THE TALES OF CHEKHOV

VOLUME 12

THE COOK'S WEDDING AND OTHER STORIES

BY

ANTON TCHEKHOV

Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT

CONTENTS

THE COOK'S WEDDINGSLEEPYCHILDRENTHE RUNAWAYGRISHAOYSTERSHOMEA CLASSICAL STUDENTVANKAAN INCIDENTA DAY IN THE COUNTRYBOYSSHROVE TUESDAYTHE OLD HOUSEIN PASSION WEEKWHITEBROWKASHTANKAA CHAMELEONTHE DEPENDENTSWHO WAS TO BLAME?THE BIRD MARKETAN ADVENTURETHE FISHARTTHE SWEDISH MATCH

THE COOK'S WEDDING

GRISHA, a fat, solemn little person of seven, was standing by thekitchen door listening and peeping through the keyhole. In thekitchen something extraordinary, and in his opinion never seenbefore, was taking place. A big, thick-set, red-haired peasant, with a beard, and a drop of perspiration on his nose, wearing acabman's full coat, was sitting at the kitchen table on which theychopped the meat and sliced the onions. He was balancing a sauceron the five fingers of his right hand and drinking tea out of it, and crunching sugar so loudly that it sent a shiver down Grisha'sback. Aksinya Stepanovna, the old nurse, was sitting on the dirtystool facing him, and she, too, was drinking tea. Her face wasgrave, though at the same time it beamed with a kind of triumph. Pelageya, the cook, was busy at the stove, and was apparently tryingto hide her face. And on her face Grisha saw a regular illumination:it was burning and shifting through every shade of colour, beginningwith a crimson purple and ending with a deathly white. She wascontinually catching hold of knives, forks, bits of wood, and ragswith trembling hands, moving, grumbling to herself, making a clatter, but in reality doing nothing. She did not once glance at the tableat which they were drinking tea, and to the questions put to herby the nurse she gave jerky, sullen answers without turning herface. 

"Help yourself, Danilo Semyonitch, " the nurse urged him hospitably. "Why do you keep on with tea and nothing but tea? You should havea drop of vodka!"

And nurse put before the visitor a bottle of vodka and a wine-glass, while her face wore a very wily expression. 

"I never touch it. . . . No . . . " said the cabman, declining. "Don't press me, Aksinya Stepanovna. "

"What a man! . . . A cabman and not drink! . . . A bachelor can'tget on without drinking. Help yourself!"

The cabman looked askance at the bottle, then at nurse's wily face, and his own face assumed an expression no less cunning, as much asto say, "You won't catch me, you old witch!"

"I don't drink; please excuse me. Such a weakness does not do inour calling. A man who works at a trade may drink, for he sits athome, but we cabmen are always in view of the public. Aren't we?If one goes into a pothouse one finds one's horse gone; if one takesa drop too much it is worse still; before you know where you areyou will fall asleep or slip off the box. That's where it is. "

"And how much do you make a day, Danilo Semyonitch?"

"That's according. One day you will have a fare for three roubles, and another day you will come back to the yard without a farthing. The days are very different. Nowadays our business is no good. Thereare lots and lots of cabmen as you know, hay is dear, and folks arepaltry nowadays and always contriving to go by tram. And yet, thankGod, I have nothing to complain of. I have plenty to eat and goodclothes to wear, and . . . We could even provide well for another. . . "(the cabman stole a glance at Pelageya) "if it were to theirliking. . . . "

Grisha did not hear what was said further. His mamma came to thedoor and sent him to the nursery to learn his lessons. 

"Go and learn your lesson. It's not your business to listen here!"

When Grisha reached the nursery, he put "My Own Book" in front ofhim, but he did not get on with his reading. All that he had justseen and heard aroused a multitude of questions in his mind. 

"The cook's going to be married, " he thought. "Strange--I don'tunderstand what people get married for. Mamma was married to papa, Cousin Verotchka to Pavel Andreyitch. But one might be married topapa and Pavel Andreyitch after all: they have gold watch-chainsand nice suits, their boots are always polished; but to marry thatdreadful cabman with a red nose and felt boots. . . . Fi! And whyis it nurse wants poor Pelageya to be married?"

When the visitor had gone out of the kitchen, Pelageya appeared andbegan clearing away. Her agitation still persisted. Her face wasred and looked scared. She scarcely touched the floor with thebroom, and swept every corner five times over. She lingered for along time in the room where mamma was sitting. She was evidentlyoppressed by her isolation, and she was longing to express herself, to share her impressions with some one, to open her heart. 

"He's gone, " she muttered, seeing that mamma would not begin theconversation. 

"One can see he is a good man, " said mamma, not taking her eyes offher sewing. "Sober and steady. "

"I declare I won't marry him, mistress!" Pelageya cried suddenly, flushing crimson. "I declare I won't!"

"Don't be silly; you are not a child. It's a serious step; you mustthink it over thoroughly, it's no use talking nonsense. Do you likehim?"

"What an idea, mistress!" cried Pelageya, abashed. "They say suchthings that . . . My goodness. . . . "

"She should say she doesn't like him!" thought Grisha. 

"What an affected creature you are. . . . Do you like him?"

"But he is old, mistress!"

"Think of something else, " nurse flew out at her from the next room. "He has not reached his fortieth year; and what do you want a youngman for? Handsome is as handsome does. . . . Marry him and that'sall about it!"

"I swear I won't, " squealed Pelageya. 

"You are talking nonsense. What sort of rascal do you want? Anyoneelse would have bowed down to his feet, and you declare you won'tmarry him. You want to be always winking at the postmen and tutors. That tutor that used to come to Grishenka, mistress . . . She wasnever tired of making eyes at him. O-o, the shameless hussy!"

"Have you seen this Danilo before?" mamma asked Pelageya. 

"How could I have seen him? I set eyes on him to-day for the firsttime. Aksinya picked him up and brought him along . . . The accurseddevil. . . . And where has he come from for my undoing!"

At dinner, when Pelageya was handing the dishes, everyone lookedinto her face and teased her about the cabman. She turned fearfullyred, and went off into a forced giggle. 

"It must be shameful to get married, " thought Grisha. "Terriblyshameful. "

All the dishes were too salt, and blood oozed from the half-rawchickens, and, to cap it all, plates and knives kept dropping outof Pelageya's hands during dinner, as though from a shelf that hadgiven way; but no one said a word of blame to her, as they allunderstood the state of her feelings. Only once papa flicked histable-napkin angrily and said to mamma:

"What do you want to be getting them all married for? What businessis it of yours? Let them get married of themselves if they wantto. "

After dinner, neighbouring cooks and maidservants kept flittinginto the kitchen, and there was the sound of whispering till lateevening. How they had scented out the matchmaking, God knows. WhenGrisha woke in the night he heard his nurse and the cook whisperingtogether in the nursery. Nurse was talking persuasively, while thecook alternately sobbed and giggled. When he fell asleep after this, Grisha dreamed of Pelageya being carried off by Tchernomor and awitch. 

Next day there was a calm. The life of the kitchen went on itsaccustomed way as though the cabman did not exist. Only from timeto time nurse put on her new shawl, assumed a solemn and austereair, and went off somewhere for an hour or two, obviously to conductnegotiations. . . . Pelageya did not see the cabman, and when hisname was mentioned she flushed up and cried:

"May he be thrice damned! As though I should be thinking of him!Tfoo!"

In the evening mamma went into the kitchen, while nurse and Pelageyawere zealously mincing something, and said:

"You can marry him, of course--that's your business--but I musttell you, Pelageya, that he cannot live here. . . . You know I don'tlike to have anyone sitting in the kitchen. Mind now, remember. . . . And I can't let you sleep out. "

"Goodness knows! What an idea, mistress!" shrieked the cook. "Whydo you keep throwing him up at me? Plague take him! He's a regularcurse, confound him! . . . "

Glancing one Sunday morning into the kitchen, Grisha was struckdumb with amazement. The kitchen was crammed full of people. Herewere cooks from the whole courtyard, the porter, two policemen, anon-commissioned officer with good-conduct stripes, and the boyFilka. . . . This Filka was generally hanging about the laundryplaying with the dogs; now he was combed and washed, and was holdingan ikon in a tinfoil setting. Pelageya was standing in the middleof the kitchen in a new cotton dress, with a flower on her head. Beside her stood the cabman. The happy pair were red in the faceand perspiring and blinking with embarrassment. 

"Well . . . I fancy it is time, " said the non-commissioned officer, after a prolonged silence. 

Pelageya's face worked all over and she began blubbering. . . . 

The soldier took a big loaf from the table, stood beside nurse, andbegan blessing the couple. The cabman went up to the soldier, floppeddown on his knees, and gave a smacking kiss on his hand. He did thesame before nurse. Pelageya followed him mechanically, and she toobowed down to the ground. At last the outer door was opened, therewas a whiff of white mist, and the whole party flocked noisily outof the kitchen into the yard. 

"Poor thing, poor thing, " thought Grisha, hearing the sobs of thecook. "Where have they taken her? Why don't papa and mamma protecther?"

After the wedding there was singing and concertina-playing in thelaundry till late evening. Mamma was cross all the evening becausenurse smelt of vodka, and owing to the wedding there was no one toheat the samovar. Pelageya had not come back by the time Grishawent to bed. 

"The poor thing is crying somewhere in the dark!" he thought. "Whilethe cabman is saying to her 'shut up!'"

Next morning the cook was in the kitchen again. The cabman came infor a minute. He thanked mamma, and glancing sternly at Pelageya, said:

"Will you look after her, madam? Be a father and a mother to her. And you, too, Aksinya Stepanovna, do not forsake her, see thateverything is as it should be . . . Without any nonsense. . . . Andalso, madam, if you would kindly advance me five roubles of herwages. I have got to buy a new horse-collar. "

Again a problem for Grisha: Pelageya was living in freedom, doingas she liked, and not having to account to anyone for her actions, and all at once, for no sort of reason, a stranger turns up, whohas somehow acquired rights over her conduct and her property!Grisha was distressed. He longed passionately, almost to tears, tocomfort this victim, as he supposed, of man's injustice. Pickingout the very biggest apple in the store-room he stole into thekitchen, slipped it into Pelageya's hand, and darted headlong away. 

SLEEPY

NIGHT. Varka, the little nurse, a girl of thirteen, is rocking thecradle in which the baby is lying, and humming hardly audibly:

 "Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, While I sing a song for thee. "

A little green lamp is burning before the ikon; there is a stringstretched from one end of the room to the other, on which baby-clothesand a pair of big black trousers are hanging. There is a big patchof green on the ceiling from the ikon lamp, and the baby-clothesand the trousers throw long shadows on the stove, on the cradle, and on Varka. . . . When the lamp begins to flicker, the green patchand the shadows come to life, and are set in motion, as though bythe wind. It is stuffy. There is a smell of cabbage soup, and ofthe inside of a boot-shop. 

The baby's crying. For a long while he has been hoarse and exhaustedwith crying; but he still goes on screaming, and there is no knowingwhen he will stop. And Varka is sleepy. Her eyes are glued together, her head droops, her neck aches. She cannot move her eyelids or herlips, and she feels as though her face is dried and wooden, asthough her head has become as small as the head of a pin. 

"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, " she hums, "while I cook the groats forthee. . . . "

A cricket is churring in the stove. Through the door in the nextroom the master and the apprentice Afanasy are snoring. . . . Thecradle creaks plaintively, Varka murmurs--and it all blends intothat soothing music of the night to which it is so sweet to listen, when one is lying in bed. Now that music is merely irritating andoppressive, because it goads her to sleep, and she must not sleep;if Varka--God forbid!--should fall asleep, her master andmistress would beat her. 

The lamp flickers. The patch of green and the shadows are set inmotion, forcing themselves on Varka's fixed, half-open eyes, andin her half slumbering brain are fashioned into misty visions. Shesees dark clouds chasing one another over the sky, and screaminglike the baby. But then the wind blows, the clouds are gone, andVarka sees a broad high road covered with liquid mud; along thehigh road stretch files of wagons, while people with wallets ontheir backs are trudging along and shadows flit backwards andforwards; on both sides she can see forests through the cold harshmist. All at once the people with their wallets and their shadowsfall on the ground in the liquid mud. "What is that for?" Varkaasks. "To sleep, to sleep!" they answer her. And they fall soundasleep, and sleep sweetly, while crows and magpies sit on thetelegraph wires, scream like the baby, and try to wake them. 

"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, and I will sing a song to thee, " murmursVarka, and now she sees herself in a dark stuffy hut. 

Her dead father, Yefim Stepanov, is tossing from side to side onthe floor. She does not see him, but she hears him moaning androlling on the floor from pain. "His guts have burst, " as he says;the pain is so violent that he cannot utter a single word, and canonly draw in his breath and clack his teeth like the rattling of adrum:

"Boo--boo--boo--boo. . . . "

Her mother, Pelageya, has run to the master's house to say thatYefim is dying. She has been gone a long time, and ought to be back. Varka lies awake on the stove, and hears her father's "boo--boo--boo. "And then she hears someone has driven up to the hut. It is a youngdoctor from the town, who has been sent from the big house wherehe is staying on a visit. The doctor comes into the hut; he cannotbe seen in the darkness, but he can be heard coughing and rattlingthe door. 

"Light a candle, " he says. 

"Boo--boo--boo, " answers Yefim. 

Pelageya rushes to the stove and begins looking for the broken potwith the matches. A minute passes in silence. The doctor, feelingin his pocket, lights a match. 

"In a minute, sir, in a minute, " says Pelageya. She rushes out ofthe hut, and soon afterwards comes back with a bit of candle. 

Yefim's cheeks are rosy and his eyes are shining, and there is apeculiar keenness in his glance, as though he were seeing rightthrough the hut and the doctor. 

"Come, what is it? What are you thinking about?" says the doctor, bending down to him. "Aha! have you had this long?"

"What? Dying, your honour, my hour has come. . . . I am not to stayamong the living. "

"Don't talk nonsense! We will cure you!"

"That's as you please, your honour, we humbly thank you, only weunderstand. . . . Since death has come, there it is. "

The doctor spends a quarter of an hour over Yefim, then he gets upand says:

"I can do nothing. You must go into the hospital, there they willoperate on you. Go at once . . . You must go! It's rather late, they will all be asleep in the hospital, but that doesn't matter, I will give you a note. Do you hear?"

"Kind sir, but what can he go in?" says Pelageya. "We have no horse. "

"Never mind. I'll ask your master, he'll let you have a horse. "

The doctor goes away, the candle goes out, and again there is thesound of "boo--boo--boo. " Half an hour later someone drives up tothe hut. A cart has been sent to take Yefim to the hospital. Hegets ready and goes. . . . 

But now it is a clear bright morning. Pelageya is not at home; shehas gone to the hospital to find what is being done to Yefim. Somewhere there is a baby crying, and Varka hears someone singingwith her own voice:

"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, I will sing a song to thee. "

Pelageya comes back; she crosses herself and whispers:

"They put him to rights in the night, but towards morning he gaveup his soul to God. . . . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and peaceeverlasting. . . . They say he was taken too late. . . . He oughtto have gone sooner. . . . "

Varka goes out into the road and cries there, but all at once someonehits her on the back of her head so hard that her forehead knocksagainst a birch tree. She raises her eyes, and sees facing her, hermaster, the shoemaker. 

"What are you about, you scabby slut?" he says. "The child is crying, and you are asleep!"

He gives her a sharp slap behind the ear, and she shakes her head, rocks the cradle, and murmurs her song. The green patch and theshadows from the trousers and the baby-clothes move up and down, nod to her, and soon take possession of her brain again. Again shesees the high road covered with liquid mud. The people with walletson their backs and the shadows have lain down and are fast asleep. Looking at them, Varka has a passionate longing for sleep; she wouldlie down with enjoyment, but her mother Pelageya is walking besideher, hurrying her on. They are hastening together to the town tofind situations. 

"Give alms, for Christ's sake!" her mother begs of the people theymeet. "Show us the Divine Mercy, kind-hearted gentlefolk!"

"Give the baby here!" a familiar voice answers. "Give the babyhere!" the same voice repeats, this time harshly and angrily. "Areyou asleep, you wretched girl?"

Varka jumps up, and looking round grasps what is the matter: thereis no high road, no Pelageya, no people meeting them, there is onlyher mistress, who has come to feed the baby, and is standing in themiddle of the room. While the stout, broad-shouldered woman nursesthe child and soothes it, Varka stands looking at her and waitingtill she has done. And outside the windows the air is already turningblue, the shadows and the green patch on the ceiling are visiblygrowing pale, it will soon be morning. 

"Take him, " says her mistress, buttoning up her chemise over herbosom; "he is crying. He must be bewitched. "

Varka takes the baby, puts him in the cradle and begins rocking itagain. The green patch and the shadows gradually disappear, and nowthere is nothing to force itself on her eyes and cloud her brain. But she is as sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy! Varka lays herhead on the edge of the cradle, and rocks her whole body to overcomeher sleepiness, but yet her eyes are glued together, and her headis heavy. 

"Varka, heat the stove!" she hears the master's voice through thedoor. 

So it is time to get up and set to work. Varka leaves the cradle, and runs to the shed for firewood. She is glad. When one moves andruns about, one is not so sleepy as when one is sitting down. Shebrings the wood, heats the stove, and feels that her wooden faceis getting supple again, and that her thoughts are growing clearer. 

"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress. 

Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely time to light thesplinters and put them in the samovar, when she hears a fresh order:

"Varka, clean the master's goloshes!"

She sits down on the floor, cleans the goloshes, and thinks hownice it would be to put her head into a big deep golosh, and havea little nap in it. . . . And all at once the golosh grows, swells, fills up the whole room. Varka drops the brush, but at once shakesher head, opens her eyes wide, and tries to look at things so thatthey may not grow big and move before her eyes. 

"Varka, wash the steps outside; I am ashamed for the customers tosee them!"

Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heatsanother stove and runs to the shop. There is a great deal of work:she hasn't one minute free. 

But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchentable peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoesdance before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while herfat, angry mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tuckedup, talking so loud that it makes a ringing in Varka's ears. It isagonising, too, to wait at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minuteswhen she longs to flop on to the floor regardless of everything, and to sleep. 

The day passes. Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses hertemples that feel as though they were made of wood, and smiles, though she does not know why. The dusk of evening caresses her eyesthat will hardly keep open, and promises her sound sleep soon. Inthe evening visitors come. 

"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress. The samovar is alittle one, and before the visitors have drunk all the tea theywant, she has to heat it five times. After tea Varka stands for awhole hour on the same spot, looking at the visitors, and waitingfor orders. 

"Varka, run and buy three bottles of beer!"

She starts off, and tries to run as quickly as she can, to driveaway sleep. 

"Varka, fetch some vodka! Varka, where's the corkscrew? Varka, cleana herring!"

But now, at last, the visitors have gone; the lights are put out, the master and mistress go to bed. 

"Varka, rock the baby!" she hears the last order. 

The cricket churrs in the stove; the green patch on the ceiling andthe shadows from the trousers and the baby-clothes force themselveson Varka's half-opened eyes again, wink at her and cloud her mind. 

"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, " she murmurs, "and I will sing a song tothee. "

And the baby screams, and is worn out with screaming. Again Varkasees the muddy high road, the people with wallets, her motherPelageya, her father Yefim. She understands everything, she recogniseseveryone, but through her half sleep she cannot understand the forcewhich binds her, hand and foot, weighs upon her, and prevents herfrom living. She looks round, searches for that force that she mayescape from it, but she cannot find it. At last, tired to death, she does her very utmost, strains her eyes, looks up at the flickeringgreen patch, and listening to the screaming, finds the foe who willnot let her live. 

That foe is the baby. 

She laughs. It seems strange to her that she has failed to graspsuch a simple thing before. The green patch, the shadows, and thecricket seem to laugh and wonder too. 

The hallucination takes possession of Varka. She gets up from herstool, and with a broad smile on her face and wide unblinking eyes, she walks up and down the room. She feels pleased and tickled atthe thought that she will be rid directly of the baby that bindsher hand and foot. . . . Kill the baby and then sleep, sleep, sleep. . . . 

Laughing and winking and shaking her fingers at the green patch, Varka steals up to the cradle and bends over the baby. When she hasstrangled him, she quickly lies down on the floor, laughs withdelight that she can sleep, and in a minute is sleeping as soundas the dead. 

CHILDREN

PAPA and mamma and Aunt Nadya are not at home. They have gone to achristening party at the house of that old officer who rides on alittle grey horse. While waiting for them to come home, Grisha, Anya, Alyosha, Sonya, and the cook's son, Andrey, are sitting atthe table in the dining-room, playing at loto. To tell the truth, it is bedtime, but how can one go to sleep without hearing frommamma what the baby was like at the christening, and what they hadfor supper? The table, lighted by a hanging lamp, is dotted withnumbers, nutshells, scraps of paper, and little bits of glass. Twocards lie in front of each player, and a heap of bits of glass forcovering the numbers. In the middle of the table is a white saucerwith five kopecks in it. Beside the saucer, a half-eaten apple, apair of scissors, and a plate on which they have been told to puttheir nutshells. The children are playing for money. The stake isa kopeck. The rule is: if anyone cheats, he is turned out at once. There is no one in the dining-room but the players, and nurse, Agafya Ivanovna, is in the kitchen, showing the cook how to cut apattern, while their elder brother, Vasya, a schoolboy in the fifthclass, is lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, feeling bored. 

They are playing with zest. The greatest excitement is expressedon the face of Grisha. He is a small boy of nine, with a head croppedso that the bare skin shows through, chubby cheeks, and thick lipslike a negro's. He is already in the preparatory class, and so isregarded as grown up, and the cleverest. He is playing entirely forthe sake of the money. If there had been no kopecks in the saucer, he would have been asleep long ago. His brown eyes stray uneasilyand jealously over the other players' cards. The fear that he maynot win, envy, and the financial combinations of which his croppedhead is full, will not let him sit still and concentrate his mind. He fidgets as though he were sitting on thorns. When he wins, hesnatches up the money greedily, and instantly puts it in his pocket. His sister, Anya, a girl of eight, with a sharp chin and clevershining eyes, is also afraid that someone else may win. She flushesand turns pale, and watches the players keenly. The kopecks do notinterest her. Success in the game is for her a question of vanity. The other sister, Sonya, a child of six with a curly head, and acomplexion such as is seen only in very healthy children, expensivedolls, and the faces on bonbon boxes, is playing loto for the processof the game itself. There is bliss all over her face. Whoever wins, she laughs and claps her hands. Alyosha, a chubby, spherical littlefigure, gasps, breathes hard through his nose, and stares open-eyedat the cards. He is moved neither by covetousness nor vanity. Solong as he is not driven out of the room, or sent to bed, he isthankful. He looks phlegmatic, but at heart he is rather a littlebeast. He is not there so much for the sake of the loto, as for thesake of the misunderstandings which are inevitable in the game. Heis greatly delighted if one hits another, or calls him names. Heought to have run off somewhere long ago, but he won't leave thetable for a minute, for fear they should steal his counters or hiskopecks. As he can only count the units and numbers which end innought, Anya covers his numbers for him. The fifth player, thecook's son, Andrey, a dark-skinned and sickly looking boy in acotton shirt, with a copper cross on his breast, stands motionless, looking dreamily at the numbers. He takes no interest in winning, or in the success of the others, because he is entirely engrossedby the arithmetic of the game, and its far from complex theory;"How many numbers there are in the world, " he is thinking, "and howis it they don't get mixed up?"

They all shout out the numbers in turn, except Sonya and Alyosha. To vary the monotony, they have invented in the course of time anumber of synonyms and comic nicknames. Seven, for instance, iscalled the "ovenrake, " eleven the "sticks, " seventy-seven "SemyonSemyonitch, " ninety "grandfather, " and so on. The game is goingmerrily. 

"Thirty-two, " cries Grisha, drawing the little yellow cylinders outof his father's cap. "Seventeen! Ovenrake! Twenty-eight! Lay themstraight. . . . "

Anya sees that Andrey has let twenty-eight slip. At any other timeshe would have pointed it out to him, but now when her vanity liesin the saucer with the kopecks, she is triumphant. 

"Twenty-three!" Grisha goes on, "Semyon Semyonitch! Nine!"

