
occurred without his beating somebody, but on this occasion he slept
through the whole affair, and only woke up when the flames were fully
extinguished.
As we returned home he startled me so distressingly that my heart seemed
to contract as under the influence of some dark presentiment.
“Well, Monsieur Chenapan” (he did not even conceal the insulting double
meaning that he put into my name), “how do you (_tu_) like my place?”
asked he.
However deeply I was wounded by this deliberate jest, and by his
unceremonious “thou,” addressed to a man who was no subordinate of his,
I nevertheless felt it wise to submit.
“I am more than enchanted, monseigneur,” said I.
“H’m!... I should just like to see you not enchanted, you hound!”
As he said that he laughed so strangely that I suddenly understood—I was
not a guest, but a captive!
Oh, ma France bien aimée! Oh, ma mère!
* * * * *
The prince very soon learned from me all the secrets of the craft, but,
as he became more sure and confident in them, I fell lower and lower in
his estimate. The first two months he paid my salary punctually, but the
third month he told me right out that the whole of me was not worth two
sous. When I tried to move him with entreaties, referring to my aged
mother and my maiden sister, whose only treasure on earth is her virtue,
he not only refused to hear the voice of generosity, but even permitted
himself certain ambiguities concerning the virtue of my poor dear
sister.
[Illustration:
“STROLLING ABOUT THE BOULEVARDS.”
]
While waiting till God should soften his heart, I was forced to be
content with receiving my board and lodging. Yet even this much cost me
bitter insults. They took away my former bed and replaced it by a thing
for which in our sweet language there is no name. At table they
constantly mocked and jeered at me, and took to habitually calling me
“rascal.” Unhappily, I was so imprudent as to let out on one occasion
that I had sometimes been beaten in Paris when fulfilling my duties, and
by this needless frankness I, as it were, laid myself open to the most
monstrous and outrageous jests, in which these people (who have no
inventive capacity of their own) indulged at my expense. Moreover, at
every meal they would purposely leave me without some particular dish
(as a general rule, with a refinement of cruelty, they would choose
whichever dish I liked best); and when I complained of hunger they would
unceremoniously send me into the servants’ hall. But what hurt me most
of all was the fact that they insulted in my presence my most gracious
sovereign and emperor, Napoleon III., and in his person my dear,
beautiful France. Thus, for instance, they would ask me was it true that
Napoleon (they purposely pronounced his name _Napoleòschka_—a
contemptuous diminutive) sold geese in London? or was it true that he
and Morny together had kept a house of tolerance in New York? etc....
And all this frivolous jesting at the moment when the terrible Eastern
Question stood before us!...
So it went on until autumn. The cold weather began, but they neither put
double windows into my room nor heated it. I was never of a rebellious
temperament, but at the first cruel grasp of cold, even _my_
self-abnegation broke down. Only then did I become fully convinced that
the hope that God would touch the heart of my exalted amphytrion was a
hope in the last degree illusory and vain. Gathering up my courage, I
decided to brave the inhospitable Steppes and appealed to the prince to
grant me the necessary sum to reach the banks of the Seine.
“I no longer demand the payment of what is due to me, monseigneur,” said
I; “the payment of what I have earned, far away from my beloved country,
while subsisting on the bitter bread of exile....”
“You’re wise not to demand it—Chenapan!” he remarked, coldly.
“I beg for only one favour. Give me a sufficient sum to enable me to
return to my country and embrace my beloved mother.”
“All right; I’ll think it over ... Chenapan!”
Day after day passed—still they did not heat my room, and still he
thought. During that time I reached the last degree of prostration, and
no longer complained to any one, but my eyes shed tears of themselves.
If any dog had been in my position it might have aroused compassion—but
he was silent!
Afterwards I learned that such things are called in the Russian language
“jokes.” But if these are their _jokes_, what must their cruelties be?
At last he sent for me.
“All right,” he said; “I will give you four hundred francs, but only on
condition that you become a convert to the Greek faith.”
I looked into his eyes with amazement, but those eyes expressed nothing,
save an inflexibility that admits of no reply.
I cannot remember how the ceremony was performed.... I am even not quite
certain whether it was a _real_ ceremony, and whether the priest’s part
was not played by the Pompadour’s adjutant disguised.
Justice compels me to add, however, that, after the ceremony was over,
he behaved to me like a _grand seigneur_, that is, he gave me not only
the whole of the sum agreed upon, but also two beautiful, hardly-worn
suits, and ordered that I should be driven free of expense to the
boundary of the next Pompadourdom. My hope did not deceive me. God had
touched his heart at last!
Twelve days later I had reached the banks of the Seine, and, graciously
received back into the service by Monseigneur Maupas, was strolling
about the boulevards, humming merrily—
“Les lois de la France,
Votre Excellence!
Mourir, mourir,
Toujours mourir!”
Oh, ma France!
Oh, ma mère!
[Illustration]
_THE CROCODILE._
AN EXTRAORDINARY EVENT; OR, A PASSAGE IN THE PASSAGE.
(_The true narrative of how a gentleman of a certain age and a certain
appearance was swallowed alive and whole by the crocodile of the
Passage, and of what were the consequences._)
BY FÈDOR DOSTOYÈVSKY.
“Ohè Lambert! Où est Lambert? As tu vu Lambert?”
On the 13th of this present month of January, 1865, at half-past twelve
in the day, Elyòna Ivànovna, the spouse of my learned friend, fellow in
office, and distant connection, Ivan Matvyèich, desired to visit the
crocodile which is now to be seen for a certain price in the
Passage.[40] Ivan Matvyèich, having already in his pocket his ticket for
a foreign tour (it was more for interest than for his health that he was
going abroad), and therefore considering himself as off duty, and
perfectly free for the whole morning, not only did not oppose his wife’s
uncontrollable desire, but even became fired with curiosity himself. “A
splendid idea,” he said contentedly; “we’ll go and see the crocodile.
Before starting for Europe it is well to make oneself acquainted with
its native population;” and with these words he took his wife upon his
arm and instantly started off with her for the Passage. I, as usual,
went along with them, in my character of family friend. I had never seen
Ivan Matvyèich in a more cheerful mood than on that memorable morning.
How true it is that we know not our fate beforehand! The moment we
entered the Passage he went into raptures over the magnificence of the
building, and when we reached the shop in which the newly arrived
monster was on view, he even wished to pay the crocodile keeper the
twenty-five kopecks for my entrance out of his own pocket—a thing which
had never happened with him before. On entering we found ourselves in a
small room, in which, besides the crocodile, were several cockatoos and
a collection of monkeys in a separate cage in the background. To the
left hand of the door, by the wall, stood a large tin tank, something
like a bath, covered with a strong iron-wire netting, and at the bottom
of it were two or three inches of water. In this shallow puddle lay an
enormous crocodile, as still as a log, perfectly motionless, and
appearing to have lost all his powers in our damp and, for foreigners,
inhospitable climate. At first sight the monster aroused no particular
interest in any of us.
“So that’s the crocodile!” said Elyòna Ivànovna regretfully, in a
sing-song voice. “I thought he would be ... quite different somehow.”
She probably expected him to be made of diamonds. The German exhibitor,
at once keeper and owner of the crocodile, who had come into the room,
looked at us with an air of the greatest pride.
“He’s right,” whispered Ivan Matvyèich to me; “for he knows that no one
else in all Russia is exhibiting a crocodile.”
I attributed this utterly senseless remark to the particularly pleasant
humour that Ivan Matvyèich was in, as on the whole he was a very envious
man.
“I think your crocodile is dead,” said Elyòna Ivànovna, piqued by the
ungraciousness of the German, and turning to him with a fascinating
smile, intended to “vanquish this boor”—a peculiarly feminine manœuvre.
“Oh, no, madame,” answered the German in his broken Russian, and,
half-lifting the network of the tank, he began to tap the crocodile on
the head with a cane.
At this the perfidious monster, to show that it was alive, slightly
moved its paws and tail, raised its head and uttered a sound resembling
a prolonged snuffle.
“There, don’t be cross, Karlchen,” caressingly said the German, whose
vanity was flattered.
“What a horrid brute! I am quite afraid of him,” lisped Elyòna Ivànovna
still more coquettishly. “I shall dream of him now at night!”
“But he not vill bite you at ze night, madame,” gallantly rejoined the
German, and burst out laughing at his own joke, though none of us
answered him.
“Come, Semyòn Semyònich,” continued Elyòna Ivànovna, addressing herself
only to me, “let’s go and look at the monkeys. I am awfully fond of
monkeys; some of them are such little loves—but the crocodile is
horrible.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, my dear,” Ivan Matvyèich called after us, showing
off his bravery before his wife. “This sleepy denizen of the realm of
the Pharaohs will do us no harm;” and he remained beside the tank. He
even took off one glove and began to tickle the crocodile’s nose with
it, in the hope, as he afterwards confessed, of making it snore again.
The keeper, out of politeness to a lady, followed Elyòna Ivànovna to the
monkeys’ cage.
Thus all was well, and there was no sign of coming misfortune. Elyòna
Ivànovna was so much fascinated with the monkeys that she appeared
completely absorbed in them. She uttered screams of delight, talked
incessantly to me, as if wishing to ignore the keeper altogether, and
went into fits of laughing over resemblances which she found in the
monkeys to her most intimate friends and acquaintances. I, too, was
greatly amused, for there could be no doubt as to the likeness. The
German did not know whether to laugh or not, and therefore ended by
scowling. At this moment an appalling—I may even say supernatural—shriek
suddenly shook the room. Not knowing what to think, I stood for a moment
rooted to the spot; then, hearing Elyòna Ivànovna shrieking too, I
turned hastily round—and what did I see! I saw—oh, heavens!—I saw the
unhappy Ivan Matvyèich in the fearful jaws of the crocodile, seized
across the middle, lifted horizontally in the air, and kicking
despairingly. Then, one moment, and he was gone. But I will describe all
in detail, for I was standing motionless the whole time, and observed
the entire process with an attention and curiosity such as I do not
remember experiencing on any other occasion. For, thought I in that
fatal moment, “what if this had happened to me, instead of to Ivan
Matvyèich; how very unpleasant it would be for me!” But to the point.
The crocodile began by turning poor Ivan Matvyèich round in its horrible
jaws feet fore most, swallowed first of all his legs; then let Ivan
Matvyèich, who all this while was clutching at the tank and trying to
jump out, protrude again a little, and sucked him back into its throat
to the waist. Again it let him protrude, and gulped him down once more.
In this manner Ivan Matvyèich was visibly disappearing before our eyes.
At last, with a final gulp, the crocodile drew into itself the whole of
my learned friend, leaving nothing behind. On the surface of the
crocodile one could see how Ivan Matvyèich, in his uniform, completely
passed down its inside. I was just going to cry out again, when suddenly
cruel fate played another jest upon us. The crocodile swelled itself out
(probably half stifled by the enormous size of the mouthful), once more
opened its fearful jaws, and for the last time the head of Ivan
Matvyèich, with a despairing expression on the face, was suddenly
protruded from them. At that instant the spectacles dropped off his nose
into the bottom of the tank. It seemed as if this despairing head
appeared only in order to cast one last glance upon everything, and take
a mute farewell of all the pleasures of this world. But it had no time
to carry out its intention; the crocodile once more gathered up its
powers, gulped, and in a moment the head vanished, and this time for
ever. This appearance and disappearance of a living human head was so
dreadful, but at the same time, whether from the rapidity and
unexpectedness of the event, or whether from the dropping of the
spectacles from the nose, so funny, that I suddenly burst into a quite
unexpected fit of laughter; but realising that for me, in my quality of
family friend, to laugh at such a moment was improper, I instantly
turned to Elyòna Ivànovna, and said to her with a look of sympathy—
“It’s all up now with Ivan Matvyèich!”
I cannot even attempt to describe the agitation of Elyòna Ivànovna
during the whole process. After her first cry she stood for some time as
petrified, and stared at the scene before her, as if indifferently,
though her eyes were starting out of her head; then she suddenly burst
into a piercing shriek. I caught her by the hands. At this moment the
keeper, who until now had also stood petrified with horror, clasped his
hands and raising his eyes to heaven, cried aloud—
“Oh, my crocodile! oh, mein allerliebster Karlchen! Mutter! Mutter!
Mutter!”
At this cry the back door opened, and “Mutter,” a red-cheeked, untidy,
elderly woman in a cap, rushed with a yell towards her son.
There began an awful row. Elyòna Ivànovna, beside herself, reiterated
one single phrase: “Cut it! Cut it!” and rushed from the keeper to the
“Mutter” and back to the keeper, imploring them (evidently in a fit of
frenzy) to “cut” something or some one for some reason. Neither the
keeper nor “Mutter” took any notice of either of us; they were hanging
over the tank and shrieking like stuck pigs.
“He is gone dead; he vill sogleich burst, because he von ganz Tchinovnik
eat up haf!” cried the keeper.
“Unser Karlchen, unser allerliebster Karlchen wird sterben!” wailed the
mother.
“Ve are orphans, vitout bread!” moaned the keeper.
“Cut it! Cut it! Cut it open!” screamed Elyòna Ivànovna, hanging on to
the German’s coat.
“He did teaze ze crocodile; vy your man teaze ze crocodile?” yelled the
German, wriggling away; “you vill pay me if Karlchen wird bersten; dass
war mein Sohn, dass war mein einziger Sohn!”
“Cut it!” shrieked Elyòna Ivànovna.
“How! You will dat my crocodile shall be die?” “No, your man shall be
die first, and denn my crocodile. Mein Vater show von crocodile, mein
Grossvater show von crocodile, mein Sohn shall show von crocodile, and I
shall show von crocodile. All ve shall show crocodile. I am ganz Europa
famous, and you are not ganz Europa famous, and do be me Straf pay
shall!”
“Ja, ja!” agreed the woman, savagely; “ve you not let out; Straf ven
Karlchen vill berst.”
“For that matter,” I put in calmly, in the hope of getting Elyòna
Ivànovna home without further ado, “there’s no use in cutting it open,
for in all probability our dear Ivan Matvyèich is now soaring in the
empyrean....”
“My dear,” remarked at this moment the voice of Ivan Matvyèich, with
startling suddenness, “my advice, my dear, is to act through the bureau
of police, for the German will not comprehend truth without the
assistance of the police.”
These words, uttered with firmness and gravity, and expressing
astonishing presence of mind, at first so much amazed us that we could
not believe our ears. Of course, however, we instantly ran to the
crocodile’s tank and listened to the speech of the unfortunate captive
with a mixture of reverence and distrust. His voice sounded muffled,
thin, and even squeaky, as though coming from a long distance.
“Ivan Matvyèich, my dearest, and are you then alive?” lisped Elyòna
Ivànovna.
“Alive and well,” answered Ivan Matvyèich; “and, thanks to the Almighty,
swallowed whole without injury. I am only disturbed by doubt as to how
the superior authorities will regard this episode; for, after having
taken a ticket to go abroad, to go into a crocodile instead is hardly
sensible.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t worry about sense now; first of all we must somehow
or other dig you out,” interrupted Elyòna Ivànovna.
“Tig!” cried the German. “I not vill let you to tig ze crocodile! Now
shall bery mush _publikum_ be come, and I shall fifety kopeck take, and
Karlchen shall leave off to berst.”
“Gott sei Dank!” added the mother.
“They are right,” calmly remarked Ivan Matvyèich; “the economic
principle before everything.”
“Dear friend!” I exclaimed; “I will fly at once to the authorities and
complain, for I feel convinced that we can’t settle this hash by
ourselves.”
“I also am of that opinion,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “but without an
economic remuneration it is hard, in our age of financial crisis, to rip
open the belly of a crocodile, and, nevertheless, we are confronted with
the inevitable question: What will the owner take for his crocodile?
With this there is also another question: Who is to pay? For you know I
have not the means.”
“Couldn’t you get your salary in advance?”... I began, timidly; but the
German instantly interrupted—
“I not sell ze crocodile. I tree tausend sell ze crocodile, I four
tausend sell ze crocodile! Now shall mush publikum come. I fife tausend
sell ze crocodile!”
In a word, he carried it with a high hand; avarice and greed shone
triumphantly in his eyes.
“I will go!” I cried, indignantly.
“And I! And I, too! I will go to Andrey Osìpych himself—I will move him
with my tears!” wailed Elyòna Ivànovna.
“Don’t do that, my dear,” hastily interrupted Ivan Matvyèich, who had
long been jealous of Andrey Osìpych’s admiration of his wife, and knew
that she was glad of a chance to weep before a man of refinement, as
tears became her very well. “And you, my friend,” he continued,
addressing me, “you had better go to Timofèy Semyònych. And now take
away Elyòna Ivànovna.... Be calm, my love,” he added to her. “I am tired
with all this noise and feminine quarrelling, and wish to take a little
nap. It is warm and soft here, though I have not yet had time to look
about me in this unexpected refuge.”
“Look about you! Is there any light there?” cried Elyòna Ivànovna in
delight.
“I am surrounded by impenetrable darkness,” answered the poor captive;
“but I can feel, and, so to say, look about me with my hands. Good-bye!
Be calm, and do not deny yourself recreation. You, Semyòn Semyònich,
come back to me this evening, and, as you are absent-minded and may
forget, tie a knot in your handkerchief.”
The respectable Timofèy Semyònych received me in a hurried and, as it
were, somewhat embarrassed manner. He took me into his little study and
carefully shut the door: “So that the children shan’t disturb us,” as he
explained with evident anxiety. He then placed me in a seat by the
writing-table, sat down in an armchair, gathered up the tails of his old
wadded dressing-gown, and put on an official, even severe expression,
although he was not in authority over either Ivan Matvyèich or myself,
but simply an acquaintance and fellow-official.
“First of all,” he began, “remember that I am not an authority; I am a
mere subordinate, like yourself or Ivan Matvyèich. I am an outsider, and
do not intend to mix myself up with anything.”
He evidently knew all, much to my astonishment. However, I told him the
whole story over again, with all details. I spoke with emotion, for at
that moment I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend. He listened
without any great surprise, but with evident suspiciousness.
“Just imagine,” he said, when I had done; “I always expected that this
very thing would happen to him.”
“But why, Timofèy Semyònych—the case is a most exceptional one?”
“Certainly. But during the whole term of his service Ivan Matvyèich has
been leading up to this result. He’s too nimble—yes, and too conceited.
Always ‘progress’ and new-fangled ideas—and that’s where progress ends.”
“Well, but this is an altogether extraordinary occurrence; one can’t put
it forward as a general rule for all progressists.”
“Yes, but that’s just how it is. You see, all this comes of too much
learning—it does, believe me, sir. People that have too much learning
always will poke their noses everywhere, and particularly where they’re
not wanted. However, of course you know best,” he added, in a
half-offended tone; “I’m an old man, and not so well educated as you; I
entered the service from a school for soldiers’ children, and my
fifty-years’ jubilee was this year.”
“Oh no, indeed, Timofèy Semyònych, how can you! On the contrary, Ivan
Matvyèich longs for your advice, for your guidance. Even, so to say,
with tears.”
“‘Even, so to say, with tears.’ H’m, indeed! Well, those are crocodile
tears, and mustn’t be too much believed in. Now, just tell me, what put
it into his head to go abroad? And on what money? He has nothing, has
he?”
“Only savings, Timofèy Semyònych,” I answered, sadly, “from the last
perquisites. He only wanted to travel for three months—to Switzerland—to
the fatherland of William Tell.”
“William Tell. H’m!”
“And to Naples, to see the spring there. He wished to see the museums,
the life, the animals.”
“H’m, animals? In my opinion all that is nothing but pride. What
animals? Animals? Haven’t we animals enough at home? We have zoological
gardens, museums, camels. There are wild bears quite near to Petersburg.
And now, you see, he went and tumbled into a crocodile.”
“Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake—a man in trouble—a man comes as to
his friend, as to an elder relative, imploring advice, and you—reproach
him. Have pity, at least, upon the unhappy Elyòna Ivànovna!”
“You are speaking of his wife? A charming lady!” remarked Timofèy
Semyònych, evidently softening, and taking a pinch of snuff with much
gusto. “A person of subtle refinement. So nice and plump, and the head
just on one side—just a _leetle_ on one side. Very agreeable—yes. Andrey
Osìpych mentioned her again the day before yesterday.”
“Mentioned her?”
“Mentioned her, and in the most flattering terms. ‘Such a bust,’ he
said, ‘such a glance, such hair! A sugar-plum,’ he said, ‘not a lady!’
and he began to laugh. They are both young people still.” (Here Timofèy
Semyònych blew his nose loudly.) “And yet, you see, a young man, and
what a career he’s made for himself!”
“Yes; but this is quite another case, Timofèy Semyònych.”
“Oh, of course, of course!”
“Well then, Timofèy Semyònych, how is it to be?”
“Why, what can I do?”
“Advise us, guide us, as a man of experience—as a parent! What shall we
do? Go to the authorities, or——”
“To the authorities? On no account!” hastily exclaimed Timofèy
Semyònych. “If you want my advice, I say the first thing is to hush up
the matter, and act in the character of a private person. It is a
suspicious case, an unheard of case. The worst is that it’s unheard
of—there’s no precedent—indeed, it looks very bad. So that the first of
all things is caution. Let him stop where he is a bit. He must have
patience, patience!”
“But how can he stop there, Timofèy Semyònych? Supposing he chokes to
death?”
“Why should he? Didn’t you tell me that he had made rather a comfortable
arrangement for himself there?”
I repeated all over again. Timofèy Semyònych meditated.
“H’m!” he pronounced, holding his snuff-box in his hands; “in my opinion
it will be even a very good thing for him to stop there a bit, instead
of going abroad. He can think at his leisure; of course it wouldn’t do
to choke, and he must take measures for the preservation of his
health.... I mean—he must take care not to get a cough or anything....
And as for the German, my personal opinion is that he is right—more so
than the other side, indeed; because, you see, Ivan Matvyèich got into
_his_ crocodile without leave, and not _he_ into Ivan Matvyèich’s
crocodile; indeed, so far as I remember, Ivan Matvyèich had no crocodile
of his own. Very well, then, a crocodile constitutes private property,
therefore without remuneration it cannot be cut open, as I take it.”
“To save a human life, Timofèy Semyònych.”
“Oh well, that’s the business of the police. You should apply to them.”
“But then, again, Ivan Matvyèich may be needed. He may be sent for——”
“Ivan Matvyèich needed? Ha, ha, ha! Besides, he is supposed to be on
furlough, therefore we can ignore the whole matter and suppose him to be
looking at European lands. It will be another case if he doesn’t turn up
at the end of his furlough; then, of course, we must make inquiries.”
“Three months! Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake!”
“It’s his own fault. Who asked him to poke his nose in there? I suppose
the next thing will be there’ll have to be a nursemaid hired for him at
Government expense, and that’s not stated in the regulations. But the
main point is that the crocodile is property, therefore what is called
the economic principle comes into play. And the economic principle is
before everything. Now, the day before yesterday, at Loukà Andrèich’s
evening, Ignàtyi Prokòfich was talking about that. He’s a capitalist, a
business man, and he put it all so plainly, you know: ‘What we want,’ he
said, ‘is industry; we have too little industry. It must be created. We
must create capital; that is, we must create a middle-class, we must
create what is called a bourgeoisie. And as we have no capital, we must
import it from abroad. In the first place, we must give full liberty to
foreign companies to buy up our land in lots, as is the accepted custom
now abroad. Communal property,’ said he, ‘is poison—it is ruin!’ And you
know he talked so hotly—of course, such men as he have a right to—men of
capital; ... and then, he doesn’t serve. ‘With communal property,’ said
he, ‘neither industry nor agriculture will improve. What we need,’ said
he, ‘is that the foreign companies should buy up as much as possible of
our land in lots, and then divide, divide, divide it up into as many
little pieces as they can’—and you should have heard how positively he
said it: ‘di-v-vide,’ said he—‘and then sell it for private property.
That is—not exactly sell it, but let it. Then,’ said he, ‘when all the
land will be in the hands of the foreign companies that will have been
invited over, then, of course, the rent can be put up to any figure you
like. The result of that will be that the peasant will work three times
as much as now, for bare bread, and we shall be able to do anything we
like with him. Undoubtedly he will feel, he will be humble and
submissive, and will do three times the work for the same price. But
now, with common property, what can you do with him? He knows he won’t
starve, and so he gets lazy, and drinks. And then, besides all that,
money will come in, and capital will be created, and a bourgeoisie will
grow up. Now, the English political paper, the _Times_, speaking of our
finances, expressed the opinion that the reason our finances do not grow
is, that we have no middle-class, no long purses, no submissive
proletariat....’ Ah! Ignàtyi Prokòfich speaks well; he’s an orator. He
is going to send in a report to the authorities, and then have it
printed in the _News_. That’s a very different thing from Ivan Matvyèich
and his verses....”
“And what about Ivan Matvyèich?” I asked, when I had let the old man
talk to his heart’s content. Timofèy Semyònych liked to talk this way
sometimes, to show that he knew everything and was not behind the age.
“Ivan Matvyèich? Well, that is just what I was leading up to. As you
see, we are making efforts to attract foreign capital into the country,
and now judge for yourself: the capital of the crocodile-keeper (a
foreigner attracted here) has barely had time to become doubled by means
of Ivan Matvyèich, and we, instead of protecting the foreign possessor
of property, are aiming, on the contrary, to rip open the belly of the
fundamental capital itself! Now, really, is that consistent? In my
opinion, Ivan Matvyèich, as a true son of the Fatherland, should even be
glad and proud that, by the addition of himself, he has doubled, and
maybe trebled, the value of the foreign crocodile. That, sir, is an
essential feature in the attracting of capital. If one succeeds, perhaps
another will come with a crocodile, and a third will bring two or three
at once, and capital will collect round them. And so you get your
bourgeoisie. People must be encouraged, my good sir.”
“But, Timofèy Semyònych,” I exclaimed, “you demand almost supernatural
self-abnegation of poor Ivan Matvyèich!”
“And who told him to get into the crocodile? A respectable man, a man
holding a certain position, living in lawful wedlock, and suddenly—such
a step? Now, _is_ that consistent?”
“But the step was taken unintentionally.”
“How should I know that? And then, how is the crocodile-keeper to be
paid, eh? No, no, he had better stop where he is; he has nowhere to
hurry to.”
A happy thought flashed into my mind.
“Can’t we manage it this way,” said I. “If he is fated to stay in the
entrails of the monster, and if, by the will of Providence, he remains
alive, can’t he send in a petition that he shall be regarded as serving
during his sojourn there?”
“H’m; you mean, as on furlough, without salary?”
“No, I mean with his salary.”
“On what ground?”
“As being on an expedition, on Government service——”
“What expedition? Where to?”
“Why, into the entrails—the crocodile’s entrails.... So to say, to
collect information, to study facts on the spot. Of course it is a new
idea, but then it is progressive, and at the same time it shows care for
education.”
Timofèy Semyònych meditated.
“To despatch an official,” he remarked, at last, “into a crocodile’s
entrails on a special commission, is, according to my personal opinion,
absurd. It is not in accordance with the regulations. And then, what
commission can there be to fulfil there?”
“Well, you know, natural philosophy—I mean the study of Nature on the
spot, in the living organism. Natural science is all the rage now, and
botany and all that.... He could live there and give information....
Well, for instance, about the digestion ... or even the general habits.
For the obtaining of facts.”
“That is to say, in the department of statistics. Well, I’m not strong
on that point, and then I’m not a philosopher. You say—facts; as it is,
we’re crowded out with facts, and don’t know what to do with them all.
And then these statistics are dangerous things.”
“How so?”
“Very dangerous. And, moreover, you must admit that he will have to
communicate his facts while lying down at his ease. How can a man be on
Government service while he’s lying down? That, again, is an innovation,
and a dangerous one; and for that, too, there is no precedent. Now, if
there were even _any_ sort of precedent, then, in my opinion, it might
be possible to arrange a commission.”
“But up till now live crocodiles have not been brought here, Timofèy
Semyònych.”
“H’m, yes.”... He meditated again. “There is some truth in your
argument, and it might even serve as a basis for the further development
of the case. But again, on the other hand, if with the introduction of
live crocodiles Government servants begin to disappear, and then, in
consideration of the fact that it is soft and warm inside there, begin
to demand commissions to live there, and then spend their time lying
down, you must acknowledge it’ll be a bad example. You see, if it were
so, every one would be wanting to get paid for nothing. Well, good-bye;
I must go to Nikìfor Nikìforych; are you coming?”
“No, I must go back to the captive.”
“Ah, yes, to the captive. Oh-h-h! That’s what frivolity leads to!”
* * * * *
When I reached the Passage it was about nine o’clock, and I had to enter
the crocodile-room by the back door; for the German had shut up his
place earlier than usual. He was walking about at his ease in a greasy
old coat, and was evidently three times more self-satisfied even than in
the morning. It was plain that he was troubled with no fears, and that
“bery mush publikum” had come. “Mutter” came out, too, evidently for the
purpose of keeping a watch upon me. She and her son often whispered
together. Although the premises were shut up, the German took
twenty-five kopecks as entrance-fee from me. That seems to me an excess
of accuracy!
“You vill pay ebery time; ze publikum vill pay von rouble, and you vill
pay twenti-fife kopeck, vy for you are von goot friend ob your goot
friend, and I honour ze friend.”
“Is he alive? Is my learned friend alive?” I cried, loudly, approaching
the crocodile.
“Alive and well,” he answered, as if from the far distance; “but of that
afterwards. What news?”
Pretending not to hear the question, I began hastily and with sympathy
to put questions in my turn. I asked him how he was, how he got on in
the crocodile, and what the inside of a crocodile is like. But he
interrupted me irritably.
“What news?” he shouted, in his squeaky voice, which sounded now
peculiarly unpleasant.
I related to him all my conversation with Timofèy Semyònych, to the
minutest detail. In relating it, I tried to express that I was somewhat
hurt.
“The old man is right,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “I like practical people,
and can’t bear sentimental milksops. Sit down anywhere—on the floor if
you like—and listen to me:
“Now, for the first time, I have leisure to think out how to improve the
lot of all humanity. Out of the crocodile shall come forth light and
truth. I shall now invent a new theory, all my own, of new economic
relations—a theory of which I can be proud. Up till now my time has been
occupied with the service and with the frivolous amusements of the
world. Now I shall overthrow everything and become a new Fourier. But to
the point. Where is my wife?”
I told him how I had left Elyòna Ivànovna; but he did not even hear me
out.
“I build great hopes upon her,” he said. “From next week she must begin
to throw open her drawing-room every evening. I feel sure that the
keeper will sometimes bring me, together with the crocodile, into my
wife’s brilliant salon. I will stand, in my tank, in the splendid
reception-room and shower around me witty sayings, which I will think
out beforehand, in the mornings. I will confide my projects to
statesmen, with poets I will speak of verse, with the ladies I will be
amusing and fascinating (though strictly moral), and I shall have the
advantage of being quite innocuous for their husbands. To the rest of
society I will serve as an example of submission to fate and to the will
of Providence.”
I confess that, though all this was something in Ivan Matvyèich’s usual
style, it came into my head that he was feverish and light-headed. This
was the ordinary, every day Ivan Matvyèich twenty times magnified.
“My friend,” I asked him, “do you hope for a long life? Tell me about
yourself: are you well? How do you eat, sleep and breathe? I am your
friend, and indeed you must acknowledge that the case is altogether
supernatural, therefore my curiosity is altogether natural.”
“Idle curiosity and nothing more,” he answered, sententiously; “but you
shall be satisfied. You ask: How am I domiciled in the entrails of the
monster? In the first place, the crocodile, to my great surprise, turns
out to be completely hollow. Its interior consists of what appears to be
an enormous empty sack, made of gutta-percha. If it were not so, think
yourself, how could I find room in it?”
“Is it possible?” I exclaimed in utter stupefaction. “Can the crocodile
really be quite empty?”
“Quite,” severely and dogmatically affirmed Ivan Matvyèich. “In all
probability it is so constructed in accordance with the laws of Nature
herself. The crocodile has only jaws, furnished with sharp teeth, and,
in addition to the jaws, a rather long tail; and in reality that is all.
In the middle, between these two extremities, is an empty space,
enclosed in something which resembles indiarubber, and which, in all
probability, is indiarubber.”
“But the ribs, the stomach, the intestines, the liver, the heart?” I
interrupted almost crossly.
“There is nothing, absolutely no-th-thing of the kind, and probably
there never was anything of the kind. All those things are the idle
fancies of frivolous travellers. Just as you swell out an air-cushion
with air, so I now swell out the crocodile with my person. It is elastic
to an incredible degree. For that matter, this hollow formation of the
crocodile is fully in accordance with natural science. For supposing,
for instance, you were commissioned to construct a new crocodile, the
question would naturally present itself to you: What is the fundamental
characteristic of the crocodile? The answer is plain: To swallow people.
How should this aim—the swallowing of people—be attained in the
construction of the crocodile? The answer is still plainer: Make him
hollow. The science of physics has long proved that Nature abhors a
vacuum. According to this law, the interior of the crocodile must
necessarily be empty, in order that the crocodile may abhor a vacuum and
may therefore swallow everything that comes to hand, so as to fill
itself up. And this is the only reasonable cause that all crocodiles eat
men. Now, the construction of man is different: for instance, the
emptier is a human head, the less desire it feels to fill itself up; and
this is the only exception to the general rule. All this has now become
to me as clear as day; all this I have comprehended out of my own
intellect and experience, being, as it were, in the entrails of Nature,
in Nature’s retort, listening to the beating of her pulse. Even
etymology agrees with my theory, for the very name of the crocodile
implies devouring greed. ‘Crocodile,’ ‘_crocodillo_,’ is an Italian
word—a word contemporary, it may be, with the ancient Egyptian Pharaohs,
and evidently derived from the French root, _croquer_, which means: to
eat, to devour, or in any way to use (any object) for food. All this I
intend to explain in my first lecture to the audience which will
assemble in Elyòna Ivànovna’s salon, when I am carried there in my
tank.”
“My dear friend, don’t you think you had better take a—a cooling
medicine?” I involuntarily exclaimed. “He’s delirious, delirious!” I
repeated to myself in horror.
“Fiddlesticks!” he replied, contemptuously; “moreover, in my present
position that would be not altogether convenient. For that matter, I
knew you would begin to talk about cooling medicines.”
“Ivan Matvyèich,” said I; “it is hard to believe all the wonders you
speak of. And do you mean to tell me that you really, really intend
never to dine any more?”
“What silly things you think about, you frivolous rattlepate! I tell you
of great ideas and you.... Know then, that I am sufficiently nourished
with the great ideas that illumine the night which surrounds me. For the
rest, the good-natured keeper of the monster has talked the matter over
with his kind-hearted mother, and they have decided together that every
morning they will introduce into the jaws of the crocodile a curved
metallic tube, something like a shepherd’s pipe, through which I am to
suck coffee or broth with white bread soaked in it. The tube has already
been ordered from a neighbouring shop, but I consider that this is
superfluous luxury. I hope to live, at the least, a thousand years, if
it be true that crocodiles live so long (by the by, you had better look
that up to-morrow in some book on natural history and let me know, for I
may have made a mistake and confused the crocodile with some other
fossil). One consideration alone somewhat disturbs me. As I am dressed
in cloth and have boots on my feet, the crocodile is, evidently, unable
to digest me; moreover, I am alive and resist the digesting of myself
with all my force of will; for, naturally, I do not wish to turn into
what all food turns into, as that would be too humiliating. But I fear
one thing: in the course of a thousand years the cloth of my coat
(which, unfortunately, is of Russian manufacture) may decay, and I,
remaining without clothes, may then, notwithstanding all my indignation,
begin to be digested; and, although by day I shall not permit—shall not
under any circumstances allow this,—by night, in sleep, when man is
deprived of his free will, I may be overtaken by the most humiliating
doom of a mere potato, pancake, or slice of veal. The thought of this
drives me to frenzy. If only on this ground the Revenue law must be
changed in order to encourage the importation of English cloth, which is
stronger, and therefore will resist nature longer in cases of persons
tumbling into crocodiles. I shall take the earliest opportunity of
communicating this idea to some statesman, and also to the political
critics of our St. Petersburg daily papers. They can cry it up. I hope
that this will not be the only idea they will take from me. I foresee
that every morning a whole assembly of them, armed with editorial
twenty-five kopeck pieces, will crowd around me, to catch my thoughts
upon the telegrams of the day before. In short, the future appears to me
in quite a rose-coloured light.”
“High fever, high fever!” I whispered to myself.
“But, my friend, what about liberty?” I asked, wishing to hear all he
had to say upon that point. “You see, you are, as it were, in a dungeon,
whereas man should enjoy freedom.”
“You are stupid,” he replied. “Savages care for independence, but wise
men love only order, and there is no order——”
“Ivan Matvyèich, have a little pity on me!”
“Silence! Listen!” he screamed out in his rage at being interrupted. “My
spirit has never soared so high as now. In my narrow retreat I have but
one fear: the literary criticism of the big magazines, and the gibes of
our satirical papers. I fear that frivolous visitors, fools, envious
persons, and nihilists generally, may hold me up to ridicule. But I will
take measures. I await with impatience to-morrow’s expression of public
opinion, and, above all, the criticisms in the newspapers. Be sure and
tell me about the papers to-morrow. But enough; you are probably sleepy.
Go home, and don’t think of what I said about criticism. I am not afraid
of criticism, for it is in a critical position itself. It is sufficient
to be wise and virtuous, and you are certain to be raised upon a
pedestal. If you do not become Socrates you will become Diogenes, or
perhaps both at once, and that is my future vocation as regards
humanity.”
“Your friend is von bery clefer man,” remarked the German to me in an
undertone, as he came up to let me out; he had been listening
attentively to all our conversation.
“By the by,” said I; “so as not to forget;—how much would you take for
your crocodile, in case any one should think of buying it?”
Ivan Matvyèich, hearing this question, awaited the answer with interest.
It was evident that he did not wish the German to take too little; at
any rate, he uttered a very peculiar grunt when I put the question.
At first the German would not even listen; he grew quite angry.
“No man not shall to buy my own eigener crocodile!” he cried furiously,
reddening like a boiled lobster. “I not vill ze crocodile to sell! I for
ze crocodile von million thaler to take not vill! I von hondert treety
thaler to-day from ze publikum take, and to-morrow ten tausend thaler
take, and zen von hondert tausend thaler every day to take vill. I not
vill sell.”
Ivan Matvyèich even sniggered with pleasure.
Controlling my indignation, coldly and calmly—for I was fulfilling the
duty of a true friend—I suggested to the crazy German that his
calculations were not altogether correct; that if he were to take
100,000 a day he would soon exhaust the population of St. Petersburg,
and then would get no more money, that life and death are in God’s
hands, that the crocodile might somehow burst, that Ivan Matvyèich might
fall ill and die, &c., &c.
The German meditated.
“I to him from the apotheke drops vill bring,” he said, after thinking
it over, “and your friend shall not die.”
“Drops are all very well,” said I; “but also consider that a law-suit
may be started. Ivan Matvyèich’s wife may demand her lawful husband. You
intend to get rich, but do you intend to settle any pension upon Elyòna
Ivànovna?”
“No, vot for I intent?” exclaimed the German, sternly and decidedly.
“No, vot for ve intent!” repeated the mother, angrily.
“Very well, then; would it not be better for you to take now, at once, a
definite and certain sum, if even a moderate one, than to plunge into
uncertainty? I consider it my duty to inform you that I put the question
not from idle curiosity.”
The German took his mother for consultation into the corner where stood
the cage containing the largest and most hideous monkey of the whole
collection.
“Now you’ll see,” said Ivan Matvyèich to me.
For my part, at that moment I was burning with the longing, firstly, to
cudgel the German soundly; secondly, to cudgel the mother still more
soundly; and thirdly, to cudgel Ivan Matvyèich most soundly of all for
his boundless conceit. But all this was as nothing in comparison with
the greedy German’s answer.
After discussing the point with his mother, he demanded in exchange for
his crocodile: 50,000 roubles in tickets for the latest internal loan
lottery, a stone house in the Goròkhovaya Street, with a pharmacy of his
own, and, in addition, the rank of a Russian colonel.
“There, you see!” cried Ivan Matvyèich, triumphantly; “I told you so!
Except for the last absurd demand to be made a colonel, he is perfectly
right, for he thoroughly understands the present value of the monster he
exhibits. The economic principle before all!”
“Gracious heavens!” I exclaimed, turning furiously to the German. “What
do you want to be colonel for? What feat have you performed, what
service have you done, what military fame have you attained to? Why, you
must be mad to say such a thing!”
“Mad!” shrieked the offended German; “no, I am von very clefer man, and
you are von very sheep-head! I haf merited ze colonel, vy for I did show
ze crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit, and no Russian not did
show von crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit. I am von wunderbar
clefer man, and I to be colonel much vill like!”
“Good-bye, Ivan Matvyèich!” I cried, quivering with rage, and almost ran
out of the house. I felt that in another moment I should not be able to
answer for myself. The wild hopes of these two idiots were simply
unendurable. The cold air refreshed me and somewhat calmed down my
indignation, and at last I took a sledge, drove home, undressed, and
threw myself upon my bed.
* * * * *
Meditating, over my morning cup of tea, upon all the occurrences of the
preceding day, I decided to go at once to Elyòna Ivànovna, on my way to
the Department, as, indeed, I was bound to do in my character of
domestic friend.
In a tiny room adjoining her bedroom, and called the “little
drawing-room” (though their “big drawing-room” was little enough), on a
little fancy sofa beside a little tea-table, in a half-ethereal morning
_négligé_, sat Elyòna Ivànovna, sipping coffee out of a little cup, in
which she dipped the minutest of rusks. She looked distractingly pretty,
but also, I thought, somewhat pensive.
“Ah, it is you, bad boy!” she said, greeting me with an absent smile;
“sit down, you frivolous person, and drink some coffee. Well, what did
you do yesterday? Were you at the masked ball?”
“Were you? I never go ... and then I spent the evening visiting our
captive.”
“Who? what captive?... Ah, yes, of course! Poor fellow! Well, how is he?
Very blue? By the by, I wanted to ask you ... I suppose I can claim a
divorce now?”
“Divorce!” I ejaculated indignantly, and nearly upset my coffee. “It’s
that black-whiskered fellow,” I said to myself, inwardly fuming.
There existed a certain person with black whiskers (he served in the
Building Department) who had taken to visiting at the house rather too
often, and who greatly amused Elyòna Ivànovna. I acknowledge that I
detested him, and there could be no question that he had already
contrived to see her, either here or at the masked ball, and had been
talking all sorts of nonsense to her.
“Well, you know,” Elyòna Ivànovna began hastily, as if she had learned
her speech by heart, “very likely he’ll stop in the crocodile all his
life, and never come back at all, and what’s the use of my sitting here
and waiting for him? One’s husband ought to live at home, not in a
crocodile!”
“But then this is an unforeseen case,” I began, in very natural
agitation.
“No, no, no! I won’t hear anything! I don’t want to!” she cried out,
suddenly firing up. “You always oppose me, you horrid wretch! There’s no
doing anything with you, you never will advise one! Why, even strangers
have told me that I can get a divorce now, because Ivan Matvyèich won’t
get his salary.”
I began to relate to her all the plans expressed by Ivan Matvyèich the
day before. The idea of the evenings at home pleased her greatly.
“Only I shall want heaps of new dresses,” she remarked; “and so Ivan
Matvyèich must manage to send me a lot of money, and as soon as
possible.... Only ... only, you know,” she added, meditatively, “how
about his being brought to me in a tank? That is absurd. I don’t want my
husband to be carried in a tank. I shall feel ashamed before my
visitors. I don’t want that ... no, no.”
“By the by, did Timofèy Semyònych call on you yesterday evening?”
“Oh, yes; he came to console me, and do you know, we played at trumps
all the time. When he lost, he had to give me sweets, and when I lost I
had to let him kiss my hands. What a rogue he is! And do you know, he
very nearly went to the masked ball with me. Really!”
“He’s bewitched,” I replied; “and whom can’t you bewitch, you
sorceress!”
“Oh, there, if you’re going to begin with your compliments! Look here, I
want to pinch you before you go. I’ve learned to pinch most frightfully.
There! What do you think of that! Oh, by the by, did Ivan Matvyèich
often speak of me yesterday evening?”
“N—n—no, not very often ... in fact, he thinks more just now of the
destinies of humanity, and wishes to——.”
“There, there! Let him think! You needn’t finish; I’m sure it’s
something awfully dull. I shall run in and visit him some time. I’ll be
sure and go to-morrow. Only not to-day; my head aches, and there will be
such a lot of people there.... They will say, ‘That’s his wife,’ and I
shall feel confused.... Good-bye. In the evening shall you be there?”
“With him, of course. He asked me to bring him the newspapers.”
“Oh, that’s capital. Go to him, and read aloud to him, and don’t come to
me to-day. I am not well, and perhaps I shall go out to some friends.
Well, good-bye, you bad boy.”
“That black-whiskered fellow is going to be there this evening,” I
thought to myself.
At the Department I of course made no sign that I was devoured with such
cares and responsibilities. I soon observed, though, that several of the
most progressive daily papers were on that morning passing unusually
quickly from hand to hand among my fellow officials, who read them with
exceedingly grave faces. The first which fell into my hands was the
“Listòk,” a paper without any special tendency, but on the whole very
humanitarian—for which it was generally despised in our set, although
much read. It was with a certain surprise that I read the following:—
“Yesterday our vast capital, enriched with its magnificent buildings,
was filled with extraordinary rumours. A certain N., a well-known
gourmand of the highest spheres of society, wearied, no doubt, of the
cuisine of our first-class restaurants, entered the building of the
Passage at that part where an immense crocodile, just brought to the
capital, was on view, and demanded that the latter should be prepared
for his dinner. After bargaining with the keeper, he instantly set to
work to devour him (that is, not the keeper, an exceedingly peaceable
German with a taste for accuracy, but the crocodile) alive, cutting off
juicy morsels with a penknife and gulping them down with extraordinary
speed. Gradually the whole of the crocodile disappeared into his fat
paunch, and he even set to work upon the ichneumon, the constant
companion of the crocodile, probably supposing that it would be equally
delicious. We have no objection at all to this new product, already long
familiar to foreign gastronomists. We have even prophesied this
beforehand. In Egypt the English lords and travellers go out in regular
parties to catch crocodiles, and eat the monster’s back in the form of
steaks with mustard, onion, and potatoes. The French followers of
Lesseps prefer the paws, baked in hot ashes, though, indeed, they do
this merely to spite the English, who make fun of them. Here both dishes
will probably be appreciated. We, for our part, gladly welcome this new
branch of industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much
in want. After the disappearance of this first crocodile into the
interior of the St. Petersburg gourmand, it is probable that, before a
year passes, they will be imported by hundreds. And why should
crocodiles not be acclimatised here in Russia? If the water of the Neva
is too cold for these interesting foreigners, we have reservoirs within
the capital and streams and lakes without. Why, for instance, should
crocodiles not be reared at Pàrgolov or Pavlòvsk, or in Moscow, in the
Prièssnensky pools or the Samotyòk? While providing a delicate and
wholesome food for our refined gastronomists, they would also afford
amusement to the ladies strolling past these pools, and would serve for
our children as a lesson in natural history. The skin of the crocodiles
could be made into étuies, travelling-trunks, cigarette cases, and
pocket-books, and perhaps many a thousand roubles—in the greasy notes
for which our commercial classes have so strong a predilection—would
find its way into crocodile-skins. We hope to often return to this
interesting subject.”
Though I had felt a presentiment of something of this kind, the blunders
in this article quite upset me. Turning to the fellow-official sitting
opposite me, I observed that he was watching me and holding in his hand
the paper _Vòlos_, as if waiting to hand it on to me. He silently took
the _Listòk_ from my hand, and replaced it by the _Vòlos_, in which he
had marked a particular article. This is what I read:—
“It is a matter of public notoriety that we are a progressive and humane
people, and are trying to catch up Europe in this respect. But,
notwithstanding all our efforts and the energy of our newspapers, we are
still far from mature, as is shown by the disgraceful occurrence which
took place yesterday in the Passage, and which we had already
prophesied. A foreign entrepreneur comes to St. Petersburg, bringing
with him a crocodile, which he at once begins to exhibit to public view
in the Passage. We made haste to welcome this new branch of useful
industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much in want.
Yesterday, at half-past four in the afternoon, there appeared in the
foreigner’s shop a personage of enormous corpulence and in an
intoxicated condition, who paid the entrance-fee and instantly, without
any warning, forced his way into the jaws of the crocodile, which was,
of course, constrained by the instinct of self-preservation to swallow
him, in order not to choke. Tumbling headlong into the interior of the
crocodile, the unknown instantly fell asleep. Neither the cries of the
foreign owner, nor the shrieks of his terrified family, nor the threat
of an appeal to the police have any effect. From the entrails of the
crocodile resounds only laughter, and the unhappy mammal, forced to
swallow so enormous a body, sheds copious floods of tears. ‘An uninvited
guest is worse than a tartar’; but, in disregard of the proverb, the
insolent visitor refuses to come out. We do not know how to explain such
barbarous incidents, which bear witness to our backwardness, and
disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The happy-go-lucky Russian
temperament has led to a worthy result. We would ask: What did the
unwelcome guest desire? A warm and comfortable dwelling? But there are
in this city many fine houses, with cheap and exceedingly comfortable
apartments, with Neva water laid on, staircases lighted with gas, and
often with a porter hired by the landlord. We would also draw the
attention of our readers to the savage brutality of such treatment of a
domestic animal; the foreign crocodile is, of course, unable to digest
so enormous a mass at once, and now lies, frightfully swollen and in
intolerable agonies, awaiting death. In Europe inhuman treatment of
domestic animals has long been punishable by law. But, notwithstanding
our European lighting-system, our European pavements, our European
house-building, we are still far from having shaken off our ancient
prejudices:—
‘The houses may be new, but the prejudices are old.’[41]
Nay, even the houses are not new—at least, the staircases of them. We
have already several times mentioned in our columns that on the north
side of the river, in the house of the merchant Loukyànov, the bottom
steps of the wooden stairs are rotten, fallen in, and a constant danger
to his servant, the soldier’s widow Afimia Skapidàrova, who is often
obliged to carry water or firewood up this staircase. At last our
warnings have proved true; yesterday evening, at half-past eight
o’clock, Afimia Skapidàrova fell through the staircase with a soup
tureen and broke her leg. We do not know whether Loukyànov will mend his
staircase now; Russians are always wise when it is too late; but the
victim of this Russian has perhaps already been carried to the hospital.
In the same way, we still persist in maintaining that the dvorniks, who
clean the wooden pavements of the Wyborg district of this town, have no
right to splash the legs of the passers-by, but should shovel the mud
into heaps, as is done in Europe, where boots are cleaned,” &c.