"A beetle, a beetle, " cries Sonya, pointing to a beetle runningacross the table. "Aie!"

"Don't kill it, " says Alyosha, in his deep bass, "perhaps it's gotchildren . . . . "

Sonya follows the black beetle with her eyes and wonders about itschildren: what tiny little beetles they must be!

"Forty-three! One!" Grisha goes on, unhappy at the thought thatAnya has already made two fours. "Six!"

"Game! I have got the game!" cries Sonya, rolling her eyes coquettishlyand giggling. 

The players' countenances lengthen. 

"Must make sure!" says Grisha, looking with hatred at Sonya. 

Exercising his rights as a big boy, and the cleverest, Grisha takesupon himself to decide. What he wants, that they do. Sonya's reckoningis slowly and carefully verified, and to the great regret of herfellow players, it appears that she has not cheated. Another gameis begun. 

"I did see something yesterday!" says Anya, as though to herself. "Filipp Filippitch turned his eyelids inside out somehow and hiseyes looked red and dreadful, like an evil spirit's. "

"I saw it too, " says Grisha. "Eight! And a boy at our school canmove his ears. Twenty-seven!"

Andrey looks up at Grisha, meditates, and says:

"I can move my ears too. . . . "

"Well then, move them. "

Andrey moves his eyes, his lips, and his fingers, and fancies thathis ears are moving too. Everyone laughs. 

"He is a horrid man, that Filipp Filippitch, " sighs Sonya. "He cameinto our nursery yesterday, and I had nothing on but my chemise. . . And I felt so improper!"

"Game!" Grisha cries suddenly, snatching the money from the saucer. "I've got the game! You can look and see if you like. "

The cook's son looks up and turns pale. 

"Then I can't go on playing any more, " he whispers. 

"Why not?"

"Because . . . Because I have got no more money. "

"You can't play without money, " says Grisha. 

Andrey ransacks his pockets once more to make sure. Finding nothingin them but crumbs and a bitten pencil, he drops the corners of hismouth and begins blinking miserably. He is on the point ofcrying. . . . 

"I'll put it down for you!" says Sonya, unable to endure his lookof agony. "Only mind you must pay me back afterwards. "

The money is brought and the game goes on. 

"I believe they are ringing somewhere, " says Anya, opening her eyeswide. 

They all leave off playing and gaze open-mouthed at the dark window. The reflection of the lamp glimmers in the darkness. 

"It was your fancy. "

"At night they only ring in the cemetery, " says Andrey. 

"And what do they ring there for?"

"To prevent robbers from breaking into the church. They are afraidof the bells. "

"And what do robbers break into the church for?" asks Sonya. 

"Everyone knows what for: to kill the watchmen. "

A minute passes in silence. They all look at one another, shudder, and go on playing. This time Andrey wins. 

"He has cheated, " Alyosha booms out, apropos of nothing. 

"What a lie, I haven't cheated. "

Andrey turns pale, his mouth works, and he gives Alyosha a slap onthe head! Alyosha glares angrily, jumps up, and with one knee onthe table, slaps Andrey on the cheek! Each gives the other a secondblow, and both howl. Sonya, feeling such horrors too much for her, begins crying too, and the dining-room resounds with lamentationson various notes. But do not imagine that that is the end of thegame. Before five minutes are over, the children are laughing andtalking peaceably again. Their faces are tear-stained, but thatdoes not prevent them from smiling; Alyosha is positively blissful, there has been a squabble!

Vasya, the fifth form schoolboy, walks into the dining-room. Helooks sleepy and disillusioned. 

"This is revolting!" he thinks, seeing Grisha feel in his pocketsin which the kopecks are jingling. "How can they give childrenmoney? And how can they let them play games of chance? A nice wayto bring them up, I must say! It's revolting!"

But the children's play is so tempting that he feels an inclinationto join them and to try his luck. 

"Wait a minute and I'll sit down to a game, " he says. 

"Put down a kopeck!"

"In a minute, " he says, fumbling in his pockets. "I haven't a kopeck, but here is a rouble. I'll stake a rouble. "

"No, no, no. . . . You must put down a kopeck. "

"You stupids. A rouble is worth more than a kopeck anyway, " theschoolboy explains. "Whoever wins can give me change. "

"No, please! Go away!"

The fifth form schoolboy shrugs his shoulders, and goes into thekitchen to get change from the servants. It appears there is not asingle kopeck in the kitchen. 

"In that case, you give me change, " he urges Grisha, coming backfrom the kitchen. "I'll pay you for the change. Won't you? Come, give me ten kopecks for a rouble. "

Grisha looks suspiciously at Vasya, wondering whether it isn't sometrick, a swindle. 

"I won't, " he says, holding his pockets. 

Vasya begins to get cross, and abuses them, calling them idiots andblockheads. 

"I'll put down a stake for you, Vasya!" says Sonya. "Sit down. " Hesits down and lays two cards before him. Anya begins counting thenumbers. 

"I've dropped a kopeck!" Grisha announces suddenly, in an agitatedvoice. "Wait!"

He takes the lamp, and creeps under the table to look for the kopeck. They clutch at nutshells and all sorts of nastiness, knock theirheads together, but do not find the kopeck. They begin lookingagain, and look till Vasya takes the lamp out of Grisha's hands andputs it in its place. Grisha goes on looking in the dark. But atlast the kopeck is found. The players sit down at the table andmean to go on playing. 

"Sonya is asleep!" Alyosha announces. 

Sonya, with her curly head lying on her arms, is in a sweet, sound, tranquil sleep, as though she had been asleep for an hour. She hasfallen asleep by accident, while the others were looking for thekopeck. 

"Come along, lie on mamma's bed!" says Anya, leading her away fromthe table. "Come along!"

They all troop out with her, and five minutes later mamma's bedpresents a curious spectacle. Sonya is asleep. Alyosha is snoringbeside her. With their heads to the others' feet, sleep Grisha andAnya. The cook's son, Andrey too, has managed to snuggle in besidethem. Near them lie the kopecks, that have lost their power tillthe next game. Good-night!

THE RUNAWAY

IT had been a long business. At first Pashka had walked with hismother in the rain, at one time across a mown field, then by forestpaths, where the yellow leaves stuck to his boots; he had walkeduntil it was daylight. Then he had stood for two hours in the darkpassage, waiting for the door to open. It was not so cold and dampin the passage as in the yard, but with the high wind spurts ofrain flew in even there. When the passage gradually became packedwith people Pashka, squeezed among them, leaned his face againstsomebody's sheepskin which smelt strongly of salt fish, and sankinto a doze. But at last the bolt clicked, the door flew open, andPashka and his mother went into the waiting-room. All the patientssat on benches without stirring or speaking. Pashka looked roundat them, and he too was silent, though he was seeing a great dealthat was strange and funny. Only once, when a lad came into thewaiting-room hopping on one leg, Pashka longed to hop too; he nudgedhis mother's elbow, giggled in his sleeve, and said: "Look, mammy, a sparrow. "

"Hush, child, hush!" said his mother. 

A sleepy-looking hospital assistant appeared at the little window. 

"Come and be registered!" he boomed out. 

All of them, including the funny lad who hopped, filed up to thewindow. The assistant asked each one his name, and his father'sname, where he lived, how long he had been ill, and so on. From hismother's answers, Pashka learned that his name was not Pashka, butPavel Galaktionov, that he was seven years old, that he could notread or write, and that he had been ill ever since Easter. 

Soon after the registration, he had to stand up for a little while;the doctor in a white apron, with a towel round his waist, walkedacross the waiting-room. As he passed by the boy who hopped, heshrugged his shoulders, and said in a sing-song tenor:

"Well, you are an idiot! Aren't you an idiot? I told you to comeon Monday, and you come on Friday. It's nothing to me if you don'tcome at all, but you know, you idiot, your leg will be done for!"

The lad made a pitiful face, as though he were going to beg foralms, blinked, and said:

"Kindly do something for me, Ivan Mikolaitch!"

"It's no use saying 'Ivan Mikolaitch, '" the doctor mimicked him. "You were told to come on Monday, and you ought to obey. You arean idiot, and that is all about it. "

The doctor began seeing the patients. He sat in his little room, and called up the patients in turn. Sounds were continually comingfrom the little room, piercing wails, a child's crying, or thedoctor's angry words:

"Come, why are you bawling? Am I murdering you, or what? Sit quiet!"

Pashka's turn came. 

"Pavel Galaktionov!" shouted the doctor. 

His mother was aghast, as though she had not expected this summons, and taking Pashka by the hand, she led him into the room. 

The doctor was sitting at the table, mechanically tapping on a thickbook with a little hammer. 

"What's wrong?" he asked, without looking at them. 

"The little lad has an ulcer on his elbow, sir, " answered his mother, and her face assumed an expression as though she really were terriblygrieved at Pashka's ulcer. 

"Undress him!"

Pashka, panting, unwound the kerchief from his neck, then wiped hisnose on his sleeve, and began deliberately pulling off his sheepskin. 

"Woman, you have not come here on a visit!" said the doctor angrily. "Why are you dawdling? You are not the only one here. "

Pashka hurriedly flung the sheepskin on the floor, and with hismother's help took off his shirt. . . The doctor looked at himlazily, and patted him on his bare stomach. 

"You have grown quite a respectable corporation, brother Pashka, "he said, and heaved a sigh. "Come, show me your elbow. "

Pashka looked sideways at the basin full of bloodstained slops, looked at the doctor's apron, and began to cry. 

"May-ay!" the doctor mimicked him. "Nearly old enough to be married, spoilt boy, and here he is blubbering! For shame!"

Pashka, trying not to cry, looked at his mother, and in that lookcould be read the entreaty: "Don't tell them at home that I criedat the hospital. "

The doctor examined his elbow, pressed it, heaved a sigh, clickedwith his lips, then pressed it again. 

"You ought to be beaten, woman, but there is no one to do it, " hesaid. "Why didn't you bring him before? Why, the whole arm is donefor. Look, foolish woman. You see, the joint is diseased!"

"You know best, kind sir . . . " sighed the woman. 

"Kind sir. . . . She's let the boy's arm rot, and now it is 'kindsir. ' What kind of workman will he be without an arm? You'll benursing him and looking after him for ages. I bet if you had had apimple on your nose, you'd have run to the hospital quick enough, but you have left your boy to rot for six months. You are all likethat. "

The doctor lighted a cigarette. While the cigarette smoked, hescolded the woman, and shook his head in time to the song he washumming inwardly, while he thought of something else. Pashka stoodnaked before him, listening and looking at the smoke. When thecigarette went out, the doctor started, and said in a lower tone:

"Well, listen, woman. You can do nothing with ointments and dropsin this case. You must leave him in the hospital. "

"If necessary, sir, why not?

"We must operate on him. You stop with me, Pashka, " said the doctor, slapping Pashka on the shoulder. "Let mother go home, and you andI will stop here, old man. It's nice with me, old boy, it's first-ratehere. I'll tell you what we'll do, Pashka, we will go catchingfinches together. I will show you a fox! We will go visiting together!Shall we? And mother will come for you tomorrow! Eh?"

Pashka looked inquiringly at his mother. 

"You stay, child!" she said. 

"He'll stay, he'll stay!" cried the doctor gleefully. "And thereis no need to discuss it. I'll show him a live fox! We will go tothe fair together to buy candy! Marya Denisovna, take him upstairs!"

The doctor, apparently a light-hearted and friendly fellow, seemedglad to have company; Pashka wanted to oblige him, especially ashe had never in his life been to a fair, and would have been gladto have a look at a live fox, but how could he do without his mother?

After a little reflection he decided to ask the doctor to let hismother stay in the hospital too, but before he had time to open hismouth the lady assistant was already taking him upstairs. He walkedup and looked about him with his mouth open. The staircase, thefloors, and the doorposts--everything huge, straight, and bright-werepainted a splendid yellow colour, and had a delicious smell ofLenten oil. On all sides lamps were hanging, strips of carpetstretched along the floor, copper taps stuck out on the walls. Butbest of all Pashka liked the bedstead upon which he was made to sitdown, and the grey woollen coverlet. He touched the pillows and thecoverlet with his hands, looked round the ward, and made up hismind that it was very nice at the doctor's. 

The ward was not a large one, it consisted of only three beds. Onebed stood empty, the second was occupied by Pashka, and on the thirdsat an old man with sour eyes, who kept coughing and spitting intoa mug. From Pashka's bed part of another ward could be seen withtwo beds; on one a very pale wasted-looking man with an india-rubberbottle on his head was asleep; on the other a peasant with his headtied up, looking very like a woman, was sitting with his arms spreadout. 

After making Pashka sit down, the assistant went out and came backa little later with a bundle of clothes under her arm. 

"These are for you, " she said, "put them on. "

Pashka undressed and, not without satisfaction began attiring himselfin his new array. When he had put on the shirt, the drawers, andthe little grey dressing-gown, he looked at himself complacently, and thought that it would not be bad to walk through the villagein that costume. His imagination pictured his mother's sending himto the kitchen garden by the river to gather cabbage leaves for thelittle pig; he saw himself walking along, while the boys and girlssurrounded him and looked with envy at his little dressing-gown. 

A nurse came into the ward, bringing two tin bowls, two spoons, andtwo pieces of bread. One bowl she set before the old man, the otherbefore Pashka. 

"Eat!" she said. 

Looking into his bowl, Pashka saw some rich cabbage soup, and inthe soup a piece of meat, and thought again that it was very niceat the doctor's, and that the doctor was not nearly so cross as hehad seemed at first. He spent a long time swallowing the soup, licking the spoon after each mouthful, then when there was nothingleft in the bowl but the meat he stole a look at the old man, andfelt envious that he was still eating the soup. With a sigh Pashkaattacked the meat, trying to make it last as long as possible, buthis efforts were fruitless; the meat, too, quickly vanished. Therewas nothing left but the piece of bread. Plain bread without anythingon it was not appetising, but there was no help for it. Pashkathought a little, and ate the bread. At that moment the nurse camein with another bowl. This time there was roast meat with potatoesin the bowl. 

"And where is the bread?" asked the nurse. 

Instead of answering, Pashka puffed out his cheeks, and blew outthe air. 

"Why did you gobble it all up?" said the nurse reproachfully. "Whatare you going to eat your meat with?"

She went and fetched another piece of bread. Pashka had never eatenroast meat in his life, and trying it now found it very nice. Itvanished quickly, and then he had a piece of bread left bigger thanthe first. When the old man had finished his dinner, he put awaythe remains of his bread in a little table. Pashka meant to do thesame, but on second thoughts ate his piece. 

When he had finished he went for a walk. In the next ward, besidesthe two he had seen from the door, there were four other people. Of these only one drew his attention. This was a tall, extremelyemaciated peasant with a morose-looking, hairy face. He was sittingon the bed, nodding his head and swinging his right arm all thetime like a pendulum. Pashka could not take his eyes off him for along time. At first the man's regular pendulum-like movements seemedto him curious, and he thought they were done for the generalamusement, but when he looked into the man's face he felt frightened, and realised that he was terribly ill. Going into a third ward hesaw two peasants with dark red faces as though they were smearedwith clay. They were sitting motionless on their beds, and withtheir strange faces, in which it was hard to distinguish theirfeatures, they looked like heathen idols. 

"Auntie, why do they look like that?" Pashka asked the nurse. 

"They have got smallpox, little lad. "

Going back to his own ward, Pashka sat down on his bed and beganwaiting for the doctor to come and take him to catch finches, orto go to the fair. But the doctor did not come. He got a passingglimpse of a hospital assistant at the door of the next ward. Hebent over the patient on whose head lay a bag of ice, and cried:"Mihailo!"

But the sleeping man did not stir. The assistant made a gesture andwent away. Pashka scrutinised the old man, his next neighbour. Theold man coughed without ceasing and spat into a mug. His cough hada long-drawn-out, creaking sound. 

Pashka liked one peculiarity about him; when he drew the air in ashe coughed, something in his chest whistled and sang on differentnotes. 

"Grandfather, what is it whistles in you?" Pashka asked. 

The old man made no answer. Pashka waited a little and asked:

"Grandfather, where is the fox?"

"What fox?"

"The live one. "

"Where should it be? In the forest!"

A long time passed, but the doctor still did not appear. The nursebrought in tea, and scolded Pashka for not having saved any breadfor his tea; the assistant came once more and set to work to wakeMihailo. It turned blue outside the windows, the wards were lightedup, but the doctor did not appear. It was too late now to go to thefair and catch finches; Pashka stretched himself on his bed andbegan thinking. He remembered the candy promised him by the doctor, the face and voice of his mother, the darkness in his hut at home, the stove, peevish granny Yegorovna . . . And he suddenly felt sadand dreary. He remembered that his mother was coming for him nextday, smiled, and shut his eyes. 

He was awakened by a rustling. In the next ward someone was steppingabout and speaking in a whisper. Three figures were moving aboutMihailo's bed in the dim light of the night-light and the ikon lamp. 

"Shall we take him, bed and all, or without?" asked one of them. 

"Without. You won't get through the door with the bed. "

"He's died at the wrong time, the Kingdom of Heaven be his!"

One took Mihailo by his shoulders, another by his legs and liftedhim up: Mihailo's arms and the skirt of his dressing-gown hunglimply to the ground. A third--it was the peasant who looked likea woman--crossed himself, and all three tramping clumsily withtheir feet and stepping on Mihailo's skirts, went out of the ward. 

There came the whistle and humming on different notes from the chestof the old man who was asleep. Pashka listened, peeped at the darkwindows, and jumped out of bed in terror. 

"Ma-a-mka!" he moaned in a deep bass. 

And without waiting for an answer, he rushed into the next ward. There the darkness was dimly lighted up by a night-light and theikon lamp; the patients, upset by the death of Mihailo, were sittingon their bedsteads: their dishevelled figures, mixed up with theshadows, looked broader, taller, and seemed to be growing biggerand bigger; on the furthest bedstead in the corner, where it wasdarkest, there sat the peasant moving his head and his hand. 

Pashka, without noticing the doors, rushed into the smallpox ward, from there into the corridor, from the corridor he flew into a bigroom where monsters, with long hair and the faces of old women, were lying and sitting on the beds. Running through the women'swing he found himself again in the corridor, saw the banisters ofthe staircase he knew already, and ran downstairs. There he recognisedthe waiting-room in which he had sat that morning, and began lookingfor the door into the open air. 

The latch creaked, there was a whiff of cold wind, and Pashka, stumbling, ran out into the yard. He had only one thought--torun, to run! He did not know the way, but felt convinced that ifhe ran he would be sure to find himself at home with his mother. The sky was overcast, but there was a moon behind the clouds. Pashkaran from the steps straight forward, went round the barn and stumbledinto some thick bushes; after stopping for a minute and thinking, he dashed back again to the hospital, ran round it, and stoppedagain undecided; behind the hospital there were white crosses. 

"Ma-a-mka!" he cried, and dashed back. 

Running by the dark sinister buildings, he saw one lighted window. 

The bright red patch looked dreadful in the darkness, but Pashka, frantic with terror, not knowing where to run, turned towards it. Beside the window was a porch with steps, and a front door with awhite board on it; Pashka ran up the steps, looked in at the window, and was at once possessed by intense overwhelming joy. Through thewindow he saw the merry affable doctor sitting at the table readinga book. Laughing with happiness, Pashka stretched out his hands tothe person he knew and tried to call out, but some unseen forcechoked him and struck at his legs; he staggered and fell down onthe steps unconscious. 

When he came to himself it was daylight, and a voice he knew verywell, that had promised him a fair, finches, and a fox, was sayingbeside him:

"Well, you are an idiot, Pashka! Aren't you an idiot? You ought tobe beaten, but there's no one to do it. "

GRISHA

GRISHA, a chubby little boy, born two years and eight months ago, is walking on the boulevard with his nurse. He is wearing a long, wadded pelisse, a scarf, a big cap with a fluffy pom-pom, and warmover-boots. He feels hot and stifled, and now, too, the rollickingApril sunshine is beating straight in his face, and making hiseyelids tingle. 

The whole of his clumsy, timidly and uncertainly stepping littlefigure expresses the utmost bewilderment. 

Hitherto Grisha has known only a rectangular world, where in onecorner stands his bed, in the other nurse's trunk, in the third achair, while in the fourth there is a little lamp burning. If onelooks under the bed, one sees a doll with a broken arm and a drum;and behind nurse's trunk, there are a great many things of allsorts: cotton reels, boxes without lids, and a broken Jack-a-dandy. In that world, besides nurse and Grisha, there are often mamma andthe cat. Mamma is like a doll, and puss is like papa's fur-coat, only the coat hasn't got eyes and a tail. From the world which iscalled the nursery a door leads to a great expanse where they havedinner and tea. There stands Grisha's chair on high legs, and onthe wall hangs a clock which exists to swing its pendulum and chime. From the dining-room, one can go into a room where there are redarm-chairs. Here, there is a dark patch on the carpet, concerningwhich fingers are still shaken at Grisha. Beyond that room is stillanother, to which one is not admitted, and where one sees glimpsesof papa--an extremely enigmatical person! Nurse and mamma arecomprehensible: they dress Grisha, feed him, and put him to bed, but what papa exists for is unknown. There is another enigmaticalperson, auntie, who presented Grisha with a drum. She appears anddisappears. Where does she disappear to? Grisha has more than oncelooked under the bed, behind the trunk, and under the sofa, but shewas not there. 

In this new world, where the sun hurts one's eyes, there are somany papas and mammas and aunties, that there is no knowing to whomto run. But what is stranger and more absurd than anything is thehorses. Grisha gazes at their moving legs, and can make nothing ofit. He looks at his nurse for her to solve the mystery, but shedoes not speak. 

All at once he hears a fearful tramping. . . . A crowd of soldiers, with red faces and bath brooms under their arms, move in step alongthe boulevard straight upon him. Grisha turns cold all over withterror, and looks inquiringly at nurse to know whether it isdangerous. But nurse neither weeps nor runs away, so there is nodanger. Grisha looks after the soldiers, and begins to move hisfeet in step with them himself. 

Two big cats with long faces run after each other across theboulevard, with their tongues out, and their tails in the air. Grisha thinks that he must run too, and runs after the cats. 

"Stop!" cries nurse, seizing him roughly by the shoulder. "Whereare you off to? Haven't you been told not to be naughty?"

Here there is a nurse sitting holding a tray of oranges. Grishapasses by her, and, without saying anything, takes an orange. 

"What are you doing that for?" cries the companion of his travels, slapping his hand and snatching away the orange. "Silly!"

Now Grisha would have liked to pick up a bit of glass that was lyingat his feet and gleaming like a lamp, but he is afraid that hishand will be slapped again. 

"My respects to you!" Grisha hears suddenly, almost above his ear, a loud thick voice, and he sees a tall man with bright buttons. 

To his great delight, this man gives nurse his hand, stops, andbegins talking to her. The brightness of the sun, the noise of thecarriages, the horses, the bright buttons are all so impressivelynew and not dreadful, that Grisha's soul is filled with a feelingof enjoyment and he begins to laugh. 

"Come along! Come along!" he cries to the man with the brightbuttons, tugging at his coattails. 

"Come along where?" asks the man. 

"Come along!" Grisha insists. 

He wants to say that it would be just as well to take with thempapa, mamma, and the cat, but his tongue does not say what he wantsto. 

A little later, nurse turns out of the boulevard, and leads Grishainto a big courtyard where there is still snow; and the man withthe bright buttons comes with them too. They carefully avoid thelumps of snow and the puddles, then, by a dark and dirty staircase, they go into a room. Here there is a great deal of smoke, there isa smell of roast meat, and a woman is standing by the stove fryingcutlets. The cook and the nurse kiss each other, and sit down onthe bench together with the man, and begin talking in a low voice. Grisha, wrapped up as he is, feels insufferably hot and stifled. 

"Why is this?" he wonders, looking about him. 

He sees the dark ceiling, the oven fork with two horns, the stovewhich looks like a great black hole. 

"Mam-ma, " he drawls. 

"Come, come, come!" cries the nurse. "Wait a bit!"

The cook puts a bottle on the table, two wine-glasses, and a pie. The two women and the man with the bright buttons clink glasses andempty them several times, and, the man puts his arm round first thecook and then the nurse. And then all three begin singing in anundertone. 