“But how’s this?” said I, looking in stupefaction at my neighbour; “I
never heard of such a thing!”
“How so?”
“Why, my dear sir, instead of pitying Ivan Matvyèich, they pity the
crocodile!”
“And why not? A mere animal—a _mammal_—and we have pity even for it!
Which way are we behind Europe after that, eh? They’re very tender to
crocodiles in Europe too, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”
And my neighbour buried himself in his papers and spoke not another
word.
I put the _Vòlos_ and _Listòk_ into my pocket and took, in addition to
them, all the back numbers I could find, for the evening recreation of
Ivan Matvyèich, and, although it was still early, slipped away out of
the Department in order to visit the Passage, to look on, if only from
the distance, at what was taking place there, and to overhear various
expressions of opinions and views. I was convinced that there would be a
tremendous crowd, and drew up the collar of my cloak to hide my face,
for somehow I felt a little bit ashamed—so unaccustomed are we to
publicity. But I feel that I have no right to dilate upon my personal,
prosaic feelings in presence of so extraordinary and original an event.
THE STEAM-CHICKEN.
[Illustration]
(_A Story fit to be printed only in the Christmas holidays._)[42]
BY GLYEB USPÈNSKY.
Although I cannot protest against the above observation, which very
truly characterises this little sketch, I am bound to remark that the
title—“A Story”—given to this production by the editor in question, is
entirely out of character with both the subject under discussion and the
manner in which that subject is treated. The sketch contains no coherent
story at all, nor is it founded upon any story in real life. A group of
people were simply discussing “_the soul_,” and one of the disputants, a
poultry-farmer on a journey, delivered a kind of lecture upon the
subject, bringing forward some very interesting facts concerning
gallinaceous psychology. That is all.
This is how it happened:—
I got tired of waiting for my train in the stuffy little general
waiting-hole of the most microscopic station on the whole N—— Railway,
so I went out to sit and smoke on the platform. It was getting on for
eleven o’clock on a warm, dark autumn night. The only light on the
platform came from three small paraffin lamps, placed at long distances
from one another, and giving so little light that I was quite unable to
see clearly the group of dark human silhouettes collected on the
platform close to me, and, like myself, waiting for the train. I could
see several black shadows, but it was impossible to form an idea what
sort of people they were. The conversation that they were carrying on
together was, however, distinctly audible in the motionless silence of
the dusky, sultry night.
Unfortunately, this conversation was of a most gloomy character. It
referred to an unusual misfortune which had happened early that morning
at a neighbouring station, and had been a subject of general
conversation along the whole line. A certain publichouse keeper, well
known to every one connected with the railway, had thrown himself in
front of the train. He had been a confirmed drunkard for some years, and
had arrived at absolute beggary.
“You see, mates, towards the last he went off his head altogether,” said
one of the black silhouettes, whom, from the glittering of his badge
when he moved, one could guess to be the railway watchman. “He tried to
do it five times before ... but he always got frightened. He’d run up to
the train and then begin to yell.... The train would come thundering
along, and he’d just scream with terror, and yet he’d run on, throwing
up his hands. ‘Ah!—ah!—ah!—ah!’ and yet he’d run at it.... He was
mortally scared, and yet he couldn’t let it alone!... God always saved
him; the good Christian people didn’t want to let him die; ... they’d
catch him and take him home by force; ... they put him in the
hospital.... Well, it seems this time he was too sharp for them.”...
“Did he call out? Did any one hear?”
“They said afterwards that somebody yelled like a wild thing. They say
they heard something crying and screaming.... But, you see, it was
night-time; it was quite dark that’s plain!”...
“The devil’s will, you mean. In such business as that, it’s the devil
that’s lord and master, not God!” said a voice from the group of
silhouettes.
“True! true!” muttered several voices; and a short silence followed.
The conversation was an unpleasant one; the subject under discussion was
gloomy and fearful, and the people seemed ill at ease in talking of it.
But maybe for that very reason they were unable to free themselves from
the haunting idea, and enter into the ordinary small talk of chance-met
passengers. Unpleasant as it was to think and talk of a suicide, the
conversation about it started afresh.
“They do say it was all his wife’s doing that he got like that; he took
to drinking because of her.”
“Did the silly fellow care more for his wife than his soul?”
“Ah! but then, you know, ... she ran away from him—and he got lonely
without her—and so——”
“Ran away! Why, the devil take her, let her run away as far as she
likes; there are plenty of women to be got!”
“Plenty of women, but only one soul!”
“He’ll have to answer for his soul to God in the next world!”...
“Ah! the soul! the soul!”... said the watchman, with a sigh; and the
conversation would probably have broken off if the young
assistant-stationmaster had not suddenly appeared beside the group. No
one had heard him come up on account of his indiarubber galoshes.
He was a very cheerful young man; he had just got his situation, just
got married, just put on his new uniform, and naturally felt that now he
was “decently set up.” He stopped, as he was sauntering past, to smoke a
cigarette with the group, and, for want of anything to do, cheerfully
threw in a word.
“What’s the talk about? What soul?”
He had accidentally caught, in passing, the word “soul”; his thoughts
were altogether at the other end of the earth from any stray
conversations; he was going merrily home to his young wife and his
boiling samovar, and was altogether thoroughly contented with himself.
“Why, we were just talking about the misfortune that happened to-day ...
about the publican.”...
“Well, what about him?”
He struck a match on his coat-sleeve, hardly listening to what was said.
“We were just talking, sir; that’s all.... You see, the poor fellow’s
lost his immortal soul.”
“What soul?”
The cigarette lighted suddenly, and scattered little sparks all round.
“What soul? What nonsense are you talking?”
“Why! your honour! his soul!”
“The man was simply a drunkard! It’s all nonsense!”
“But what about the next world?”
“What’s the use of talking rubbish? Don’t get drunk, and you won’t be
run over.... The deuce knows what they’ll say next—a soul!”
His young wife and his boiling new samovar occupied his thoughts so
completely that they made his whole conversation merry, and gave it a
tone of “all fiddle-sticks!” Having uttered his few remarks in a
cheerful manner, he walked away, also in a cheerful manner, along the
platform, and flung back at the group of silhouettes one last word—
“Twaddle!”
He then disappeared in the darkness, humming “Strièlochka.”
“No, it isn’t twaddle!” rather decidedly remarked one of the
silhouettes; and his dark figure moved forwards, hiding all the other
silhouettes. “It’s anything but twaddle—a soul is!”
The appearance of the cheerful stationmaster had somehow driven away the
gloomy thoughts of the group, and, not finding at the moment any
pleasant theme for conversation, they did not support the unknown orator
by any positive announcement at all. But their silence in no way put him
out of countenance, and he continued, in an impressive tone of voice—
“Twaddle! It’s easy for him to talk!... The man simply doesn’t believe
in God—he’s a Nihilist, that’s what he is!... If he believed in God he
wouldn’t dare to talk like that.... I used to be no better than a dead
log myself until I got conviction.... What can any of us understand? We
know how to say our prayers; we know how to put candles before the
altar; but what do we know about the wisdom of the Lord?... And yet, if
the Lord God should call me now to the lot, first of a fish and then of
a hen, and should give me a talent and allow me to enter into it, I tell
you, mates, I understand all about it now!... Yes! There is a soul,
mates! there is indeed!... That’s what I say—it’s true; it’s not
twaddle!”
The audience had at first some difficulty in understanding what this
poultry-farmer was talking about. The most incompatible images and ideas
had got so mixed up together in his speech—God, the soul, a fish’s lot,
a hen’s lot—all this was too hard for the silhouettes to digest at once.
Somebody tried how it would do to make one of the stock remarks of the
Russian citizen in difficulties: “Of course it is!”—one of those phrases
which will serve for an answer at a pinch, but have no meaning in
particular (though they are constantly used in commerce); but he said it
in a timid whisper, and relapsed into silence.
The silence was, however, of short duration. A pleasanter topic had been
started, and the conversation grew lively.
“I don’t quite understand—allow me to ask, do hens have souls?” slowly
and deliberately inquired one of the silhouettes, with the evident
intention of starting a long discussion. “Kindly explain to me on what
you base that opinion. A soul is bound to be Christian; and there is
surely nothing said in the Holy Scriptures about hens’ and fishes’
souls.”...
“I grant you there is really nothing about it in the Scriptures; but I,
you see me, Selivèrstov, poultry-farmer—_I_ tell you—yes! You can
believe me or not, as you like, but I assure you that when I get to
really understand the affairs of fishes, and especially of poultry, then
I began to believe in the Almighty Creator. Up till then I was just a
dead log! You can think what you like. Yes!...”
There was great animation in the tone of the poultry-farmer’s voice, but
it was evident that the immensity of the theme which so deeply
interested him rendered his position embarrassing and perplexed him in
speaking.
“Yes,” he continued, repeating the words he had already said, “it was
through the poultry that I grew to recognise the wisdom of God. You must
make what you can of that.”
There was a short silence.
“And do poultry have souls?” inquired one of the silhouettes, in a tone
of evident irony. The poultry-farmer hesitated a moment, then, as it
were, gave himself a little shake, plucked up his courage, and growled,
in a deep bass—
“They do!”
“What! Hens have souls?”
“Yes, sir.”
This answer was evidently given in blind recklessness, and the
poultry-farmer, seeing that he could no longer draw back, continued
loudly and rapidly—
“I tell you, positively, I would swear it before the Lord Himself—fowls
do have souls, may I die to-night if they don’t! There!”
Silence.
“They do!” cried the poultry-farmer again.
Once more there was silence.
“Yes! They do, indeed they do!”
“There! there! friend.... It strikes me, my man, that you ... you
know....”
“Not, ‘you know,’ at all! What’s the use of ‘you know’? It’s the truth
I’m telling you; not ‘you know.’ ... Now I’ll just catechise you, and
you see if you can answer me.”
“Why shouldn’t I be able to answer you? If you talk like a human being,
I’ll answer you like a human being.”
“You didn’t suppose I was going to bark at you?”
“Well, if you don’t bark, I won’t cry: ‘cock-a-doodle-doo!’... Fire
away!”
“Very well, then; if you can answer me, I’ll put questions to you....
First of all: we were just talking about the destroying of souls....
Now, tell me, why did the publican throw himself under the train?”
“’Twas the devil’s doing, and nothing else,” again interposed the
decided voice from the group of silhouettes, before the person addressed
had time to answer.
“Of course it’s the devil’s doing, I know that,” said the
poultry-farmer; “but what I want to know is, on what pretence this same
devil got him to go under the wheels; that’s what I want to know!”
“Why, you heard what was said—that he got cut up about his wife,”
answered the other speaker. “Got upset about a woman, took to drinking,
and of course any sort of thing can come of the drink....”
“So that, if you look into the matter, it appears like as if the first
cause was trouble?”
“I s’pose so....”
“Very well, then; now you explain. What part of him did the wheel go
over?”
“I don’t know; you’d better ask him.... I say! Mikhàilych! where did the
wheel go over the publican?”
“It cut him right across the body,” answered the watchman—“like this.”
“And of course it went over his back and all?” demanded the
poultry-farmer, like a regular expert.
“Of course it smashed every bit of him that came under it....”
“That’s all right! Now, allow me to ask you, When you say that it
happened ‘from trouble,’ tell me whereabouts in him was the trouble—was
it in his back, or his body, or anywhere in his bones?”
This question appeared to the audience so amazingly incongruous, that,
after a short silence, several persons went off into fits of laughing;
and the interlocutor of the poultry-farmer, evidently not wishing to
continue such an idle conversation, remarked—
“Eh! friend! if one wants to talk with you, one must hang a cloth tongue
in one’s mouth; one’s own would soon get wagged off.... Your head’s so
empty, that one can hear the wind whistle through it, even on a close
night like this!... The trouble was in his inside.”
“Do you mean the trouble about his wife was in his inside?”
“There! shut up with your foolery!” exclaimed the other, irritably; “I
never heard a fellow rattle off such stuff!...”
“All that is because you haven’t got any gift of reflection.”
“Reflection be hanged!”
“Supposing a soldier’s foot is cut off, that means it was his foot that
was bad, not his back or his inside. Supposing my hand is cut off, it
must have been my hand that was bad, and not my ear or my nose.... Very
well, then; if a man goes and breaks his back under a railway train from
grief, I should like to know where was his grief—in his back, or in his
inside?”
Silence.
“Now, you see, that’s just the whole point.... The trouble was in his
conscience, in his soul—not in his bones or his ribs.... That’s why you
should say: ‘He’s lost his soul,’ instead of saying ‘Twaddle,’ as that
grand gentleman said.... It was his soul that was ill; and it was his
soul that went to pieces under the train....”
“It’s the devil’s work, and nothing else,” obstinately growled the
unseen bass in the group of silhouettes.
“The devil’s work? Of course it’s the devil’s work! Only, the devil
doesn’t pull you under the train by your leg, but by your conscience, by
your soul. That’s just the whole thing. No, no, mates! There is a soul,
there is indeed!...”
“And what about the hen’s soul?” began again the man who had just broken
off his conversation with the poultry-farmer.
“Hens have souls too.... It was a hen’s soul that brought me to my
senses.... You see my hamper of chickens over there?”
The hamper was probably standing somewhere on the platform, though it
could not be seen in the darkness.
“Well, what about it?”
“Very well, then; I thought I’d take our women in once more with a
steam-chicken; but they were too sharp for me. I thought I’d trick them,
you see, and pay them for their eggs with a steam-chicken, but I had
tried it once too often—they would not take it.”
[Illustration:
“WELL, I LOOKED, AND I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, ‘HOW DID ALL THAT FIRE GET
INTO THAT LITTLE GLASS GLOBE.’”
]
“Why?”
“Because the steam-chicken has no soul! He has no soul at all, and so he
doesn’t breed. That’s just the whole thing. I work on a steam-chicken
farm. Well, you see, at one time we used to exchange steam-chickens for
eggs. We’d give a woman a cock and hen—for that matter, it was quite
worth our while to give a cock and two hens for a dozen or a dozen and a
half eggs.... We could always raise ten or fifteen out of two or three
dozen; so we made our profit. At first the women took them and it was
all right—and of course it was better for us than paying in money. But
after a bit we couldn’t get anybody to take them; all the women came and
made a row about it: ‘Your machine-hens won’t lay!’ And there you are!
It’s no use, whatever you do; they _won’t_ lay! And it’s just the same
with fish. All those machine-raised fish—you know, you can rear them
artificially now—but they won’t breed.... Now, just you think of
that—the wisdom of it! The temperature’s there—’cause, you know, it’s
done with hot water and steam—but there’s no soul!”
“But it can run about, your machine-chicken—can’t it? and eat?”
“It runs about and it eats, but it hasn’t any reason.... It doesn’t know
how to think about life....”
“Strikes me, my man, you’re gone off the hooks!...”
“Off the hooks or not, there’s not much sense in your talk either....
Runs about! What’s running to do with it? There’s your steam-engine
runs, better than any horse; but just you go and tell it: ‘Turn to the
left,’ ‘Stop at the publichouse,’—d’ye think it’ll turn?... Runs! ’Tis
all the same thing as the ’lectric light. I’ve got a neighbour that’s
lamplighter in a theatre, and he said to me, ‘Just look, this is the new
fire they’ve invented!’ Well, I looked, and I thought to myself: ‘How
did all that fire get in that little glass globe (’twas made just like a
flower) and not break it?’ So I said to him, ‘Why doesn’t the glass
crack with all that fire?’ and my neighbour just burst out laughing.
‘It’s a very dreadful sort of fire, that is,’ said he; ‘just you spit at
it and see how it will hiss.’ Well, I spat at that tulip-flower, and it
never hissed at all. ‘How’s that?’ says I. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘that fire’s
just a made-up fire; it’s a heathen fire; it’s as cold as ice.... Just
take hold of the tulip.’ I took it, and it really was like ice. But it’s
fire all the same.... Now, how’s a man to know after that what’s God and
what’s Mumbo Jumbo?... It’s just the same with the machine-fish and the
steam-chicken—they’ve got a temperature, but they haven’t got a
conscience! There you see; it was the same with the publican: it was his
conscience that ached; and if he went and broke his back, it wasn’t his
back that felt bad because his wife ran away—it was his soul.”
“You put the cart before the horse again, my man! Why doesn’t the
steam-hen lay?”
“She doesn’t lay because she’s a machine invention, a creature of
temperature, not a creature of God. A steam-hen has nothing but
temperature; but a real hen has a conscience. That’s why she lays. She
lays because she’s capable of mental reflections and considerations.
There aren’t any mental reflections in temperatures, but there are in
souls!...”
“Are there?”
“Of course there are!”
“And were you ever in a madhouse?”
“Never, thanks be to God!”
“Glad to hear it! I was just thinking, perhaps they hadn’t looked after
you properly and kept the door locked....”
“No one can talk sense to a fellow like you, without being taken for a
madman.... What do you know about souls?”
“As much as you know about hens’ consciences, I dare say!”
“I know all about them!”
“Do you?”
“I tell you, yes! I understand the whole soul of a hen! What’s the use
of your cackling? Just you answer me one thing: Do you know how to make
a hen sit?”
“No, I don’t; and it’s not my business; I’m a wood merchant.”
[Illustration:
“TO THE ARCADIA AND MASKED BALLS.”
]
“Then, if it’s not your business, hold your tongue and listen.... The
hen, my man, is none too fond of sitting.... All she cares for is just
to lay her egg, and then go off again to the café-restaurant to lark
about with the cocks, and sing songs, and make love.... Why, you may
have a hen so frivolous that if you keep her three days on the eggs with
a coop over her, you can’t make her sit on them; she just wriggles away
to one side; she thinks to herself, like any fine lady, ‘If I take care
of the children myself, I may spoil the shape of my bust, and no one
will love me!’... And she wriggles away into a corner; and there the
poor eggs lie, out in the cold.... Well, then, when you take off the
coop,—up she jumps and off she runs, and clucks and cackles for all the
farmyard to hear; and complains of how she was shut up and ill-treated;
and the cock comes running up at her bidding to take her part; he’s
sorry for her, you see! And off they go into the bushes, to the
Islands,[43] to the Arcadia, and masked balls. Why, some hens are so
larky that one doesn’t know how to manage them! So this is what the
women do with a gay hen of that kind: they make little balls of bread,
and dip them in spirits and give them to her.... The gay young hen eats
them and gets tipsy; then they stick her on the eggs and put a coop over
her.... Of course while she’s asleep she doesn’t think about dancing and
masked balls; and by the time she wakes up, she’s got familiar like with
the eggs.... Then, you know, the eggs get warm from her, and she feels
the warmth of the eggs.... And when you take the coop off she can’t get
up! She knows as well as any one that it would be fun to go off on the
spree; she hears the cock calling her, and singing romances; she knows
he’s going off to the Islands; and yet she can’t get up, her conscience
won’t let her! She’s learned to pity her little ones; her soul has waked
up.... And there she’ll sit, till she sits all the feathers off her
body, and the flesh gets raw; she’ll sit till she aches all over! And
why? Because of her conscience!... Her conscience puts all kind of
thoughts into her head. She thinks about how she lived before she was
married (she has so long to sit, you know, she has plenty of time to
think), and how she went off on the spree, and what she saw, and how the
cock came up to her (she’ll remember every feather on his body a hundred
times over), and how it all happened, and then how she fell ill, and
then how her baby was born, and how she cried when it was born—she’ll
think over all that while she’s sitting.... Now, you see, all these
thoughts go out of her soul into the chicken’s soul, like; and the
chicken begins to think and feel as she does.... He gets all his soul
from the hen, while he’s the least bit of a thing,—and ideas, and
everything.... They’re just like little seeds, no bigger than a pin’s
head, just stuck about here and there in him; and then of course they
grow with him; and by the time he’s a grown-up fowl, they’re grown-up
thoughts.... No, no, mates! it isn’t a temperature of fifty degrees, or
whatever it is, that does it; it’s a soul speaking to a soul!... It’s
all the same with people. If a woman with child gets frightened at a
fire, and beats her head with her two hands, her child is born with
marks on its head—it’s just the same thing here. The hen thinks it over,
and sighs, and remembers all her youth, and everything that happened
afterwards; and all that enters into the chicken’s soul.... Why are so
many cocks hatched? Because the hen thinks so much about the cock, of
course; she remembers all his feathers.... Everybody knows that if a
peasant goes to the priest, or the _starshinà_,[44] or the village
clerk, he always take a cock for a present. The hens think a great deal
about cocks. So, you see, all these thoughts and cares pass from the
hen’s soul into the chicken’s; and the chicken gets to understand that
it will have to be young and unmarried, and then that cocks will come,
and it will have to lay eggs.... All that passes into its soul while
it’s in the egg.... But there is nothing of all that in hot water;
there’s nothing but temperature in it.... Do you suppose temperature
thinks about a hen’s life? Do you suppose temperature thinks about
cocks?—about how tired it is of sitting, but how it must keep on for the
baby’s sake? It doesn’t think about anything at all! And that’s why the
chicken comes out without any soul, or mind, or conscience, and doesn’t
care for anything.... It’s just like with the ’lectric light—it can’t
make the grass grow.... That’s what God is!... It isn’t twaddle, mates;
don’t you believe it! A soul’s one thing, and a make-up’s another. No,
no, it isn’t twaddle; it’s a thing that takes a lot of understanding!”
“I don’t know,” remarked the other man, indifferently; “it’s a bit too
learned for me.... Seems to me like as if there aren’t any other souls
except Christian souls.... And as for a hen’s conscience, I don’t know
about that ... don’t see it at all!”
“That’s just what I say: you don’t know.”
The discussion was evidently finished. But as the train had not yet
come, and no one had anything to do, the company would have found it a
little awkward to let the conversation drop at the conclusion of the
poultry-farmers speech. Every one felt (as is the case at the meetings
of learned societies) the need of _some_ kind of answer or continuation.
After a moment’s silence, therefore, one of the silhouettes (I think,
from his voice, it was the one who had laid the suicide of the publican
to the devil’s account) suddenly remarked—
“You talk about inventions—you’re right there; there’s no end to what
they’ve invented nowadays! One day, when I was in Petersburg, I was
going along the Isàkievskaya Square, and there was a grand sledge
driving past, with a beautiful horse; it must have cost thousands, for
harness and everything was splendid; and the driver was just like a
figure in a picture. And what do you think, mates! they’d got stuck on
to that driver, just here like—it’s as true as I live ... just in this
place....”
“Where?”
“Here, I tell you!... It’s the truth. What do you think he’d got stuck
on?... A watch!...”
“Stuck on to him there?”
“A great watch, half as big as my hand.... That’s so the gentleman in
the sledge can always see it. I should have felt ashamed, if I’d been
the driver.”
“I suppose the gentleman was so grand he couldn’t take the trouble to
unbutton his coat.”
“I s’pose he wanted to know, to a second, how long he was driving; his
time must have been precious! I dare say he had a lot of business.”
“Well!” interposed the poultry-farmer, contemptuously; “if that’s what
you call an invention! There are inventions of quite another sort
nowadays, my friend! People are getting too clever to live with their
inventions.”
The tone in which these words were uttered plainly showed that the
poultry-farmer was an ordinary hard-up peasant who found a difficulty in
paying taxes.
“When I lived, as a merchant’s driver, in Moscow, my master used to pay
me two roubles to go from Nikòlsk to Nìzhegorod.... ‘Only make haste,’
he would say; ‘I want to know if the goods have come in.’... But
nowadays he can just mumble something into a pipe, and it goes along a
wire, and there you are.... You can talk on a wire to people in
Nìzhegorod, or Smolensk, or anywhere you like; and as for us poor
drivers!”...
“That’s what they call a telephone,” remarked the poultry-farmer.
“Agafòn, or Falalèï, or anything you like ... all their inventions only
make it worse for us poor peasants. Wherever we go, there are always
inventions in the way, taking the bread out of our mouths! But it’s all
one to the tax-gatherer.”
All the gloomy images called up by the tragedy of the morning, and all
the fantastic ideas suggested by the lecture on souls, were put out of
everybody’s head by this peasant’s comment. His remark had brought back
the thoughts of all the group to the realities of life; and thus put an
end to this conversation of chance-met strangers, in the right and
proper manner—the manner in which, in our days, all kinds of discussions
end, no matter how they begin.
THE STORY
of
A KOPECK.
[Illustration]
BY
S. STEPNIAK.
PUBLISHED BY THE SECRET
PRESS.
Ah, my lads! it was a fine, free life in Russia when there were neither
landlords nor priests nor fat shopkeepers.
But that didn’t last long, the old men say, for the devil saw that the
peasant was getting the better of him; there was no stealing or lying on
earth, because every one lived happily; and the devil began to think—how
could he spoil the race of men. Seven years long he thought, never
eating, drinking, or sleeping—then he invented the priest. Then he
thought seven years more—and invented the barine.[45] Then he thought
seven years more—and invented the merchant.
Then the devil was pleased, and chuckled till all the leaves fell off
the trees.
So the devil sent priest, barine, and merchant to the peasant. But the
silly peasant, instead of shaking them off, clothed and fed them and let
them ride on his neck.
So from that time on there were no more good days for the peasant;
priests and barines and shopkeepers tore him in pieces.
Not with knives or swords they wounded him, but with a copper kopeck.
When the sun rose he thought: Where shall I get a kopeck? When the sun
set he thought, Where shall I get a kopeck?
Then the peasant prayed to his Mother Earth: “Oh, Mother Earth, tell me
where to get a kopeck.”
And the Earth answered, muttering: “In me is thy wealth.”
The peasant took a spade and began to dig. He dug all the day long, and
a second and a third day. He dug a deep, deep pit, but still there was
no kopeck. He dug through the soil and came to sand, through the sand
and came to mud. He dug and dug and baled out the water. At last he came
to clay. His spade was all spoiled, and yet there was no kopeck. Then he
began to dig with his hands, and dug and dug; then he came to stone and
could dig no further.
The peasant fell down on the breast of his Mother Earth, and asked her
why she had jested with him so bitterly. Suddenly he saw; under a clod
lay a copper kopeck. It was all green and spotted with damp, and as
rough as the earth itself.
The peasant seized it, kissed it, wrapped it up and put it in his
breast. Then he crawled out to God’s daylight and went home with his
kopeck.
As he went the birch tree with her thick tresses greeted him and asked—
“Peasant, peasant, why is thy clothing like a fishing-net?”
“I have gained a kopeck,” he answered.
“Thy kopeck costs thee dear,” said the birch tree, shaking her locks.
He went on further and the forest bird asked him—
“Peasant, peasant, why art thou all roughened and blistered like
oak-bark?”
“I have gained a kopeck.”
The bird whistled and flew away, saying to herself, “I’m glad I’m not a
peasant.”
He walked on, and the river fish asked him—
“Peasant, peasant, why art thou as thin as a herring?”
“I have gained a kopeck.”
The fish said nothing, she only whisked her tail and dived right down to
the river-bed to get away from the world, for fear she should be made
into a peasant too.
The peasant walked on and met a priest, so he took off his cap and went
to receive his blessing. The priest saw that the peasant was coming home
from work, so that he very likely had a kopeck; and the priest thought
he would like to have that kopeck himself. So he came up to the peasant
and said—
“Open your mouth.”
The peasant opened it.
“Put out your tongue.”
He put it out. The priest put his hand in his pocket, took out some
bread crumbs and sprinkled a little on the peasant’s tongue. What was
left he put by for another time.
“Now give me your kopeck,” he said.
The peasant gave it him and went home.
“Well,” said his wife, “did you get a kopeck?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it for the kingdom of heaven,” he answered.
“Thanks be to God,” said his wife; “and now come to dinner.”
They said grace and sat down to dinner—fir-bark and rain-water. When
they had finished the peasant gave thanks to God for these earthly
blessings, and lay down to rest.
Meantime the priest went home, thinking what he should do with the
peasant’s kopeck. He thought and thought; at last he said, “I know!” and
called the _Ponomàr_.[46]
The Ponomàr not only sang in the choir; he was not too proud to drive
bargains too.
So the Ponomàr came, and the priest said to him—
“Look here, long-mane! It’s a fast to-day, so I’ve had no meat. Here’s a
kopeck for you; roast me your sucking-pig, and see you don’t blab to any
one, or I’ll tear your hair out. But if you manage it properly I’ll give
you the tail to pick.”
The Ponomàr went away. “What next, Fat-paunch,” he thought. “No, no! You
can pick the tail yourself, and I’ll fatten up the sucking-pig and sell
it to the _Arkhierèy_[47] himself.”
And he took the kopeck to the village shopkeeper, and said—
“Look here, gossip, here’s a kopeck for you; give the priest a
sucking-pig for it and me a hive of honey for my trouble.”
The shopkeeper laughed, but he took the kopeck. “I’ll go to the
peasant,” he thought.
So he went to the peasant and showed him the kopeck.
“Do you see this kopeck?” he said. “Well, you give me for it your
sucking-pig and a hive of honey and a wolf-skin for a coat.”
“All right,” said the peasant, “I’m well rested now.”
First of all he gave the shopkeeper his sucking-pig, that he had kept
for a holiday—the greatest holiday in the year.
“Well, never mind,” he thought. “When my little son that lies in his
cradle now grows up we’ll have a proper holiday.”
Then he took a slice of bark-bread, put a knife into his boot, and went
to the forest. He walked on, sniffing; does it smell of honey anywhere?
No, not a bit. He went on and on; he had eaten his bread, and had to
live on roots and acorns, and still no honey. At last he smelt it
faintly in the distance, and went on till he came to a great lime-tree,
with the bees swarming round it. But see! a huge bear was standing by
the hollow trunk, and just going to put his paw in.
“Oh, Lord!” cried the peasant, “surely he is not going to take the honey
from me!”
He drew out his knife and rushed at the bear; the bear turned round,
drew himself up grandly, and came to meet him. The peasant hastily tore
off a lot of fine birch twigs, twisted them round his left hand, and
took the knife in his right.
They met. The bear put out his paw, but the peasant warded him off with
the left hand, and with the right plunged the knife up to its handle
right into his heart. Then he sprang back sharply, but unluckily he got
tangled in a branch, so that the bear was able to catch him, and they
met in a hand-to-hand fight. First the bear hugged him and nearly broke
his bones; then he hugged the bear. The blood rushed from the wound, and
Mishka fell down dead.
The peasant rubbed himself a little after the bear’s embrace, and
thought: “God is merciful even to peasants! If He had not sent me the
bear I should have had to go hunting for a wolf heaven knows how long;
but now, perhaps, the shopkeeper won’t mind taking a bear’s skin instead
of a wolf’s.”
He skinned the bear, took the honey, and went home with his prize. But
when the shopkeeper saw the bear-skin he shook his head and said—
“A bear-skin instead of a wolf-skin! What will you give into the
bargain?”
“Why, what can I give?” said the peasant; “my breeches?”
“All right.”
The peasant took off his breeches and gave them to the shopkeeper; then
he received his kopeck and took it to the barine to pay off his debt for
last year’s cattle-drinking tax; no doubt it was the barine’s prayers
that made the water flow in the river so that the peasant’s cattle could
drink.
As he went the peasant looked at the kopeck that he held in his hand. It
had passed through many hands, and was no longer so rough and rusty as
when he had given it to the priest for the kingdom of heaven. It was the
same kopeck, but the peasant did not recognise it, and said: “All right.
This is a nice kopeck, much cleaner than my old one. I’ll give it to the
barine now; it won’t soil his honour’s hands.”
So he went up to the manor-house, took off his cap and stood at the
gate. But as ill luck would have it the barinya was looking out of the
window to see whether a young officer was coming, and when she saw the
peasant without breeches she cried out—
“Ah! ah! I shall die!” turned up her eyes, fainted away, and dropped on
the carpet, only just kicking a little.
The servants ran to tell the barine that the barinya was graciously
pleased to see a peasant without breeches and is dying. The barine
rushed out and stamped his foot at the peasant and shouted at him, but
when he heard that the peasant had come to pay the tax he got quiet. He
graciously took the kopeck, and just wrote a note and gave it to the
peasant.
“Here, my man,” he said, “just take this note for me to the
_Stanovòy_.”[48]
The peasant took the note, gave it to the Stanovòy, and was just going
when he looked at the Stanovòy and stopped short. The Stanovòy was
clenching his fists and grinding his teeth and panting with rage.
“How dare you!” he shouted to the peasant; “you clown! how dare you
insult the lady?”
The peasant tried to explain, but it was no use; the Stanovòy grew more
furious than ever.
“What? You want to deny it, you hound! I’ll send you to Siberia! I’ll
flay you alive!”—and so on, and so on. And he flew at the peasant as if
he wanted to toss him or jump into his mouth.
The peasant’s wife heard the row, caught up a cock, ran to the Stanovòy
and dropped at his feet.
“Little father!” she cried, “there is a cock for you. Take it, and
welcome, but don’t kill my good man, or I and all the children will
starve.”
The Stanovòy almost choked with fury.
“A cock! How dare you offer me a cock! I’ve served God and the Emperor
for twenty years as Stanovòy and never suffered such an insult yet.
Bring me your goat at once, or I’ll have your cottage pulled down!”
There was nothing for it; they brought him the goat. The Stanovòy grew
calm and ordered the peasant to be only flogged and then let go free.
The peasant went home and told his wife to make him new breeches,
because he must soon go to work in the barine’s garden to pay off a
debt, and perhaps the barinya might see him again.
The barine was walking about the manor thinking what he should do with
the kopeck. At last he sent for the peasant.
“Look here, friend,” he said, “you said you wanted firewood. There’s a
stick in the kitchen-garden that you may have, only you must do an
errand for me. You must go to my friend, Saffròn Kouzmìch—he lives only
five hundred versts off—and tell him that I send him my compliments, and
ask him to visit me.”
“All right,” said the peasant.
So he went to Saffròn Kouzmìch. He walked and walked and walked. At last
he got to the place and gave his message.
Saffròn Kouzmìch came at once, for he and our barine were great friends;
when they were young they had served the Tzar together. So he came to
visit the barine, and they played for the kopeck. Saffròn Kouzmìch won
it, and drove away very merry and sang all the way home. But our barine
was very angry, so he called the _Sòtsky_[49] and told him to collect
taxes from the peasant.
The Sòtsky came to the peasant and asked for the taxes.
“Where am I to get the money from?” asked the peasant.
“Where you like. But you must get it somewhere, or the barine will send
for the Stanovòy again.”
The peasant scratched his head. However, there was nothing for it, he
must get the money. So he went to look for work. He went everywhere, and
could find no work. At last he came to the same gentleman who had won
the kopeck, and asked him for work. The gentleman called his steward.
“Is there any work?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the steward, “the dam is broken down, and must be
mended at once. But it’s very dangerous work, for the workman may get
carried away by the water, and besides, it’s just under the mill-wheel.
It will do nicely for this peasant; any peasant will jump into the fire,
let alone the water, for a kopeck.”
“Very well,” said the gentleman.
The steward went to the peasant and said—
“Mend the mill-dam, and just build a cottage for me, because I took your
part and got you the job. You shall have a kopeck. Only mind you do the
cottage first, for we are in the Almighty’s hands, and you may get
drowned.”
“All right,” said the peasant.
He took an axe, cut down some trees, dragged them to the steward’s yard
and built a cottage. The steward came and looked—a capital cottage.
“Very good,” he said, and gave the peasant a glass to smell, out of
which he had drunk vodka two days before.
“Thank you,” said the peasant. “That was very kind.”
Then he went to mend the dam. The water was seething like a boiling pot.
He got the job done at last, but the water swept him down right under
the mill-wheel.
“He’s lost!” thought the steward; “the kopeck he has earned remains with
me.”
But the peasant dived, and so got out of the water safe and sound, and
the steward had to give him his kopeck. The peasant walked home with the
kopeck, thinking—
“God be thanked! Now the barine won’t demand the tax for a week. I shall
have time to do some work for myself, and to rest enough for the whole
year as well.”
[Illustration:
“‘VERY GOOD,’ HE SAID, AND GAVE THE PEASANT A GLASS TO SMELL, OUT OF
WHICH HE HAD DRUNK VODKA TWO DAYS BEFORE.”
]
He went straight to the manor. All the court was strewn with
juniper—every one was in black clothes, and there were two candles in
the window.
“What has happened?” asked the peasant.
“The barine is dead,” they told him.
The peasant burst into tears. “God rest his soul!” he thought; “he was a
kind barine.”
He asked for the barinya to take her the kopeck, but she could not see
him. She was broken-hearted about the barine, and a young officer was
consoling her in her grief. So she would let no one in. The peasant went
home, dug a pit in the cellar, and put his kopeck into it, just so that
it should not get lost.
Some days afterwards, as he was going home, he heard some one sobbing.
He looked round and saw a little girl sitting by the road and crying
bitterly.
“What are you crying for, my lass?” he asked.
The child told him that her brother was very ill, so that a priest had
to be called, to dip his finger in oil and rub it on the sick man’s
lips. The priest would not come for nothing, and they could not pay him.
The peasant laid his great rough hand on the child’s head, ruffled her
hair and said—
“Don’t cry, silly child! I’ll pay the priest.”
The little girl thanked him and ran to the priest; and the peasant went
down into the cellar, dug out his kopeck, and brought it to the light.
He looked at it and clasped his hands: he had recognised his kopeck—the
same that with such toil he had won from the bosom of Mother Earth.
Lying in the earth again, it had become just as green and rough as it
was then.... And the peasant wept bitter tears of anger and grief, for
he understood that all his labour had been in vain: he had gained
nothing but this same kopeck, which had been his already. Now it must go
to the priest again, and wander about the world once more, and every one
into whose hands it fell would ride upon his neck. And if by chance it
should come into his cottage again, he must only give it away once more,
either to the barine or to the priest.
* * * * *
“_I will give no one my kopeck!_” the peasant decided.
[Illustration:
“‘GIVE ME THE KOPECK! I’VE LISTENED TO ENOUGH OF YOUR NONSENSE!’”
]
He went to the neighbour’s cottage, and saw that the sick man’s lips
were already smeared with oil, and in the middle of the room stood the
priest, who had collected all kinds of things—cakes, eggs, flaxen
threads—and was looking round to see what more he could get. He saw
there was nothing more to give, and turned to the peasant.
“Well, now give me the kopeck.”
“Oh, little father, little father!” said the peasant; “do not rob the
Orthodox people!”
“You rascal!” cried the priest. “How dare you say such things to your
spiritual father!”
“Little father, little father! From my very soul I say it;—do not rob
the Orthodox people. Think what you are doing, little father!”
The priest caught up the baby’s cradle, rushed at the peasant and cried—
“Give me the kopeck! I’ve listened to enough of your nonsense!”
The peasant answered, holding him by the hands—
“No, little father, go your way, and God go with you; I will not give
you the kopeck. It would be a sin to encourage your sin.”
The priest lifted up the tail of his cassock and rushed straight to the
manor-house. He ran in and found the barinya with the officer. The
officer was merry, as merry as could be, for he had just asked the
barinya to be his wife, and she had consented.
“Why, little father, what’s the matter with you?” he asked, laughing.
“Has your wife been thrashing you?”
“My wife! That would be nothing serious; we could soon settle that. _The
peasant has mutinied_, that’s what has happened!” And he told them what
the peasant had said.
“Well, you’re a fine fellow to call yourself a priest! Your hair may be
long, but your head’s short enough! Couldn’t manage a peasant!”
“Bring him to me,” said the new barine to his lackey. “I won’t even
speak; I’ll just look at him, and you’ll see how tame he’ll get!”
The lackey went to fetch the peasant, and the barine twirled his
moustaches and waited to show off his courage to the priest and the
barinya. Presently the lackey came back with the peasant, and stood at
the door.
“Bring him here!” said the barine; “let me look at him.” And he glanced
sideways, now at the priest, now at the barinya.
They brought in the peasant. The barine stood in the middle of the room,
with his left arm akimbo, his right hand in his pocket, and his neck
stretched out, clenching his teeth and rolling his eyes. The peasant
looked at him, and got quite frightened.
“Little father!” he cried, “you must be ill! Wait a minute, poor fellow,
I’ll bring you some water to drink!”
Without waiting for an answer, he ran out into the yard, took off his
greasy cap, filled it from the water-tub, and brought it to the barine.
“There, little father, drink!”
But the barine sat blinking his eyes; he was ashamed before the priest
and the barinya. The barinya flew at the peasant; she was almost ready
to tear his beard out.
“How dare you bring the barine water in your filthy cap?” she cried.
He emptied the water out of the window and asked the barine—
“What do you want with me?”
The barine had recovered himself; he leaned back in the armchair, put
his hands in his pockets, and said—
“What are you mutinying for, my friend?”
“Mutiny? It’s a sin for the priest to rob the people, and to encourage
him is a sin too; that’s all!”
“What do you mean, my friend? Why, the priest is your spiritual father.
Do you want him to live by his own labour, instead of yours? I suppose
you’ll say next that I ought to support myself too, instead of your
working for me!”
“You’re no fool, even if you are a barine,” said the peasant. “You have
just guessed it; I won’t pay you either.”
The barine started up as if he had been stung, rushed at the peasant and
demanded the kopeck of him; but it was no use, the peasant would not
give him the kopeck.
The peasant went home, but officer, priest, and barinya sat thinking
what they should do with him. They thought and thought, and at last
agreed to send a message to the Stanovòy, that the peasant had mutinied,
and would not give up his kopeck, and that the Stanovòy must come and
manage him. The Stanovòy turned quite white when he read the letter.
“Heavens!” he thought; “my end is come, the peasant will murder me!”
However, he was an official, and must go. He put four pistols into his
belt, mounted his fleetest horse and rode off. He rode slowly till he
came to a hundred paces from the peasant’s cottage, then started his
horse at a furious gallop, and rushed past the cottage like a whirlwind,
crying out—
“Give up the kopeck! Give up the kopeck, you villain! I will tear you in
pieces if you don’t; I will sweep you off the face of the earth!” And he
lashed his horse furiously.
There was a fearful hubbub in the cottage. The peasant was not at home;
but when the Stanovòy made such a noise outside, the cow began to moo,
the pig began to grunt, the sheep began to bleat, and the dogs jumped
over the fence and rushed, barking, after the Stanovòy.
“I am lost!” he thought. He dropped the reins, caught at the horse’s
mane and closed his eyes, so as not to see death, and the horse rushed
on and knocked against a huge stone. The Stanovòy was flung head over
heels on to the ground, where he lay and thought: “I am killed! God
receive my soul!”
The dogs ran up, smelt him all over, and ran home again, wagging their
tails. He lay still, waiting for death. He waited and waited, but it did
not come; at last he opened one eye, then the other. Then he cautiously
lifted his head and looked round. His horse lay beside him with its legs
broken.
“Oh, Lord!” thought the Stanovòy, “what shall I do? The peasant will
seize me and take me into captivity!”
[Illustration]
He almost died of terror, but he plucked up his courage and set off to
run. He ran on, stumbling and falling, now among the brambles, now in
the mud, till he got so dirty and scratched, that he looked like a wild
creature. At last he reached the police-station, and sat down at once to
write a report to the Governor, stating that the peasant had mutinied
and refused to give up his kopeck; that he, the Stanovòy, had gone to
persuade him; but that the peasant would not listen, and in answer had
bellowed like a whole herd of cattle. Then the peasant had loosed upon
him a peculiar breed of dogs, which he had got for the purpose; these
dogs were fearful to see—the size of calves—and ran like the wind. Then
the peasant had flung a great stone at him, as big as a bull, and broken
the forelegs of his horse.
The Governor read this report and said—
“The Stanovòy must be rewarded for his bravery with St. George’s Cross!”
Then he ordered off a squadron of soldiers to fight the peasant. Early
next morning the Governor, the Stanovòy, and the squadron of soldiers
started off on their campaign against the peasant. In the evening they
reached the wood where the peasant lived. The soldiers pitched their
tent and lay down to sleep, and the officers met in the Governor’s tent
to hold council and decide how they should capture the peasant. Finally
they agreed that a direct attack was dangerous, so they must wait till
dawn, when the peasant would come out into the wood to wash in the
spring, and then surround and seize him.
The next morning they surrounded the spring, and hid themselves in the
bushes, so that the peasant should not see them. Just as he was going to
stoop down and wash, they suddenly blew their trumpets and beat their
drums and shouted on all sides of him.
“What can it be?” thought the peasant, rubbing his eyes. But the
Stanovòy, fired with courage, rushed forwards, like one possessed,
waving his sword and shouting to the soldiers—
“Courage, men! We will die for our father the Tzar, and for the Orthodox
faith!”
Then he caught up a banner and cried—
“Follow me! hurrah!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurra-a-ah!” yelled the soldiers, and charged upon the
peasant.
He tried to defend himself, but it was useless; in a moment they seized
him, tied his hands and led him to the Governor. But he had time to
break several guns, and bite through two bayonets.
“Give up the kopeck!” shouted the Governor.
“I won’t!” said the peasant.
So they put him in prison and tried him. They sentenced him, for the
crime of mutiny and obstinacy, to receive twenty-five thousand lashes,
and then to be sent back to his former habitation. Further (in order
that he might not continue to hide his kopeck), to feed a squadron of
soldiers, who should be billeted upon him until he gave up the kopeck.
And for the bayonets that he had bitten through, and the Stanovòy’s
uniform that was spoiled, to pay costs.
The punishment was inflicted, and the peasant sent home. Then the
soldiers arrived, and sat down to dinner.
The peasant killed them a sheep. They ate it and cried—“More!”
He killed a pig—“More! More!”
He killed a cow—“Why,” they cried, “we are hungrier than before dinner!”
“If they go on like this,” thought the peasant, “they’ll end by eating
me.”
“Wait a minute, mates,” he said; “I’ll go to the beehives and get you
honey.”
“All right,” said the soldiers.
He took his cap and ran out of the cottage.
“Now sit and gnaw logs for honey, accursed brood!” he thought; “and if
you don’t like that, try bricks instead, but I’ll not feed you any
more!”
And he went away into the deep, dense forest. He walked on for three
days and three nights, till, in the evening of the third day, he came to
wild thickets, where no human foot had ever trod. Then he sat down on a
hillock, looked around him, lifted his left foot and took from under his
ankle-straps his kopeck—that same kopeck for which he had suffered so
much. He looked at it and said—
“I have suffered many griefs for thee, my kopeck, since first I carried
thee in my bosom, to bring down on me the birds of prey. I know that
without thee I shall be still more unhappy; but they shall rather tear
out my eyes than thou, my kopeck that I have toiled for, shalt go to
serve my enemies!”
And he dug a pit and buried his kopeck. Then he lay down on the grave of
his kopeck and thought in bitterness of spirit—
“_If thou hast no kopeck, lie down in thy coffin; if thou hast a kopeck,
drown thee in the river!_”
And the peasant sighed heavily, heavily, and he fell down upon the earth
and prayed, saying—
“Oh, Mother Earth! teach me, for I know not, what I shall do, that I may
have not only sorrow and misery—that even in _my_ life there may be
bright days!”
And the peasant fell asleep.
* * * * *
Sunrise is wiser than nightfall. Next morning the peasant awoke, and,
after pondering deeply, he broke off a strong bough, cut it with a stone
and made a spade; with this he raised an earthen hut. And he covered it
with brushwood, and filled the chinks with moss, and roofed it over.
Then he closed the entrance with a stone and took up his dwelling there.
Time passed on, and a household grew up about the peasant, with fields
and pastures and all things needful. There he dwelt and passed his days
in peace and joy, praising God.
What then, my lads? If the good folk were but a bit wiser and would
stand up for themselves and their own, maybe every man might live in
peace and plenty, and never need to slip away and hide his head in the
forest. Think of that!
_THE DOG’S PASSPORT._
(TOLD BY A PEASANT.)[50]
Well, you see, once there was a man with an old dog; and he took the old
dog and turned him out of doors, he did. So the dog up and says: “Give
me a passport that I lived with you.” So the man wrote him a passport,
and let him go his way—to the four winds. Well, the dog went his way,
and at last he came to another man as hadn’t got a dog; and he just hung
on and begged him to let him bide. So the man took him, and he bided
there one day, and two days,—and all at once he saw the cat. And it was
a fine cat. And all their lives they two had never cast eyes one on the
other. So the dog says—“Who are you?” and the cat says—“I am the cat,
and I live here, and I look after the master.... And who are you?” she
says. “I am the dog,” says he; “and I’ve got a passport; I live in the
back-yard, and look after the master.” “And where’s the passport?” “Here
it is, under my paw.” “Give it to me; I’ll hide it away safe, or you
will be getting it all sopping wet when the rain comes.” “Well,” says
the dog, “take it, but give it me back when I tell you.” So those two
were right good mates together. Only one night the cat ran after a wee
mousie, and she dropped the passport in the old straw, and the gammer
took it and burnt it up in the fire, she did. Well, then the gaffer took
the dog and turned him out of doors, because he hadn’t got his passport;
and the dog called the cat. “Give back my passport!” “It’s gone,” says
she; “I lost it!” And that dog, it just flew at the cat, and tore it
into little wee bits.... There now! If the cat hadn’t happened to have
burnt the passport, those two would have been mates like, and the dog
would have bided at home. Only think of that!
[Illustration:
THE DOG’S PASSPORT.
]
A TRIFLING DEFECT IN THE MECHANISM.
[Illustration]
BY
GLYEB USPÈNSKY.
“What I think about it is this: If a man is altogether innocent, there
isn’t any need at all to punish that man. But when you get a man that’s
either a criminal, or else what you may call a villain, or anything of
that kind, then you should punish him. That’s all.”
The above reflections were uttered slowly, deliberately, and
significantly, by the steward of the little steamer _Perch_, as he sat
in his tiny crockery-filled pantry, cutting up a wheaten loaf into thin
slices on the window-sill. The _Perch_, which travels once daily along
the river Vỳdra, from the railway station to the little provincial town
of M., is never very rich in passengers. Not many people care to sit for
several hours at a stretch in the cabin, awaiting the moment when enough
people shall have collected, “one at a time,” to repay the owner of the
_Perch_ for the cost of the fifty-verst journey. Impatient passengers,
instead of waiting for the steamer, prefer to drive in to M., or to go
by the branch railway which runs from the main line to the next posting
station. Thus the only passengers who travel on the _Perch_ are those
who are in no hurry, who do not care whether they reach the town to-day
or to-morrow, and who, indeed, even prefer to travel in a leisurely
manner and at their ease; there is always so much room on the _Perch_
that you can stretch yourself out at full length, undress, go to
sleep—anything. This state of things is very convenient and profitable
for the steward. The public saunters on to the steamer, in a gradual,
indefinite way; and it is really not worth while ever to close the
refreshment-bar, as it would have to be opened twenty times a day. This
refreshment-bar, being constantly before the eyes of passengers who have
nothing to do and feel no desire to hurry anywhere, can hardly fail to
be in demand. Sometimes a man will sit lazily looking at the various
drinks exposed, and will finally say: “Here, just pour me out some of
that; I don’t particularly want a drink, but the bottle takes my fancy;
what’s in it? Give me a glass.” And once the refreshment-bar is resorted
to, the passengers, who have been waiting so long for the little
mosquito of a steamer to whistle, involuntarily slip into a chat;
somehow or other, all the people travelling on the _Perch_ are sure to
strike up acquaintance together and enter into a general conversation.