Grisha stretches out his hand towards the pie, and they give him apiece of it. He eats it and watches nurse drinking. . . . He wantsto drink too. 

"Give me some, nurse!" he begs. 

The cook gives him a sip out of her glass. He rolls his eyes, blinks, coughs, and waves his hands for a long time afterwards, while thecook looks at him and laughs. 

When he gets home Grisha begins to tell mamma, the walls, and thebed where he has been, and what he has seen. He talks not so muchwith his tongue, as with his face and his hands. He shows how thesun shines, how the horses run, how the terrible stove looks, andhow the cook drinks. . . . 

In the evening he cannot get to sleep. The soldiers with the brooms, the big cats, the horses, the bit of glass, the tray of oranges, the bright buttons, all gathered together, weigh on his brain. Hetosses from side to side, babbles, and, at last, unable to endurehis excitement, begins crying. 

"You are feverish, " says mamma, putting her open hand on his forehead. "What can have caused it?

"Stove!" wails Grisha. "Go away, stove!"

"He must have eaten too much . . . " mamma decides. 

And Grisha, shattered by the impressions of the new life he hasjust experienced, receives a spoonful of castor-oil from mamma. 

OYSTERS

I NEED no great effort of memory to recall, in every detail, therainy autumn evening when I stood with my father in one of the morefrequented streets of Moscow, and felt that I was gradually beingovercome by a strange illness. I had no pain at all, but my legswere giving way under me, the words stuck in my throat, my headslipped weakly on one side . . . It seemed as though, in a moment, I must fall down and lose consciousness. 

If I had been taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctorswould have had to write over my bed: _Fames_, a disease which isnot in the manuals of medicine. 

Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoatand a serge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was stickingout. On his feet he had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, thatpeople would see that his feet were bare under his goloshes, he haddrawn the tops of some old boots up round the calves of his legs. 

This poor, foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmlythe more ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, hadcome to Moscow, five months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk. For those five months he had been trudging about Moscow looking forwork, and it was only on that day that he had brought himself togo into the street to beg for alms. 

Before us was a big house of three storeys, adorned with a bluesignboard with the word "Restaurant" on it. My head was droopingfeebly backwards and on one side, and I could not help lookingupwards at the lighted windows of the restaurant. Human figureswere flitting about at the windows. I could see the right side ofthe orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging lamps . . . . Staring intoone window, I saw a patch of white. The patch was motionless, andits rectangular outlines stood out sharply against the dark, brownbackground. I looked intently and made out of the patch a whiteplacard on the wall. Something was written on it, but what it was, I could not see. . . 

For half an hour I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attractedmy eyes, and, as it were, hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it, but my efforts were in vain. 

At last the strange disease got the upper hand. 

The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder, in thestench of the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurantlights and the lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My five senseswere overstrained and sensitive beyond the normal. I began to seewhat I had not seen before. 

"Oysters . . . " I made out on the placard. 

A strange word! I had lived in the world eight years and threemonths, but had never come across that word. What did it mean?Surely it was not the name of the restaurant-keeper? But signboardswith names on them always hang outside, not on the walls indoors!

"Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I asked in a husky voice, makingan effort to turn my face towards my father. 

My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movements ofthe crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes. . . . Fromhis eyes I saw that he wanted to say something to the passers-by, but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lipsand could not be flung off. He even took a step after one passer-byand touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round, he said, "I beg your pardon, " was overcome with confusion, and staggeredback. 

"Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated. 

"It is an animal . . . That lives in the sea. "

I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . Ithought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. Asit was from the sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hotfish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves, or broth withvinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, orserved it cold with horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it beingbrought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . Awfully hungry!From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup. 

I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, thatit was gradually taking possession of my whole body. . . . Therestaurant, my father, the white placard, my sleeves were allsmelling of it, smelling so strongly that I began to chew. I movedmy jaws and swallowed as though I really had a piece of this marineanimal in my mouth . . . 

My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and Iclutched at my father's arm to keep myself from falling, and leantagainst his wet summer overcoat. My father was trembling andshivering. He was cold . . . 

"Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?" I asked. 

"They are eaten alive . . . " said my father. "They are in shellslike tortoises, but . . . In two halves. "

The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusionvanished. . . . Now I understood it all!

"How nasty, " I whispered, "how nasty!"

So that's what "oysters" meant! I imagined to myself a creaturelike a frog. A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it withbig, glittering eyes, and moving its revolting jaws. I imaginedthis creature in a shell with claws, glittering eyes, and a slimyskin, being brought from the market. . . . The children would allhide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust, would takethe creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into thedining-room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alivewith its eyes, its teeth, its legs! While it squeaked and tried tobite their lips. . . . 

I frowned, but . . . But why did my teeth move as though I weremunching? The creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible, but Iate it, ate it greedily, afraid of distinguishing its taste orsmell. As soon as I had eaten one, I saw the glittering eyes of asecond, a third . . . I ate them too. . . . At last I ate thetable-napkin, the plate, my father's goloshes, the white placard. . . I ate everything that caught my eye, because I felt that nothingbut eating would take away my illness. The oysters had a terriblelook in their eyes and were loathsome. I shuddered at the thoughtof them, but I wanted to eat! To eat!

"Oysters! Give me some oysters!" was the cry that broke from me andI stretched out my hand. 

"Help us, gentlemen!" I heard at that moment my father say, in ahollow and shaking voice. "I am ashamed to ask but--my God!--Ican bear no more!"

"Oysters!" I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat. 

"Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A little chap like you!" Iheard laughter close to me. 

Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into myface and laughing. 

"Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That's interesting! How doyou eat them?"

I remember that a strong hand dragged me into the lighted restaurant. A minute later there was a crowd round me, watching me with curiosityand amusement. I sat at a table and ate something slimy, salt witha flavour of dampness and mouldiness. I ate greedily without chewing, without looking and trying to discover what I was eating. I fanciedthat if I opened my eyes I should see glittering eyes, claws, andsharp teeth. 

All at once I began biting something hard, there was a sound of ascrunching. 

"Ha, ha! He is eating the shells, " laughed the crowd. "Little silly, do you suppose you can eat that?"

After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed, andcould not sleep for heartburn and the strange taste in my parchedmouth. My father was walking up and down, gesticulating with hishands. 

"I believe I have caught cold, " he was muttering. "I've a feelingin my head as though someone were sitting on it. . . . Perhaps itis because I have not . . . Er . . . Eaten anything to-day. . . . I really am a queer, stupid creature. . . . I saw those gentlemenpay ten roubles for the oysters. Why didn't I go up to them and askthem . . . To lend me something? They would have given something. "

Towards morning, I fell asleep and dreamt of a frog sitting in ashell, moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst, andlooked for my father: he was still walking up and down andgesticulating. 

HOME

"SOMEONE came from the Grigoryevs' to fetch a book, but I said youwere not at home. The postman brought the newspaper and two letters. By the way, Yevgeny Petrovitch, I should like to ask you to speakto Seryozha. To-day, and the day before yesterday, I have noticedthat he is smoking. When I began to expostulate with him, he puthis fingers in his ears as usual, and sang loudly to drown my voice. "

Yevgeny Petrovitch Bykovsky, the prosecutor of the circuit court, who had just come back from a session and was taking off his glovesin his study, looked at the governess as she made her report, andlaughed. 

"Seryozha smoking . . . " he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I canpicture the little cherub with a cigarette in his mouth! Why, howold is he?"

"Seven. You think it is not important, but at his age smoking is abad and pernicious habit, and bad habits ought to be eradicated inthe beginning. "

"Perfectly true. And where does he get the tobacco?"

"He takes it from the drawer in your table. "

"Yes? In that case, send him to me. "

When the governess had gone out, Bykovsky sat down in an arm-chairbefore his writing-table, shut his eyes, and fell to thinking. Hepictured his Seryozha with a huge cigar, a yard long, in the midstof clouds of tobacco smoke, and this caricature made him smile; atthe same time, the grave, troubled face of the governess called upmemories of the long past, half-forgotten time when smoking arousedin his teachers and parents a strange, not quite intelligible horror. It really was horror. Children were mercilessly flogged and expelledfrom school, and their lives were made a misery on account ofsmoking, though not a single teacher or father knew exactly whatwas the harm or sinfulness of smoking. Even very intelligent peopledid not scruple to wage war on a vice which they did not understand. Yevgeny Petrovitch remembered the head-master of the high school, a very cultured and good-natured old man, who was so appalled whenhe found a high-school boy with a cigarette in his mouth that heturned pale, immediately summoned an emergency committee of theteachers, and sentenced the sinner to expulsion. This was probablya law of social life: the less an evil was understood, the morefiercely and coarsely it was attacked. 

The prosecutor remembered two or three boys who had been expelledand their subsequent life, and could not help thinking that veryoften the punishment did a great deal more harm than the crimeitself. The living organism has the power of rapidly adapting itself, growing accustomed and inured to any atmosphere whatever, otherwiseman would be bound to feel at every moment what an irrational basisthere often is underlying his rational activity, and how little ofestablished truth and certainty there is even in work so responsibleand so terrible in its effects as that of the teacher, of the lawyer, of the writer. . . . 

And such light and discursive thoughts as visit the brain only whenit is weary and resting began straying through Yevgeny Petrovitch'shead; there is no telling whence and why they come, they do notremain long in the mind, but seem to glide over its surface withoutsinking deeply into it. For people who are forced for whole hours, and even days, to think by routine in one direction, such freeprivate thinking affords a kind of comfort, an agreeable solace. 

It was between eight and nine o'clock in the evening. Overhead, onthe second storey, someone was walking up and down, and on the floorabove that four hands were playing scales. The pacing of the manoverhead who, to judge from his nervous step, was thinking ofsomething harassing, or was suffering from toothache, and themonotonous scales gave the stillness of the evening a drowsinessthat disposed to lazy reveries. In the nursery, two rooms away, thegoverness and Seryozha were talking. 

"Pa-pa has come!" carolled the child. "Papa has co-ome. Pa! Pa!Pa!"

"_Votre père vous appelle, allez vite!_" cried the governess, shrillas a frightened bird. "I am speaking to you!"

"What am I to say to him, though?" Yevgeny Petrovitch wondered. 

But before he had time to think of anything whatever his son Seryozha, a boy of seven, walked into the study. 

He was a child whose sex could only have been guessed from hisdress: weakly, white-faced, and fragile. He was limp like a hot-houseplant, and everything about him seemed extraordinarily soft andtender: his movements, his curly hair, the look in his eyes, hisvelvet jacket. 

"Good evening, papa!" he said, in a soft voice, clambering on tohis father's knee and giving him a rapid kiss on his neck. "Did yousend for me?"

"Excuse me, Sergey Yevgenitch, " answered the prosecutor, removinghim from his knee. "Before kissing we must have a talk, and a serioustalk . . . I am angry with you, and don't love you any more. I tellyou, my boy, I don't love you, and you are no son of mine. . . . "

Seryozha looked intently at his father, then shifted his eyes tothe table, and shrugged his shoulders. 

"What have I done to you?" he asked in perplexity, blinking. "Ihaven't been in your study all day, and I haven't touched anything. "

"Natalya Semyonovna has just been complaining to me that you havebeen smoking. . . . Is it true? Have you been smoking?"

"Yes, I did smoke once. . . . That's true. . . . "

"Now you see you are lying as well, " said the prosecutor, frowningto disguise a smile. "Natalya Semyonovna has seen you smoking twice. So you see you have been detected in three misdeeds: smoking, takingsomeone else's tobacco, and lying. Three faults. "

"Oh yes, " Seryozha recollected, and his eyes smiled. "That's true, that's true; I smoked twice: to-day and before. "

"So you see it was not once, but twice. . . . I am very, very muchdispleased with you! You used to be a good boy, but now I see youare spoilt and have become a bad one. "

Yevgeny Petrovitch smoothed down Seryozha's collar and thought:

"What more am I to say to him!"

"Yes, it's not right, " he continued. "I did not expect it of you. In the first place, you ought not to take tobacco that does notbelong to you. Every person has only the right to make use of hisown property; if he takes anyone else's . . . He is a bad man!" ("Iam not saying the right thing!" thought Yevgeny Petrovitch. ) "Forinstance, Natalya Semyonovna has a box with her clothes in it. That's her box, and we--that is, you and I--dare not touch it, as it is not ours. That's right, isn't it? You've got toy horsesand pictures. . . . I don't take them, do I? Perhaps I might liketo take them, but . . . They are not mine, but yours!"

"Take them if you like!" said Seryozha, raising his eyebrows. "Pleasedon't hesitate, papa, take them! That yellow dog on your table ismine, but I don't mind. . . . Let it stay. "

"You don't understand me, " said Bykovsky. "You have given me thedog, it is mine now and I can do what I like with it; but I didn'tgive you the tobacco! The tobacco is mine. " ("I am not explainingproperly!" thought the prosecutor. "It's wrong! Quite wrong!") "IfI want to smoke someone else's tobacco, I must first of all ask hispermission. . . . "

Languidly linking one phrase on to another and imitating the languageof the nursery, Bykovsky tried to explain to his son the meaningof property. Seryozha gazed at his chest and listened attentively(he liked talking to his father in the evening), then he leaned hiselbow on the edge of the table and began screwing up his short-sightedeyes at the papers and the inkstand. His eyes strayed over the tableand rested on the gum-bottle. 

"Papa, what is gum made of?" he asked suddenly, putting the bottleto his eyes. 

Bykovsky took the bottle out of his hands and set it in its placeand went on:

"Secondly, you smoke. . . . That's very bad. Though I smoke it doesnot follow that you may. I smoke and know that it is stupid, I blamemyself and don't like myself for it. " ("A clever teacher, I am!"he thought. ) "Tobacco is very bad for the health, and anyone whosmokes dies earlier than he should. It's particularly bad for boyslike you to smoke. Your chest is weak, you haven't reached yourfull strength yet, and smoking leads to consumption and other illnessin weak people. Uncle Ignat died of consumption, you know. If hehadn't smoked, perhaps he would have lived till now. "

Seryozha looked pensively at the lamp, touched the lamp-shade withhis finger, and heaved a sigh. 

"Uncle Ignat played the violin splendidly!" he said. "His violinis at the Grigoryevs' now. "

Seryozha leaned his elbows on the edge of the table again, and sankinto thought. His white face wore a fixed expression, as though hewere listening or following a train of thought of his own; distressand something like fear came into his big staring eyes. He was mostlikely thinking now of death, which had so lately carried off hismother and Uncle Ignat. Death carries mothers and uncles off to theother world, while their children and violins remain upon the earth. The dead live somewhere in the sky beside the stars, and look downfrom there upon the earth. Can they endure the parting?

"What am I to say to him?" thought Yevgeny Petrovitch. "He's notlistening to me. Obviously he does not regard either his misdoingsor my arguments as serious. How am I to drive it home?"

The prosecutor got up and walked about the study. 

"Formerly, in my time, these questions were very simply settled, "he reflected. "Every urchin who was caught smoking was thrashed. The cowardly and faint-hearted did actually give up smoking, anywho were somewhat more plucky and intelligent, after the thrashingtook to carrying tobacco in the legs of their boots, and smokingin the barn. When they were caught in the barn and thrashed again, they would go away to smoke by the river . . . And so on, till theboy grew up. My mother used to give me money and sweets not tosmoke. Now that method is looked upon as worthless and immoral. Themodern teacher, taking his stand on logic, tries to make the childform good principles, not from fear, nor from desire for distinctionor reward, but consciously. "

While he was walking about, thinking, Seryozha climbed up with hislegs on a chair sideways to the table, and began drawing. That hemight not spoil official paper nor touch the ink, a heap ofhalf-sheets, cut on purpose for him, lay on the table together witha blue pencil. 

"Cook was chopping up cabbage to-day and she cut her finger, " hesaid, drawing a little house and moving his eyebrows. "She gavesuch a scream that we were all frightened and ran into the kitchen. Stupid thing! Natalya Semyonovna told her to dip her finger in coldwater, but she sucked it . . . And how could she put a dirty fingerin her mouth! That's not proper, you know, papa!"

Then he went on to describe how, while they were having dinner, aman with a hurdy-gurdy had come into the yard with a little girl, who had danced and sung to the music. 

"He has his own train of thought!" thought the prosecutor. "He hasa little world of his own in his head, and he has his own ideas ofwhat is important and unimportant. To gain possession of hisattention, it's not enough to imitate his language, one must alsobe able to think in the way he does. He would understand me perfectlyif I really were sorry for the loss of the tobacco, if I felt injuredand cried. . . . That's why no one can take the place of a motherin bringing up a child, because she can feel, cry, and laugh togetherwith the child. One can do nothing by logic and morality. What moreshall I say to him? What?"

And it struck Yevgeny Petrovitch as strange and absurd that he, anexperienced advocate, who spent half his life in the practice ofreducing people to silence, forestalling what they had to say, andpunishing them, was completely at a loss and did not know what tosay to the boy. 

"I say, give me your word of honour that you won't smoke again, "he said. 

"Word of hon-nour!" carolled Seryozha, pressing hard on the penciland bending over the drawing. "Word of hon-nour!"

"Does he know what is meant by word of honour?" Bykovsky askedhimself. "No, I am a poor teacher of morality! If some schoolmasteror one of our legal fellows could peep into my brain at this momenthe would call me a poor stick, and would very likely suspect me ofunnecessary subtlety. . . . But in school and in court, of course, all these wretched questions are far more simply settled than athome; here one has to do with people whom one loves beyond everything, and love is exacting and complicates the question. If this boy werenot my son, but my pupil, or a prisoner on his trial, I should notbe so cowardly, and my thoughts would not be racing all over theplace!"

Yevgeny Petrovitch sat down to the table and pulled one of Seryozha'sdrawings to him. In it there was a house with a crooked roof, andsmoke which came out of the chimney like a flash of lightning inzigzags up to the very edge of the paper; beside the house stood asoldier with dots for eyes and a bayonet that looked like the figure4. 

"A man can't be taller than a house, " said the prosecutor. 

Seryozha got on his knee, and moved about for some time to getcomfortably settled there. 

"No, papa!" he said, looking at his drawing. "If you were to drawthe soldier small you would not see his eyes. "

Ought he to argue with him? From daily observation of his son theprosecutor had become convinced that children, like savages, havetheir own artistic standpoints and requirements peculiar to them, beyond the grasp of grown-up people. Had he been attentively observed, Seryozha might have struck a grown-up person as abnormal. He thoughtit possible and reasonable to draw men taller than houses, and torepresent in pencil, not only objects, but even his sensations. Thus he would depict the sounds of an orchestra in the form of smokelike spherical blurs, a whistle in the form of a spiral thread. . . . To his mind sound was closely connected with form and colour, so that when he painted letters he invariably painted the letter Lyellow, M red, A black, and so on. 

Abandoning his drawing, Seryozha shifted about once more, got intoa comfortable attitude, and busied himself with his father's beard. First he carefully smoothed it, then he parted it and began combingit into the shape of whiskers. 

"Now you are like Ivan Stepanovitch, " he said, "and in a minute youwill be like our porter. Papa, why is it porters stand by doors?Is it to prevent thieves getting in?"

The prosecutor felt the child's breathing on his face, he wascontinually touching his hair with his cheek, and there was a warmsoft feeling in his soul, as soft as though not only his hands buthis whole soul were lying on the velvet of Seryozha's jacket. 

He looked at the boy's big dark eyes, and it seemed to him as thoughfrom those wide pupils there looked out at him his mother and hiswife and everything that he had ever loved. 

"To think of thrashing him . . . " he mused. "A nice task to devisea punishment for him! How can we undertake to bring up the young?In old days people were simpler and thought less, and so settledproblems boldly. But we think too much, we are eaten up by logic. . . . The more developed a man is, the more he reflects and giveshimself up to subtleties, the more undecided and scrupulous hebecomes, and the more timidity he shows in taking action. How muchcourage and self-confidence it needs, when one comes to look intoit closely, to undertake to teach, to judge, to write a thickbook. . . . "

It struck ten. 

"Come, boy, it's bedtime, " said the prosecutor. "Say good-night andgo. "

"No, papa, " said Seryozha, "I will stay a little longer. Tell mesomething! Tell me a story. . . . "

"Very well, only after the story you must go to bed at once. "

Yevgeny Petrovitch on his free evenings was in the habit of tellingSeryozha stories. Like most people engaged in practical affairs, he did not know a single poem by heart, and could not remember asingle fairy tale, so he had to improvise. As a rule he began withthe stereotyped: "In a certain country, in a certain kingdom, " thenhe heaped up all kinds of innocent nonsense and had no notion ashe told the beginning how the story would go on, and how it wouldend. Scenes, characters, and situations were taken at random, impromptu, and the plot and the moral came of itself as it were, with no plan on the part of the story-teller. Seryozha was veryfond of this improvisation, and the prosecutor noticed that thesimpler and the less ingenious the plot, the stronger the impressionit made on the child. 

"Listen, " he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Once upon atime, in a certain country, in a certain kingdom, there lived anold, very old emperor with a long grey beard, and . . . And withgreat grey moustaches like this. Well, he lived in a glass palacewhich sparkled and glittered in the sun, like a great piece of clearice. The palace, my boy, stood in a huge garden, in which theregrew oranges, you know . . . Bergamots, cherries . . . Tulips, roses, and lilies-of-the-valley were in flower in it, and birds ofdifferent colours sang there. . . . Yes. . . . On the trees therehung little glass bells, and, when the wind blew, they rang sosweetly that one was never tired of hearing them. Glass gives asofter, tenderer note than metals. . . . Well, what next? Therewere fountains in the garden. . . . Do you remember you saw afountain at Auntie Sonya's summer villa? Well, there were fountainsjust like that in the emperor's garden, only ever so much bigger, and the jets of water reached to the top of the highest poplar. "

Yevgeny Petrovitch thought a moment, and went on:

"The old emperor had an only son and heir of his kingdom--a boyas little as you. He was a good boy. He was never naughty, he wentto bed early, he never touched anything on the table, and altogetherhe was a sensible boy. He had only one fault, he used tosmoke. . . . "

Seryozha listened attentively, and looked into his father's eyeswithout blinking. The prosecutor went on, thinking: "What next?"He spun out a long rigmarole, and ended like this:

"The emperor's son fell ill with consumption through smoking, anddied when he was twenty. His infirm and sick old father was leftwithout anyone to help him. There was no one to govern the kingdomand defend the palace. Enemies came, killed the old man, and destroyedthe palace, and now there are neither cherries, nor birds, norlittle bells in the garden. . . . That's what happened. "

This ending struck Yevgeny Petrovitch as absurd and naïve, but thewhole story made an intense impression on Seryozha. Again his eyeswere clouded by mournfulness and something like fear; for a minutehe looked pensively at the dark window, shuddered, and said, in asinking voice:

"I am not going to smoke any more. . . . "

When he had said good-night and gone away his father walked up anddown the room and smiled to himself. 

"They would tell me it was the influence of beauty, artistic form, "he meditated. "It may be so, but that's no comfort. It's not theright way, all the same. . . . Why must morality and truth neverbe offered in their crude form, but only with embellishments, sweetened and gilded like pills? It's not normal. . . . It'sfalsification . . . Deception . . . Tricks . . . . "

He thought of the jurymen to whom it was absolutely necessary tomake a "speech, " of the general public who absorb history only fromlegends and historical novels, and of himself and how he had gatheredan understanding of life not from sermons and laws, but from fables, novels, poems. 

"Medicine should be sweet, truth beautiful, and man has had thisfoolish habit since the days of Adam . . . Though, indeed, perhapsit is all natural, and ought to be so. . . . There are many deceptionsand delusions in nature that serve a purpose. "

He set to work, but lazy, intimate thoughts still strayed throughhis mind for a good while. Overhead the scales could no longer beheard, but the inhabitant of the second storey was still pacingfrom one end of the room to another. 

A CLASSICAL STUDENT

BEFORE setting off for his examination in Greek, Vanya kissed allthe holy images. His stomach felt as though it were upside down;there was a chill at his heart, while the heart itself throbbed andstood still with terror before the unknown. What would he get thatday? A three or a two? Six times he went to his mother for herblessing, and, as he went out, asked his aunt to pray for him. Onthe way to school he gave a beggar two kopecks, in the hope thatthose two kopecks would atone for his ignorance, and that, pleaseGod, he would not get the numerals with those awful forties andeighties. 

He came back from the high school late, between four and five. Hecame in, and noiselessly lay down on his bed. His thin face waspale. There were dark rings round his red eyes. 

"Well, how did you get on? How were you marked?" asked his mother, going to his bedside. 

Vanya blinked, twisted his mouth, and burst into tears. His motherturned pale, let her mouth fall open, and clasped her hands. Thebreeches she was mending dropped out of her hands. 

"What are you crying for? You've failed, then?" she asked. 

"I am plucked. . . . I got a two. "

"I knew it would be so! I had a presentiment of it, " said his mother. "Merciful God! How is it you have not passed? What is the reasonof it? What subject have you failed in?"

"In Greek. . . . Mother, I . . . They asked me the future of _phero_, and I . . . Instead of saying _oisomai_ said _opsomai_. Then . . . Then there isn't an accent, if the last syllable is long, and I. . . I got flustered. . . . I forgot that the alpha was long in it. . . . I went and put in the accent. Then Artaxerxov told me to givethe list of the enclitic particles. . . . I did, and I accidentallymixed in a pronoun . . . And made a mistake . . . And so he gaveme a two. . . . I am a miserable person. . . . I was working allnight. . . I've been getting up at four o'clock all thisweek . . . . "

"No, it's not you but I who am miserable, you wretched boy! It's Ithat am miserable! You've worn me to a threadpaper, you Herod, youtorment, you bane of my life! I pay for you, you good-for-nothingrubbish; I've bent my back toiling for you, I'm worried to death, and, I may say, I am unhappy, and what do you care? How do youwork?"

"I . . . I do work. All night. . . . You've seen it yourself. "

"I prayed to God to take me, but He won't take me, a sinful woman. . . . You torment! Other people have children like everyone else, and I've one only and no sense, no comfort out of him. Beat you?I'd beat you, but where am I to find the strength? Mother of God, where am I to find the strength?"

The mamma hid her face in the folds of her blouse and broke intosobs. Vanya wriggled with anguish and pressed his forehead againstthe wall. The aunt came in. 

"So that's how it is. . . . Just what I expected, " she said, atonce guessing what was wrong, turning pale and clasping her hands. "I've been depressed all the morning. . . . There's trouble coming, I thought . . . And here it's come. . . . "

"The villain, the torment!"

"Why are you swearing at him?" cried the aunt, nervously pullingher coffee-coloured kerchief off her head and turning upon themother. "It's not his fault! It's your fault! You are to blame! Whydid you send him to that high school? You are a fine lady! You wantto be a lady? A-a-ah! I dare say, as though you'll turn into gentry!But if you had sent him, as I told you, into business . . . To anoffice, like my Kuzya . . . Here is Kuzya getting five hundred ayear. . . . Five hundred roubles is worth having, isn't it? And youare wearing yourself out, and wearing the boy out with this studying, plague take it! He is thin, he coughs . . . Just look at him! He'sthirteen, and he looks no more than ten. "

"No, Nastenka, no, my dear! I haven't thrashed him enough, thetorment! He ought to have been thrashed, that's what it is! Ugh. . . Jesuit, Mahomet, torment!" she shook her fist at her son. "Youwant a flogging, but I haven't the strength. They told me years agowhen he was little, 'Whip him, whip him!' I didn't heed them, sinfulwoman as I am. And now I am suffering for it. You wait a bit! I'llflay you! Wait a bit . . . . "

The mamma shook her wet fist, and went weeping into her lodger'sroom. The lodger, Yevtihy Kuzmitch Kuporossov, was sitting at histable, reading "Dancing Self-taught. " Yevtihy Kuzmitch was a manof intelligence and education. He spoke through his nose, washedwith a soap the smell of which made everyone in the house sneeze, ate meat on fast days, and was on the look-out for a bride of refinededucation, and so was considered the cleverest of the lodgers. Hesang tenor. 

"My good friend, " began the mamma, dissolving into tears. "If youwould have the generosity--thrash my boy for me. . . . Do me thefavour! He's failed in his examination, the nuisance of a boy! Wouldyou believe it, he's failed! I can't punish him, through the weaknessof my ill-health. . . . Thrash him for me, if you would be soobliging and considerate, Yevtihy Kuzmitch! Have regard for a sickwoman!"

Kuporossov frowned and heaved a deep sigh through his nose. Hethought a little, drummed on the table with his fingers, and sighingonce more, went to Vanya. 

"You are being taught, so to say, " he began, "being educated, beinggiven a chance, you revolting young person! Why have you done it?"

He talked for a long time, made a regular speech. He alluded toscience, to light, and to darkness. 

"Yes, young person. "

When he had finished his speech, he took off his belt and took Vanyaby the hand. 

"It's the only way to deal with you, " he said. Vanya knelt downsubmissively and thrust his head between the lodger's knees. Hisprominent pink ears moved up and down against the lodger's new sergetrousers, with brown stripes on the outer seams. 

Vanya did not utter a single sound. At the family council in theevening, it was decided to send him into business. 

VANKA

VANKA ZHUKOV, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticedto Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waitingtill his master and mistress and their workmen had gone to themidnight service, he took out of his master's cupboard a bottle ofink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled sheetof paper in front of him, began writing. Before forming the firstletter he several times looked round fearfully at the door and thewindows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides of whichstretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paperlay on the bench while he knelt before it. 

"Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch, " he wrote, "I am writingyou a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings fromGod Almighty. I have neither father nor mother, you are the onlyone left me. "

Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of hiscandle was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, KonstantinMakaritch, who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. Hewas a thin but extraordinarily nimble and lively little old man ofsixty-five, with an everlastingly laughing face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the servants' kitchen, or made jokes with thecooks; at night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin, he walked round thegrounds and tapped with his little mallet. Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and his long body like aweasel's, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionallypolite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness on strangersand his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. Under hispoliteness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning. Noone knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one's legs, to slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. Hishind legs had been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he hadbeen hanged, every week he was thrashed till he was half dead, buthe always revived. 

At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing up his eyes at the red windows of the church, stampingwith his high felt boots, and joking with the servants. His littlemallet was hanging on his belt. He was clasping his hands, shruggingwith the cold, and, with an aged chuckle, pinching first thehousemaid, then the cook. 

"How about a pinch of snuff?" he was saying, offering the women hissnuff-box. 

The women would take a sniff and sneeze. Grandfather would beindescribably delighted, go off into a merry chuckle, and cry:

"Tear it off, it has frozen on!"

They give the dogs a sniff of snuff too. Kashtanka sneezes, wrigglesher head, and walks away offended. Eel does not sneeze, frompoliteness, but wags his tail. And the weather is glorious. The airis still, fresh, and transparent. The night is dark, but one cansee the whole village with its white roofs and coils of smoke comingfrom the chimneys, the trees silvered with hoar frost, the snowdrifts. The whole sky spangled with gay twinkling stars, and the Milky Wayis as distinct as though it had been washed and rubbed with snowfor a holiday. . . . 

Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing:

"And yesterday I had a wigging. The master pulled me out into theyard by my hair, and whacked me with a boot-stretcher because Iaccidentally fell asleep while I was rocking their brat in thecradle. And a week ago the mistress told me to clean a herring, andI began from the tail end, and she took the herring and thrust itshead in my face. The workmen laugh at me and send me to the tavernfor vodka, and tell me to steal the master's cucumbers for them, and the master beats me with anything that comes to hand. And thereis nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, for dinner, porridge, and in the evening, bread again; but as for tea, or soup, the master and mistress gobble it all up themselves. And I am putto sleep in the passage, and when their wretched brat cries I getno sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear grandfather, show the divine mercy, take me away from here, home to the village. It's more than I can bear. I bow down to your feet, and will prayto God for you for ever, take me away from here or I shall die. "

Vanka's mouth worked, he rubbed his eyes with his black fist, andgave a sob. 

"I will powder your snuff for you, " he went on. "I will pray foryou, and if I do anything you can thrash me like Sidor's goat. Andif you think I've no job, then I will beg the steward for Christ'ssake to let me clean his boots, or I'll go for a shepherd-boy insteadof Fedka. Dear grandfather, it is more than I can bear, it's simplyno life at all. I wanted to run away to the village, but I have noboots, and I am afraid of the frost. When I grow up big I will takecare of you for this, and not let anyone annoy you, and when youdie I will pray for the rest of your soul, just as for my mammy's. "

"Moscow is a big town. It's all gentlemen's houses, and there arelots of horses, but there are no sheep, and the dogs are not spiteful. The lads here don't go out with the star, and they don't let anyonego into the choir, and once I saw in a shop window fishing-hooksfor sale, fitted ready with the line and for all sorts of fish, awfully good ones, there was even one hook that would hold aforty-pound sheat-fish. And I have seen shops where there are gunsof all sorts, after the pattern of the master's guns at home, sothat I shouldn't wonder if they are a hundred roubles each. . . . And in the butchers' shops there are grouse and woodcocks and fishand hares, but the shopmen don't say where they shoot them. "

"Dear grandfather, when they have the Christmas tree at the bighouse, get me a gilt walnut, and put it away in the green trunk. Ask the young lady Olga Ignatyevna, say it's for Vanka. "

Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. Heremembered how his grandfather always went into the forest to getthe Christmas tree for his master's family, and took his grandsonwith him. It was a merry time! Grandfather made a noise in histhroat, the forest crackled with the frost, and looking at themVanka chortled too. Before chopping down the Christmas tree, grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a pinch of snuff, andlaugh at frozen Vanka. . . . The young fir trees, covered with hoarfrost, stood motionless, waiting to see which of them was to die. Wherever one looked, a hare flew like an arrow over the snowdrifts. . . . Grandfather could not refrain from shouting: "Hold him, holdhim . . . Hold him! Ah, the bob-tailed devil!"

When he had cut down the Christmas tree, grandfather used to dragit to the big house, and there set to work to decorate it. . . . The young lady, who was Vanka's favourite, Olga Ignatyevna, was thebusiest of all. When Vanka's mother Pelageya was alive, and a servantin the big house, Olga Ignatyevna used to give him goodies, andhaving nothing better to do, taught him to read and write, to countup to a hundred, and even to dance a quadrille. When Pelageya died, Vanka had been transferred to the servants' kitchen to be with hisgrandfather, and from the kitchen to the shoemaker's in Moscow. 

"Do come, dear grandfather, " Vanka went on with his letter. "ForChrist's sake, I beg you, take me away. Have pity on an unhappyorphan like me; here everyone knocks me about, and I am fearfullyhungry; I can't tell you what misery it is, I am always crying. Andthe other day the master hit me on the head with a last, so that Ifell down. My life is wretched, worse than any dog's. . . . I sendgreetings to Alyona, one-eyed Yegorka, and the coachman, and don'tgive my concertina to anyone. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov. Dear grandfather, do come. "

Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into anenvelope he had bought the day before for a kopeck. . . . Afterthinking a little, he dipped the pen and wrote the address:

 _To grandfather in the village. _

Then he scratched his head, thought a little, and added: _KonstantinMakaritch. _ Glad that he had not been prevented from writing, heput on his cap and, without putting on his little greatcoat, ranout into the street as he was in his shirt. . . . 

The shopmen at the butcher's, whom he had questioned the day before, told him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxeswere carried about all over the earth in mailcarts with drunkendrivers and ringing bells. Vanka ran to the nearest post-box, andthrust the precious letter in the slit. . . . 

An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep. . . . He dreamed of the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging his bare legs, and reading the letter to the cooks. . . . 

By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail. 

AN INCIDENT

MORNING. Brilliant sunshine is piercing through the frozen laceworkon the window-panes into the nursery. Vanya, a boy of six, with acropped head and a nose like a button, and his sister Nina, a short, chubby, curly-headed girl of four, wake up and look crossly at eachother through the bars of their cots. 

"Oo-oo-oo! naughty children!" grumbles their nurse. "Good peoplehave had their breakfast already, while you can't get your eyesopen. "

The sunbeams frolic over the rugs, the walls, and nurse's skirts, and seem inviting the children to join in their play, but they takeno notice. They have woken up in a bad humour. Nina pouts, makes agrimace, and begins to whine:

"Brea-eakfast, nurse, breakfast!"

Vanya knits his brows and ponders what to pitch upon to howl over. He has already begun screwing up his eyes and opening his mouth, but at that instant the voice of mamma reaches them from thedrawing-room, saying: "Don't forget to give the cat her milk, shehas a family now!"

The children's puckered countenances grow smooth again as they lookat each other in astonishment. Then both at once begin shouting, jump out of their cots, and filling the air with piercing shrieks, run barefoot, in their nightgowns, to the kitchen. 

"The cat has puppies!" they cry. "The cat has got puppies!"

Under the bench in the kitchen there stands a small box, the onein which Stepan brings coal when he lights the fire. The cat ispeeping out of the box. There is an expression of extreme exhaustionon her grey face; her green eyes, with their narrow black pupils, have a languid, sentimental look. From her face it is clear thatthe only thing lacking to complete her happiness is the presencein the box of "him, " the father of her children, to whom she hadabandoned herself so recklessly! She wants to mew, and opens hermouth wide, but nothing but a hiss comes from her throat; thesquealing of the kittens is audible. 

The children squat on their heels before the box, and, motionless, holding their breath, gaze at the cat. . . . They are surprised, impressed, and do not hear nurse grumbling as she pursues them. Themost genuine delight shines in the eyes of both. 

Domestic animals play a scarcely noticed but undoubtedly beneficialpart in the education and life of children. Which of us does notremember powerful but magnanimous dogs, lazy lapdogs, birds dyingin captivity, dull-witted but haughty turkeys, mild old tabby cats, who forgave us when we trod on their tails for fun and caused themagonising pain? I even fancy, sometimes, that the patience, thefidelity, the readiness to forgive, and the sincerity which arecharacteristic of our domestic animals have a far stronger and moredefinite effect on the mind of a child than the long exhortationsof some dry, pale Karl Karlovitch, or the misty expositions of agoverness, trying to prove to children that water is made up ofhydrogen and oxygen. 

"What little things!" says Nina, opening her eyes wide and goingoff into a joyous laugh. "They are like mice!"

"One, two, three, " Vanya counts. "Three kittens. So there is onefor you, one for me, and one for somebody else, too. "

"Murrm . . . Murrm . . . " purrs the mother, flattered by theirattention. "Murrm. "

After gazing at the kittens, the children take them from under thecat, and begin squeezing them in their hands, then, not satisfiedwith this, they put them in the skirts of their nightgowns, and runinto the other rooms. 

"Mamma, the cat has got pups!" they shout. 

Mamma is sitting in the drawing-room with some unknown gentleman. Seeing the children unwashed, undressed, with their nightgowns heldup high, she is embarrassed, and looks at them severely. 

"Let your nightgowns down, disgraceful children, " she says. "Go outof the room, or I will punish you. "

But the children do not notice either mamma's threats or the presenceof a stranger. They put the kittens down on the carpet, and go offinto deafening squeals. The mother walks round them, mewingimploringly. When, a little afterwards, the children are draggedoff to the nursery, dressed, made to say their prayers, and giventheir breakfast, they are full of a passionate desire to get awayfrom these prosaic duties as quickly as possible, and to run to thekitchen again. 

Their habitual pursuits and games are thrown completely into thebackground. 

The kittens throw everything into the shade by making their appearancein the world, and supply the great sensation of the day. If Ninaor Vanya had been offered forty pounds of sweets or ten thousandkopecks for each kitten, they would have rejected such a barterwithout the slightest hesitation. In spite of the heated protestsof the nurse and the cook, the children persist in sitting by thecat's box in the kitchen, busy with the kittens till dinner-time. Their faces are earnest and concentrated and express anxiety. Theyare worried not so much by the present as by the future of thekittens. They decide that one kitten shall remain at home with theold cat to be a comfort to her mother, while the second shall goto their summer villa, and the third shall live in the cellar, wherethere are ever so many rats. 

"But why don't they look at us?" Nina wondered. "Their eyes areblind like the beggars'. "

Vanya, too, is perturbed by this question. He tries to open onekitten's eyes, and spends a long time puffing and breathing hardover it, but his operation is unsuccessful. They are a good dealtroubled, too, by the circumstance that the kittens obstinatelyrefuse the milk and the meat that is offered to them. Everythingthat is put before their little noses is eaten by their grey mamma. 

"Let's build the kittens little houses, " Vanya suggests. "They shalllive in different houses, and the cat shall come and pay themvisits. . . . "

Cardboard hat-boxes are put in the different corners of the kitchenand the kittens are installed in them. But this division turns outto be premature; the cat, still wearing an imploring and sentimentalexpression on her face, goes the round of all the hat-boxes, andcarries off her children to their original position. 

"The cat's their mother, " observed Vanya, "but who is their father?"

"Yes, who is their father?" repeats Nina. 

"They must have a father. "

Vanya and Nina are a long time deciding who is to be the kittens'father, and, in the end, their choice falls on a big dark-red horsewithout a tail, which is lying in the store-cupboard under thestairs, together with other relics of toys that have outlived theirday. They drag him up out of the store-cupboard and stand him bythe box. 

"Mind now!" they admonish him, "stand here and see they behavethemselves properly. "

All this is said and done in the gravest way, with an expressionof anxiety on their faces. Vanya and Nina refuse to recognise theexistence of any world but the box of kittens. Their joy knows nobounds. But they have to pass through bitter, agonising moments, too. 

Just before dinner, Vanya is sitting in his father's study, gazingdreamily at the table. A kitten is moving about by the lamp, onstamped note paper. Vanya is watching its movements, and thrustingfirst a pencil, then a match into its little mouth. . . . All atonce, as though he has sprung out of the floor, his father is besidethe table. 

"What's this?" Vanya hears, in an angry voice. 

"It's . . . It's the kitty, papa. . . . "

"I'll give it you; look what you have done, you naughty boy! You'vedirtied all my paper!"

To Vanya's great surprise his papa does not share his partialityfor the kittens, and, instead of being moved to enthusiasm anddelight, he pulls Vanya's ear and shouts:

"Stepan, take away this horrid thing. "

At dinner, too, there is a scene. . . . During the second coursethere is suddenly the sound of a shrill mew. They begin to investigateits origin, and discover a kitten under Nina's pinafore. 

"Nina, leave the table!" cries her father angrily. "Throw the kittensin the cesspool! I won't have the nasty things in the house! . . . "

Vanya and Nina are horrified. Death in the cesspool, apart from itscruelty, threatens to rob the cat and the wooden horse of theirchildren, to lay waste the cat's box, to destroy their plans forthe future, that fair future in which one cat will be a comfort toits old mother, another will live in the country, while the thirdwill catch rats in the cellar. The children begin to cry and entreatthat the kittens may be spared. Their father consents, but on thecondition that the children do not go into the kitchen and touchthe kittens. 

After dinner, Vanya and Nina slouch about the rooms, feelingdepressed. The prohibition of visits to the kitchen has reducedthem to dejection. They refuse sweets, are naughty, and are rudeto their mother. When their uncle Petrusha comes in the evening, they draw him aside, and complain to him of their father, who wantedto throw the kittens into the cesspool. 

"Uncle Petrusha, tell mamma to have the kittens taken to the nursery, "the children beg their uncle, "do-o tell her. "

"There, there . . . Very well, " says their uncle, waving them off. "All right. "

Uncle Petrusha does not usually come alone. He is accompanied byNero, a big black dog of Danish breed, with drooping ears, and atail as hard as a stick. The dog is silent, morose, and full of asense of his own dignity. He takes not the slightest notice of thechildren, and when he passes them hits them with his tail as thoughthey were chairs. The children hate him from the bottom of theirhearts, but on this occasion, practical considerations overridesentiment. 

"I say, Nina, " says Vanya, opening his eyes wide. "Let Nero be theirfather, instead of the horse! The horse is dead and he is alive, you see. "

They are waiting the whole evening for the moment when papa willsit down to his cards and it will be possible to take Nero to thekitchen without being observed. . . . At last, papa sits down tocards, mamma is busy with the samovar and not noticing thechildren. . . . 

The happy moment arrives. 

"Come along!" Vanya whispers to his sister. 

But, at that moment, Stepan comes in and, with a snigger, announces:

"Nero has eaten the kittens, madam. "

Nina and Vanya turn pale and look at Stepan with horror. 

"He really has . . . " laughs the footman, "he went to the box andgobbled them up. "

The children expect that all the people in the house will be aghastand fall upon the miscreant Nero. But they all sit calmly in theirseats, and only express surprise at the appetite of the huge dog. Papa and mamma laugh. Nero walks about by the table, wags his tail, and licks his lips complacently . . . The cat is the only one whois uneasy. With her tail in the air she walks about the rooms, looking suspiciously at people and mewing plaintively. 

"Children, it's past nine, " cries mamma, "it's bedtime. "

Vanya and Nina go to bed, shed tears, and spend a long time thinkingabout the injured cat, and the cruel, insolent, and unpunished Nero. 

A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

BETWEEN eight and nine o'clock in the morning. 

A dark leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards thesun. Red zigzags of lightning gleam here and there across it. Thereis a sound of far-away rumbling. A warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs up the dust. In a minute there will bea spurt of May rain and a real storm will begin. 

Fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, looking for Terenty the cobbler. The white-haired, barefoot childis pale. Her eyes are wide-open, her lips are trembling. 

"Uncle, where is Terenty?" she asks every one she meets. No oneanswers. They are all preoccupied with the approaching storm andtake refuge in their huts. At last she meets Silanty Silitch, thesacristan, Terenty's bosom friend. He is coming along, staggeringfrom the wind. 

"Uncle, where is Terenty?"

"At the kitchen-gardens, " answers Silanty. 

The beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens andthere finds Terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket, is standing near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunkeneyes at the dark storm-cloud. On his long crane-like legs he swaysin the wind like a starling-cote. 

"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "Uncle, darling!"

Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspreadwith a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look atsomething little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved. 

"Ah! servant of God, Fyokia, " he says, lisping tenderly, "wherehave you come from?"

"Uncle Terenty, " says Fyokia, with a sob, tugging at the lapel ofthe cobbler's coat. "Brother Danilka has had an accident! Comealong!"

"What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . . What sort of accident?"

"In the count's copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull hishand out!"

"How was it he put his hand in? What for?"

"He wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out of the hole for me. "

"The day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble. . . . "Terenty shook his head and spat deliberately. "Well, what am I todo with you now? I must come . . . I must, may the wolf gobble youup, you naughty children! Come, little orphan!"

Terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his longlegs, begins striding down the village street. He walks quicklywithout stopping or looking from side to side, as though he wereshoved from behind or afraid of pursuit. Fyokla can hardly keep upwith him. 

They come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towardsthe count's copse that lies dark blue in the distance. It is abouta mile and a half away. The clouds have by now covered the sun, andsoon afterwards there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. Itgrows dark. 

"Holy, holy, holy . . . " whispers Fyokla, hurrying after Terenty. The first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dustyroad. A big drop falls on Fyokla's cheek and glides like a teardown her chin. 

"The rain has begun, " mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust withhis bare, bony feet. "That's fine, Fyokla, old girl. The grass andthe trees are fed by the rain, as we are by bread. And as for thethunder, don't you be frightened, little orphan. Why should it killa little thing like you?"

As soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. The only sound is thepatter of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and theparched road. 

"We shall get soaked, Fyolka, " mutters Terenty. "There won't be adry spot left on us. . . . Ho-ho, my girl! It's run down my neck!But don't be frightened, silly. . . . The grass will be dry again, the earth will be dry again, and we shall be dry again. There isthe same sun for us all. "

A flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above theirheads. There is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to Fyokla thatsomething big, heavy, and round is rolling over the sky and tearingit open, exactly over her head. 

"Holy, holy, holy . . . " says Terenty, crossing himself. "Don't beafraid, little orphan! It is not from spite that it thunders. "

Terenty's and Fyokla's feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wetclay. It is slippery and difficult to walk, but Terenty strides onmore and more rapidly. The weak little beggar-girl is breathlessand ready to drop. 

But at last they go into the count's copse. The washed trees, stirredby a gust of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. Terentystumbles over stumps and begins to slacken his pace. 