This was the case on the present occasion. In the second-class cabin
about a dozen people of various kinds were sitting or lying on the sofas
beside the tables and the bar window. There were two army officers, who,
from their appearance and conversation, might have been shopkeepers in
disguise, so feeble, effeminate, and altogether unmilitary was their
manner; they were talking about their provisions, about “comfort and
good living,” about the minutest of injustices and intrigues—intrigues
over hay, and soldier’s kvass, and one thing and another. There were
shopkeepers, artizans, and four money-lenders, evidently regular
“skinflints,” who sat apart, drinking tea together, and abruptly
snapping out broken phrases about their “business”: “Two six and
six.”—“One rouble five.”—“And the goods?”—“All right.”—“Did you
contract?”—“Yes,” &c.... In the intervals between these remarks they
were affected by sudden, loud hiccoughing, almost like a volley of guns
at a distance.
For some time the conversation among the passengers rather flagged, and
was in no way interesting. The officers complained that every year they
had to “make up out of their own pockets,” and boasted, each to the
other, of their irreproachable character. The “skinflints” alternately
snapped and hiccoughed; altogether, it was rather dull. In reference to
what topic the steward uttered the sentence quoted at the beginning of
this sketch I have no recollection. I did not hear all the previous
conversation, and do not know what had made the steward feel it
necessary to express his opinion about punishment; but that opinion
somehow aroused in me a desire to listen further.
Having cut the bread into thin slices, and carefully swept up the crumbs
into his fat hand, the steward began to cut thin slices of cheese, and
continued, as gravely as before—
“That’s my opinion. If a man’s innocent and hasn’t deserved any
punishment, I should like to know why I should ill-use him?”
“Very true,” remarked a shopkeeper, who was sitting with a bottle of
beer.
“On the other hand,” continued the steward, “if we come across a regular
scoundrel, then most certainly the law should be obeyed.”
“Of course it should. There’s no need to pity a scoundrel.”
“Then, again, you see, to punish a man is easy enough, there’s nothing
very clever in that; you just take him and put him in the lock-up, or
give him a thrashing—you don’t need much work for that, or much brains
either.... But, first of all, you must find out, and go into the matter,
and get to the root of it, and find out whether the man really is guilty
or not; that’s the great thing. Supposing you’ve flogged or locked up a
man, and afterwards it turns out that he was innocent, what then? It’s a
bad business, that. But once you’ve made it out, and know all about it,
then bury him alive if you like; that’ll be all fair and lawful.... But
to go and ill-use a man before you know what it is about yourself—any
fool can do that. That’s what I think. Will you have a sandwich?”
The plate of sandwiches was held out towards the two officers who were
sitting next to the bar.
“I don’t mind,” half-reluctantly said one of them, adding, after a
moment, “By the by, just pour me out a glass of that stuff in the green
bottle; I’ll try what it’s like.... Won’t you have some?”
“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said the other officer, still more
reluctantly; “you can give me a glass.”
For want of anything else to do, they began to eat and drink. The
steward, for his part, started on some operation on a piece of ham,
beginning by blowing on it, and continued—
“One ought to look into these matters, and not go into them at
random.... Why, there are cases when, if you judge a matter properly,
the man that everybody thought was a villain can prove his innocence.
Before you go into it, you think he ought to be hanged; and then you go
into it, and think about it, and he’s done no wrong at all. But to go
and punish a man without ever knowing what it’s about—I say there’s no
justice in that at all! Why do they have law courts, and trials, and
judges, and all that sort of thing? Why, because any jackass knows how
to knock a man about for nothing; but you have to go into it first, and
then say what’s to be done.... Why, there’s a lad that serves on this
very steamer. He’s been in trouble—he killed a man. Now, what’s the law
for that? Why, a halter, or underground mines!... That’s so, isn’t it?
And yet the fellow’s all right and straight. And why is that? Because
they went into the matter, and made it all out.... There, I’ll call the
man himself, and he shall tell you about it”
He went out on to the landing at the foot of the winding staircase that
led up to the deck, and shouted—
“Mikhàïlo![51] come here! Come here a minute!... He’ll tell you
himself....”
Mikhàïlo appeared at once. He had evidently been gambling with some
friends, for he was holding several greasy cards in his hand. He was a
sturdy young fellow, with a peculiarly naïve, almost childlike face. He
sprang as lightly as a bird down the iron steps, with his strong, bare
legs sticking out from a pair of pink cotton trousers much too short for
him, and stood before his master, with his belt unfastened, evidently in
a hurry to go back to his game. His whole figure and the expression of
his face showed that the game was in full swing and had reached an
exciting point.
“What’s up?” he asked, hastily.
“Come over here a minute.”
“Tell me what you want. I can hear you from here.”
“Come along into the cabin, you wooden figure head! You’ll have time to
finish your game afterwards. Come and tell the gentlemen how you killed
the old man.”
“What the plague!... What did you call me for? I thought.... Is that all
you’ve got to talk about? Catch me!...”
He turned back to the staircase, but the steward caught him by his
shirt.
“Hold hard! What a jackass it is! Can’t you answer when you’re asked
civilly?”
“What’s the good of going over all that nonsense again?”
“Who asked you to go over it?... I want you to tell the gentlemen how it
happened. You lived with a wood merchant then, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t. He’d only just taken me on that very day; and I’d never
lived there at all——”
“All right; he’d just engaged you.... Well, what happened next?”
“Nothing at all happened next.... He engaged me, you see, to guard the
timber.... He’d got a timber yard; ’twas worth hundreds and
thousands.... He’s a millionaire, he is.”
“Where did it happen? Where does the merchant live?”
“’Twas in Moscow, sir.... I came straight up from the country to him....
How old was I? Don’t suppose I was more than sixteen.... Well, he
engaged me; and says he, ‘Look here, boy, if you do your duty, I’ll
reward you for it; but if you go conniving with thieves, I’ll let you
know. I sha’n’t say many words about it, but I shall just smash you into
little bits. But if so be as you do your best, I’ll raise your wages in
a month. You keep your eyes open all night; don’t go to sleep; and if
you see a thief, just you punch his head!’ You see, sir, these here
thieves were always stealing that man’s timber; so, of course, I did as
I was told—what else should I do? A lad doesn’t come up to town for his
own pleasure. If you get a place, you must try and do your best in it,
and please your master, so that he’ll raise your wages, and not swear at
you or hit you over the head. So I set my mind to do his bidding. I
chose a good cudgel—I pulled out a bit of timber, you know, a stout
heavy sapling, with the root on. Well, I cut and trimmed it and made it
all nice; and when it got dark, I put on my coat and went out.... It was
in autumn, and a very dark night.... So I walked up and down, up and
down, and suddenly I heard some one move. I called, and he didn’t
answer. ‘He wants to hide,’ thought I; so I went up and gave him a good
one with my cudgel. It must have caught him sideways; then I hit again,
straight down from the top, and he just gave a squeal like a hare.
We-ell, after that, I went to poke him a little with the butt-end; I
poked him a bit, but it was a dark night, and I couldn’t see anything; I
could only feel something soft, and it didn’t give a sound.... Well,
when I couldn’t make him speak, I went to tell the master.... The master
hadn’t gone to bed yet.... So I came in, and I said, ‘Please, I think
I’ve done a mischief to a thief. He was scrabbling about in the wood,
and so I knocked him down.... And I can’t make him speak,’ says I; ‘and
he only squeaked a bit, like a hare.’... Well, so then the master called
his coachman, and told him to take a lantern and go and see what had
happened.... So we went.... Well, and after all, it was only a
beggar.... But it wasn’t my fault. I was told to punch his head, and I
did as I was bid. Supposing he had stolen the timber, what then? Then I
suppose I should have got——”
“There, shut up!... Tell your story, and don’t argufy. What was the next
thing?”
“The next thing was that when we looked at the man his head was all
smashed in and his arm was broken.... Lord! it makes me feel creepy-like
just to remember!... Well, we looked at him, and the coachman, he said:
‘The master’ll have to be told.’ So I went to the master, and I said:
‘Please, sir, I’ve smashed a man,’ and I told him all about it.—‘Surely
he isn’t dead!’—‘Yes, that he is.’—And how he did swear at me! Then he
told me to go and tell the police. So off I went to find a
police-station. I hunted all over the place, and couldn’t find one, hang
it all! And when I did find one, everybody was asleep. However, I waited
and waited, and at last somebody came out and asked me what I wanted.
‘I’ve smashed a man,’ said I, and so on. Well, I told him all about
it—why not? I hadn’t done any wrong. I didn’t want to hit the man.... I
told him everything. Well, he wrote it all down.—‘And where’s the
cudgel?’ said he.—‘I left the cudgel in the kitchen,’ said I.—‘Go and
fetch the cudgel,’ said he; ‘it’ll be wanted.’—So I went and fetched it.
Well, I gave them the cudgel. Then they put me into a dark room. In the
morning they tied my hands and brought me into another room. Then they
began asking questions. Well, whatever they asked me, of course I
answered. Two months after, they had a trial. It was the same thing all
over again:—‘You killed him?’—‘I did.’—‘How?’—So I told them: ‘First I
banged him in the side, and then I banged him on the forehead.’—‘What
with?’—‘A cudgel.’—You confess it?’—’Course I do.’—‘You plead
guilty?’—‘Which way am I guilty? I was told to punch his head, and I
punched it.... A servant’s business is to do as he’s bid.’... Well, they
thought about it, and they judged about it, and they wrote, and they
talked; and then they came out and said:—‘Here, you’re not guilty; you
be off!’—So I went....”
“And the merchant?”
“Yes, they called up the merchant, too; but all he would say was:—‘Of
course the timber had to be watched. All my capital’s in timber.... It’s
always getting stolen.... The police are never there when you want
them.... How was I to know he was going to keep watch that way?’...
Well, and how was I to know who was there? I heard somebody scrabbling
about, and I banged him.... So that’s how it all ended: I wasn’t guilty;
nor the merchant wasn’t guilty neither.... Only he was a regular Jew, he
was—he wouldn’t take me back again afterwards. He said:—‘You set about
your work too much in earnest. I only promised you six roubles, and you
went and killed a man straight off; if I were to _pay_ you your wages,
the Lord knows what you’d do with your cudgel!’ So he took a soldier,
and gave me the sack.... Reg’lar Jew, he was!... Well, what else do you
want?”
“Is that the whole story?”
“That’s all.... Want anything else?”
“No, that’s all; you can go.”
The lad rushed up the steps like a whirlwind, and the steward started
afresh upon his dissertation:—
“That’s how it was,” said he; “when you come to think of it, it seems as
if the lad ought to be locked up; killed a man and smashed his head
in—that’s clear enough. But when they came to look into the case, and
understood all about it, he turns out innocent.... That’s just what I
was saying: If so be as a man’s really guilty, you’ve got to punish him;
but, however much it looks as if a man was guilty, if you can prove him
innocent, you should; and if you go and punish an innocent man, I say
there isn’t any justice in it.... That’s what I think....”
“Ye-e-es,” remarked the shopkeeper, to whom the steward mainly addressed
himself. Pouring out the remainder of his bottle of beer, he added: “Of
course, it would really be fairer-like ... to do so ... that’s true.
Give me another bottle.”
The steward uncorked a bottle, took the cork off the corkscrew, put it
back in its place, came out of his bar, and brought the bottle to the
shopkeeper. At that moment there rose from one of the sofas, pulling
down a print shirt over an enormous paunch, another passenger, also a
tradesman. He was a man of gigantic height, with a good-natured
expression of face. He went up to the steward, and taking him by the
shoulder, asked, with a slight smile—
“But the peasant, most respected sir, what about him? Is he guilty, or
not?”
“What peasant?”
“Why, the one that came by his death—the old beggarman.... Whereabouts
are we to place him in the matter? You see, you can put it how you like,
but we can’t get over the fact that there’s a man missing! He lived, and
he walked about, and said his prayers, and all the rest of it, and all
of a sudden he’s not there.... What about him, then? What sort of
position is he in?”
For a moment the steward was rather put out of countenance by this
unexpected question, which greatly perplexed him. But his embarrassment
was relieved by a general burst of laughter, in which he joined.
“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about! I thought you meant some other
peasant.... Ye-e-es, that’s a sort of thing that one may call sudden.”
“That’s just it!” continued the fat man; “that’s always the way in these
parts: everybody’s innocent, and before you’ve time to turn round,
somebody’s given up the ghost in the middle of the scrimmage!”
“Yes, that’s very true; it does happen sometimes,” meekly assented the
steward, going back into the bar; “it certainly happens sometimes.”
“It does, sir. And more than that happens sometimes—I ought to know
that!... After all, that old man had made a mess of it, in one way, by
going and hanging about the timber yard. You see, it wasn’t altogether
at random; people should keep away from timber.... But sometimes it’ll
happen this way: A man sits quiet, never mixes up in anything, fears God
and honours his rulers, and does everything all right and proper, and
all of a sudden, without either why or wherefore, people come and begin
hitting him over the head and on the back, and boxing his ears, and
knocking him down, and banging his head again, and giving him black
eyes, and pitching him face downwards on the floor, and turning him over
and kicking him, and poking his head into the gutter, ... and then
afterwards, here you come and say, ‘nobody’s guilty’! And it turns out
that the man who stuck your head in the gutter is as innocent as a dove.
And the man who dragged you about face downwards is not guilty
either!... And then, at the end, the man that got all the knocks turns
out to be innocent, too.... ‘Go to your homes, good people; you’re all
innocent!’ And all the same, when a man goes home, however much he’s
proved innocent, his nose is broken and his mug’s all swelled-up, just
as if—. Doesn’t seem to me to make much difference, whether he’s
innocent or guilty; anyway, three teeth are knocked out of his jaw, and
his arm’s broken, and he’s been shamed and disgraced, into the bargain.
What’s one to think about that, in your opinion?”
“Ah! yes,” said the steward, quite subdued, and not even attempting to
orate; “certainly that’s not good manners.”
“There you are! And yet nobody’s guilty.... One says: ‘I’ve got papers!’
and the next one says; ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the third one’s got
papers, too.... But look here, my good sirs, I’d like to know what all
this means! You’ve all got your papers, but I’ve got my own skin! I can
buy all the paper I like for three kopecks, but I can’t buy a new jaw
anyway.... Seems to me there’s a difference.”
The giant tradesman spoke with evident excitement; he gesticulated with
his hands, grew red in the face, and finally, quite out of breath, sat
down in the middle of his sofa.
“That’s the sort of thing that happens, gentlemen!”
“Yes, it does happen, of course,” assented one of the skinflints; “a man
gets half smashed, and nobody’s to blame.”
“Exactly so,” said the tradesman; “maybe something of that kind has
happened to you?”
But the skinflint only growled, lifted his saucer to his lips, and made
no answer.
“Do you mean,” said one of the officers to the giant, “that anything of
that kind has happened to you?”
“Not only ‘that kind,’ but such a thing happened to me, that I think if
I’d given way to my feelings I should have come to grief altogether....”
“What was it all about?”
“That’s just exactly what I can’t tell you!... What did the lad smash
the old man’s head about? There you are—it’s the same thing here. You
see, it’s a sort of thing——”
The giant broke off, and began more composedly:—
“The main reason.... First of all, I must tell you about my illness. You
see what sort of a stomach I’ve got!...”
“You surely don’t mean to say that a stomach could play any part in an
affair of that kind?” interrupted one of the officers.
“Part! Such a part was played as I wouldn’t wish to a Tartar!”
“Because of your stomach?”
“That’s just the very reason that I can’t explain the whole thing
properly to you. I’ll tell you just how it happened, from the
beginning.”
“Very interesting to hear!”
“Well, you see, it was this way: This same stomach of mine was the root
of all the mischief. It began to swell up when I was a little child.
There weren’t any good doctors in those days: and people of our sort
went to wise women, and soldiers, to be cured. We lived in the country,
and kept the mill—it was a big mill. Well, there was a sort of barber
fellow that set to work to cure me. He rubbed and smeared me, and he
gave me stuff to drink, and he pulled me by the legs, and in fact he
spoiled my inside altogether, so that I’ve never got well of it to this
day—I’ve got some doctor’s stuff with me this very minute.... Very
well, ... I must tell you that I live, with my wife and children, near
Sousàlov—a district town it is—at the mill. I often go into town. Well,
about three years ago a new apothecary came to the town, and I got to
know him. So I thought: ‘I’ll make friends with him, and perhaps he’ll
give me some help about this stomach of mine.’ Well, so I made
acquaintance with him. He was a good, kind-hearted young fellow. So I
told him all about it, and he thought it over, and gave me a box of
pills. ‘You take these,’ says he, ‘and do as I tell you.’ And I wasn’t
to eat this, and I wasn’t to drink that, and so on; he was very
particular. So I began to take the pills, and I got better; and whenever
I’d finished one box, I had another. Only the next thing that happened
was that my inside got to want more and more of these pills; if ever I
was without them it just half killed me. At first a box would last me a
week; but, after a bit, I’d finish it up in one day. I went and talked
about it to the apothecary. He thought it over, and, says he, ‘I’m
afraid this is a bad business’; but, all the same, he risked it and went
on. And at last he began making such pills for me that he’d put three
doses into one pill, and when he rolled it up it would be as big as a
walnut. However, I took them, and they did me no harm. All of a sudden,
gentlemen, my apothecary leaves the town. ‘Where are you going?’ said I.
‘Can’t get on here,’ said he; ‘no profit.’ I was sorry to lose him; he
was a good fellow, and then he’d helped me, too; but there was nothing
for it—he went away. So I had to get on as best I could, now with one
doctor, now with another. So it went on for about a year and a half; and
my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the
main-town.[52]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we
had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re
not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and
thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of
land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the
building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I
often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the
railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three
hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in
Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well,
one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the
train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come
here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad
to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his
affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and
hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of
course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got
talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I,
‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m
half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to
Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and
make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we
were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after
to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old
times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....”
The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young
fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly
down the steps and stopped at the door.
“What do you want?” asked the steward.
“Nothing; I just came.”
“I suppose you were beaten at cards?”
“I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel
of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.
“So that was settled,” continued the narrator, “I went about Moscow and
bought the goods, and arranged my business properly, and at the time
we’d agreed on I went to Patrìkyev’s. I walked through all the rooms,
but my friend wasn’t there; so I sat down and waited, but he never came.
I waited two whole hours, till at last I felt quite ashamed; so I
ordered something, and ate it alone, and went away without him.
Stupid-like, I’d forgotten to ask his address. ‘I shall have to wait
another day,’ thought I, for I can’t get on without the pills. So I
stopped another night, and next day, at the same time, I went to the
tavern again. Still he wasn’t there! Well, there was nothing for it, I
had to get back home. I didn’t go straight home, I went into the town,
because I had bought some things—bottles, and flasks, and one thing and
another.... I thought I’d manage to put up for the night there; the
stove was all finished in the kitchen, and the windows were put in; so I
went to the house. I’d got a peasant there for a watchman—Rodiòn his
name was; there were ten carpenters in the house; they were just going
to bed. I came in and told Rodiòn to heat the samovar. I noticed that he
looked at me in a queer sort of way. He did what I told him, and all
that, but I could see there was something wrong; I couldn’t rightly make
it out.... He kept on looking at me.... I told him—‘Put down that box,
and see you don’t set it too near the stove; for if it should get too
warm—the Lord forbid!’... Because you see, I’d got varnish and spirit in
the box.... Well, when I told him that, he just opened his eyes and
stared at me. First he stared at me, and then he stared at the box. He
stared, and stared, and then he went away. I sat and waited a quarter of
an hour, but he didn’t come back; so I went out into the passage, and
there stood the samovar, quite cold. ‘I wonder if he’s gone for water,’
I thought. I called, and called, and he didn’t answer. It was a
wonderful sort of business altogether. I went and got out some dried
fish (I’d brought two pounds of it from Moscow—good dried sturgeon, at
eighty kopecks a pound)—I got out some fish, and cut a slice of white
bread, and laid it on, and made a sort of sandwich, you know, and
crossed myself, and just opened my mouth—the Lord make us truly
thankful—when all of a sudden there was such a crackling and howling and
blowing of whistles all round the house; and all the carpenters ran to
the windows and stared like stuck pigs.... I threw down my sandwich and
ran to the door, and knocked up right against a uniform. And there was
Rodiòn pointing at me, and saying ‘That’s he!’ Seven or eight of them
caught hold of me and began to drag me along; and I, of course, yelled
and shouted, ‘Hold hard! What’s the matter?’—‘You’ll be told
there!’—‘Anyway, let me dress myself,’ says I; ‘it’s autumn; it’s
cold!’—‘We haven’t got any ladies!’... It was no use, they’d got me
tight. I didn’t know what it was all about; I couldn’t make head or tail
of it. And there they began dragging me along. And there were the
carpenters and workmen and watchmen and doorkeepers—the Lord defend us!
And why, and what it was all about, I couldn’t get the hang of it at
all. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ I shrieked to them; ‘I’m a tradesman; I’m a
householder; I’m a man of property; I’ve got a wife and children!’...
And all the answer I got was: ‘Yes, by one of the stations in Moscow
there were householders living, too, and they’d got their wives.’...
When the people heard that, oho! you should have seen how they squared
up to me! I saw it was a bad business; I’d got into hot water, and no
mistake; and didn’t even know what for.... When they said _that_, I just
felt my flesh creep.... I told them: ‘I’m innocent! May the lightning
strike me dead if I.... I’ve prayed for him with tears.... I’d give my
life for him!’... I was innocent before God; and yet I just shook all
over! I began thinking: ‘Supposing there turns out to be some evidence!
There may be something.... God knows! What will become of me then? What
shall I do?’ My very inside got cold. Then I began thinking: ‘Heaven
defend us! They’ll take my wife too; and it’ll kill her! She’d die if
they just looked at her! What will she do when she hears about it?’ In
fact, I lost my head altogether, and got so I couldn’t remember or think
of anything; I just went on and on, shaking all over, and with no
hat.... All of a sudden, what should come into my head: ‘Supposing it’s
all a trick? There was a case in Moscow, at the Rogòzhskoye cemetery;
they came in full uniform and took a lot of money, and went away; and
then it turned out that they’d been only thieves.’ It just came into my
head, and it made my very heart jump; and I said to myself: ‘Why, what a
silly fellow I am to let them trick me like that! I left a lot of money
in the house—over seven hundred roubles.... What’s the use of being such
a fool?’ And directly that came into my head, I thought: ‘I’ll see if I
can’t get myself out of the mess my own way;’ and I think, gentlemen,
you can see for yourselves that I’m not much like a baby in arms.”...
(The narrator here drew up his gigantic form to its full height, squared
back his colossal shoulders, and, rolling up his sleeve, held out for
inspection a mighty fist.)... “I think I’ve got what you may call means
of defence. And here, at a time like that, I seemed all at once to
gather up strength all over my body. I felt it rush into my neck and my
chest and my legs; and into my arm there went such an iron strength of
will that I just squared up, and made them see sparks enough to last
their life-time; and hit and hammered, and banged and boxed, and punched
their heads, and flattened their noses, and squeezed their ribs ... and
when I looked round there was an empty space all about me, and there I
stood alone in my shirt, like Mìnin and Pozhàrsky[53] in the Red Square;
and all the people kicking and wriggling about like fish thrown up on
the bank: there was one head-downwards in a puddle; and another had got
stuck fast in the wattle-fence, and was kicking away and couldn’t get
out. In one word, I had scattered the might of the devil till it melted
away like wax! So there I stood alone in the middle of the battle-field,
and said: ‘What have you done with me, you villains?’”
At this point in his story the giant was magnificent to behold, but the
lad who stood listening to him was still more magnificent. When the
miller told how he had “hammered and banged,” accompanying the narration
with appropriate gestures, the arms and legs and whole body of the lad
were continually in motion. He was utterly unable, while looking at the
miller, to refrain from imitating his gestures. He kept squaring his
elbows, and thrusting his fist into empty space, and more than once came
into collision with the thin red-wood door of the cabin.
“What are you smashing the door for, you heathen idol?” exclaimed the
steward, severely. But though the lad glanced round at the words, he
evidently did not understand them; and the miller, for his part, had
worked himself up into such a state of fury that he paid no heed to
either the lad or the steward or the audience, who could not refrain
from smiling.
“‘What have you done with me, you shameless scoundrels?’” he continued,
frantically. “‘What right have you? Do you think the law allows such
things? Why, it’s robbery and violence! Come near me if you dare! I’ll
kill you outright! I’ll tear you in pieces!...’ There I stood, blazing
away at them, and never noticed that they were getting back their senses
and coming at me again. Suddenly I looked back, and if there wasn’t the
whole squadron coming up behind me.... Up they came; and if you’d seen
the way they rushed at me from behind, and the way they set off
shouting—it’s just a wonder I’m alive!... ‘Ah! so we’re attacked in the
discharge of our duty! Ah! ah! ah! So that’s what you go in for!...
You’ve got a box!... If that’s it, my lads, give the great hulking
fellow what for!’”
Here the lad nearly choked with laughter, but restrained himself.