"Whereabouts is Danilka?" he asks. "Lead me to him. "

Fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of amile, points to Danilka. Her brother, a little fellow of eight, with hair as red as ochre and a pale sickly face, stands leaningagainst a tree, and, with his head on one side, looking sidewaysat the sky. In one hand he holds his shabby old cap, the other ishidden in an old lime tree. The boy is gazing at the stormy sky, and apparently not thinking of his trouble. Hearing footsteps andseeing the cobbler he gives a sickly smile and says:

"A terrible lot of thunder, Terenty. . . . I've never heard so muchthunder in all my life. "

"And where is your hand?"

"In the hole. . . . Pull it out, please, Terenty!"

The wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed Danilka'shand: he could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. Terentysnaps off the broken piece, and the boy's hand, red and crushed, is released. 

"It's terrible how it's thundering, " the boy says again, rubbinghis hand. "What makes it thunder, Terenty?"

"One cloud runs against the other, " answers the cobbler. The partycome out of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards thedarkened road. The thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling isheard far away beyond the village. 

"The ducks flew by here the other day, Terenty, " says Danilka, stillrubbing his hand. "They must be nesting in the Gniliya Zaimishtchamarshes. . . . Fyolka, would you like me to show you a nightingale'snest?"

"Don't touch it, you might disturb them, " says Terenty, wringingthe water out of his cap. "The nightingale is a singing-bird, withoutsin. He has had a voice given him in his throat, to praise God andgladden the heart of man. It's a sin to disturb him. "

"What about the sparrow?"

"The sparrow doesn't matter, he's a bad, spiteful bird. He is likea pickpocket in his ways. He doesn't like man to be happy. WhenChrist was crucified it was the sparrow brought nails to the Jews, and called 'alive! alive!'"

A bright patch of blue appears in the sky. 

"Look!" says Terenty. "An ant-heap burst open by the rain! They'vebeen flooded, the rogues!"

They bend over the ant-heap. The downpour has damaged it; the insectsare scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily tryingto carry away their drowned companions. 

"You needn't be in such a taking, you won't die of it!" says Terenty, grinning. "As soon as the sun warms you, you'll come to your sensesagain. . . . It's a lesson to you, you stupids. You won't settleon low ground another time. "

They go on. 

"And here are some bees, " cries Danilka, pointing to the branch ofa young oak tree. 

The drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch. There are so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. Many of them are settled on one another. 

"That's a swarm of bees, " Terenty informs them. "They were flyinglooking for a home, and when the rain came down upon them theysettled. If a swarm is flying, you need only sprinkle water on themto make them settle. Now if, say, you wanted to take the swarm, youwould bend the branch with them into a sack and shake it, and theyall fall in. "

Little Fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. Herbrother looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it. 

"Hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "Do you know where you got that from, Fyokia, old girl? There are Spanish flies on some tree in the wood. The rain has trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck--that's what has made the swelling. "

The sun appears from behind the clouds and floods the wood, thefields, and the three friends with its warm light. The dark menacingcloud has gone far away and taken the storm with it. The air iswarm and fragrant. There is a scent of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley. 

"That herb is given when your nose bleeds, " says Terenty, pointingto a woolly-looking flower. "It does good. "

They hear a whistle and a rumble, but not such a rumble as thestorm-clouds carried away. A goods train races by before the eyesof Terenty, Danilka, and Fyokla. The engine, panting and puffingout black smoke, drags more than twenty vans after it. Its poweris tremendous. The children are interested to know how an engine, not alive and without the help of horses, can move and drag suchweights, and Terenty undertakes to explain it to them:

"It's all the steam's doing, children. . . . The steam does thework. . . . You see, it shoves under that thing near the wheels, and it . . . You see . . . It works. . . . "

They cross the railway line, and, going down from the embankment, walk towards the river. They walk not with any object, but just atrandom, and talk all the way. . . . Danilka asks questions, Terentyanswers them. . . . 

Terenty answers all his questions, and there is no secret in Naturewhich baffles him. He knows everything. Thus, for example, he knowsthe names of all the wild flowers, animals, and stones. He knowswhat herbs cure diseases, he has no difficulty in telling the ageof a horse or a cow. Looking at the sunset, at the moon, or thebirds, he can tell what sort of weather it will be next day. Andindeed, it is not only Terenty who is so wise. Silanty Silitch, theinnkeeper, the market-gardener, the shepherd, and all the villagers, generally speaking, know as much as he does. These people havelearned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the riverbank. Their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sangto them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs. 

Danilka looks at Terenty and greedily drinks in every word. Inspring, before one is weary of the warmth and the monotonous greenof the fields, when everything is fresh and full of fragrance, whowould not want to hear about the golden may-beetles, about thecranes, about the gurgling streams, and the corn mounting into ear?

The two of them, the cobbler and the orphan, walk about the fields, talk unceasingly, and are not weary. They could wander about theworld endlessly. They walk, and in their talk of the beauty of theearth do not notice the frail little beggar-girl tripping afterthem. She is breathless and moves with a lagging step. There aretears in her eyes; she would be glad to stop these inexhaustiblewanderers, but to whom and where can she go? She has no home orpeople of her own; whether she likes it or not, she must walk andlisten to their talk. 

Towards midday, all three sit down on the river bank. Danilka takesout of his bag a piece of bread, soaked and reduced to a mash, andthey begin to eat. Terenty says a prayer when he has eaten thebread, then stretches himself on the sandy bank and falls asleep. While he is asleep, the boy gazes at the water, pondering. He hasmany different things to think of. He has just seen the storm, thebees, the ants, the train. Now, before his eyes, fishes are whiskingabout. Some are two inches long and more, others are no bigger thanone's nail. A viper, with its head held high, is swimming from onebank to the other. 

Only towards the evening our wanderers return to the village. Thechildren go for the night to a deserted barn, where the corn of thecommune used to be kept, while Terenty, leaving them, goes to thetavern. The children lie huddled together on the straw, dozing. 

The boy does not sleep. He gazes into the darkness, and it seemsto him that he is seeing all that he has seen in the day: thestorm-clouds, the bright sunshine, the birds, the fish, lankyTerenty. The number of his impressions, together with exhaustionand hunger, are too much for him; he is as hot as though he wereon fire, and tosses from, side to side. He longs to tell someoneall that is haunting him now in the darkness and agitating his soul, but there is no one to tell. Fyokla is too little and could notunderstand. 

"I'll tell Terenty to-morrow, " thinks the boy. 

The children fall asleep thinking of the homeless cobbler, and, inthe night, Terenty comes to them, makes the sign of the cross overthem, and puts bread under their heads. And no one sees his love. It is seen only by the moon which floats in the sky and peepscaressingly through the holes in the wall of the deserted barn. 

BOYS

"VOLODYA'S come!" someone shouted in the yard. 

"Master Volodya's here!" bawled Natalya the cook, running into thedining-room. "Oh, my goodness!"

The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodyafrom hour to hour, rushed to the windows. At the front door stooda wide sledge, with three white horses in a cloud of steam. Thesledge was empty, for Volodya was already in the hall, untying hishood with red and chilly fingers. His school overcoat, his cap, hissnowboots, and the hair on his temples were all white with frost, and his whole figure from head to foot diffused such a pleasant, fresh smell of the snow that the very sight of him made one wantto shiver and say "brrr!"

His mother and aunt ran to kiss and hug him. Natalya plumped downat his feet and began pulling off his snowboots, his sisters shriekedwith delight, the doors creaked and banged, and Volodya's father, in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, ran out into the hall withscissors in his hand, and cried out in alarm:

"We were expecting you all yesterday? Did you come all right? Hada good journey? Mercy on us! you might let him say 'how do you do'to his father! I am his father after all!"

"Bow-wow!" barked the huge black dog, Milord, in a deep bass, tappingwith his tail on the walls and furniture. 

For two minutes there was nothing but a general hubbub of joy. Afterthe first outburst of delight was over the Korolyovs noticed thatthere was, besides their Volodya, another small person in the hall, wrapped up in scarves and shawls and white with frost. He wasstanding perfectly still in a corner, in the shadow of a big fox-linedovercoat. 

"Volodya darling, who is it?" asked his mother, in a whisper. 

"Oh!" cried Volodya. "This is--let me introduce my friend Lentilov, a schoolfellow in the second class. . . . I have brought him tostay with us. "

"Delighted to hear it! You are very welcome, " the father saidcordially. "Excuse me, I've been at work without my coat. . . . Please come in! Natalya, help Mr. Lentilov off with his things. Mercy on us, do turn that dog out! He is unendurable!"

A few minutes later, Volodya and his friend Lentilov, somewhat dazedby their noisy welcome, and still red from the outside cold, weresitting down to tea. The winter sun, making its way through thesnow and the frozen tracery on the window-panes, gleamed on thesamovar, and plunged its pure rays in the tea-basin. The room waswarm, and the boys felt as though the warmth and the frost werestruggling together with a tingling sensation in their bodies. 

"Well, Christmas will soon be here, " the father said in a pleasantsing-song voice, rolling a cigarette of dark reddish tobacco. "Itdoesn't seem long since the summer, when mamma was crying at yourgoing . . . And here you are back again. . . . Time flies, my boy. Before you have time to cry out, old age is upon you. Mr. Lentilov, take some more, please help yourself! We don't stand on ceremony!"

Volodya's three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha (the eldest waseleven), sat at the table and never took their eyes off the newcomer. 

Lentilov was of the same height and age as Volodya, but not asround-faced and fair-skinned. He was thin, dark, and freckled; hishair stood up like a brush, his eyes were small, and his lips werethick. He was, in fact, distinctly ugly, and if he had not beenwearing the school uniform, he might have been taken for the sonof a cook. He seemed morose, did not speak, and never once smiled. The little girls, staring at him, immediately came to the conclusionthat he must be a very clever and learned person. He seemed to bethinking about something all the time, and was so absorbed in hisown thoughts, that, whenever he was spoken to, he started, threwhis head back, and asked to have the question repeated. 

The little girls noticed that Volodya, who had always been so merryand talkative, also said very little, did not smile at all, andhardly seemed to be glad to be home. All the time they were at teahe only once addressed his sisters, and then he said something sostrange. He pointed to the samovar and said:

"In California they don't drink tea, but gin. "

He, too, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and, to judge by thelooks that passed between him and his friend Lentilov, their thoughtswere the same. 

After tea, they all went into the nursery. The girls and theirfather took up the work that had been interrupted by the arrivalof the boys. They were making flowers and frills for the Christmastree out of paper of different colours. It was an attractive andnoisy occupation. Every fresh flower was greeted by the little girlswith shrieks of delight, even of awe, as though the flower haddropped straight from heaven; their father was in ecstasies too, and every now and then he threw the scissors on the floor, invexation at their bluntness. Their mother kept running into thenursery with an anxious face, asking:

"Who has taken my scissors? Ivan Nikolaitch, have you taken myscissors again?"

"Mercy on us! I'm not even allowed a pair of scissors!" their fatherwould respond in a lachrymose voice, and, flinging himself back inhis chair, he would pretend to be a deeply injured man; but a minutelater, he would be in ecstasies again. 

On his former holidays Volodya, too, had taken part in the preparationsfor the Christmas tree, or had been running in the yard to look atthe snow mountain that the watchman and the shepherd were building. But this time Volodya and Lentilov took no notice whatever of thecoloured paper, and did not once go into the stable. They sat inthe window and began whispering to one another; then they openedan atlas and looked carefully at a map. 

"First to Perm . . . " Lentilov said, in an undertone, "from thereto Tiumen, then Tomsk . . . Then . . . Then . . . Kamchatka. Therethe Samoyedes take one over Behring's Straits in boats . . . . Andthen we are in America. . . . There are lots of furry animalsthere. . . . "

"And California?" asked Volodya. 

"California is lower down. . . . We've only to get to America andCalifornia is not far off. . . . And one can get a living by huntingand plunder. "

All day long Lentilov avoided the little girls, and seemed to lookat them with suspicion. In the evening he happened to be left alonewith them for five minutes or so. It was awkward to be silent. 

He cleared his throat morosely, rubbed his left hand against hisright, looked sullenly at Katya and asked:

"Have you read Mayne Reid?"

"No, I haven't. . . . I say, can you skate?"

Absorbed in his own reflections, Lentilov made no reply to thisquestion; he simply puffed out his cheeks, and gave a long sigh asthough he were very hot. He looked up at Katya once more and said:

"When a herd of bisons stampedes across the prairie the earthtrembles, and the frightened mustangs kick and neigh. "

He smiled impressively and added:

"And the Indians attack the trains, too. But worst of all are themosquitoes and the termites. "

"Why, what's that?"

"They're something like ants, but with wings. They bite fearfully. Do you know who I am?"

"Mr. Lentilov. "

"No, I am Montehomo, the Hawk's Claw, Chief of the Ever Victorious. "

Masha, the youngest, looked at him, then into the darkness out ofwindow and said, wondering:

"And we had lentils for supper yesterday. "

Lentilov's incomprehensible utterances, and the way he was alwayswhispering with Volodya, and the way Volodya seemed now to be alwaysthinking about something instead of playing . . . All this wasstrange and mysterious. And the two elder girls, Katya and Sonya, began to keep a sharp look-out on the boys. At night, when the boyshad gone to bed, the girls crept to their bedroom door, and listenedto what they were saying. Ah, what they discovered! The boys wereplanning to run away to America to dig for gold: they had everythingready for the journey, a pistol, two knives, biscuits, a burningglass to serve instead of matches, a compass, and four roubles incash. They learned that the boys would have to walk some thousandsof miles, and would have to fight tigers and savages on the road:then they would get gold and ivory, slay their enemies, becomepirates, drink gin, and finally marry beautiful maidens, and makea plantation. 

The boys interrupted each other in their excitement. Throughout theconversation, Lentilov called himself "Montehomo, the Hawk's Claw, "and Volodya was "my pale-face brother!"

"Mind you don't tell mamma, " said Katya, as they went back to bed. "Volodya will bring us gold and ivory from America, but if you tellmamma he won't be allowed to go. "

The day before Christmas Eve, Lentilov spent the whole day poringover the map of Asia and making notes, while Volodya, with a languidand swollen face that looked as though it had been stung by a bee, walked about the rooms and ate nothing. And once he stood stillbefore the holy image in the nursery, crossed himself, and said:

"Lord, forgive me a sinner; Lord, have pity on my poor unhappymamma!"

In the evening he burst out crying. On saying good-night he gavehis father a long hug, and then hugged his mother and sisters. Katyaand Sonya knew what was the matter, but little Masha was puzzled, completely puzzled. Every time she looked at Lentilov she grewthoughtful and said with a sigh:

"When Lent comes, nurse says we shall have to eat peas and lentils. "

Early in the morning of Christmas Eve, Katya and Sonya slippedquietly out of bed, and went to find out how the boys meant to runaway to America. They crept to their door. 

"Then you don't mean to go?" Lentilov was saying angrily. "Speakout: aren't you going?"

"Oh dear, " Volodya wept softly. "How can I go? I feel so unhappyabout mamma. "

"My pale-face brother, I pray you, let us set off. You declared youwere going, you egged me on, and now the time comes, you funk it!"

"I . . . I . . . I'm not funking it, but I . . . I . . . I'm sorryfor mamma. "

"Say once and for all, are you going or are you not?"

"I am going, only . . . Wait a little . . . I want to be at home alittle. "

"In that case I will go by myself, " Lentilov declared. "I can geton without you. And you wanted to hunt tigers and fight! Sincethat's how it is, give me back my cartridges!"

At this Volodya cried so bitterly that his sisters could not helpcrying too. Silence followed. 

"So you are not coming?" Lentilov began again. 

"I . . . I . . . I am coming!"

"Well, put on your things, then. "

And Lentilov tried to cheer Volodya up by singing the praises ofAmerica, growling like a tiger, pretending to be a steamer, scoldinghim, and promising to give him all the ivory and lions' and tigers'skins. 

And this thin, dark boy, with his freckles and his bristling shockof hair, impressed the little girls as an extraordinary remarkableperson. He was a hero, a determined character, who knew no fear, and he growled so ferociously, that, standing at the door, theyreally might imagine there was a tiger or lion inside. When thelittle girls went back to their room and dressed, Katya's eyes werefull of tears, and she said:

"Oh, I feel so frightened!"

Everything was as usual till two o'clock, when they sat down todinner. Then it appeared that the boys were not in the house. Theysent to the servants' quarters, to the stables, to the bailiff'scottage. They were not to be found. They sent into the village--they were not there. 

At tea, too, the boys were still absent, and by supper-time Volodya'smother was dreadfully uneasy, and even shed tears. 

Late in the evening they sent again to the village, they searchedeverywhere, and walked along the river bank with lanterns. Heavens!what a fuss there was!

Next day the police officer came, and a paper of some sort waswritten out in the dining-room. Their mother cried. . . . 

All of a sudden a sledge stopped at the door, with three whitehorses in a cloud of steam. 

"Volodya's come, " someone shouted in the yard. 

"Master Volodya's here!" bawled Natalya, running into the dining-room. And Milord barked his deep bass, "bow-wow. "

It seemed that the boys had been stopped in the Arcade, where theyhad gone from shop to shop asking where they could get gunpowder. 

Volodya burst into sobs as soon as he came into the hall, and flunghimself on his mother's neck. The little girls, trembling, wonderedwith terror what would happen next. They saw their father takeVolodya and Lentilov into his study, and there he talked to them along while. 

"Is this a proper thing to do?" their father said to them. "I onlypray they won't hear of it at school, you would both be expelled. You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Lentilov, really. It's not at all thething to do! You began it, and I hope you will be punished by yourparents. How could you? Where did you spend the night?"

"At the station, " Lentilov answered proudly. 

Then Volodya went to bed, and had a compress, steeped in vinegar, on his forehead. 

A telegram was sent off, and next day a lady, Lentilov's mother, made her appearance and bore off her son. 

Lentilov looked morose and haughty to the end, and he did not uttera single word at taking leave of the little girls. But he tookKatya's book and wrote in it as a souvenir: "Montehomo, the Hawk'sClaw, Chief of the Ever Victorious. "

SHROVE TUESDAY

"PAVEL VASSILITCH!" cries Pelageya Ivanovna, waking her husband. "Pavel Vassilitch! You might go and help Styopa with his lessons, he is sitting crying over his book. He can't understand somethingagain!"

Pavel Vassilitch gets up, makes the sign of the cross over his mouthas he yawns, and says softly: "In a minute, my love!"

The cat who has been asleep beside him gets up too, straightens outits tail, arches its spine, and half-shuts its eyes. There isstillness. . . . Mice can be heard scurrying behind the wall-paper. Putting on his boots and his dressing-gown, Pavel Vassilitch, crumpled and frowning from sleepiness, comes out of his bedroominto the dining-room; on his entrance another cat, engaged insniffing a marinade of fish in the window, jumps down to the floor, and hides behind the cupboard. 

"Who asked you to sniff that!" he says angrily, covering the fishwith a sheet of newspaper. "You are a pig to do that, not a cat. . . . "

From the dining-room there is a door leading into the nursery. There, at a table covered with stains and deep scratches, sitsStyopa, a high-school boy in the second class, with a peevishexpression of face and tear-stained eyes. With his knees raisedalmost to his chin, and his hands clasped round them, he is swayingto and fro like a Chinese idol and looking crossly at a sum book. 

"Are you working?" asks Pavel Vassilitch, sitting down to the tableand yawning. "Yes, my boy. . . . We have enjoyed ourselves, slept, and eaten pancakes, and to-morrow comes Lenten fare, repentance, and going to work. Every period of time has its limits. Why areyour eyes so red? Are you sick of learning your lessons? To be sure, after pancakes, lessons are nasty to swallow. That's about it. "

"What are you laughing at the child for?" Pelageya Ivanovna callsfrom the next room. "You had better show him instead of laughingat him. He'll get a one again to-morrow, and make me miserable. "

"What is it you don't understand?" Pavel Vassilitch asks Styopa. 

"Why this . . . Division of fractions, " the boy answers crossly. "The division of fractions by fractions. . . . "

"H'm . . . Queer boy! What is there in it? There's nothing tounderstand in it. Learn the rules, and that's all. . . . To dividea fraction by a fraction you must multiply the numerator of thefirst fraction by the denominator of the second, and that will bethe numerator of the quotient. . . . In this case, the numeratorof the first fraction. . . . "

"I know that without your telling me, " Styopa interrupts him, flicking a walnut shell off the table. "Show me the proof. "

"The proof? Very well, give me a pencil. Listen. . . . Suppose wewant to divide seven eighths by two fifths. Well, the point of itis, my boy, that it's required to divide these fractions by eachother. . . . Have they set the samovar?"

"I don't know. "

"It's time for tea. . . . It's past seven. Well, now listen. Wewill look at it like this. . . . Suppose we want to divide seveneighths not by two fifths but by two, that is, by the numeratoronly. We divide it, what do we get?

"Seven sixteenths. "

"Right. Bravo! Well, the trick of it is, my boy, that if we . . . So if we have divided it by two then. . . . Wait a bit, I am gettingmuddled. I remember when I was at school, the teacher of arithmeticwas called Sigismund Urbanitch, a Pole. He used to get into a muddleover every lesson. He would begin explaining some theory, get in atangle, and turn crimson all over and race up and down the class-roomas though someone were sticking an awl in his back, then he wouldblow his nose half a dozen times and begin to cry. But you know wewere magnanimous to him, we pretended not to see it. 'What is it, Sigismund Urbanitch?' we used to ask him. 'Have you got toothache?'And what a set of young ruffians, regular cut-throats, we were, butyet we were magnanimous, you know! There weren't any boys like youin my day, they were all great hulking fellows, great strappinglouts, one taller than another. For instance, in our third class, there was Mamahin. My goodness, he was a solid chap! You know, aregular maypole, seven feet high. When he moved, the floor shook;when he brought his great fist down on your back, he would knockthe breath out of your body! Not only we boys, but even the teacherswere afraid of him. So this Mamahin used to . . . "

Pelageya Ivanovna's footsteps are heard through the door. PavelVassilitch winks towards the door and says:

"There's mother coming. Let's get to work. Well, so you see, myboy, " he says, raising his voice. "This fraction has to be multipliedby that one. Well, and to do that you have to take the numeratorof the first fraction. . . "

"Come to tea!" cries Pelageya Ivanovna. Pavel Vassilitch and hisson abandon arithmetic and go in to tea. Pelageya Ivanovna is alreadysitting at the table with an aunt who never speaks, another auntwho is deaf and dumb, and Granny Markovna, a midwife who had helpedStyopa into the world. The samovar is hissing and puffing out steamwhich throws flickering shadows on the ceiling. The cats come infrom the entry sleepy and melancholy with their tails in theair. . . . 

"Have some jam with your tea, Markovna, " says Pelageya Ivanovna, addressing the midwife. "To-morrow the great fast begins. Eat wellto-day. "

Markovna takes a heaped spoonful of jam hesitatingly as though itwere a powder, raises it to her lips, and with a sidelong look atPavel Vassilitch, eats it; at once her face is overspread with asweet smile, as sweet as the jam itself. 

"The jam is particularly good, " she says. "Did you make it yourself, Pelageya Ivanovna, ma'am?"

"Yes. Who else is there to do it? I do everything myself. Styopotchka, have I given you your tea too weak? Ah, you have drunk it already. Pass your cup, my angel; let me give you some more. "

"So this Mamahin, my boy, could not bear the French master, " PavelVassilitch goes on, addressing his son. "'I am a nobleman, ' heused to shout, 'and I won't allow a Frenchman to lord it over me!We beat the French in 1812!' Well, of course they used to thrashhim for it . . . Thrash him dre-ead-fully, and sometimes when hesaw they were meaning to thrash him, he would jump out of window, and off he would go! Then for five or six days afterwards he wouldnot show himself at the school. His mother would come to thehead-master and beg him for God's sake: 'Be so kind, sir, as tofind my Mishka, and flog him, the rascal!' And the head-master wouldsay to her: 'Upon my word, madam, our five porters aren't a matchfor him!'"

"Good heavens, to think of such ruffians being born, " whispersPelageya Ivanovna, looking at her husband in horror. "What a trialfor the poor mother!"