“‘Hammer him black and blue!...’ And what came next?... They blew their
whistles, and sprang their rattles, and banged their truncheons, and
fire seemed to come out of my head and out of my ears, and my neck was
just like red-hot iron.... I heard some one say, ‘There’s an important
telegram about him; he’s got a box.’... And I shouted to them, ‘There’s
varnish in it—varnish!...’ ‘Oho! Varnish! Pay him out, my lads, pay him
out well!’”
At this point the lad could restrain himself no longer; he burst out
laughing, turned to run out into the passage, and striking his head
violently against the lintel of the door, literally tumbled down at the
foot of the stairs in a fit of laughter. The narrator looked severely at
him, but continued—
“And my friends, they _did_ pay me out! They paid me out in such a way
that I lost my head altogether, and couldn’t tell where I was or what
was happening. I didn’t even know whether I was alive or dead! I was
just altogether——”
Here the narrator shrank down, let his arms hang helplessly, and began
to speak in a kind of lifeless, almost abdominal voice.
“I could hardly move.... O Lord!... Holy Saints!... Holy Virgin!... I
couldn’t even speak or breathe.... And I don’t remember whether I walked
or whether they carried me.... I only know that I found myself in a dark
place, and quite ill; all my bones ached, all my joints throbbed—I just
lay and waited for death.”
The narrator sank slowly down upon the sofa.
“Good Lord! it’s dreadful even to remember, let alone—— Here, my good
man, give me some lemonade and a glass of brandy.”
He addressed the last sentence to the steward in a tone of exhaustion;
but, suddenly changing his manner, turned to the lad, and said, somewhat
irritably—
“I’d like to know what you find to laugh at! What’s there to cackle
about? Is there anything funny in an honest tradesman being half
murdered?... Oh! of course it’s funny to you! You’re nothing but a baby,
and anything can amuse you.... He’s a harmless child——”
Here the narrator turned to the audience.
“But he can take a great club, for all that, and smash a man at one
blow! And then he’ll go back to his village as an innocent child, and
hop about on one foot, and play skittles.... A fine sort of child you
are! Pity no one’s got time to thrash you nowadays!”
“Come now!” muttered the lad, in an injured tone, from the passage.
“What do you mean by ‘come now’? Do you think I didn’t see the way you
cackled?”
“What are you hanging about here for?” interposed the steward, glancing
at the lad, as he carried to the miller a tray with lemonade. “You’ve no
business here. Be off!”
“Where am I to go?”
“Be off, I tell you! You’ve smashed all the doors here! Get along with
you!”
The lad reluctantly lounged up the stairs, but instead of going away,
sat down on the top step.
“I should like to hear,” said one of the officers, “what had become of
your apothecary.”
The narrator drank some lemonade, wiped his beard and moustache, and
continued—
“The apothecary? He was in a bad way. The poor fellow was tearing along
the post-road with express horses. They rushed him along like mad, and
he didn’t know himself what for! ‘What it was all about,’ said he, ‘I
can’t make out. I can’t understand anything about it.’ Those are the
very words he said to me afterwards.... ‘When I got to Moscow,’ said he,
‘I went and took lodgings, and settled my business, and bought some
things, and made the pills’; but something or other kept him, so that he
couldn’t come to the tavern to meet me. He missed seeing me, and he
hadn’t got my address; so he packed up the box of pills, and wrote my
name on the packet, thinking he’d send them off next day. Just as he had
finished doing that—it was in the evening time—one of his friends came
in and said—
“‘Let’s go and hear the harp-playing girls outside the town.’
“‘All right.’
“So they took a _drozhki_, and off they went. Well, of course they took
some of these sewing-girls with them for company, as any bachelors
would.... So they drank, and larked about, and enjoyed themselves; and
my apothecary came home as drunk as a lord. As soon as he got in, he
just threw himself down on his bed and snored. All of a sudden some one
began banging and hammering at the door as hard as they could; and as
tight as he was, it woke him up. Well, he woke up and opened the door;
and in came that very same Mediterranean squadron.[54]
“‘Come with us, please.’
“‘Where to?’
“‘You’ll see.’
“‘But why, for mercy’s sake? What about?’
“‘You’ll know when you get there.’
“My apothecary began blustering at them in his tipsy way; but they only
told him, ‘It’ll be the worse for you; you’d better come quietly.’ So
there was nothing for it; he had to dress and go. He thought he’d best
hide those pills before he started; but they asked him—
“‘What’s that parcel?’
“‘That?’ says he; oh, that’s nothing!’
“They saw he wanted to hide something from them, and caught hold of the
parcel; but he was afraid to let them have it. Supposing any one should
analyze the pills!... There was poison in them, and his name was written
on the box. ‘And I was afraid,’ he told me afterwards, ‘to leave them in
the lodgings either. Supposing anybody should take a fancy to them and
swallow them, there’d be the devil to pay then!’ So he tried to hide the
box up his sleeve; but they didn’t give him the chance. The end of it
was that one of his visitors hit him on the shoulder, and the box
tumbled out of his sleeve; and they picked it up, and marched him away.
They took him to their central office; and in less than half-an-hour’s
time some one came up to him, asked his name, bundled him into a
_troika_,[55] and—off!”
“What a disgraceful business! How could such a thing happen?” exclaimed
one of the officers. “It must have been some absurd mistake.”
“Of course it was a mistake! Things like that always are mistakes. But
who it was that made the mistake, that we don’t know to this day.”
“But no doubt it was afterwards proved to have been all nonsense.”
“Certainly; the truth came out, never fear. Everything was made clear
enough afterwards, though even now we don’t understand anything about
it.... My poor apothecary couldn’t make out what it was all about. He
only just felt for his liver, to see if they hadn’t squashed it to
pieces; and as for me, when I came to my senses, I couldn’t make head or
tail of the whole thing....”
“And how was it all explained?”
“Listen then; I’ll tell you all as it happened.... What they did with
me, and where they put me, after that fight, I really can’t rightly tell
you. I can only say one thing: I suffered enough from mortal fear,
that’s true, but they didn’t do me any harm; I’m bound to say they
treated me kindly and politely, and altogether like real gentlemen.... I
thought it would be worse; but instead of that they soon began to look
into it, and clear matters up.”
“That’s just what I say,” interposed the steward; “they should have
looked into it first, and not go hitting people right and left.”
“You’re right there,” assented the narrator; “and it all turned out as
you say.... When they called me up before the Member[56]—and there I was
with my broken head all tied up in wet rags—he asked me—
“‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’
“‘Why, your Excellency,’ says I, ‘they knocked me about so!’
“‘What!’ he cried; ‘how dare they? On what ground?’
“So I told him they said they’d got a paper.
“‘Oh, the scoundrels!’ and you should have heard him give it to them! He
pitched into them hot and strong; and at last he turned round to me and
said—
“‘Just tell me what this is;’ and he showed me the box of pills.
“At first I wouldn’t let on that I knew anything about it, because I
wasn’t sure what might be up. I thought to myself, ‘How should I know?
Maybe the apothecary’s got into some mess or other. These are dangerous
times; I may get into trouble if I say I know him.’ So I said, ‘I don’t
know anything about it.’ Then he asked me, ‘Don’t you know a person
named Làptev?’ (Làptev was the apothecary’s name, you know.) And I said
again, ‘No, I don’t!’ Then he pulled out the canvas that the box of
pills was done up in, and showed it to me, and there was written on the
canvas—
“‘_Ivàn Ivànovich Popòv. Packet from Làptev; price 1 rouble._’
“‘You are Popòv, aren’t you?’ says he.
“‘Yes.’
“‘And the packet is to you?’
“‘It must be.’
“‘Then you must know Làptev?’
“I saw I’d put my foot in it, and so I told him—
“‘Very sorry, your Excellency—yes, I know him.’
“‘Why didn’t you say so at once?’
“‘I was afraid to, your Excellency.’
“‘What were your afraid of?’
“‘I don’t know.’
“‘That’s odd!’
“‘I’m afraid of everything, your Excellency! They nearly killed me, and
for the life of me I can’t make out why!’
“Well, when I said that he began to laugh, and said—
“‘Don’t you be afraid; just tell me the truth.’
“‘I’ll tell everything I know,’ said I. And he asked me—
“‘What did you want with poisoned pills?’
“‘Poisoned! Which way poisoned?’
“‘Why, there’s poison enough in those pills to kill a man! A man! They
would kill a horse! What did you want with them?’
“‘I take them,’ said I; ‘my stomach’s out of order.’
“‘But they’re poison!’
“‘Not a bit of it! The Lord forbid! I’ve got into the way of it, little
by little, and they do me nothing but good.’
“‘H’m! And who made them?’
“‘The apothecary, my friend.’
“‘Tell me all about it.’
“So I told him all I knew. I said—
“‘He promised to bring me the pills at Patrìkyev’s tavern, and he never
came; and I don’t know where he went.’
“‘And where’s your apothecary now?’
“‘That,’ said I, ‘is more than I can tell your Excellency.’
“Well, he thought and thought, and he poked and poked over his papers;
and then he rang the bell. And presently they brought in a young man;
and his Excellency asked me—
“‘Is this the gentleman who made your pills?’
“I looked at him, but it was quite a strange man.
“‘No, sir,’ said I; ‘I never saw the gentleman in my life.’ And the
young man said the same thing. They showed him the pills, and he looked
at them, and said—
“‘I don’t understand anything about it.’
“So then his Excellency poked and poked over the papers, and then he
rang the bell, and whispered with somebody, and then with somebody else,
and then he sent away the young man; and at last he said to me—
“‘Yes, there’s been a mistake; I hope you will not take it amiss.’
“‘God bless me!’ said I; ‘I’m glad enough to be alive!’
“‘You see,’ said he, ‘it was this way: we’ve got another Làptev, the
young man you just saw; and he’s concerned in a very bad business. We
thought that he had made those pills. And when the doctors declared that
they were poison, we thought of course there might be.... Then, you see,
the box was addressed in your name, and so we sent word to have you
arrested, ... and those blockheads of gendarmes went and played the very
deuce.’
“‘Yes, indeed, your Excellency,’ said I; ‘I shan’t forget it in this
life.’
“‘Well, really, you see, it can’t be helped; they’re stupid, ignorant
men, and you know yourself what dangerous times we live in nowadays.’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘God knows the times are bad enough!’
“Well, so after that I felt a bit encouraged; and I asked him—
“‘Please, your honour, where is my apothecary?’
“‘That’s just the very thing I’ve got to find out,’ said he. ‘There
seems to have been another mistake made over him.’ And he began telling
me about it. ‘There must have been a muddle at the head office.... This
young man’s name is Làptev too, and he was to be forwarded on; and it
seems that, instead of him, they forwarded on your apothecary....
However, all that will be put straight.’
“‘And what’s to happen to me now,’ said I, ‘if you please?’
“‘You may go.’
“‘Go quite away?’
“‘Wherever you like. It was nothing but an absurd mistake.’”
“Why, yes, of course,” remarked the officer in a dignified manner, but
in a certain tone of relief; “that was to be expected.”
“Yes,” continued the narrator; “‘a mistake,’ says he. ‘Ah, well,’
thought I to myself, ‘may the Lord be praised for that.’ I just gathered
up my coat-tails, and off I went—it was after dark—to the railway
station. And when I got to that cursed town of ours, I drove through it
hiding my face, and went straight to my own farmhouse. I didn’t even go
into the new house; and to this day I don’t care to live in it, as I
hope to be saved! If anybody cared to buy it of me, I’d sell it at their
own price. Well, I got to the farm, and shut myself up under lock and
key, and wouldn’t let the workmen or clerks or any one come near me; I
wouldn’t even have my wife and children about me. I couldn’t come to
myself after it all; I wasn’t fit for anything; it seemed as if I
couldn’t move a limb. I just ate and slept, ate and slept; that was all
I cared to do.”
“That’s the way you took your recreation, I suppose,” asked one of the
skinflints.
“You’re in too much of a hurry—recreation! Just hear what happened
next.”
“You don’t mean to say anything more happened?” asked the officer.
“Oh, dear me! yes. You see, it was always one mistake after another; and
we never could get to the root of the thing. You’ll see how it all came
out at last.”
“And where was the apothecary?”
“You’ll hear; only I must tell you from the beginning. The apothecary’ll
turn up if you wait a bit. Well, you see, I stopped at the farm a month,
eating and sleeping, and unstiffening my joints in the bath; and I left
the house in town to my nephew to look after; and, my word, he did give
those scoundrels a lesson! He’s the lad to make the sparks fly! But all
that doesn’t belong to the story. Well, as I said, I stopped there a
month, resting and coming to my senses, when one day, who should come
riding up but a mounted gendarme! My heart just leaped into my mouth!
Lord have mercy upon us sinners! What could it be? He handed me a
paper—a summons to appear in court ‘What for?’—‘It says there.’—So I
read the paper; it was a summons to appear and answer for insulting the
police in the discharge of their duty. Very good; I read it, and signed
my name. But it just made my heart burn—that was really _too_ much of a
good thing! What sort of duty do they call that? I’m hit over the head,
and I’m responsible! I can’t see much duty in promiscuous fisticuffing.
‘No, no, my friends,’ thought I to myself, ‘I’ve had enough of this;
you’ve played your little game, and that’ll do. If his Excellency
himself took my part, and let me go free as an innocent man, you needn’t
think you can get the better of me, not a bit of it!’ I had a _troika_
harnessed at once, went straight to the town, and telegraphed to Moscow
for an advocate: ‘_Fisticuffing_ versus _Fisticuffing_. _Prosecution.
Will pay 1,000 roubles._’ And a fine kettle of fish they got ready! So
when the trial was to be, I went to Moscow with my wife. We got to the
court quite early, before nine in the morning; and the trial wasn’t to
begin till twelve; so we sat down in the porch to wait. All of a sudden
up comes my apothecary. He came along dragging one foot after the other,
all thin and shabby, for all the world like a beggar.—‘Where have you
come from?’ I asked him.—‘That’s more than I know myself; my health’s
gone to pieces; I’ve got rheumatism in both my legs; I’m half dead.’—And
it was quite true; he had a cough, and couldn’t get his breath. He sat
down on the step with us, and I said to him: ‘Well, well, friend! your
pills have cost me something; I shall remember them, never fear!’—‘D’you
think they didn’t cost _me_ anything?’ says he.—And so he told me how it
had all happened: how he missed me at the tavern, and all that I told
you before. ‘To this day,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got back the use of my
arm, since they hit me on the shoulder when they took away the pills,’
[Illustration:
“HE CAME ALONG DRAGGING ONE FOOT AFTER ANOTHER.”
]
“‘But why didn’t you give up the pills?’
“‘I was afraid to; they were illegal pills. I made them for you, as a
friend, because I know your temperament.’
So then I asked him how did the whole thing happen; and he told me—
“‘That’s just what I can’t make out for the life of me. They tore off
with me to the other end of the world; and then there came a telegram:
‘_Send him back; its the wrong man._’ So they brought me back; and I
began asking at the head office what it was all about. They poked and
muddled and fussed over their papers, and at last they got to the root
of the whole matter. And what do you think it was? What do you suppose
was the cause of it all?’
“‘How should I know? I’ve hardly got to the bottom of my own case yet.’
‘Well,’ says he, ‘it was all because of that scoundrel Lipàtkin.’
“Lipàtkin, I must tell you, is a shopkeeper in our town; he’s just a
regular bloodsucker, and nothing else. So I asked him what Lipàtkin
could have to do with it; and he said—
“‘When I had the business at Sousàlov, I hired rooms from him, and it
was in the contract that I should repair the roof. Well, if you
remember, I didn’t get on; and so I left the town and didn’t repair the
roof, because, you see, as I had paid beforehand, and went away four
months before the time was up, I didn’t see that I was bound to do it. I
gave up my business, and off I went. But old Lipàtka[57] thought he’d
screw some money out of me; so he hunted up some pettifogging notary and
scribbled off a complaint to the Medical Department at St. Petersburg,
asking to have apothecary so-and-so forced to pay, and all the rest of
it. Well, in the Medical Department they didn’t take the trouble to go
into it; they just wrote off to the administration in my province. And
when it got to the head office of the province, they mixed up one paper
with another; and they wrote to the district office: ‘_Summon the
apothecary to explain_.’ So when the paper got to the district, I wasn’t
there, so they set to work and made up a third paper: ‘_Find and forward
apothecary_.’ And off they sent it to Moscow. So in Moscow they hunted
me up. As soon as ever I got to Moscow and handed in my passport to the
police, of course they nabbed me. Well, then, of course there were those
unlucky pills; they wanted to take them away, and I wouldn’t give them
up, and tried to hide them. And so they began to suspect all sorts of
things. And at last they got so muddled at the head office that they
mixed everything up together, and somehow the devil got into the thing.
And now that I’ve gone back to my lodgings, all my luggage is stolen,
and I don’t know what on earth I am to do.’
“So I asked him what he was there for; and he said—
“‘Why, to answer that old bloodsucker’s summons.’
“‘About the roof?’
“‘Yes; still that confounded roof. He wants thirty-four and a half
roubles; but I shan’t give him a penny. And I shall call him up for the
four months’ over-payment. I’ve begun a counter-suit against him. Two
can play at that game, my fine fellow! I’ve dug a little pit too! When
they’ve heard both our cases, you’d better come to my lodgings to rest.’
“Well, the law-suits began. First of all they heard the case of the
apothecary and Lipàtkin, and found for the apothecary, and Lipàtkin
didn’t get a penny. So when that was done, they took up my case. Dear
heart! what a business it was! I can tell you my great gun of a counsel
hit the right nail on the head; he didn’t leave them a leg to stand on.
At last the public prosecutor got up and said—‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s no
use; I give it up.’ But mine never stopped; he just went on hammering
and blazing, and letting off fireworks at them; and the end of it was
they all got up and said: ‘He’s innocent!’ And there you are.”
“There’s a statute about that,” interrupted one of the skinflints: ‘_In
cases of reciprocal fisticuffing and mutual personal insults, all
parties are innocent._’
“That’s just it. ‘You’re innocent,’ said they, ‘because the fisticuffing
was reciprocal. You can go home.’ So we went out into the street, all
the lot of us: the Mediterranean squadron, and the carpenters, and the
doorkeepers, and I; and there we stood in the street, fifty or sixty of
us, like so many green geese. You see, it was a bit strange; we’d been
banging and slashing at each other like the biggest blackguards you
could find; and here we come out as innocent as new-born babes. So there
we stood on the pavement, as dumb as any stocks and stones. All of a
sudden up comes that knave Rodiòn, with his cap off.”
“‘I’ve come to ask your honour’s pardon.’
“‘I should just think you had, after what you’ve done, you blockhead!’
“‘Well, I don’t know, sir.... We were told to let the police know,
because there was one of those papers. People like us only have to do as
we are told.... Just pass it over this once, sir, and take me on
again.... The Lord will reward you for it.... It’s very hard on a poor
man; it all comes upon us.’ Of course as soon as Rodiòn had done, a
carpenter began—‘Forget and forgive, sir....’ You know yourself the
times are so bad nowadays.... What could we do, when they said to us:
“Mind you watch him carefully; he’s mixed up in a bad business!” ‘Don’t
take it ill, sir.’... ‘So it was you, was it, you blockhead,’ I asked,
‘that got me into trouble?’ ‘If you please, sir, it was all of us. But,
if you please, sir, it seems to me that we’re pretty well quits; for
you’ve got a good-sized fist of your own, and you let us know it.’—Well,
as soon as the carpenter had done, the gendarmes began: ‘It was all a
misunderstanding; we’re very sorry.’ So I told them: ‘It’s all very well
to be sorry; but what did you give me so many bruises for?’ ‘Well,’ said
one, ‘you laid my cheek open.’ And then another put in: ‘We only obeyed
orders; we had a telegram.... And you knocked me down, you know.... It
was nothing but a misunderstanding.... We always.... As you’re a
householder we’re very sorry....’ Then it was just the same with the
apothecary; Lipàtkin came up and said: ‘Let’s make it up; don’t go to
law against me.’ And the clerk of the police-station began excusing
himself: ‘You know what troubled times we have nowadays! If a fellow has
to sit the whole day long, from morning till night, writing _Instantly_,
and _Apprehend_, and _Produce_, it’s not much wonder if he makes a
mistake.... Such dangerous times!’... And they all came swarming round
me together: ‘Such terrible times nowadays.... If it wasn’t for the
times.... We’re very.... With the utmost respect.... Nothing but a
mistake.’ And bless you! _I_ understood that the blockheads only wanted
to be treated all round! You see, they’d all been so very painstaking;
and nobody was guilty; and yet there was no drink going! They thought I
ought to have a glass with them. ‘No, no! my fine fellows,’ says I, ‘if
you weren’t such a set of dunderheads and blundering asses the times
wouldn’t be so dangerous. And the times would be very different too, if
all you knaves had got a bit of conscience between the lot of you.’ And
I just walked away with the apothecary; and not a drop of drink did any
of them get.”
“Is that all?” asked the steward.
“Why, heart alive! isn’t it enough?”
_THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT._
BY “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).
[Illustration]
One day, a rabbit incurred the displeasure of a wolf. You see, he was
running along not far from the wolf’s lair, and the wolf saw him, and
called out: “Little bunny! Stop a minute, dear!” But the rabbit, instead
of stopping, ran on faster than ever. So the wolf, with just three
bounds, caught him, and said—
“Because you did not stop when I first spoke, this is the sentence I
pronounce: I condemn you to death by dismemberment. But, as I have dined
to-day, and my wife has dined, and we have stored up food enough to last
us five days, you sit down under this bush and wait your turn. Then
perhaps—ha! ha! ha!—I will pardon you!”
So the rabbit sat on his haunches under the bush, and never moved. He
thought of only one thing—how many days, how many hours would pass
before he must die. He looked towards the lair, and saw the glittering
eyes of the wolf watching him. And sometimes it was still worse; the
wolf and his wife would come out into the field, and stroll up and down
close by him. They would look at him, and the wolf would say something
to his wife in wolf language, then they would burst out laughing, “Ha!
ha! ha!...” And all the little wolf-cubs would come with them, and run
up to him in play, rub their heads against him, gnash their teeth....
And the poor rabbit’s heart fluttered and bounded.
Never had he loved life so well as now. He was a highly respectable
rabbit, and had chosen for a bride the daughter of a widowed
lady-rabbit. At the moment when the wolf caught him by the neck, he was
just running to his betrothed.
And now she, his betrothed, would wait, and think, “My squint-eyed one
has forsaken me!” Or perhaps—perhaps she has waited—waited ... and loved
another, ... and ... Or it may be ... she, too, ... playing, poor child,
among the bushes, caught by a wolf!...
Tears almost choked the poor fellow at this thought. “And this is the
end of all my warrens in the air! I, that was about to marry, had bought
the samovar already, looked forward to the time when I should drink tea
with sugar in it with my young wife,—and now, instead, what has befallen
me!... How many hours now till death?”...
One night he fell asleep where he sat. He dreamed that the wolf had
appointed him his special commissioner, and while he was absent,
performing his duties, the wolf paid visits to his lady-rabbit....
Suddenly he felt some one touching his side; he awoke, and saw the
brother of his betrothed.
“Your bride is dying,” said he. “She heard of your misfortune, and sank
at once under the blow. Her one thought now is, ‘Must I die thus, and
not say farewell to my beloved?’”
At these words the condemned one felt as though his heart would burst.
Oh, why! How had he deserved his bitter fate? He had lived honestly, he
had never stirred up revolutions, had never gone about with firearms, he
had attended to his business—and must he die for that? Death! Oh, think
what that word means! And not he alone must die, but she too, his little
grey maiden-rabbit, whose only crime was that she had loved him, her
squint-eyed one, with all her heart! Oh, if he could, how he would fly
to her, his little grey love, how he would clasp his fore-paws behind
her ears, and caress her, and stroke her little head!
“Let us escape,” said the messenger.
At these words the condemned one was for a moment as if transformed. He
shrank up altogether, and laid his ears along his back. He was just
ready to spring, and leave not a trace behind. But at that moment he
glanced at the wolf’s lair. The rabbit heart throbbed with anguish.
“I can’t,” he said; “the wolf has not given me permission.”
All this time the wolf was looking on and listening, and whispering
softly in wolf language with the she-wolf. No doubt they were praising
the rabbit’s noble-mindedness.
“Let us escape,” said the messenger once more.
“I can’t,” repeated the condemned.
“What treason are you muttering there?” suddenly snarled the wolf.
The rabbits stood as petrified. Now the messenger was lost too. To
incite a prisoner to flight—is that permitted? Ah! the little grey
maiden-rabbit will lose both lover and brother; the wolf and the
she-wolf will tear them both in pieces.
When the rabbits came to their senses, the wolf and the she-wolf were
gnashing their teeth before them, and in the darkness their eyes shone
like lamps.
“Your Excellency, it was nothing: we were just talking; ... a neighbour
came to visit me,” stammered the condemned, half dead with terror.
“Nothing! I dare say! I know you! Butter won’t melt in your mouths!
Speak the truth. What is it all about?”
“It’s this way, your Excellency,” interposed the bride’s brother. “My
sister, his betrothed, is dying, and asks, may he not come to say
farewell to her?”
“H’m! It’s right that a bride should love her betrothed,” said the
she-wolf. “That means that they will have a lot of little ones, and
there will be more food for wolves. The wolf and I love each other, and
we have a lot of cubs. Ever so many are grown up, and now we have four
little ones. Wolf! wolf! shall we let him go to take leave of his
betrothed?”
“But we were to have eaten him the day after to-morrow——”
“I will come back, your Excellency. I’ll go like a flash; I—indeed....
Oh, as God is holy, I’ll come back!” hurriedly exclaimed the condemned.
And, in order to convince the wolf that he _could_ move like a flash, he
sprang up with such agility that even the wolf looked at him admiringly,
and thought—
“Ah! if only my soldiers were like that.”
And the she-wolf became quite sad, and said—
“See that, now! A rabbit, and how he loves his she-rabbit.”
There was nothing for it; the wolf consented to let the rabbit go on
_parole_ with the stipulation that he should return exactly at the
appointed time. And he kept the bride’s brother as hostage.
“If you are not back the day after to-morrow by six in the morning,” he
said, “I’ll eat him instead of you; then if you come I’ll eat you too;
perhaps, though, I’ll—ha! ha!—pardon you!”
The squint-eyed one darted off like the arrow from the bow. The very
earth quivered as he ran. If a mountain barred his way, he simply dashed
at it; if a river, he never stopped to look for a ford, but swam
straight across; if a marsh, he sprang from tuft to tuft of grass. Not
easy work! To get right across country, and go to the bath, and be
married (“I will certainly be married!” he kept repeating to himself),
and get back in time for the wolfs breakfast....
Even the birds wondered at his swiftness, and remarked—
“Yes, the _Moscow Gazette_ says that rabbits have no souls, only a kind
of vapour, and there it goes.”
At last he arrived. Tongue cannot speak, neither can pen write the
rapture of that meeting. The little grey maiden-rabbit forgot her
sickness at the sight of her beloved. She stood up on her hind paws, put
a drum upon her head, and with her fore-paws beat out the “Cavalier
March”; she had been practising it as a surprise for her betrothed. And
the widowed lady-rabbit completely lost her head with joy; she thought
no place good enough for her future son-in-law to sit in, no food good
enough to give him. Then the aunts and cousins and neighbours came
running from all sides, overjoyed to see the bridegroom, and perhaps,
too, to taste the good cheer.
The bridegroom alone was not like himself. While still embracing his
betrothed, he suddenly exclaimed—
“I must go to the bath, and then be married at once.”
“Why should you be in such a hurry?” asked the mother rabbit, smiling.
“I must go back. The wolf only gave me leave of absence for one day.”
Then he told them all, and his bitter tears flowed as he spoke. It was
hard to go, and yet he must not stay. He had given his word, and to a
rabbit his word is law. And all the aunts and cousins declared with one
voice: “Thou speakest truth, oh squint-eyed one. Once given, the spoken
word is holy. Never in all our tribe was it known that a rabbit was
false to his word!”
A tale is soon told, but a rabbit’s life flies faster still. In the
morning they greeted the squint-eyed one, and before evening came he
parted from his young wife.
“Assuredly the wolf will eat me,” he said. “Therefore be thou faithful
to me. And if children shall be born to thee, educate them strictly;
best of all, apprentice them in a circus; there they will be taught not
only to beat the drum, but also to shoot peas from a pop-gun.”
Then suddenly, as though lost in thought, he added, remembering the
wolf—
“It may be, though, that the wolf will—ha! ha!—pardon me!”
And that was the last of him they saw.
* * * * *
Meantime, while the squint-eyed one was making merry and getting
married, great misfortunes were happening in the tract of country which
divided him from the wolfs lair. In one place heavy rains had fallen, so
that the river, which the rabbit swam across so easily the day before,
overflowed and inundated ten versts of ground. In another place King
Aaron declared war against King Nikìta, and a battle was pitched right
in the rabbit’s path. In a third place the cholera appeared, so that
quarantine was established for a hundred versts round. And, besides all
that, wolves, foxes, owls—they seemed to lie in wait at every step.
The squint-eyed one was prudent; he had so calculated his time as to
leave himself three hours extra; but when one hindrance after another
beset him his heart sank. He ran without stopping all the evening, half
the night; the stones cut his feet, the fur on his sides hung in ragged
tufts, torn by the thorny branches, a mist covered his eyes, blood and
foam fell from his mouth,—and still he had so far to go! And his friend,
the hostage, haunted him constantly, as though alive before him. Now he
stands like a sentinel in front of the wolfs lair, thinking: “In so many
hours my dear brother-in-law will return to deliver me.”... When the
rabbit thought of that, he darted on yet faster. Mountains, valleys,
forests, marshes—it was all the same to him. Often he felt as though his
heart would break; then he would crush it down, by sheer force of will,
that fruitless emotion might not distract him from his great aim. He had
no time now for sorrow or tears: he must think of nothing but how to
tear his friend from the wolf’s jaws.
And now the day began to break. The owls and bats slipped into their
hiding-places; the air became chilly. Suddenly all grew silent, like
death. And still the squint-eyed one fled on and on, with the one
thought ever in his heart: “Shall I come too late to save my friend?”
The east grew red; first on the far horizon the clouds were faintly
tipped with fire; then it spread and spread, and suddenly—a flame. The
dew flashed on the grass, the birds awoke, the ants and worms and
beetles began to move, a light smoke rose from somewhere; through the
rye and oats a whisper seemed to pass—clearer, clearer.... But the
squint-eyed one saw nothing, heard nothing, only murmured to himself
again and again: “I have destroyed my friend,—destroyed my friend!”
At last, a hill! Beyond that was a marsh, and in the marsh the wolf’s
lair.... Too late, oh squint-eyed one, too late!...
With one last effort he put forth all his remaining strength, and
bounded to the top of the hill. But he could go no further; he was
sinking from exhaustion. And must he fail now?...
The wolf’s lair lay before him as on a map. Somewhere far off six
o’clock struck from a church steeple, and every stroke of the bell beat
like a hammer on the heart of the agonized creature. At the last stroke
the wolf rose from his lair, stretched himself, and wagged his tail for
pleasure. Then he went up to the hostage, seized him in his fore-paws,
and stuck the claws into his body, in order to tear him in two halves,
one for himself, the other for his wife. And the wolf-cubs surrounded
their father and mother, gnashing their teeth and looking on....
“I am here!—Here!” shrieked the squint-eyed one, like a hundred thousand
rabbits at once; and he flung himself down from the hill into the marsh.
And the wolf praised him.
“I see,” he said, “that a rabbit’s word can be trusted. And now, my
little dears, this is my command: Sit, both of you, under this bush, and
wait till I am ready, and afterwards I will ... ha! ha! ... pardon you!”
_CHOIR PRACTICE._
[Illustration]
BY
V. A. SLYEPTZÒV.
At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s
house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into
the ante-room, which contained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a
fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were
flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a
sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub
their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the
choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an
expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his
dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers
rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one
tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a
piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a
violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the
Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was
crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed,
the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the
singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down
silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every
time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the
ante-room, the choir-master would ask—
“Now, are you all here?”
Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—
“Not yet, sir.”
“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are
dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys.
The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing
tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down
the room talking together softly.
“Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?”
“All here, Ivàn Stepànych,”
“Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s _Credo_.”
The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their
trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who
served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music.
The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to
finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each
other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master
scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear
of him.
“Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the
choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through _The Gates of Mercy_
with the trebles?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to
speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings
so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the
others out.”
“Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy;
I shall have to take you in hand soon!”
Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and
steadily perused his music.
“Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting
down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that
you?—For shame!”
“It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I
was advised to rub them with spirits.”
“Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“H’m, so I see.... Your face looks drunk enough.”
“No, sir ... indeed....”
“There, there! Never mind! Gentlemen, you’re placed all wrong! Basses,
don’t you know you have to stand by the stove?”
The basses sullenly went across to the stove.
“And you, Pàvel Ivànych? One might as well talk to a baby as to you, for
all the notice you take!”
Pàvel Ivànych, a gloomy, unshaven, deep-bass singer, stared meditatively
at the ceiling.
“Pàvel Ivànych!”
“What?”
“What did I say to you?—And all you answer is, ‘What?’ Confound it all,
man, where’s your place?”
Pàvel Ivànych gazed meditatively at his music, and never moved.
“Ivàn Stepànych, Pètka’s hitting me,” whimpered an alto.
“Pètka!”
“Ivàn Stepànych, I didn’t——”
“Hold your tongue before I come and make you. Now, then!”
The choir-master struck several chords.
“Now listen! You all begin _piano_: ‘_I believe in one God the Father
Almighty_,’ ... recitative, you know; and mind every word is clear. The
basses must get their vowels out well.... Pàvel Ivànych! Where are you
looking?”
“I?”
“No, I, of course! What do you suppose I’m talking to you for? Oh! good
heavens, what a life! Well now, you begin piano; and, trebles, mind you
don’t drag! Do you hear? ‘_By whom all things were made!_’ All the parts
break up here! _Sforzando: ‘By whom all things!_’ ... D’you understand?
Pètka, look at me! ‘_And the third day He rose again, according to the
Scriptures._’... _Forte._ ‘_And sitteth on the right hand._’ ...
_Fortissimo._... Do you understand what it means? Do you? ‘_From thence
He shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the
dead._’... Think what it means—the earth, the heavens, everything, going
to dust ... and the last trumpet,—lightning,—thunder,—everything
annihilated!... ‘_Whose kingdom shall have no end._’... At ‘end’ you
have another _diminuendo_, and let the voices die away. You have to
express all that great—how do you call it?—wisdom, and power, and
eternity, ... don’t you see? Basses lead. Bring out all the tone you
can; it wants to be like three hundred voices here! Tenors, change tone;
take the octave! Trebles and altos: tra-la-la-la-la.... Stop!”
The choir-master had got so absorbed in describing how the Creed ought
to be sung, that he had started up from the piano, and, imagining that
it was really being sung as he said, began gesticulating and excitedly
nudging the tenors, who edged away as far as they could. The basses,
meanwhile, were taking snuff indifferently, while the trebles and altos,
hiding their faces behind their music, were pinching each other and
giggling. At last the singing began in good earnest; they all coughed,
shuffled their feet, mumbled a little, and suddenly burst out in a roar:
“_I believe in one God the Father Almighty._”... The choir-master stood
in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, nodding
his head and beating time with his hand.
“Stop! Stop! Not that way!”
The singing broke off.
“What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what
did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev,
where are you looking? And you a clerical![58] How can you behave so?”
Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in
disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer.
“It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of
notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children,
I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of
your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to
the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses.
Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible.
“What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and,
basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the
singers began once more: “_I believe._”...
“Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us
all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!”
“_Very God of Very God, begotten, not made._”...
“_Legato!_ Hold the note.... Break off! Basses, _crescendo_.... Ivàn
Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘_By whom all things were made._’... What
do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; what _am_ I to do with you? Look
this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look at _me_;
there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately,
tapping the music.
The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to
lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which
instantly resulted in a quarrel.
“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with
Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”
“Mìtka!”
“Yes, sir!”
“What are you doing?”
“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.
“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I
won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a
dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing
comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my
pipe!”
Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up
his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and,
of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little
groups and talked.
“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit
of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he
is!”
In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.
“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses
was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore.
First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass,
then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I
got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with
the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us
in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got
on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘_Give ear_’ as high as
he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for
nothing;—so when we started ‘_Glory be to Thee_’ a whole tone lower, he
was just done for. ‘_For ever and ev_——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get
a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he
stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and
crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh,
and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came
up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’ll serve
you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”
“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.
“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’
So you see, we can do as we like.”
“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice.
“Koulìkov! ‘_We sing to Thee._’ Trebles hold your tongues!”
The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took
his place at the piano.
“Do—mi—la. _Pianissimo._ One!”
“_We sing to Thee, we bless_——”
“Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of
thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv,
what are you doing?”
Skvortzòv meditated.
“What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.”
“What are you singing?”
“Sing to Thee——”
“And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!”
Skvortzòv smiled.
“What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the
first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How
many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels
properly. ‘_Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!_’ You always make it sound
like, ‘_Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!_’ What sort of music do you
call that? Begin again. ‘_We give thanks to Thee._’ Tenors, just touch
the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook.
Trebles, die away.”
At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the
trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note
and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst
of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of
the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way
disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing.
[Illustration:
“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”
]
“_And we worship Thee_,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces
they could put on.
“_Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd_,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and
wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail.
“_And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee_,” bellowed, like an ophicleide,
the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and
looking ready to tear some one in pieces.
At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off
again.
“Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted.
The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a
long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face,
after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered
the conventional salutation: “My respects.”
“Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The
choir-master had suddenly become very amiable.
“Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I
not?”
“No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget
them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at
once, in a minute.”
The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in
his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed—
“Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——”
“Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,”
answered his wife.
“I didn’t invite him; he came.”
“There, there; get along with you.”
“Well, but, really, you might——”
“Shut up!”
“All right, I won’t, I won’t really.”
And the choir-master returned into the sitting-room, and sat down beside
the deacon.
“Well, Vasìli Ivànych, and how are you getting on?”
“Pretty middling, thank you,” answered the deacon, coughing.
“Won’t you really have a pipe?”
“No, thanks.”
“Ah, I forgot, you don’t smoke pipes; and I have no cigars. Dear, dear,
what a pity! And is your wife pretty well, and the children?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“That’s all right.”
“And how’s the reverend father?”
“The father? Oh, as usual, you know.”
“Not well?”
“He doesn’t like this place; there’s such a lot of work, and at his age
it’s hard.”
“Yes, yes, he’s getting on. Yes, it’s a pity.”
Silence.
“Won’t you have some whiskey?” suddenly asked the choir-master.
“Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.”
“As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.”
“Why should you—trouble?”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.”
The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat,
and carefully examined the ceiling.
“Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly.
There was no answer.
Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses
cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the
furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The
choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did
not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the
bedroom. There another whispered conversation began.
“Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress
upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey.
“There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to
get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?”
“Sh-sh! How am I trying to fool you? Can’t you see that my reputation
may suffer?”
“From the drink? Yes, I should think so. Be off with you—be off!”
“Now, really, Màshenka, do be reasonable.”
Presently the choir-master returned, and after him came the
maid-servant, carrying a tray with a decanter and a plate of cucumbers.
“Ah-h! Put it down here, my girl. Vasìli Ivànych, the first glass is
yours.”
“Won’t you drink too?”
“You first; you are a guest.”
“Properly, the master of the house ought to begin,” said the deacon,
modestly.
“No, no, you first, please. I’ll drink afterwards.”
“Well, if you will have it so....”
The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of
bread, and began upon a cucumber.
“Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring
himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t
you have another glass?”
“H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.”
“Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!”
“Well, then, you begin.”
And the former ceremony was gone through again.
“Your health!”
“Yours!”
The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the
cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired
bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their
minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted.
“Koulìkov!” said one.
“Well?”
“What time is mass to-morrow?”
“How should I know? What’s it to you?”
“Nothing.”
Another tenor was remarking to a friend—
“Look here, when you write out music, you ought to put the sharps
bigger. I always get wrong.”
“All right.”
“I shall go home and get to bed,” murmured one of the basses, yawning.
The boys in the ante-room had started some game there in the dark.
After the third glass the choir-master became sentimental and embraced
the deacon.
* * * * *
The whiskey was nearly all drunk—only two glassfuls were left. The
choir-master, holding on to the table with one hand and leaning against
the deacon, tried to snuff the candle, but could not. The deacon had got
upon his dignity, and would listen to nothing.
“Vasìli Ivànych! Vasìli Ivànych!” cried the choir-master, frowning.
“No, I won’t, then!” answered the irate deacon.
“Won’t you, my friend? Oho! Very well, you remember that. I’ll remind
you of it; I’ll remind you!” said the choir-master, threatening him with
something unknown. Then, seeing that his menaces had no effect, he
suddenly became affectionate. The deacon, pacified, drank another glass.
“There now! There’s a good fellow! Kiss me, old man, and let’s be
friends. You and I are both ... psalm singers.... We ought to be
friends ... eh?” said the choir-master, tapping the deacon on the chest.
“I’m not a common sort of man either, I can tell you; you needn’t mind
my looking a bit queer.... Just see what a wife I’ve got, eh? She’s a
civic councillor’s daughter. D’you understand that?”
“’Course I do ... ’tisn’t a syntax ... nothing much to understand.”
“Ah! I tell you that woman’s an angel. I’m not worthy of her. I feel
myself I’m not. I’ve held an officer’s rank for fifteen years, and I’ve
got a medal belonging to me, but all the same I’m not worth her little
finger.”
An angry murmur came from the bedroom.
“There! D’you hear? She’s angry. She doesn’t like to be praised before
people. She’s modest. I tell you I never saw any one so modest....
You’ll hardly believe it.... Why, sometimes, when we’re alone——”
The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening.
“Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering.
“Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened
husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....”
The deacon got up to go home.
“Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took
the deacon mysteriously into a corner.
“What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”
“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick.
She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own
money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out
of his waistcoat pocket.
“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”
The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the
choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.
“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a
slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you
know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”
Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for
the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and
basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer
desperation made up their minds to go home.
“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master,
with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his
subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the
table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light,
and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into
his mouth, without eating anything.
“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”
Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.
“Why?”
“Thanks, I won’t take any.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”
“N—no, I ... really——”
“Rubbish!”
“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”
“When?”
“More than a month ago.”
“As you like.”
Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make
fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a
condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous
symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audible
from the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the
singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down
the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded
remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the
candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s
eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured
him for the tenth time (_à propos_ of nothing) that his wife was an
angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The
conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and
the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and
that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to
demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been
kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more
went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.
“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the
choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.
“All that’s idle talk.”
“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is
my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ...
Fèkla!”
The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.
“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to
stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”
“Missis told me not.”
“Then you won’t go?”
“No, I won’t.”
“Then you’re a pig. I’ll go myself.”
“Go then! Missis’ll give you what for.”
However, after thinking it over, the choir-master decided not to go, and
only shouted at her:
“Be off with you! Yah! Scandalmonger!”
[Illustration:
“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”
]
The servant went away. Presently a third pint was brought in and the
basses and tenors once more crowded round the decanter. Suddenly the
choir-master quite unexpectedly sat down at the piano, struck a few
chords, and shouted: “Get to your places!” The sleepy boys came in from
the ante-room, and the whole choir stood in a crowd together.
“See, the light is dying,
See, the time is flying....”[59]
yelled the choir-master, hammering unmercifully on the keys.
“The lasses went to the fields to play,
Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]
bellowed the choir.
“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]
howled the tipsy deacon, swinging his legs under the table.
“In the name of law and order!” shrieked the choir-master. “Basses, out
with your tone! _Crescendo! Crescendo!_”
* * * * *
At about eleven o’clock at night the deacon was hunting for his galoshes
in the ante-room. For a long time he could not find them; at last he
stuck his foot into somebody’s cap, which happened to be lying on the
floor, and went home.
THE EAGLE
AS
MECÆNAS.
[Illustration]
A FABLE.
BY
“SHCHEDRÌN”
(SALTYKÒV).
A great deal is written by various poets about Eagles; and always in
praise of them. The Eagle has invariably a form of indescribable beauty,
piercing vision, and a majestic flight. In fact, he does not fly like
other birds, but “sails” or “soars” through the air; moreover, he can
gaze upon the sun and battle with the thunders. Some writers speak of
the magnanimity of his soul. For instance, if you want to write an ode
in praise of a policeman, it is quite essential to compare him to an
Eagle. Thus: “Like the majestic Eagle, Police-sergeant No. So-and-so
looked on the suspected person, seized him, heard his explanation, and
magnanimously pardoned him.”
I, personally, long cherished a belief in these panegyrics. I used to
think: After all, it really is a grand idea! “Seized him and ...
pardoned!” Pardoned! That was what really fascinated me. Whom did he
pardon? A mouse! A miserable mouse! And then I would rush off to some
one of my poetical friends to tell him of this new act of magnanimity on
the part of the Eagle. And my poetical friend would strike an attitude,
breathe hard for a moment, and then ... would become affected with the
sea-sickness of versification.
One day, though, the idea occurred to me: What did the Eagle “pardon” in
the mouse? All that the mouse had done was to run across the road on its
own private business; and the Eagle saw it, swooped, squeezed it half to
death, and ... pardoned it! Why in the world did the Eagle pardon the
mouse and not the mouse the Eagle?
Well, I began to look about me and take notice of things; and the more I
saw, the more muddled I got. There certainly was something askew about
the whole business. In the first place, it is evident that the Eagle
does not catch mice for the purpose of pardoning them. In the next
place, even if the Eagle did pardon the mouse, I cannot help thinking
that it would have been still better if he had taken no interest in its
affairs at all. And, finally, in the third place, granted he is an
Eagle—an Arch-eagle for that matter—all the same he’s a bird. Indeed, he
is so essentially a bird that, even for a policeman, a comparison with
him can be considered complimentary only in virtue of a
misunderstanding.
My present opinion concerning Eagles is as follows:—Eagles are
Eagles—and that is the long and short of the matter. They are simply
carnivora, birds of prey; but, it is true, they have this justification:
that Nature herself made them anti-vegetarians. As they are, moreover,
powerful, long-sighted, agile, and merciless, it is perfectly natural
that, whenever they appear, the entire feathered kingdom does its best
to hide itself away. This is simply the effect of terror, and not at all
of admiration, as the poets maintain. Eagles habitually live in solitary
and inaccessible places; never exchange bread-and-salt with any one;[60]
but live by robbery; and, when not engaged in burgling, go to sleep.
There turned up, however, a certain Eagle who grew sick of living in
solitude. So one day he said to his mate: “It’s a fearful bore to live
in this fashion, _tête-à-tête_; if one does nothing but gaze at the sun
the whole day long, it muddles one’s head.”
He set to work to meditate. The more he thought about it, the more it
seemed to him that it would be very nice to live as the landed
proprietors used to live in the old days. He could get a whole suite of
servants and be as happy as the day is long. The rooks would provide him
with scandal; the parrot would turn upside down and do tricks; the
magpie would cook his porridge; the robins would sing songs in praise of
him; the owls and night-jars would serve as watchmen and sentinels; and
the hawks and falcons would bring him food. For himself he would keep no
speciality but bloodthirstiness.
He thought and thought; and at last he made up his mind. One day he
called a hawk, a kite, and a falcon, and said to them—
“Collect for me a staff of servants, such as the old landlords used to
have; they will amuse me, and I will keep them in order. That will be
pleasant for me and good for them.”
[Illustration:
“THEY DROVE IN A WHOLE FLIGHT OF ROOKS.”
]
So the birds of prey flew off in all directions to fulfil the Eagle’s
commands. No one can say they dawdled over their business. First of all
they drove in a whole flight of rooks, registered their names, and gave
them out passports. The rook, you see, is a fertile bird, and puts up
with everything. Its best quality is that it admirably represents the
peasant class; and everybody knows that if once you have got the
peasants settled, all the rest is a matter of detail and quite easily
managed. And they certainly managed beautifully. The corn-crakes and
mud-suckers were trained for an orchestra; the parrots were dressed up
for acrobats; the white-feathered magpie, being a notorious thief, was
intrusted with the keys of the treasury; and the owls and night-jars
were put on duty as sentinels. In a word, the whole thing was arranged
in a manner that would have done credit to any nobleman’s establishment.
Even the cuckoo was not forgotten; employment was found for her as
fortune-teller to the female Eagle; and a foundling hospital was
instituted for orphan cuckoos.
But before the whole arrangement was fairly in working order the
managing directors realised that something was wanting. For a long time
they could not think what it could be; but at last they remembered that
in all high-class establishments Science and Art are supposed to be
represented, and they had made no provision for either the one or the
other. Three birds especially felt themselves aggrieved by this
omission—the robin, the woodpecker, and the nightingale.
The robin was a smart little soul and had practised whistling since his
fledgling days. He had received his earliest education in an
ecclesiastical school; then he had served as regimental clerk; and as
soon as he had learned the rules of correct punctuation he had begun to
edit, without preliminary censorship, a newspaper: _The Forest Gazette_.
But, somehow or other, he could never get it right: whenever he touched
upon a subject, it turned out to be taboo; whenever he refrained from
mentioning a subject, that subject particularly ought to have been
mentioned; and for all these mistakes he used to get hard knocks on his
poor little head. So at last he decided: “I will enter the service of
the Eagle; all I shall have to do will be to sing his praises every
morning; and no one will punish me for that.”
The thrush was a modest and studious person, who led a strictly solitary
life; he had no acquaintances (many even believed him to be a drunkard,
like all very learned persons), but would sit for whole days alone upon
a fir-branch, cramming up information. He managed to plod through a
perfect desert of historical investigations: “The Ancestral Records of a
Bogie,” “Was the old Woman who rode on a Broomstick married?” “What Sex
should be ascribed to Witches in the Register-Papers?” and so forth.
But, however hard the poor bird crammed, he could not find a publisher
for his pamphlets. At last it occurred to him too: “I’ll engage myself
as Court-Historiographer to the Eagle; perhaps he will print my
investigations in rook’s dung!”
As for the nightingale, he couldn’t complain of the cruelty of fate; he
sang so exquisitely that not only the mighty fir-trees, but even the
Moscow shopkeepers were quite touched when they heard him. All the world
adored him; all the world held its breath to listen when he poured out
torrents of divine song from among the branches of some silent grove.
But the nightingale was ambitious beyond measure, and desperately given
to falling in love. He was not content with making the forest ring with
his wild melodies, or filling sad hearts with the harmony of sound ...
he kept on thinking how the Eagle would hang round his neck a shining
chain of ants’ eggs, and decorate his breast with live beetles, and how
the female Eagle would appoint secret meetings with him by moonlight....
In short, all three birds gave the falcon no peace till he undertook to
speak on their behalf.
The Eagle listened attentively to the falcon’s assurances of the
necessity of encouraging science and art; but did not quite understand.