A silence follows. Styopa yawns loudly, and scrutinises the Chinamanon the tea-caddy whom he has seen a thousand times already. Markovnaand the two aunts sip tea carefully out of their saucers. The airis still and stifling from the stove. . . . Faces and gesturesbetray the sloth and repletion that comes when the stomach is full, and yet one must go on eating. The samovar, the cups, and thetable-cloth are cleared away, but still the family sits on at thetable. . . . Pelageya Ivanovna is continually jumping up and, withan expression of alarm on her face, running off into the kitchen, to talk to the cook about the supper. The two aunts go on sittingin the same position immovably, with their arms folded across theirbosoms and doze, staring with their pewtery little eyes at the lamp. Markovna hiccups every minute and asks:

"Why is it I have the hiccups? I don't think I have eaten anythingto account for it . . . Nor drunk anything either. . . . Hic!"

Pavel Vassilitch and Styopa sit side by side, with their headstouching, and, bending over the table, examine a volume of the"Neva" for 1878. 

"'The monument of Leonardo da Vinci, facing the gallery of VictorEmmanuel at Milan. ' I say! . . . After the style of a triumphalarch. . . . A cavalier with his lady. . . . And there are littlemen in the distance. . . . "

"That little man is like a schoolfellow of mine called Niskubin, "says Styopa. 

"Turn over. . . . 'The proboscis of the common house-fly seen underthe microscope. ' So that's a proboscis! I say--a fly. Whateverwould a bug look like under a microscope, my boy? Wouldn't it behorrid!"

The old-fashioned clock in the drawing-room does not strike, butcoughs ten times huskily as though it had a cold. The cook, Anna, comes into the dining-room, and plumps down at the master's feet. 

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake, Pavel Vassilitch!" she says, gettingup, flushed all over. 

"You forgive me, too, for Christ's sake, " Pavel Vassilitch respondsunconcernedly. 

In the same manner, Anna goes up to the other members of the family, plumps down at their feet, and begs forgiveness. She only missesout Markovna to whom, not being one of the gentry, she does notfeel it necessary to bow down. 

Another half-hour passes in stillness and tranquillity. The "Neva"is by now lying on the sofa, and Pavel Vassilitch, holding up hisfinger, repeats by heart some Latin verses he has learned in hischildhood. Styopa stares at the finger with the wedding ring, listensto the unintelligible words, and dozes; he rubs his eyelids withhis fists, and they shut all the tighter. 

"I am going to bed . . . " he says, stretching and yawning. 

"What, to bed?" says Pelageya Ivanovna. "What about supper beforethe fast?"

"I don't want any. "

"Are you crazy?" says his mother in alarm. "How can you go withoutyour supper before the fast? You'll have nothing but Lenten foodall through the fast!"

Pavel Vassilitch is scared too. 

"Yes, yes, my boy, " he says. "For seven weeks mother will give younothing but Lenten food. You can't miss the last supper before thefast. "

"Oh dear, I am sleepy, " says Styopa peevishly. 

"Since that is how it is, lay the supper quickly, " Pavel Vassilitchcries in a fluster. "Anna, why are you sitting there, silly? Makehaste and lay the table. "

Pelageya Ivanovna clasps her hands and runs into the kitchen withan expression as though the house were on fire. 

"Make haste, make haste, " is heard all over the house. "Styopotchkais sleepy. Anna! Oh dear me, what is one to do? Make haste. "

Five minutes later the table is laid. Again the cats, arching theirspines, and stretching themselves with their tails in the air, comeinto the dining-room. . . . The family begin supper. . . . No oneis hungry, everyone's stomach is overfull, but yet they must eat. 

THE OLD HOUSE

_(A Story told by a Houseowner)_

THE old house had to be pulled down that a new one might be builtin its place. I led the architect through the empty rooms, andbetween our business talk told him various stories. The tatteredwallpapers, the dingy windows, the dark stoves, all bore the tracesof recent habitation and evoked memories. On that staircase, forinstance, drunken men were once carrying down a dead body when theystumbled and flew headlong downstairs together with the coffin; theliving were badly bruised, while the dead man looked very serious, as though nothing had happened, and shook his head when they liftedhim up from the ground and put him back in the coffin. You see thosethree doors in a row: in there lived young ladies who were alwaysreceiving visitors, and so were better dressed than any otherlodgers, and could pay their rent regularly. The door at the endof the corridor leads to the wash-house, where by day they washedclothes and at night made an uproar and drank beer. And in thatflat of three rooms everything is saturated with bacteria andbacilli. It's not nice there. Many lodgers have died there, and Ican positively assert that that flat was at some time cursed bysomeone, and that together with its human lodgers there was alwaysanother lodger, unseen, living in it. I remember particularly thefate of one family. Picture to yourself an ordinary man, notremarkable in any way, with a wife, a mother, and four children. His name was Putohin; he was a copying clerk at a notary's, andreceived thirty-five roubles a month. He was a sober, religious, serious man. When he brought me his rent for the flat he alwaysapologised for being badly dressed; apologised for being five dayslate, and when I gave him a receipt he would smile good-humouredlyand say: "Oh yes, there's that too, I don't like those receipts. "He lived poorly but decently. In that middle room, the grandmotherused to be with the four children; there they used to cook, sleep, receive their visitors, and even dance. This was Putohin's own room;he had a table in it, at which he used to work doing private jobs, copying parts for the theatre, advertisements, and so on. This roomon the right was let to his lodger, Yegoritch, a locksmith--asteady fellow, but given to drink; he was always too hot, and soused to go about in his waistcoat and barefoot. Yegoritch used tomend locks, pistols, children's bicycles, would not refuse to mendcheap clocks and make skates for a quarter-rouble, but he despisedthat work, and looked on himself as a specialist in musicalinstruments. Amongst the litter of steel and iron on his table therewas always to be seen a concertina with a broken key, or a trumpetwith its sides bent in. He paid Putohin two and a half roubles forhis room; he was always at his work-table, and only came out tothrust some piece of iron into the stove. 

On the rare occasions when I went into that flat in the evening, this was always the picture I came upon: Putohin would be sittingat his little table, copying something; his mother and his wife, athin woman with an exhausted-looking face, were sitting near thelamp, sewing; Yegoritch would be making a rasping sound with hisfile. And the hot, still smouldering embers in the stove filled theroom with heat and fumes; the heavy air smelt of cabbage soup, swaddling-clothes, and Yegoritch. It was poor and stuffy, but theworking-class faces, the children's little drawers hung up alongby the stove, Yegoritch's bits of iron had yet an air of peace, friendliness, content. . . . In the corridor outside the childrenraced about with well-combed heads, merry and profoundly convincedthat everything was satisfactory in this world, and would be soendlessly, that one had only to say one's prayers every morning andat bedtime. 

Now imagine in the midst of that same room, two paces from thestove, the coffin in which Putohin's wife is lying. There is nohusband whose wife will live for ever, but there was somethingspecial about this death. When, during the requiem service, I glancedat the husband's grave face, at his stern eyes, I thought: "Oho, brother!"

It seemed to me that he himself, his children, the grandmother andYegoritch, were already marked down by that unseen being which livedwith them in that flat. I am a thoroughly superstitious man, perhaps, because I am a houseowner and for forty years have had to do withlodgers. I believe if you don't win at cards from the beginning youwill go on losing to the end; when fate wants to wipe you and yourfamily off the face of the earth, it remains inexorable in itspersecution, and the first misfortune is commonly only the firstof a long series. . . . Misfortunes are like stones. One stone hasonly to drop from a high cliff for others to be set rolling afterit. In short, as I came away from the requiem service at Putohin's, I believed that he and his family were in a bad way. 

And, in fact, a week afterwards the notary quite unexpectedlydismissed Putohin, and engaged a young lady in his place. And wouldyou believe it, Putohin was not so much put out at the loss of hisjob as at being superseded by a young lady and not by a man. Why ayoung lady? He so resented this that on his return home he thrashedhis children, swore at his mother, and got drunk. Yegoritch gotdrunk, too, to keep him company. 

Putohin brought me the rent, but did not apologise this time, thoughit was eighteen days overdue, and said nothing when he took thereceipt from me. The following month the rent was brought by hismother; she only brought me half, and promised to bring the remaindera week later. The third month, I did not get a farthing, and theporter complained to me that the lodgers in No. 23 were "not behavinglike gentlemen. "

These were ominous symptoms. 

Picture this scene. A sombre Petersburg morning looks in at thedingy windows. By the stove, the granny is pouring out the children'stea. Only the eldest, Vassya, drinks out of a glass, for the othersthe tea is poured out into saucers. Yegoritch is squatting on hisheels before the stove, thrusting a bit of iron into the fire. Hishead is heavy and his eyes are lustreless from yesterday'sdrinking-bout; he sighs and groans, trembles and coughs. 

"He has quite put me off the right way, the devil, " he grumbles;"he drinks himself and leads others into sin. "

Putohin sits in his room, on the bedstead from which the bedclothesand the pillows have long ago disappeared, and with his handsstraying in his hair looks blankly at the floor at his feet. He istattered, unkempt, and ill. 

"Drink it up, make haste or you will be late for school, " the oldwoman urges on Vassya, "and it's time for me, too, to go and scrubthe floors for the Jews. . . . "

The old woman is the only one in the flat who does not lose heart. She thinks of old times, and goes out to hard dirty work. On Fridaysshe scrubs the floors for the Jews at the crockery shop, on Saturdaysshe goes out washing for shopkeepers, and on Sundays she is racingabout the town from morning to night, trying to find ladies whowill help her. Every day she has work of some sort; she washes andscrubs, and is by turns a midwife, a matchmaker, or a beggar. Itis true she, too, is not disinclined to drown her sorrows, but evenwhen she has had a drop she does not forget her duties. In Russiathere are many such tough old women, and how much of its welfarerests upon them!

When he has finished his tea, Vassya packs up his books in a satcheland goes behind the stove; his greatcoat ought to be hanging therebeside his granny's clothes. A minute later he comes out from behindthe stove and asks:

"Where is my greatcoat?"

The grandmother and the other children look for the greatcoattogether, they waste a long time in looking for it, but the greatcoathas utterly vanished. Where is it? The grandmother and Vassya arepale and frightened. Even Yegoritch is surprised. Putohin is theonly one who does not move. Though he is quick to notice anythingirregular or disorderly, this time he makes a pretence of hearingand seeing nothing. That is suspicious. 

"He's sold it for drink, " Yegoritch declares. 

Putohin says nothing, so it is the truth. Vassya is overcome withhorror. His greatcoat, his splendid greatcoat, made of his deadmother's cloth dress, with a splendid calico lining, gone for drinkat the tavern! And with the greatcoat is gone too, of course, theblue pencil that lay in the pocket, and the note-book with "_Notabene_" in gold letters on it! There's another pencil with india-rubberstuck into the note-book, and, besides that, there are transferpictures lying in it. 

Vassya would like to cry, but to cry is impossible. If his father, who has a headache, heard crying he would shout, stamp with hisfeet, and begin fighting, and after drinking he fights horribly. Granny would stand up for Vassya, and his father would strike grannytoo; it would end in Yegoritch getting mixed up in it too, clutchingat his father and falling on the floor with him. The two would rollon the floor, struggling together and gasping with drunken animalfury, and granny would cry, the children would scream, the neighbourswould send for the porter. No, better not cry. 

Because he mustn't cry, or give vent to his indignation aloud, Vassya moans, wrings his hands and moves his legs convulsively, orbiting his sleeve shakes it with his teeth as a dog does a hare. His eyes are frantic, and his face is distorted with despair. Lookingat him, his granny all at once takes the shawl off her head, andshe too makes queer movements with her arms and legs in silence, with her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. And at that momentI believe there is a definite certainty in the minds of the boy andthe old woman that their life is ruined, that there is nohope. . . . 

Putohin hears no crying, but he can see it all from his room. When, half an hour later, Vassya sets off to school, wrapped in hisgrandmother's shawl, he goes out with a face I will not undertaketo describe, and walks after him. He longs to call the boy, tocomfort him, to beg his forgiveness, to promise him on his word ofhonour, to call his dead mother to witness, but instead of words, sobs break from him. It is a grey, cold morning. When he reachesthe town school Vassya untwists his granny's shawl, and goes intothe school with nothing over his jacket for fear the boys shouldsay he looks like a woman. And when he gets home Putohin sobs, mutters some incoherent words, bows down to the ground before hismother and Yegoritch, and the locksmith's table. Then, recoveringhimself a little, he runs to me and begs me breathlessly, for God'ssake, to find him some job. I give him hopes, of course. 

"At last I am myself again, " he said. "It's high time, indeed, tocome to my senses. I've made a beast of myself, and now it's over. "

He is delighted and thanks me, while I, who have studied thesegentry thoroughly during the years I have owned the house, look athim, and am tempted to say:

"It's too late, dear fellow! You are a dead man already. "

From me, Putohin runs to the town school. There he paces up anddown, waiting till his boy comes out. 

"I say, Vassya, " he says joyfully, when the boy at last comes out, "I have just been promised a job. Wait a bit, I will buy you asplendid fur-coat. . . . I'll send you to the high school! Do youunderstand? To the high school! I'll make a gentleman of you! AndI won't drink any more. On my honour I won't. "

And he has intense faith in the bright future. But the evening comeson. The old woman, coming back from the Jews with twenty kopecks, exhausted and aching all over, sets to work to wash the children'sclothes. Vassya is sitting doing a sum. Yegoritch is not working. Thanks to Putohin he has got into the way of drinking, and is feelingat the moment an overwhelming desire for drink. It's hot and stuffyin the room. Steam rises in clouds from the tub where the old womanis washing. 

"Are we going?" Yegoritch asks surlily. 

My lodger does not answer. After his excitement he feels insufferablydreary. He struggles with the desire to drink, with acute depressionand . . . And, of course, depression gets the best of it. It is afamiliar story. 

Towards night, Yegoritch and Putohin go out, and in the morningVassya cannot find granny's shawl. 

That is the drama that took place in that flat. After selling theshawl for drink, Putohin did not come home again. Where he disappearedto I don't know. After he disappeared, the old woman first gotdrunk, then took to her bed. She was taken to the hospital, theyounger children were fetched by relations of some sort, and Vassyawent into the wash-house here. In the day-time he handed the irons, and at night fetched the beer. When he was turned out of thewash-house he went into the service of one of the young ladies, used to run about at night on errands of some sort, and began tobe spoken of as "a dangerous customer. "

What has happened to him since I don't know. 

And in this room here a street musician lived for ten years. Whenhe died they found twenty thousand roubles in his feather bed. 

IN PASSION WEEK

"Go along, they are ringing already; and mind, don't be naughty inchurch or God will punish you. "

My mother thrusts a few copper coins upon me, and, instantlyforgetting about me, runs into the kitchen with an iron that needsreheating. I know well that after confession I shall not be allowedto eat or drink, and so, before leaving the house, I force myselfto eat a crust of white bread, and to drink two glasses of water. It is quite spring in the street. The roads are all covered withbrownish slush, in which future paths are already beginning to show;the roofs and side-walks are dry; the fresh young green is piercingthrough the rotting grass of last year, under the fences. In thegutters there is the merry gurgling and foaming of dirty water, inwhich the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe. Chips, straws, the husksof sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in the water, whirlinground and sticking in the dirty foam. Where, where are those chipsswimming to? It may well be that from the gutter they may pass intothe river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea into theocean. I try to imagine to myself that long terrible journey, butmy fancy stops short before reaching the sea. 

A cabman drives by. He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, anddoes not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of hiscab. I should like to join them, but think of confession, and thestreet urchins begin to seem to me great sinners. 

"They will be asked on the day of judgment: 'Why did you play pranksand deceive the poor cabman?'" I think. "They will begin to defendthemselves, but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fireeverlasting. But if they obey their parents, and give the beggarsa kopeck each, or a roll, God will have pity on them, and will letthem into Paradise. "

The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine. There is not a soulin it. I open the door irresolutely and go into the church. Here, in the twilight which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no othertime, I am overcome by the sense of sinfulness and insignificance. What strikes the eye first of all is a huge crucifix, and on oneside of it the Mother of God, and on the other, St. John the Divine. The candelabra and the candlestands are draped in black mourningcovers, the lamps glimmer dimly and faintly, and the sun seemsintentionally to pass by the church windows. The Mother of God andthe beloved disciple of Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze insilence at the insufferable agony and do not observe my presence;I feel that to them I am alien, superfluous, unnoticed, that I canbe no help to them by word or deed, that I am a loathsome, dishonestboy, only capable of mischief, rudeness, and tale-bearing. I thinkof all the people I know, and they all seem to me petty, stupid, and wicked, and incapable of bringing one drop of relief to thatintolerable sorrow which I now behold. 

The twilight of the church grows darker and more gloomy. And theMother of God and St. John look lonely and forlorn to me. 

Prokofy Ignatitch, a veteran soldier, the church verger's assistant, is standing behind the candle cupboard. Raising his eyebrows andstroking his beard he explains in a half-whisper to an old woman:"Matins will be in the evening to-day, directly after vespers. Andthey will ring for the 'hours' to-morrow between seven and eight. Do you understand? Between seven and eight. "

Between the two broad columns on the right, where the chapel ofVarvara the Martyr begins, those who are going to confess standbeside the screen, awaiting their turn. And Mitka is there too--a ragged boy with his head hideously cropped, with ears that jutout, and little spiteful eyes. He is the son of Nastasya thecharwoman, and is a bully and a ruffian who snatches apples fromthe women's baskets, and has more than once carried off myknuckle-bones. He looks at me angrily, and I fancy takes a spitefulpleasure in the fact that he, not I, will first go behind the screen. I feel boiling over with resentment, I try not to look at him, and, at the bottom of my heart, I am vexed that this wretched boy's sinswill soon be forgiven. 

In front of him stands a grandly dressed, beautiful lady, wearinga hat with a white feather. She is noticeably agitated, is waitingin strained suspense, and one of her cheeks is flushed red withexcitement. 

I wait for five minutes, for ten. . . . A well-dressed young manwith a long thin neck, and rubber goloshes, comes out from behindthe screen. I begin dreaming how, when I am grown up, I will buygoloshes exactly like them. I certainly will! The lady shudders andgoes behind the screen. It is her turn. 

In the crack, between the two panels of the screen, I can see thelady go up to the lectern and bow down to the ground, then get up, and, without looking at the priest, bow her head in anticipation. The priest stands with his back to the screen, and so I can onlysee his grey curly head, the chain of the cross on his chest, andhis broad back. His face is not visible. Heaving a sigh, and notlooking at the lady, he begins speaking rapidly, shaking his head, alternately raising and dropping his whispering voice. The ladylistens meekly as though conscious of guilt, answers meekly, andlooks at the floor. 

"In what way can she be sinful?" I wonder, looking reverently ather gentle, beautiful face. "God forgive her sins, God send herhappiness. " But now the priest covers her head with the stole. "AndI, unworthy priest . . . " I hear his voice, ". . . By His powergiven unto me, do forgive and absolve thee from all thy sins. . . . "

The lady bows down to the ground, kisses the cross, and comes back. Both her cheeks are flushed now, but her face is calm and sereneand cheerful. 

"She is happy now, " I think to myself, looking first at her andthen at the priest who had forgiven her sins. "But how happy theman must be who has the right to forgive sins!"

Now it is Mitka's turn, but a feeling of hatred for that youngruffian suddenly boils up in me. I want to go behind the screenbefore him, I want to be the first. Noticing my movement he hitsme on the head with his candle, I respond by doing the same, and, for half a minute, there is a sound of panting, and, as it were, of someone breaking candles. . . . We are separated. My foe goestimidly up to the lectern, and bows down to the floor without bendinghis knees, but I do not see what happens after that; the thoughtthat my turn is coming after Mitka's makes everything grow blurredand confused before my eyes; Mitka's protruding ears grow large, and melt into his dark head, the priest sways, the floor seems tobe undulating. . . . 

The priest's voice is audible: "And I, unworthy priest . . . "

Now I too move behind the screen. I do not feel the ground undermy feet, it is as though I were walking on air. . . . I go up tothe lectern which is taller than I am. For a minute I have a glimpseof the indifferent, exhausted face of the priest. But after that Isee nothing but his sleeve with its blue lining, the cross, and theedge of the lectern. I am conscious of the close proximity of thepriest, the smell of his cassock; I hear his stern voice, and mycheek turned towards him begins to burn. . . . I am so troubledthat I miss a great deal that he says, but I answer his questionssincerely in an unnatural voice, not my own. I think of the forlornfigures of the Holy Mother and St. John the Divine, the crucifix, my mother, and I want to cry and beg forgiveness. 

"What is your name?" the priest asks me, covering my head with thesoft stole. 

How light-hearted I am now, with joy in my soul!

I have no sins now, I am holy, I have the right to enter Paradise!I fancy that I already smell like the cassock. I go from behind thescreen to the deacon to enter my name, and sniff at my sleeves. Thedusk of the church no longer seems gloomy, and I look indifferently, without malice, at Mitka. 

"What is your name?" the deacon asks. 

"Fedya. "

"And your name from your father?"

"I don't know. "

"What is your papa's name?"

"Ivan Petrovitch. "

"And your surname?"

I make no answer. 

"How old are you?"

"Nearly nine. "

When I get home I go to bed quickly, that I may not see them eatingsupper; and, shutting my eyes, dream of how fine it would be toendure martyrdom at the hands of some Herod or Dioskorus, to livein the desert, and, like St. Serafim, feed the bears, live in acell, and eat nothing but holy bread, give my property to the poor, go on a pilgrimage to Kiev. I hear them laying the table in thedining-room--they are going to have supper, they will eat salad, cabbage pies, fried and baked fish. How hungry I am! I would consentto endure any martyrdom, to live in the desert without my mother, to feed bears out of my own hands, if only I might first eat justone cabbage pie!

"Lord, purify me a sinner, " I pray, covering my head over. "Guardianangel, save me from the unclean spirit. "

The next day, Thursday, I wake up with my heart as pure and cleanas a fine spring day. I go gaily and boldly into the church, feelingthat I am a communicant, that I have a splendid and expensive shirton, made out of a silk dress left by my grandmother. In the churcheverything has an air of joy, happiness, and spring. The faces ofthe Mother of God and St. John the Divine are not so sorrowful asyesterday. The faces of the communicants are radiant with hope, andit seems as though all the past is forgotten, all is forgiven. Mitka, too, has combed his hair, and is dressed in his best. I lookgaily at his protruding ears, and to show that I have nothing againsthim, I say:

"You look nice to-day, and if your hair did not stand up so, andyou weren't so poorly dressed, everybody would think that yourmother was not a washerwoman but a lady. Come to me at Easter, wewill play knuckle-bones. "

Mitka looks at me mistrustfully, and shakes his fist at me on thesly. 

And the lady I saw yesterday looks lovely. She is wearing a lightblue dress, and a big sparkling brooch in the shape of a horse-shoe. I admire her, and think that, when I am grown-up, I will certainlymarry a woman like that, but remembering that getting married isshameful, I leave off thinking about it, and go into the choir wherethe deacon is already reading the "hours. "

WHITEBROW

A HUNGRY she-wolf got up to go hunting. Her cubs, all three of them, were sound asleep, huddled in a heap and keeping each other warm. She licked them and went off. 

It was already March, a month of spring, but at night the treessnapped with the cold, as they do in December, and one could hardlyput one's tongue out without its being nipped. The wolf-mother wasin delicate health and nervous; she started at the slightest sound, and kept hoping that no one would hurt the little ones at home whileshe was away. The smell of the tracks of men and horses, logs, pilesof faggots, and the dark road with horse-dung on it frightened her;it seemed to her that men were standing behind the trees in thedarkness, and that dogs were howling somewhere beyond the forest. 

She was no longer young and her scent had grown feebler, so thatit sometimes happened that she took the track of a fox for that ofa dog, and even at times lost her way, a thing that had never beenin her youth. Owing to the weakness of her health she no longerhunted calves and big sheep as she had in old days, and kept herdistance now from mares with colts; she fed on nothing but carrion;fresh meat she tasted very rarely, only in the spring when she wouldcome upon a hare and take away her young, or make her way into apeasant's stall where there were lambs. 