He sat sharpening his claws, and his eyes flashed back the sunlight like
polished gems. He had never seen a newspaper in his life; he had never
taken the slightest interest in either witches or the old woman who rode
on a broomstick; and about the nightingale he had only heard that it was
a little bit of a bird not worth soiling one’s beak over.
“I daresay you don’t even know that Buonaparte is dead,” said the
falcon.
“Who was Buonaparte?”
“There you are! And you certainly _ought_ to know about that. Supposing
visitors come and begin a polite conversation; they’ll say: ‘In
Buonparte’s days so-and-so happened’; and you’ll just have to sit and
blink your eyes. That won’t do.”
They called in the owl as adviser, and she agreed with the falcon that
science and art must be introduced into the establishment; for they
amuse Eagles, and it does ordinary mortals no harm to enjoy them from a
distance either. Knowledge is light, and ignorance is darkness. Any fool
knows how to eat and sleep; but just try and work out a problem; take
the one about the flock of geese, for instance, that’s a very different
matter. In the old days the clever landowners understood that; they knew
that forewarned was forearmed; they were sharp enough to see which side
their bread was buttered. Just take the case of the finch: all the
learning he has is how to draw water in a little bucket, and yet see
what a high price he fetches just for that one trick! “I,” concluded the
owl, “can see in the dark, and I am called wise for that; now, you can
stare at the sun for hours together without ever blinking; and all
people say about you is: ‘That Eagle’s a bit of a blockhead.’”
“Well, I have no objection to science,” said the Eagle, rather
snappishly.
No sooner said than done. On the next day the “Golden Age” began in the
Eagle’s establishment. The starlings set to work to learn by heart the
hymn: “Let our youth be fed with science”; the corn-crakes and
mud-suckers began practising the trumpet; the parrots invented new
tricks. A new tax was laid upon the rooks, to be called “Public
Instruction Tax.” A _Corps des Cadets_ was founded for fledgling falcons
and vultures; and an Academy of Science for owls. They even went the
length of buying a farthing alphabet apiece for the baby rooks. Last but
not least, the oldest patriarch among the starlings was appointed
poet-laureate, with the honorary title of “Vasìli Kirìlych
Trediakòvsky,”[61] and commanded to prepare for a public competition
with the nightingale, to be held on the next morning.
At last the great day dawned. The newly-elected flunkeys were admitted
into the presence of the Eagle, and the tournament of arts began.
The most successful competitor was the robin. Instead of reciting his
compliments, he read aloud an article, so clear and simple that even the
Eagle fancied he understood. The robin said that people ought to live in
happiness and prosperity; and the Eagle remarked, “Exactly so.” He said
that if he could make his paper sell properly he would be quite
indifferent to all other questions; and the Eagle repeated, “Exactly
so.” He said that the life of a servant is preferable to that of a
master; for the master has many responsibilities, whereas the servant
lives under his master’s protection, free from care; and the Eagle again
repeated, “Exactly so!” He said that, in the days when he kept a
conscience, he could not get a pair of trousers to wear, but, now that
he had got rid of his conscience, he was in the habit of putting on two
pair at once; and the Eagle once more repeated, “Exactly so!”
At last the Eagle began to get bored, and snappishly commanded: “The
next one.”
The woodpecker began by tracing the pedigree of the Eagle back to the
Sun, and the Eagle confirmed his statements with the remark: “That’s
just what I used to hear from poor papa.” According to the woodpecker,
the Sun had three children: two sons, the Lion and the Eagle; and one
daughter, the Shark. The Shark misconducted herself; and her father, as
a punishment, sent her to rule the depths of ocean; the Lion turned
aside from his father’s way, and the father made him ruler of the
deserts; but the Eagle was a son after his father’s heart, and the
father kept him nearest to himself and gave to him the realms of air for
a kingdom. But before the poor woodpecker had got through even the prosy
introduction to his history, the Eagle called out impatiently: “The next
one! The next one!”
[Illustration]
Then the nightingale began his song, and made a mess of it from the very
first note. He sang of the joy of the flunkey hearing that God has sent
him a master; he sang of the magnanimity of Eagles, and of their
liberality in tipping flunkeys.... But, however desperately he tried to
pitch his voice in the true flunkey tone, the art that dwelt within his
breast somehow or other would not be controlled. He himself was a
flunkey from beak to tail (he had even got hold, somehow, of a
second-hand white cravat, and had ruffled up the feathers on his little
head into a hairdresser’s curl), but his _art_ refused to be confined
within flunkeyish bounds, and kept on bursting forth in spite of all his
efforts. It wasn’t any use for him to sing; he could not give
satisfaction anyhow.
“What’s that booby droning about?” cried the Eagle; “call Trediakòvsky!”
Vasìli Kirìlych was quite in his element. He chose just the same
toadyish subjects, but gave so clear an exposition of them that the
Eagle kept on all the time repeating—
“Exactly so! Exactly so!”
When the competition was over, the Eagle hung upon Trediakòvsky’s neck a
chain of ants’ eggs, and flashed his eyes at the nightingale,
exclaiming—
“Take away that scoundrel!”
Thus ended the nightingale’s, ambitious dreams. He was quickly hustled
into a hen-coop and sold out of the way to the tavern “Parting Friends,”
where, to this day, he fills with sweet poison the hearts of tipsy
“meteors.”
Nevertheless, the work of public instruction was not abandoned. The
fledgling vultures and falcons attended the gymnasium regularly; the
Academy of Science began to publish a dictionary, and got half through
the letter A; the woodpecker finished the tenth volume of “The History
of Bogies.” The robin, however, kept very quiet. From the first day he
had felt an instinctive conviction that all this educational rage would
come to a speedy and grievous end; and apparently his presentiments were
well founded.
The troubles began with a grave mistake on the part of the owl and
falcon, who had accepted the management of the work of education: they
took it into their heads to teach the Eagle himself to read and write.
They taught him upon the easy and agreeable phonetic system; but,
notwithstanding all their efforts, after a whole year’s training,
instead of “Eagle,” he signed his name “Agull”; the result of which was
that he could not get a single respectable financier to accept his
bonds. The owl and falcon also made another great mistake: like all
pedagogues, they never gave their pupil any peace. Every minute of the
day the owl would follow at the poor Eagle’s heels, screaming out,
“B-b-b-b; Z-z-z; D-d-d; K-k-k;” while the falcon as incessantly dinned
into his ears that it is impossible to divide the prey one has caught
without knowing the first four rules of arithmetic.
“Suppose you have stolen ten goslings, of which you have given two to
the police-inspector’s clerk, and eaten one yourself, how many have you
left?” asked the falcon, in a reproachful voice.
The Eagle was not able to work this problem, so he remained silent; but
anger against the falcon burned in his heart more and more fiercely with
every day.
All this resulted in a condition of general tension, which was at once
taken advantage of by intriguing adventurers. The ringleader of the
conspiracy was the kite; he enticed over the cuckoo, who took to
whispering in the ear of the female Eagle—
“They are simply killing our dear master with their learning.”
Whereupon the female Eagle began ironically calling her mate “Wiseacre!
Wiseacre!” The conspirators next turned their energies to the business
of arousing “evil passions” in the vulture.
One morning, just at dawn, and while the Eagle was still sleepily
rubbing his eyes, the owl, as usual, slipped behind him and began her
eternal buzzing in his ear—
“V-v-v.... Z-z-z.... R-r-r——”
“Oh! go away, you awful bore!” murmured the Eagle, wearily.
“Be so good, your worship, as to repeat B-b-b.... K-k-k.... M-m-m——”
“I tell you, for the second time, go away!”
“P-p-p.... H-h-h.... Sh-sh-sh——”
“For the third time, go away!”
“S-s-s.... F-f-f.... J-j-j——”
With the quickness of lightning the Eagle turned upon the owl and tore
her in pieces. An hour later the falcon, knowing nothing of what had
happened, returned from the morning hunt.
“Here is a problem for you,” said he. “We have brought back 60 lbs. of
game. Now, suppose we divide the game into two equal parts, one half for
you and the other half for the remainder of the establishment, how much
of the 60 lbs. will fall to your share?”
“All of it,” replied the Eagle.
“No, no; answer properly,” persisted the falcon. “If it had been “all,”
I shouldn’t have asked you!”
It was not the first time that he had set his pupil such problems; but
on this occasion the tone in which the question was asked struck the
Eagle as quite intolerable. All his blood boiled at the thought that,
when he said “all,” his slave should dare to answer “not all.” Now, it
is a well-known peculiarity of Eagles that, when their blood begins to
boil, they become incapable of distinguishing pedagogical disquisitions
from revolution. The Eagle acted accordingly.
Nevertheless, after finishing up the falcon, the Eagle announced—
“The Scientific ’Cademy is to stop as it is.”
The choir of starlings once more repeated their hymn, “Let our youth be
fed with science.” But it was already plain to every one that the
“Golden Age” was drawing to its close. In the near future darkness and
ignorance were at hand, with their inevitable train—civil war and
general confusion.
The disturbances began with the competition of two candidates for the
post of the defunct falcon—the vulture and the kite. As the attention of
the two rivals was absorbed exclusively in their personal interest, the
affairs of the establishment were to some extent shoved aside and
gradually fell into a neglected condition. In a month there remained not
a trace of the “Golden Age.” The starlings had grown lazy; the
corn-crakes played all out of tune; the white-feathered magpie took to
stealing right and left; and the rooks got so hopelessly behindhand with
the taxes that there was nothing for it but an “_execution_.”[62]
Matters went so far that the servants began to bring the Eagle and his
mate bad meat for dinner.
In order to exculpate themselves from responsibility in all this
mismanagement, the vulture and the kite, for the moment, played into
each other’s claws, and threw all the blame upon education.
“Science,” said they, “is undoubtedly a useful thing, but only under the
right conditions. Our ancestors,” said they, “managed to live without
any science; and we can do the same.”
And, to prove that all the troubles came from science, they set to work
to hunt up conspiracies, and particularly conspiracies in which some
book, if only a prayer-book, was concerned. There began a perfect rain
of searches, police-investigations, and trials.
“Drop it!” suddenly rang through the aerial heights.
It was the Eagle who said that. The process of education broke off
short. Throughout the whole establishment there reigned such dead
silence that one could even hear the whispers of slander creeping along
the earth.
The first victim of the new tendency of affairs was the woodpecker.
Indeed, indeed the poor bird was not guilty; but he knew how to read and
write, and that was quite sufficient ground for an accusation.
“Do you know the rules of punctuation?”
“Not only the rules of ordinary punctuation, but even those for extra
signs, such as quotation marks, hyphens, parentheses; on my conscience,
I always put them right.”
“And can you distinguish the feminine from the masculine gender?”
“I can. I should not make a mistake, even by night.”
And that was all. The woodpecker was chained and placed in solitary
confinement for life in a hollow tree. On the next day, being devoured
by ants, he gave up the ghost in his prison. His sorrows were hardly
over when the thunderbolt fell on the Academy of Science.
The owls and night-jars, however, defended themselves sturdily; they did
not wish to be evicted from their cosy free quarters. They said that
they followed scientific pursuits, not in order to popularise science,
but to protect it from the evil eye. But the kite instantly demolished
their arguments by asking—
“What’s the use of having science at all?”
This being an unexpected question, they could give no answer. They were
then separated and sold to market-gardeners, who killed and stuffed them
and set them up in their nurseries for scarecrows. The farthing
alphabets were next taken away from the baby rooks, and mashed up in a
mortar, to form a homogeneous mass of pulp, which was then made into
playing-cards.
Matters grew worse and worse. After the owls and the night-jars came the
turn of the starlings; then the corn-crakes, parrots, and finches. Even
the deaf heath-cock was suspected of “a certain way of thinking,” on the
ground that he held his tongue all day and slept all night.
The staff of the establishment gradually dwindled away. At last there
was no one left to serve the Eagle and his mate but the vulture and the
kite. In the background there remained, of course, a crowd of rooks, who
multiplied at a pace that was perfectly disgraceful; and the faster they
multiplied the more their arrears of taxes accumulated.
Finally the kite and vulture, having no one else to intrigue against (of
course you don’t count the vulgar rooks), began to intrigue one against
the other; and all on the ground of science. The vulture denounced the
kite as reading the prayer-book in secret; and the kite invented against
the vulture the slander that he kept the “New Song-Book” hidden in a
hollow tree.
The Eagle began to grow uneasy.
But just at this moment an extraordinary thing happened. Finding
themselves left without supervision, the rooks suddenly raised the
question—
“By the by, what did the farthing alphabet say about all this?”
And, without stopping to remember clearly what was said, they all left
their nests in a body and flew away.
The Eagle started off to pursue them, but it was no use; the indolent
life he had been living had so enervated him that he could hardly flap
his wings.
He returned to his mate, and uttered these words of wisdom—
“Be this a lesson to Eagles!”
But in what exactly the “lesson” consisted—whether it were that
education is injurious to Eagles, or that Eagles are injurious to
education, or, finally, that each is injurious to the other—that he
never explained.
THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
-----
Footnote 1:
In Russia marriages cannot be solemnised during the weeks appointed by
the Greek Church as fasts.
Footnote 2:
The district of St. Petersburg in which stands the terminus of the
Moscow railway.
Footnote 3:
The north-east district of St. Petersburg.
Footnote 4:
Literally, “Omelette” or “Custard.”
Footnote 5:
Government clerk.
Footnote 6:
“Bring some bread, my man.”
Footnote 7:
Son of a dog.
Footnote 8:
Pomòy—dish-water.
Footnote 9:
Yarỳzhnik—rake, roué.
Footnote 10:
Perepryèlyi—stewed too long.
Footnote 11:
Dỳrka—any little hole or gap.
Footnote 12:
“The Island,” in the singular, means the Vasìlyevsky Island.
Footnote 13:
The pious ejaculation used, with the sign of the cross, by strict
members of the Orthodox Greek Church, on starting upon any enterprise,
great or small.
Footnote 14:
Interval of one month between the Second and Third Pictures.
Footnote 15:
Warden’s Council.
Footnote 16:
Gentleman of the Emperor’s Bedchamber.
Footnote 17:
Sledge-driver.
Footnote 18:
Assistant to a village priest in Russia.
Footnote 19:
Long coat worn by Russian peasants.
Footnote 20:
Metropolitan.
Footnote 21:
In provincial places in Russia it is customary to use an abacus in
adding up accounts.
Footnote 22:
Colloquial for “the wife of Lòpàtin.”
Footnote 23:
The Patronymic without the Christian name of the person addressed is a
common colloquialism.
Footnote 24:
A Russian proverb.
Footnote 25:
Russian hymn.
Footnote 26:
Russian sacred songs.
Footnote 27:
Special canticle on a Saint’s day.
Footnote 28:
In the Greek Church the psalms are divided up into a kind of rosary.
Footnote 29:
Literally “Pig’s ear.”
Footnote 30:
And I, at what risks and perils, go and waste myself expending saliva!
What folly!
Footnote 31:
Extorsion des _nédoymkàs_, une espèce de peine corporelle, en vigueur
en Russie, surtout dans le cas où le paysan, par suite d’une mauvaise
récolte, n’a pas de quoi payer les impôts.—_Chenapan._[63]
Footnote 32:
Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my sister, wasting her youth in the vain hope
of a husband!
Footnote 33:
“The law, good gracious, we have fifteen volumes of law!”
Footnote 34:
1853.
Footnote 35:
Mr. Chenapan has again made rather a muddle of his Russian. “Zvon
pobièdy, razdavaïsia!” (“Bells of victory, ring out!”) is the opening
line of one of Derzhàvin’s pompous, servile, and essentially jingoish
odes on the victories of Catherine II.—_Translator._
Footnote 36:
“This is _our_ way of giving tips.”
Footnote 37:
A well-known French actress of that time in St. Petersburg.—AUTHOR.
Footnote 38:
Evidently a mistake; there are no municipal counsellors in
Russia.—AUTHOR.
Footnote 39:
“Now you’ll see me at my business!”
Footnote 40:
The St. Petersburg Arcade.
Footnote 41:
A quotation from Griboyèdov.
Footnote 42:
The observation of a certain editor.
Footnote 43:
The Islands in the Delta of the Neva are recognised places for fast
amusements. The Arcadia is a well-known music-hall there.
Footnote 44:
Village syndic.
Footnote 45:
Landlord and Serf-owner (corruption of the ancient word “boyàrin”).
Footnote 46:
The village bell-ringer.
Footnote 47:
Bishop.
Footnote 48:
District Police Inspector.
Footnote 49:
Inferior police official, who collects taxes.
Footnote 50:
The peasant is satirizing the Russian “Passport regulations,”
according to which it is a penal offence for a householder to take in
any inmate who cannot show police certificates.
Footnote 51:
Colloquial for Mikhail.
Footnote 52:
Principal town of any province.
Footnote 53:
A famous group of statuary in Moscow.
Footnote 54:
A slang term for the gendarmes; probably because their uniforms are
“deeply, darkly, beautifully blue,” like the waters of the
Mediterranean.—TRANSLATOR.
Footnote 55:
Equipage with three horses.
Footnote 56:
Member of the Committee of Inquiry.
Footnote 57:
Contemptuous diminutive of Lipàtkin.
Footnote 58:
Of the clerical class.
Footnote 59:
Fragments of popular songs.
Footnote 60:
The popular emblem of hospitality.
Footnote 61:
A flunkeyish poetaster at the Court of Catherine II.
Footnote 62:
“_Exekoùtzia_,” official term for wholesale flogging, in case of
mutiny, or inability to pay taxes, among the peasantry.
Footnote 63:
Mr. Chenapan has made a slight mistake. _Nedoìmka_ is the Russian word
for debt; but he is so far right that “recovery of nedoìmki” is the
expression officially used for the extortion of taxes from a starving
population, and that such extortion is very often accomplished by
means of “une espèce de peine corporelle.”—_Translator._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PROSPECTUS.
[Illustration]
LIBRARY
OF
HUMOUR.
London: Walter Scott, Ltd., Paternoster Square.
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION_
[Illustration:
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.
]
“_The books are delightful in every way, and are notable for the high
standard of taste and the excellent judgment that characterise their
editing, as well as for the brilliancy of the literature that they
contain._”—BOSTON (U.S.A.) GAZETTE.
LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
COPIOUSLY ILLUSTRATED.
_Cloth Elegant, Large Crown 8vo, Price 3s. 6d. per Vol._
Each volume deals with the humour of the literature of a particular
nation, the aim in making the various selections being to produce
volumes as representative as possible in each case of the particular
national humour, as it appears throughout the literature dealt with.
* * * * *
Illustrations to the different volumes by DUDLEY HARDY, H. R. MILLAR, C.
E. BROCK, ARTURO FALDI, PAUL FRÉNZENY, OLIVER PAQUE, etc.
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._
(FROM THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.)
[Illustration:
DOCTOR DECHAR: “AND YET YOU DECLARED THE OPERATION MUST BE DONE?”
DOCTOR RAPPASS: “OF COURSE. YOU MUST ALWAYS OPERATE.”
]
THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.
Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by
ELIZABETH LEE. With 70 Illustrations by PAUL FRÉNZENY.
“From Villon to Paul Verlaine, from dateless _fabliaux_ to
newspapers fresh from the kiosk, we have a tremendous range of
selections.”—_Birmingham Daily Gazette._
[Illustration]
“The work of translation has been well done, and the book sparkles from
beginning to end.”—_Globe._
“Miss Lee has compiled a very entertaining volume, traversing the whole
world of French literature from the thirteenth to the nineteenth
centuries gleaning from novelists, dramatists, poets, essayists, writers
of _fabliaux_, newspapers. The result is a very readable and amusing
volume.”—_Birmingham Post._
“A most agreeable and entertaining volume.”—_Scottish Leader._
“There is not a dull page in the volume from beginning to end, is a
piece of praise too often lavished on a book by the indolent,
unconscientious, or over tender-hearted reviewer; nevertheless, at the
risk of ranking ourselves with him, we will make that assertion
concerning these specimens of ‘The Humour of France.’”—_St. James’s
Gazette._
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._
(FROM THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.)
[Illustration:
“HE WAS TOO FOND OF DELIVERING LONG SPEECHES AT THE ALEHOUSE.”
]
[Illustration:
“SIT THE GOOD TOWNSPEOPLE OF A SUMMER EVENING.”
]
THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.
Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by
HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV. With 60 Illustrations by C. E. BROCK.
“It is an excellently representative volume, comprising selections from
all the best writers in the humoristic vein, whether high or low German.
Of course Heinrich Heine figures largely, and in addition are capital
extracts from Hauff, Zschokke, Ludwig Tieck, Chamisso, Fritz Reuter, and
others.”—_Daily Telegraph._
“Can be recommended to all in quest of amusing literature. The
illustrations are delightful.”—_Literary World._
“The book throws eloquent and entertaining side-lights upon the
characteristics of the German people. The text is amply and aptly
illustrated.”—_Manchester Examiner._
“One of the brightest books that has come to this country.”—_Boston
(U.S.A.) Herald._
“The reader may feel assured of having quite a treasury of novelty in
each volume of this beautiful series as it appears.”—_Liverpool
Mercury._
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._
(FROM THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.)
[Illustration:
PULCINELLA’S DUEL.
]
[Illustration]
THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.
Selected and Translated, with Introduction, Biographical Index, and
Notes, by A. WERNER. With 55 Illustrations by ARTURO FALDI.
“Modern Italian light literature is very rich, and those who cannot read
the language easily, and yet would like to obtain some notion of what
contemporary Italian writers are doing, cannot do better than turn to
these pages.... Will reveal to English readers a whole new world of
literature.”—_Athenæum._
“The book contains some delightful modern short stories and sketches. We
may particularly mention those by Verga, Capuana, and De
Amicis.”—_Literary World._
“Most readers will think that it affords ample proof of the abundance of
genuine wit in the Italian literature of the nineteenth century. It has
plenty of capital stories, and the man who is not tickled by Capuana’s
‘Rival Earthquakes,’ or Castelnuovo’s ‘Theorem of Pythagoras,’ can have
little sense of the ridiculous.”—_Morning Post._
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._
(FROM THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.)
[Illustration:
“SHE SHRILLY OBSERVES, THOMAS JEFFERSON, COME RIGHT INTO THE HOUSE
THIS MINIT.”
]
[Illustration:
“KOSCIUSKO AND I FROLICKED AROUND.”
]
THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.
Selected by JAMES BARR. With an Introduction and a Comprehensive
Biographical Index of American Humorists. Eighty Illustrations by
CHARLES E. BROCK.
“Certainly these 462 pages of queer stories and good illustrations are
as exceptional for amusing narration as they are for excellence of
printing and binding.”—_Liverpool Mercury._
“Sparkles and ripples with good things.”—_Manchester Examiner._
“Mr. Barr has made his volume as representative as it could well be,
and it would be difficult to mention any American writer having a
claim to be considered a humorist, who has not had that claim
recognised.”—_Glasgow Herald._
“The selection is judiciously made, and displays a catholic taste....
The book is a really representative collection of humour, and what
passes for humour, in America.”—_The Academy._
_SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION._
(FROM THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.)
[Illustration:
“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”
]
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.
Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. WERNER. With numerous
Illustrations by DUDLEY HARDY.
“Apart from the quality of humour, one is much struck by the evidence
that in Holland during the present day there is a genial literature, of
which we know nothing at all.”—_Bookman._
“There are some quite irresistible pieces in the volume. The
illustrations are excellent, and the whole style in which the book is
produced reflects credit on the publishers.”—_British Weekly._
“There are really good things in the book—things of quaint or pretty
fancy, things of strong or subtle satire.... Even Mark Twain, in ‘Tom
Sawyer’ and ‘Huck Finn’ does not show a finer knowledge of the humours
of imaginative boyhood than is displayed by Conrad van der Liede in ‘My
Hero.’”—_Daily Chronicle._
“The new humour has grown wearisomely old, but here is something to
again stimulate.”—_The Graphic._
“Interesting sketches of life and manners.”—_Daily News._
“The pictures are numerous and good, the dramatic literature of the
people is well represented, and the work altogether is so truly
excellent that it will always be in season.”—_Liverpool Mercury._
“Those who wish to compare the humour of several countries must needs
have in their possession such a rich storehouse as this is of the Humour
of Holland.”—_Irish Times._
[Illustration:
“KAPBLOK, THE BUTCHER’S MAN.”
]
_SPECIMEN._ (FROM THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.)
[Illustration]
LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Cloth Elegant, Large Crown 8vo, Price 3/6 per vol._
_VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED._
THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by
Elizabeth Lee. With numerous Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.
THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by
Hans Müller-Casenov. With numerous Illustrations by C. E. Brock.
THE HUMOUR OF ITALY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A.
Werner. With 50 Illustrations and a Frontispiece by Arturo Faldi.
THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA. Selected with a copious Biographical Index of
American Humorists, by James Barr.
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by
A. Werner. With numerous Illustrations by Dudley Hardy.
THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND. Selected by D. J. O’Donoghue. With numerous
Illustrations by Oliver Paque.
THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by S.
Taylor. With numerous Illustrations by H. R. Millar.
THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA. Translated, with Notes, by E. L. Boole, and an
Introduction by Stepniak. With 50 Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.
THE HUMOUR OF JAPAN. Translated, with an Introduction, by A. M. With
Illustrations by George Bigot (from Drawings made in Japan). [_In
preparation._
London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
_SPECIMEN._ (FROM THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN.)
[Illustration:
PEPITA AND THE YOUNG PRIEST.
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Encosed upside down text in ⓇCIRCLED LATIN CAPITAL LETTER RⓇ.
*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The humour of Russia" ***