Some three miles from her lair there stood a winter hut on theposting road. There lived the keeper Ignat, an old man of seventy, who was always coughing and talking to himself; at night he wasusually asleep, and by day he wandered about the forest with asingle-barrelled gun, whistling to the hares. He must have workedamong machinery in early days, for before he stood still he alwaysshouted to himself: "Stop the machine!" and before going on: "Fullspeed!" He had a huge black dog of indeterminate breed, calledArapka. When it ran too far ahead he used to shout to it: "Reverseaction!" Sometimes he used to sing, and as he did so staggeredviolently, and often fell down (the wolf thought the wind blew himover), and shouted: "Run off the rails!"

The wolf remembered that, in the summer and autumn, a ram and twoewes were pasturing near the winter hut, and when she had run bynot so long ago she fancied that she had heard bleating in thestall. And now, as she got near the place, she reflected that itwas already March, and, by that time, there would certainly be lambsin the stall. She was tormented by hunger, she thought with whatgreediness she would eat a lamb, and these thoughts made her teethsnap, and her eyes glitter in the darkness like two sparks of light. 

Ignat's hut, his barn, cattle-stall, and well were surrounded byhigh snowdrifts. All was still. Arapka was, most likely, asleep inthe barn. 

The wolf clambered over a snowdrift on to the stall, and beganscratching away the thatched roof with her paws and her nose. Thestraw was rotten and decaying, so that the wolf almost fell through;all at once a smell of warm steam, of manure, and of sheep's milkfloated straight to her nostrils. Down below, a lamb, feeling thecold, bleated softly. Leaping through the hole, the wolf fell withher four paws and chest on something soft and warm, probably asheep, and at the same moment, something in the stall suddenly beganwhining, barking, and going off into a shrill little yap; the sheephuddled against the wall, and the wolf, frightened, snatched thefirst thing her teeth fastened on, and dashed away. . . . 

She ran at her utmost speed, while Arapka, who by now had scentedthe wolf, howled furiously, the frightened hens cackled, and Ignat, coming out into the porch, shouted: "Full speed! Blow the whistle!"

And he whistled like a steam-engine, and then shouted: "Ho-ho-ho-ho!"and all this noise was repeated by the forest echo. When, littleby little, it all died away, the wolf somewhat recovered herself, and began to notice that the prey she held in her teeth and draggedalong the snow was heavier and, as it were, harder than lambs usuallywere at that season; and it smelt somehow different, and utteredstrange sounds. . . . The wolf stopped and laid her burden on thesnow, to rest and begin eating it, then all at once she leapt backin disgust. It was not a lamb, but a black puppy, with a big headand long legs, of a large breed, with a white patch on his brow, like Arapka's. Judging from his manners he was a simple, ignorant, yard-dog. He licked his crushed and wounded back, and, as thoughnothing was the matter, wagged his tail and barked at the wolf. Shegrowled like a dog, and ran away from him. He ran after her. Shelooked round and snapped her teeth. He stopped in perplexity, and, probably deciding that she was playing with him, craned his headin the direction he had come from, and went off into a shrill, gleeful bark, as though inviting his mother Arapka to play with himand the wolf. 

It was already getting light, and when the wolf reached her homein the thick aspen wood, each aspen tree could be seen distinctly, and the woodcocks were already awake, and the beautiful male birdsoften flew up, disturbed by the incautious gambols and barking ofthe puppy. 

"Why does he run after me?" thought the wolf with annoyance. "Isuppose he wants me to eat him. "

She lived with her cubs in a shallow hole; three years before, atall old pine tree had been torn up by the roots in a violent storm, and the hole had been formed by it. Now there were dead leaves andmoss at the bottom, and around it lay bones and bullocks' horns, with which the little ones played. They were by now awake, and allthree of them, very much alike, were standing in a row at the edgeof their hole, looking at their returning mother, and wagging theirtails. Seeing them, the puppy stopped a little way off, and staredat them for a very long time; seeing that they, too, were lookingvery attentively at him, he began barking angrily, as at strangers. 

By now it was daylight and the sun had risen, the snow sparkled allaround, but still the puppy stood a little way off and barked. Thecubs sucked their mother, pressing her thin belly with their paws, while she gnawed a horse's bone, dry and white; she was tormentedby hunger, her head ached from the dog's barking, and she feltinclined to fall on the uninvited guest and tear him to pieces. 

At last the puppy was hoarse and exhausted; seeing they were notafraid of him, and not even attending to him, he began somewhattimidly approaching the cubs, alternately squatting down and boundinga few steps forward. Now, by daylight, it was easy to have a goodlook at him. . . . His white forehead was big, and on it was a humpsuch as is only seen on very stupid dogs; he had little, blue, dingy-looking eyes, and the expression of his whole face was extremelystupid. When he reached the cubs he stretched out his broad paws, laid his head upon them, and began:

"Mnya, myna . . . Nga--nga--nga . . . !"

The cubs did not understand what he meant, but they wagged theirtails. Then the puppy gave one of the cubs a smack on its big headwith his paw. The cub, too, gave him a smack on the head. The puppystood sideways to him, and looked at him askance, wagging his tail, then dashed off, and ran round several times on the frozen snow. The cubs ran after him, he fell on his back and kicked up his legs, and all three of them fell upon him, squealing with delight, andbegan biting him, not to hurt but in play. The crows sat on thehigh pine tree, and looked down on their struggle, and were muchtroubled by it. They grew noisy and merry. The sun was hot, asthough it were spring; and the woodcocks, continually flittingthrough the pine tree that had been blown down by the storm, lookedas though made of emerald in the brilliant sunshine. 

As a rule, wolf-mothers train their children to hunt by giving themprey to play with; and now watching the cubs chasing the puppy overthe frozen snow and struggling with him, the mother thought:

"Let them learn. "

When they had played long enough, the cubs went into the hole andlay down to sleep. The puppy howled a little from hunger, then he, too, stretched out in the sunshine. And when they woke up they beganplaying again. 

All day long, and in the evening, the wolf-mother was thinking howthe lamb had bleated in the cattle-shed the night before, and howit had smelt of sheep's milk, and she kept snapping her teeth fromhunger, and never left off greedily gnawing the old bone, pretendingto herself that it was the lamb. The cubs sucked their mother, andthe puppy, who was hungry, ran round them and sniffed at the snow. 

"I'll eat him . . . " the mother-wolf decided. 

She went up to him, and he licked her nose and yapped at her, thinking that she wanted to play with him. In the past she had eatendogs, but the dog smelt very doggy, and in the delicate state ofher health she could not endure the smell; she felt disgusted andwalked away. . . . 

Towards night it grew cold. The puppy felt depressed and went home. 

When the wolf-cubs were fast asleep, their mother went out huntingagain. As on the previous night she was alarmed at every sound, andshe was frightened by the stumps, the logs, the dark juniper bushes, which stood out singly, and in the distance were like human beings. She ran on the ice-covered snow, keeping away from the road. . . . All at once she caught a glimpse of something dark, far away on theroad. She strained her eyes and ears: yes, something really waswalking on in front, she could even hear the regular thud offootsteps. Surely not a badger? Cautiously holding her breath, andkeeping always to one side, she overtook the dark patch, lookedround, and recognised it. It was the puppy with the white brow, going with a slow, lingering step homewards. 

"If only he doesn't hinder me again, " thought the wolf, and ranquickly on ahead. 

But the homestead was by now near. Again she clambered on to thecattle-shed by the snowdrift. The gap she had made yesterday hadbeen already mended with straw, and two new rafters stretched acrossthe roof. The wolf began rapidly working with her legs and nose, looking round to see whether the puppy were coming, but the smellof the warm steam and manure had hardly reached her nose before sheheard a gleeful burst of barking behind her. It was the puppy. Heleapt up to the wolf on the roof, then into the hole, and, feelinghimself at home in the warmth, recognising his sheep, he barkedlouder than ever. . . . Arapka woke up in the barn, and, scentinga wolf, howled, the hens began cackling, and by the time Ignatappeared in the porch with his single-barrelled gun the frightenedwolf was already far away. 

"Fuite!" whistled Ignat. "Fuite! Full steam ahead!"

He pulled the trigger--the gun missed fire; he pulled the triggeragain--again it missed fire; he tried a third time--and a greatblaze of flame flew out of the barrel and there was a deafeningboom, boom. It kicked him violently on the shoulder, and, takinghis gun in one hand and his axe in the other, he went to see whatthe noise was about. 

A little later he went back to the hut. 

"What was it?" a pilgrim, who was staying the night at the hut andhad been awakened by the noise, asked in a husky voice. 

"It's all right, " answered Ignat. "Nothing of consequence. OurWhitebrow has taken to sleeping with the sheep in the warm. Onlyhe hasn't the sense to go in at the door, but always tries to wrigglein by the roof. The other night he tore a hole in the roof and wentoff on the spree, the rascal, and now he has come back and scratchedaway the roof again. "

"Stupid dog. "

"Yes, there is a spring snapped in his brain. I do detest fools, "sighed Ignat, clambering on to the stove. "Come, man of God, it'searly yet to get up. Let us sleep full steam! . . . "

In the morning he called Whitebrow, smacked him hard about the ears, and then showing him a stick, kept repeating to him:

"Go in at the door! Go in at the door! Go in at the door!"

KASHTANKA

_(A Story)_

I

_Misbehaviour_

A YOUNG dog, a reddish mongrel, between a dachshund and a "yard-dog, "very like a fox in face, was running up and down the pavement lookinguneasily from side to side. From time to time she stopped and, whining and lifting first one chilled paw and then another, triedto make up her mind how it could have happened that she was lost. 

She remembered very well how she had passed the day, and how, inthe end, she had found herself on this unfamiliar pavement. 

The day had begun by her master Luka Alexandritch's putting on hishat, taking something wooden under his arm wrapped up in a redhandkerchief, and calling: "Kashtanka, come along!"

Hearing her name the mongrel had come out from under the work-table, where she slept on the shavings, stretched herself voluptuously andrun after her master. The people Luka Alexandritch worked for liveda very long way off, so that, before he could get to any one ofthem, the carpenter had several times to step into a tavern tofortify himself. Kashtanka remembered that on the way she had behavedextremely improperly. In her delight that she was being taken fora walk she jumped about, dashed barking after the trains, ran intoyards, and chased other dogs. The carpenter was continually losingsight of her, stopping, and angrily shouting at her. Once he hadeven, with an expression of fury in his face, taken her fox-likeear in his fist, smacked her, and said emphatically: "Pla-a-aguetake you, you pest!"

After having left the work where it had been bespoken, LukaAlexandritch went into his sister's and there had something to eatand drink; from his sister's he had gone to see a bookbinder heknew; from the bookbinder's to a tavern, from the tavern to anothercrony's, and so on. In short, by the time Kashtanka found herselfon the unfamiliar pavement, it was getting dusk, and the carpenterwas as drunk as a cobbler. He was waving his arms and, breathingheavily, muttered:

"In sin my mother bore me! Ah, sins, sins! Here now we are walkingalong the street and looking at the street lamps, but when we die, we shall burn in a fiery Gehenna. . . . "

Or he fell into a good-natured tone, called Kashtanka to him, andsaid to her: "You, Kashtanka, are an insect of a creature, andnothing else. Beside a man, you are much the same as a joiner besidea cabinet-maker. . . . "

While he talked to her in that way, there was suddenly a burst ofmusic. Kashtanka looked round and saw that a regiment of soldierswas coming straight towards her. Unable to endure the music, whichunhinged her nerves, she turned round and round and wailed. To hergreat surprise, the carpenter, instead of being frightened, whiningand barking, gave a broad grin, drew himself up to attention, andsaluted with all his five fingers. Seeing that her master did notprotest, Kashtanka whined louder than ever, and dashed across theroad to the opposite pavement. 

When she recovered herself, the band was not playing and the regimentwas no longer there. She ran across the road to the spot where shehad left her master, but alas, the carpenter was no longer there. She dashed forward, then back again and ran across the road oncemore, but the carpenter seemed to have vanished into the earth. Kashtanka began sniffing the pavement, hoping to find her masterby the scent of his tracks, but some wretch had been that way justbefore in new rubber goloshes, and now all delicate scents weremixed with an acute stench of india-rubber, so that it was impossibleto make out anything. 

Kashtanka ran up and down and did not find her master, and meanwhileit had got dark. The street lamps were lighted on both sides of theroad, and lights appeared in the windows. Big, fluffy snowflakeswere falling and painting white the pavement, the horses' backs andthe cabmen's caps, and the darker the evening grew the whiter wereall these objects. Unknown customers kept walking incessantly toand fro, obstructing her field of vision and shoving against herwith their feet. (All mankind Kashtanka divided into two unevenparts: masters and customers; between them there was an essentialdifference: the first had the right to beat her, and the second shehad the right to nip by the calves of their legs. ) These customerswere hurrying off somewhere and paid no attention to her. 

When it got quite dark, Kashtanka was overcome by despair and horror. She huddled up in an entrance and began whining piteously. The longday's journeying with Luka Alexandritch had exhausted her, her earsand her paws were freezing, and, what was more, she was terriblyhungry. Only twice in the whole day had she tasted a morsel: shehad eaten a little paste at the bookbinder's, and in one of thetaverns she had found a sausage skin on the floor, near the counter--that was all. If she had been a human being she would havecertainly thought: "No, it is impossible to live like this! I mustshoot myself!"

II

_A Mysterious Stranger_

But she thought of nothing, she simply whined. When her head andback were entirely plastered over with the soft feathery snow, andshe had sunk into a painful doze of exhaustion, all at once thedoor of the entrance clicked, creaked, and struck her on the side. She jumped up. A man belonging to the class of customers came out. As Kashtanka whined and got under his feet, he could not helpnoticing her. He bent down to her and asked:

"Doggy, where do you come from? Have I hurt you? O, poor thing, poor thing. . . . Come, don't be cross, don't be cross. . . . I amsorry. "

Kashtanka looked at the stranger through the snow-flakes that hungon her eyelashes, and saw before her a short, fat little man, witha plump, shaven face wearing a top hat and a fur coat that swungopen. 

"What are you whining for?" he went on, knocking the snow off herback with his fingers. "Where is your master? I suppose you arelost? Ah, poor doggy! What are we going to do now?"

Catching in the stranger's voice a warm, cordial note, Kashtankalicked his hand, and whined still more pitifully. 

"Oh, you nice funny thing!" said the stranger. "A regular fox! Well, there's nothing for it, you must come along with me! Perhaps youwill be of use for something. . . . Well!"

He clicked with his lips, and made a sign to Kashtanka with hishand, which could only mean one thing: "Come along!" Kashtanka went. 

Not more than half an hour later she was sitting on the floor in abig, light room, and, leaning her head against her side, was lookingwith tenderness and curiosity at the stranger who was sitting atthe table, dining. He ate and threw pieces to her. . . . At firsthe gave her bread and the green rind of cheese, then a piece ofmeat, half a pie and chicken bones, while through hunger she ateso quickly that she had not time to distinguish the taste, and themore she ate the more acute was the feeling of hunger. 

"Your masters don't feed you properly, " said the stranger, seeingwith what ferocious greediness she swallowed the morsels withoutmunching them. "And how thin you are! Nothing but skin andbones. . . . "

Kashtanka ate a great deal and yet did not satisfy her hunger, butwas simply stupefied with eating. After dinner she lay down in themiddle of the room, stretched her legs and, conscious of an agreeableweariness all over her body, wagged her tail. While her new master, lounging in an easy-chair, smoked a cigar, she wagged her tail andconsidered the question, whether it was better at the stranger'sor at the carpenter's. The stranger's surroundings were poor andugly; besides the easy-chairs, the sofa, the lamps and the rugs, there was nothing, and the room seemed empty. At the carpenter'sthe whole place was stuffed full of things: he had a table, a bench, a heap of shavings, planes, chisels, saws, a cage with a goldfinch, a basin. . . . The stranger's room smelt of nothing, while therewas always a thick fog in the carpenter's room, and a glorious smellof glue, varnish, and shavings. On the other hand, the stranger hadone great superiority--he gave her a great deal to eat and, todo him full justice, when Kashtanka sat facing the table and lookingwistfully at him, he did not once hit or kick her, and did not onceshout: "Go away, damned brute!"

When he had finished his cigar her new master went out, and a minutelater came back holding a little mattress in his hands. 

"Hey, you dog, come here!" he said, laying the mattress in thecorner near the dog. "Lie down here, go to sleep!"

Then he put out the lamp and went away. Kashtanka lay down on themattress and shut her eyes; the sound of a bark rose from the street, and she would have liked to answer it, but all at once she wasovercome with unexpected melancholy. She thought of Luka Alexandritch, of his son Fedyushka, and her snug little place under the bench. . . . She remembered on the long winter evenings, when the carpenterwas planing or reading the paper aloud, Fedyushka usually playedwith her. . . . He used to pull her from under the bench by herhind legs, and play such tricks with her, that she saw green beforeher eyes, and ached in every joint. He would make her walk on herhind legs, use her as a bell, that is, shake her violently by thetail so that she squealed and barked, and give her tobacco to sniff. . . . The following trick was particularly agonising: Fedyushkawould tie a piece of meat to a thread and give it to Kashtanka, andthen, when she had swallowed it he would, with a loud laugh, pullit back again from her stomach, and the more lurid were her memoriesthe more loudly and miserably Kashtanka whined. 

But soon exhaustion and warmth prevailed over melancholy. She beganto fall asleep. Dogs ran by in her imagination: among them a shaggyold poodle, whom she had seen that day in the street with a whitepatch on his eye and tufts of wool by his nose. Fedyushka ran afterthe poodle with a chisel in his hand, then all at once he too wascovered with shaggy wool, and began merrily barking beside Kashtanka. Kashtanka and he goodnaturedly sniffed each other's noses and merrilyran down the street. . . . 

III

_New and Very Agreeable Acquaintances_

When Kashtanka woke up it was already light, and a sound rose fromthe street, such as only comes in the day-time. There was not asoul in the room. Kashtanka stretched, yawned and, cross andill-humoured, walked about the room. She sniffed the corners andthe furniture, looked into the passage and found nothing of interestthere. Besides the door that led into the passage there was anotherdoor. After thinking a little Kashtanka scratched on it with bothpaws, opened it, and went into the adjoining room. Here on the bed, covered with a rug, a customer, in whom she recognised the strangerof yesterday, lay asleep. 

"Rrrrr . . . " she growled, but recollecting yesterday's dinner, wagged her tail, and began sniffing. 

She sniffed the stranger's clothes and boots and thought they smeltof horses. In the bedroom was another door, also closed. Kashtankascratched at the door, leaned her chest against it, opened it, andwas instantly aware of a strange and very suspicious smell. Foreseeingan unpleasant encounter, growling and looking about her, Kashtankawalked into a little room with a dirty wall-paper and drew back inalarm. She saw something surprising and terrible. A grey gandercame straight towards her, hissing, with its neck bowed down to thefloor and its wings outspread. Not far from him, on a little mattress, lay a white tom-cat; seeing Kashtanka, he jumped up, arched hisback, wagged his tail with his hair standing on end and he, too, hissed at her. The dog was frightened in earnest, but not caringto betray her alarm, began barking loudly and dashed at the cat . . . . The cat arched his back more than ever, mewed and gave Kashtankaa smack on the head with his paw. Kashtanka jumped back, squattedon all four paws, and craning her nose towards the cat, went offinto loud, shrill barks; meanwhile the gander came up behind andgave her a painful peck in the back. Kashtanka leapt up and dashedat the gander. 

"What's this?" They heard a loud angry voice, and the stranger cameinto the room in his dressing-gown, with a cigar between his teeth. "What's the meaning of this? To your places!"

He went up to the cat, flicked him on his arched back, and said:

"Fyodor Timofeyitch, what's the meaning of this? Have you got up afight? Ah, you old rascal! Lie down!"

And turning to the gander he shouted: "Ivan Ivanitch, go home!"

The cat obediently lay down on his mattress and closed his eyes. Judging from the expression of his face and whiskers, he wasdispleased with himself for having lost his temper and got into afight. 

Kashtanka began whining resentfully, while the gander craned hisneck and began saying something rapidly, excitedly, distinctly, butquite unintelligibly. 

"All right, all right, " said his master, yawning. "You must livein peace and friendship. " He stroked Kashtanka and went on: "Andyou, redhair, don't be frightened. . . . They are capital company, they won't annoy you. Stay, what are we to call you? You can't goon without a name, my dear. "

The stranger thought a moment and said: "I tell you what . . . Youshall be Auntie. . . . Do you understand? Auntie!"

And repeating the word "Auntie" several times he went out. Kashtankasat down and began watching. The cat sat motionless on his littlemattress, and pretended to be asleep. The gander, craning his neckand stamping, went on talking rapidly and excitedly about something. Apparently it was a very clever gander; after every long tirade, he always stepped back with an air of wonder and made a show ofbeing highly delighted with his own speech. . . . Listening to himand answering "R-r-r-r, " Kashtanka fell to sniffing the corners. In one of the corners she found a little trough in which she sawsome soaked peas and a sop of rye crusts. She tried the peas; theywere not nice; she tried the sopped bread and began eating it. Thegander was not at all offended that the strange dog was eating hisfood, but, on the contrary, talked even more excitedly, and to showhis confidence went to the trough and ate a few peas himself. 

IV

_Marvels on a Hurdle_

A little while afterwards the stranger came in again, and broughta strange thing with him like a hurdle, or like the figure II. Onthe crosspiece on the top of this roughly made wooden frame hung abell, and a pistol was also tied to it; there were strings from thetongue of the bell, and the trigger of the pistol. The stranger putthe frame in the middle of the room, spent a long time tying anduntying something, then looked at the gander and said: "Ivan Ivanitch, if you please!"

The gander went up to him and stood in an expectant attitude. 

"Now then, " said the stranger, "let us begin at the very beginning. First of all, bow and make a curtsey! Look sharp!"

Ivan Ivanitch craned his neck, nodded in all directions, and scrapedwith his foot. 

"Right. Bravo. . . . Now die!"

The gander lay on his back and stuck his legs in the air. Afterperforming a few more similar, unimportant tricks, the strangersuddenly clutched at his head, and assuming an expression of horror, shouted: "Help! Fire! We are burning!"

Ivan Ivanitch ran to the frame, took the string in his beak, andset the bell ringing. 

The stranger was very much pleased. He stroked the gander's neckand said:

"Bravo, Ivan Ivanitch! Now pretend that you are a jeweller sellinggold and diamonds. Imagine now that you go to your shop and findthieves there. What would you do in that case?"

The gander took the other string in his beak and pulled it, and atonce a deafening report was heard. Kashtanka was highly delightedwith the bell ringing, and the shot threw her into so much ecstasythat she ran round the frame barking. 

"Auntie, lie down!" cried the stranger; "be quiet!"

Ivan Ivanitch's task was not ended with the shooting. For a wholehour afterwards the stranger drove the gander round him on a cord, cracking a whip, and the gander had to jump over barriers and throughhoops; he had to rear, that is, sit on his tail and wave his legsin the air. Kashtanka could not take her eyes off Ivan Ivanitch, wriggled with delight, and several times fell to running after himwith shrill barks. After exhausting the gander and himself, thestranger wiped the sweat from his brow and cried:

"Marya, fetch Havronya Ivanovna here!"

A minute later there was the sound of grunting. Kashtanka growled, assumed a very valiant air, and to be on the safe side, went nearerto the stranger. The door opened, an old woman looked in, and, saying something, led in a black and very ugly sow. Paying noattention to Kashtanka's growls, the sow lifted up her little hoofand grunted good-humouredly. Apparently it was very agreeable toher to see her master, the cat, and Ivan Ivanitch. When she wentup to the cat and gave him a light tap on the stomach with her hoof, and then made some remark to the gander, a great deal of good-naturewas expressed in her movements, and the quivering of her tail. Kashtanka realised at once that to growl and bark at such a characterwas useless. 

The master took away the frame and cried. "Fyodor Timofeyitch, ifyou please!"

The cat stretched lazily, and reluctantly, as though performing aduty, went up to the sow. 

"Come, let us begin with the Egyptian pyramid, " began the master. 

He spent a long time explaining something, then gave the word ofcommand, "One . . . Two . . . Three!" At the word "three" IvanIvanitch flapped his wings and jumped on to the sow's back. . . . When, balancing himself with his wings and his neck, he got a firmfoothold on the bristly back, Fyodor Timofeyitch listlessly andlazily, with manifest disdain, and with an air of scorning his artand not caring a pin for it, climbed on to the sow's back, thenreluctantly mounted on to the gander, and stood on his hind legs. The result was what the stranger called the Egyptian pyramid. Kashtanka yapped with delight, but at that moment the old cat yawnedand, losing his balance, rolled off the gander. Ivan Ivanitch lurchedand fell off too. The stranger shouted, waved his hands, and beganexplaining something again. After spending an hour over the pyramidtheir indefatigable master proceeded to teach Ivan Ivanitch to rideon the cat, then began to teach the cat to smoke, and so on. 

The lesson ended in the stranger's wiping the sweat off his browand going away. Fyodor Timofeyitch gave a disdainful sniff, laydown on his mattress, and closed his eyes; Ivan Ivanitch went tothe trough, and the pig was taken away by the old woman. Thanks tothe number of her new impressions, Kashranka hardly noticed how theday passed, and in the evening she was installed with her mattressin the room with the dirty wall-paper, and spent the night in thesociety of Fyodor Timofeyitch and the gander. 

V

_Talent! Talent!_

A month passed. 

Kashtanka had grown used to having a nice dinner every evening, andbeing called Auntie. She had grown used to the stranger too, andto her new companions. Life was comfortable and easy. 

Every day began in the same way. As a rule, Ivan Ivanitch was thefirst to wake up, and at once went up to Auntie or to the cat, twisting his neck, and beginning to talk excitedly and persuasively, but, as before, unintelligibly. Sometimes he would crane up hishead in the air and utter a long monologue. At first Kashtankathought he talked so much because he was very clever, but after alittle time had passed, she lost all her respect for him; when hewent up to her with his long speeches she no longer wagged her tail, but treated him as a tiresome chatterbox, who would not let anyonesleep and, without the slightest ceremony, answered him with"R-r-r-r!"

Fyodor Timofeyitch was a gentleman of a very different sort. Whenhe woke he did not utter a sound, did not stir, and did not evenopen his eyes. He would have been glad not to wake, for, as wasevident, he was not greatly in love with life. Nothing interestedhim, he showed an apathetic and nonchalant attitude to everything, he disdained everything and, even while eating his delicious dinner, sniffed contemptuously. 

When she woke Kashtanka began walking about the room and sniffingthe corners. She and the cat were the only ones allowed to go allover the flat; the gander had not the right to cross the thresholdof the room with the dirty wall-paper, and Hayronya Ivanovna livedsomewhere in a little outhouse in the yard and made her appearanceonly during the lessons. Their master got up late, and immediatelyafter drinking his tea began teaching them their tricks. Every daythe frame, the whip, and the hoop were brought in, and every dayalmost the same performance took place. The lesson lasted three orfour hours, so that sometimes Fyodor Timofeyitch was so tired thathe staggered about like a drunken man, and Ivan Ivanitch opened hisbeak and breathed heavily, while their master became red in theface and could not mop the sweat from his brow fast enough. 

The lesson and the dinner made the day very interesting, but theevenings were tedious. As a rule, their master went off somewherein the evening and took the cat and the gander with him. Left alone, Auntie lay down on her little mattress and began to feel sad. 

Melancholy crept on her imperceptibly and took possession of herby degrees, as darkness does of a room. It began with the dog'slosing every inclination to bark, to eat, to run about the rooms, and even to look at things; then vague figures, half dogs, halfhuman beings, with countenances attractive, pleasant, butincomprehensible, would appear in her imagination; when they cameAuntie wagged her tail, and it seemed to her that she had somewhere, at some time, seen them and loved them. And as she dropped asleep, she always felt that those figures smelt of glue, shavings, andvarnish. 

When she had grown quite used to her new life, and from a thin, long mongrel, had changed into a sleek, well-groomed dog, her masterlooked at her one day before the lesson and said:

"It's high time, Auntie, to get to business. You have kicked upyour heels in idleness long enough. I want to make an artiste ofyou. . . . Do you want to be an artiste?"

And he began teaching her various accomplishments. At the firstlesson he taught her to stand and walk on her hind legs, which sheliked extremely. At the second lesson she had to jump on her hindlegs and catch some sugar, which her teacher held high above herhead. After that, in the following lessons she danced, ran tied toa cord, howled to music, rang the bell, and fired the pistol, andin a month could successfully replace Fyodor Timofeyitch in the"Egyptian Pyramid. " She learned very eagerly and was pleased withher own success; running with her tongue out on the cord, leapingthrough the hoop, and riding on old Fyodor Timofeyitch, gave herthe greatest enjoyment. She accompanied every successful trick witha shrill, delighted bark, while her teacher wondered, was alsodelighted, and rubbed his hands. 

"It's talent! It's talent!" he said. "Unquestionable talent! Youwill certainly be successful!"

And Auntie grew so used to the word talent, that every time hermaster pronounced it, she jumped up as if it had been her name. 

VI

_An Uneasy Night_

Auntie had a doggy dream that a porter ran after her with a broom, and she woke up in a fright. 

It was quite dark and very stuffy in the room. The fleas were biting. Auntie had never been afraid of darkness before, but now, for somereason, she felt frightened and inclined to bark. 

Her master heaved a loud sigh in the next room, then soon afterwardsthe sow grunted in her sty, and then all was still again. When onethinks about eating one's heart grows lighter, and Auntie beganthinking how that day she had stolen the leg of a chicken fromFyodor Timofeyitch, and had hidden it in the drawing-room, betweenthe cupboard and the wall, where there were a great many spiders'webs and a great deal of dust. Would it not be as well to go nowand look whether the chicken leg were still there or not? It wasvery possible that her master had found it and eaten it. But shemust not go out of the room before morning, that was the rule. Auntie shut her eyes to go to sleep as quickly as possible, for sheknew by experience that the sooner you go to sleep the sooner themorning comes. But all at once there was a strange scream not farfrom her which made her start and jump up on all four legs. It wasIvan Ivanitch, and his cry was not babbling and persuasive as usual, but a wild, shrill, unnatural scream like the squeak of a dooropening. Unable to distinguish anything in the darkness, and notunderstanding what was wrong, Auntie felt still more frightened andgrowled: "R-r-r-r. . . . "

Some time passed, as long as it takes to eat a good bone; the screamwas not repeated. Little by little Auntie's uneasiness passed offand she began to doze. She dreamed of two big black dogs with tuftsof last year's coat left on their haunches and sides; they wereeating out of a big basin some swill, from which there came a whitesteam and a most appetising smell; from time to time they lookedround at Auntie, showed their teeth and growled: "We are not goingto give you any!" But a peasant in a fur-coat ran out of the houseand drove them away with a whip; then Auntie went up to the basinand began eating, but as soon as the peasant went out of the gate, the two black dogs rushed at her growling, and all at once therewas again a shrill scream. 

"K-gee! K-gee-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch. 

Auntie woke, jumped up and, without leaving her mattress, went offinto a yelping bark. It seemed to her that it was not Ivan Ivanitchthat was screaming but someone else, and for some reason the sowagain grunted in her sty. 

Then there was the sound of shuffling slippers, and the master cameinto the room in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. Theflickering light danced over the dirty wall-paper and the ceiling, and chased away the darkness. Auntie saw that there was no strangerin the room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting on the floor and was notasleep. His wings were spread out and his beak was open, andaltogether he looked as though he were very tired and thirsty. OldFyodor Timofeyitch was not asleep either. He, too, must have beenawakened by the scream. 

"Ivan Ivanitch, what's the matter with you?" the master asked thegander. "Why are you screaming? Are you ill?"

The gander did not answer. The master touched him on the neck, stroked his back, and said: "You are a queer chap. You don't sleepyourself, and you don't let other people. . . . "

When the master went out, carrying the candle with him, there wasdarkness again. Auntie felt frightened. The gander did not scream, but again she fancied that there was some stranger in the room. What was most dreadful was that this stranger could not be bitten, as he was unseen and had no shape. And for some reason she thoughtthat something very bad would certainly happen that night. FyodorTimofeyitch was uneasy too. 

Auntie could hear him shifting on his mattress, yawning and shakinghis head. 

Somewhere in the street there was a knocking at a gate and the sowgrunted in her sty. Auntie began to whine, stretched out herfront-paws and laid her head down upon them. She fancied that inthe knocking at the gate, in the grunting of the sow, who was forsome reason awake, in the darkness and the stillness, there wassomething as miserable and dreadful as in Ivan Ivanitch's scream. Everything was in agitation and anxiety, but why? Who was thestranger who could not be seen? Then two dim flashes of green gleamedfor a minute near Auntie. It was Fyodor Timofeyitch, for the firsttime of their whole acquaintance coming up to her. What did he want?Auntie licked his paw, and not asking why he had come, howled softlyand on various notes. 

"K-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch, "K-g-ee!"

The door opened again and the master came in with a candle. 

The gander was sitting in the same attitude as before, with hisbeak open, and his wings spread out, his eyes were closed. 

"Ivan Ivanitch!" his master called him. 

The gander did not stir. His master sat down before him on thefloor, looked at him in silence for a minute, and said:

"Ivan Ivanitch, what is it? Are you dying? Oh, I remember now, Iremember!" he cried out, and clutched at his head. "I know why itis! It's because the horse stepped on you to-day! My God! My God!"

Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but she sawfrom his face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful. Shestretched out her head towards the dark window, where it seemed toher some stranger was looking in, and howled. 

"He is dying, Auntie!" said her master, and wrung his hands. "Yes, yes, he is dying! Death has come into your room. What are we todo?"

Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing andshaking his head. Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, andfollowed her master into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed andrepeated several times: "My God, what's to be done?"

Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why shewas wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand, watched every movement he made. Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely lefthis little mattress, came into the master's bedroom too, and beganrubbing himself against his feet. He shook his head as though hewanted to shake painful thoughts out of it, and kept peepingsuspiciously under the bed. 

The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-standinto it, and went to the gander again. 

"Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!" he said tenderly, setting the saucer beforehim; "drink, darling. "

But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes. His masterbent his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water, but the gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever, and his head remained lying in the saucer. 

"No, there's nothing to be done now, " sighed his master. "It's allover. Ivan Ivanitch is gone!"

And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when itrains, trickled down his cheeks. Not understanding what was thematter, Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and lookedwith horror at the gander. 

"Poor Ivan Ivanitch!" said the master, sighing mournfully. "And Iwas dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, andwould walk with you on the green grass. Dear creature, my goodcomrade, you are no more! How shall I do without you now?"

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, thatis, that she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes, stretch out her paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look ather with horror. Apparently the same reflections were passing throughthe brain of Fyodor Timofeyitch. Never before had the old cat beenso morose and gloomy. 

It began to get light, and the unseen stranger who had so frightenedAuntie was no longer in the room. When it was quite daylight, theporter came in, took the gander, and carried him away. And soonafterwards the old woman came in and took away the trough. 

Auntie went into the drawing-room and looked behind the cupboard:her master had not eaten the chicken bone, it was lying in its placeamong the dust and spiders' webs. But Auntie felt sad and drearyand wanted to cry. She did not even sniff at the bone, but wentunder the sofa, sat down there, and began softly whining in a thinvoice. 

VII

_An Unsuccessful Début_

One fine evening the master came into the room with the dirtywall-paper, and, rubbing his hands, said:

"Well. . . . "

He meant to say something more, but went away without saying it. Auntie, who during her lessons had thoroughly studied his face andintonations, divined that he was agitated, anxious and, she fancied, angry. Soon afterwards he came back and said:

"To-day I shall take with me Auntie and F'yodor Timofeyitch. To-day, Auntie, you will take the place of poor Ivan Ivanitch in the 'EgyptianPyramid. ' Goodness knows how it will be! Nothing is ready, nothinghas been thoroughly studied, there have been few rehearsals! Weshall be disgraced, we shall come to grief!"

Then he went out again, and a minute later, came back in his fur-coatand top hat. Going up to the cat he took him by the fore-paws andput him inside the front of his coat, while Fyodor Timofeyitchappeared completely unconcerned, and did not even trouble to openhis eyes. To him it was apparently a matter of absolute indifferencewhether he remained lying down, or were lifted up by his paws, whether he rested on his mattress or under his master's fur-coat. 

"Come along, Auntie, " said her master. 

Wagging her tail, and understanding nothing, Auntie followed him. A minute later she was sitting in a sledge by her master's feet andheard him, shrinking with cold and anxiety, mutter to himself:

"We shall be disgraced! We shall come to grief!"

The sledge stopped at a big strange-looking house, like a soup-ladleturned upside down. The long entrance to this house, with its threeglass doors, was lighted up with a dozen brilliant lamps. The doorsopened with a resounding noise and, like jaws, swallowed up thepeople who were moving to and fro at the entrance. There were agreat many people, horses, too, often ran up to the entrance, butno dogs were to be seen. 

The master took Auntie in his arms and thrust her in his coat, whereFyodor Timofeyirch already was. It was dark and stuffy there, butwarm. For an instant two green sparks flashed at her; it was thecat, who opened his eyes on being disturbed by his neighbour's coldrough paws. Auntie licked his ear, and, trying to settle herselfas comfortably as possible, moved uneasily, crushed him under hercold paws, and casually poked her head out from under the coat, butat once growled angrily, and tucked it in again. It seemed to herthat she had seen a huge, badly lighted room, full of monsters;from behind screens and gratings, which stretched on both sides ofthe room, horrible faces looked out: faces of horses with horns, with long ears, and one fat, huge countenance with a tail insteadof a nose, and two long gnawed bones sticking out of his mouth. 

The cat mewed huskily under Auntie's paws, but at that moment thecoat was flung open, the master said, "Hop!" and Fyodor Timofeyitchand Auntie jumped to the floor. They were now in a little room withgrey plank walls; there was no other furniture in it but a littletable with a looking-glass on it, a stool, and some rags hung aboutthe corners, and instead of a lamp or candles, there was a brightfan-shaped light attached to a little pipe fixed in the wall. FyodorTimofeyitch licked his coat which had been ruffled by Auntie, wentunder the stool, and lay down. Their master, still agitated andrubbing his hands, began undressing. . . . He undressed as he usuallydid at home when he was preparing to get under the rug, that is, took off everything but his underlinen, then he sat down on thestool, and, looking in the looking-glass, began playing the mostsurprising tricks with himself. . . . First of all he put on hishead a wig, with a parting and with two tufts of hair standing uplike horns, then he smeared his face thickly with something white, and over the white colour painted his eyebrows, his moustaches, andred on his cheeks. His antics did not end with that. After smearinghis face and neck, he began putting himself into an extraordinaryand incongruous costume, such as Auntie had never seen before, either in houses or in the street. Imagine very full trousers, madeof chintz covered with big flowers, such as is used in working-classhouses for curtains and covering furniture, trousers which buttonedup just under his armpits. One trouser leg was made of brown chintz, the other of bright yellow. Almost lost in these, he then put on ashort chintz jacket, with a big scalloped collar, and a gold staron the back, stockings of different colours, and green slippers. 

Everything seemed going round before Auntie's eyes and in her soul. The white-faced, sack-like figure smelt like her master, its voice, too, was the familiar master's voice, but there were moments whenAuntie was tortured by doubts, and then she was ready to run awayfrom the parti-coloured figure and to bark. The new place, thefan-shaped light, the smell, the transformation that had taken placein her master--all this aroused in her a vague dread and aforeboding that she would certainly meet with some horror such asthe big face with the tail instead of a nose. And then, somewherethrough the wall, some hateful band was playing, and from time totime she heard an incomprehensible roar. Only one thing reassuredher--that was the imperturbability of Fyodor Timofeyitch. He dozedwith the utmost tranquillity under the stool, and did not open hiseyes even when it was moved. 

A man in a dress coat and a white waistcoat peeped into the littleroom and said:

"Miss Arabella has just gone on. After her--you. "

Their master made no answer. He drew a small box from under thetable, sat down, and waited. From his lips and his hands it couldbe seen that he was agitated, and Auntie could hear how his breathingcame in gasps. 

"Monsieur George, come on!" someone shouted behind the door. Theirmaster got up and crossed himself three times, then took the catfrom under the stool and put him in the box. 

"Come, Auntie, " he said softly. 

Auntie, who could make nothing out of it, went up to his hands, hekissed her on the head, and put her beside Fyodor Timofeyitch. Thenfollowed darkness. . . . Auntie trampled on the cat, scratched atthe walls of the box, and was so frightened that she could not uttera sound, while the box swayed and quivered, as though it were onthe waves. . . . 

"Here we are again!" her master shouted aloud: "here we are again!"

Auntie felt that after that shout the box struck against somethinghard and left off swaying. There was a loud deep roar, someone wasbeing slapped, and that someone, probably the monster with the tailinstead of a nose, roared and laughed so loud that the locks of thebox trembled. In response to the roar, there came a shrill, squeakylaugh from her master, such as he never laughed at home. 

"Ha!" he shouted, trying to shout above the roar. "Honoured friends!I have only just come from the station! My granny's kicked thebucket and left me a fortune! There is something very heavy in thebox, it must be gold, ha! ha! I bet there's a million here! We'llopen it and look. . . . "

The lock of the box clicked. The bright light dazzled Auntie's eyes, she jumped out of the box, and, deafened by the roar, ran quicklyround her master, and broke into a shrill bark. 

"Ha!" exclaimed her master. "Uncle Fyodor Timofeyitch! Beloved Aunt, dear relations! The devil take you!"

He fell on his stomach on the sand, seized the cat and Auntie, andfell to embracing them. While he held Auntie tight in his arms, sheglanced round into the world into which fate had brought her and, impressed by its immensity, was for a minute dumbfounded withamazement and delight, then jumped out of her master's arms, andto express the intensity of her emotions, whirled round and roundon one spot like a top. This new world was big and full of brightlight; wherever she looked, on all sides, from floor to ceilingthere were faces, faces, faces, and nothing else. 

"Auntie, I beg you to sit down!" shouted her master. Rememberingwhat that meant, Auntie jumped on to a chair, and sat down. Shelooked at her master. His eyes looked at her gravely and kindly asalways, but his face, especially his mouth and teeth, were madegrotesque by a broad immovable grin. He laughed, skipped about, twitched his shoulders, and made a show of being very merry in thepresence of the thousands of faces. Auntie believed in his merriment, all at once felt all over her that those thousands of faces werelooking at her, lifted up her fox-like head, and howled joyously. 

"You sit there, Auntie, " her master said to her, "while Uncle andI will dance the Kamarinsky. "

Fyodor Timofeyitch stood looking about him indifferently, waitingto be made to do something silly. He danced listlessly, carelessly, sullenly, and one could see from his movements, his tail and hisears, that he had a profound contempt for the crowd, the brightlight, his master and himself. When he had performed his allottedtask, he gave a yawn and sat down. 

"Now, Auntie!" said her master, "we'll have first a song, and thena dance, shall we?"

He took a pipe out of his pocket, and began playing. Auntie, whocould not endure music, began moving uneasily in her chair andhowled. A roar of applause rose from all sides. Her master bowed, and when all was still again, went on playing. . . . Just as hetook one very high note, someone high up among the audience uttereda loud exclamation:

"Auntie!" cried a child's voice, "why it's Kashtanka!"

"Kashtanka it is!" declared a cracked drunken tenor. "Kashtanka!Strike me dead, Fedyushka, it is Kashtanka. Kashtanka! here!"

Someone in the gallery gave a whistle, and two voices, one a boy'sand one a man's, called loudly: "Kashtanka! Kashtanka!"

Auntie started, and looked where the shouting came from. Two faces, one hairy, drunken and grinning, the other chubby, rosy-cheeked andfrightened-looking, dazed her eyes as the bright light had dazedthem before. . . . She remembered, fell off the chair, struggledon the sand, then jumped up, and with a delighted yap dashed towardsthose faces. There was a deafening roar, interspersed with whistlesand a shrill childish shout: "Kashtanka! Kashtanka!"

Auntie leaped over the barrier, then across someone's shoulders. She found herself in a box: to get into the next tier she had toleap over a high wall. Auntie jumped, but did not jump high enough, and slipped back down the wall. Then she was passed from hand tohand, licked hands and faces, kept mounting higher and higher, andat last got into the gallery. . . . 

 ----

Half an hour afterwards, Kashtanka was in the street, following thepeople who smelt of glue and varnish. Luka Alexandritch staggeredand instinctively, taught by experience, tried to keep as far fromthe gutter as possible. 

"In sin my mother bore me, " he muttered. "And you, Kashtanka, area thing of little understanding. Beside a man, you are like a joinerbeside a cabinetmaker. "

Fedyushka walked beside him, wearing his father's cap. Kashtankalooked at their backs, and it seemed to her that she had beenfollowing them for ages, and was glad that there had not been abreak for a minute in her life. 

She remembered the little room with dirty wall-paper, the gander, Fyodor Timofeyitch, the delicious dinners, the lessons, the circus, but all that seemed to her now like a long, tangled, oppressivedream. 

A CHAMELEON

THE police superintendent Otchumyelov is walking across the marketsquare wearing a new overcoat and carrying a parcel under his arm. A red-haired policeman strides after him with a sieve full ofconfiscated gooseberries in his hands. There is silence all around. Not a soul in the square. . . . The open doors of the shops andtaverns look out upon God's world disconsolately, like hungry mouths;there is not even a beggar near them. 

"So you bite, you damned brute?" Otchumyelov hears suddenly. "Lads, don't let him go! Biting is prohibited nowadays! Hold him! ah . . . Ah!"

There is the sound of a dog yelping. Otchumyelov looks in thedirection of the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs andlooking about her, run out of Pitchugin's timber-yard. A man in astarched cotton shirt, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, is chasingher. He runs after her, and throwing his body forward falls downand seizes the dog by her hind legs. Once more there is a yelpingand a shout of "Don't let go!" Sleepy countenances are protrudedfrom the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have sprung outof the earth, is gathered round the timber-yard. 

"It looks like a row, your honour . . . " says the policeman. 

Otchumyelov makes a half turn to the left and strides towards thecrowd. 

He sees the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned waistcoat standingclose by the gate of the timber-yard, holding his right hand in theair and displaying a bleeding finger to the crowd. On his half-drunkenface there is plainly written: "I'll pay you out, you rogue!" andindeed the very finger has the look of a flag of victory. In thisman Otchumyelov recognises Hryukin, the goldsmith. The culprit whohas caused the sensation, a white borzoy puppy with a sharp muzzleand a yellow patch on her back, is sitting on the ground with herfore-paws outstretched in the middle of the crowd, trembling allover. There is an expression of misery and terror in her tearfuleyes. 

"What's it all about?" Otchumyelov inquires, pushing his way throughthe crowd. "What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger. . . ? Who was it shouted?"

"I was walking along here, not interfering with anyone, your honour, "Hryukin begins, coughing into his fist. "I was talking about firewoodto Mitry Mitritch, when this low brute for no rhyme or reason bitmy finger. . . . You must excuse me, I am a working man. . . . Mineis fine work. I must have damages, for I shan't be able to use thisfinger for a week, may be. . . . It's not even the law, your honour, that one should put up with it from a beast. . . . If everyone isgoing to be bitten, life won't be worth living. . . . "

"H'm. Very good, " says Otchumyelov sternly, coughing and raisinghis eyebrows. "Very good. Whose dog is it? I won't let this pass!I'll teach them to let their dogs run all over the place! It's timethese gentry were looked after, if they won't obey the regulations!When he's fined, the blackguard, I'll teach him what it means tokeep dogs and such stray cattle! I'll give him a lesson! . . . Yeldyrin, " cries the superintendent, addressing the policeman, "findout whose dog this is and draw up a report! And the dog must bestrangled. Without delay! It's sure to be mad. . . . Whose dog isit, I ask?"

"I fancy it's General Zhigalov's, " says someone in the crowd. 

"General Zhigalov's, h'm. . . . Help me off with my coat, Yeldyrin. . . It's frightfully hot! It must be a sign of rain. . . . There'sone thing I can't make out, how it came to bite you?" Otchumyelovturns to Hryukin. "Surely it couldn't reach your finger. It's alittle dog, and you are a great hulking fellow! You must havescratched your finger with a nail, and then the idea struck you toget damages for it. We all know . . . Your sort! I know you devils!"

"He put a cigarette in her face, your honour, for a joke, and shehad the sense to snap at him. . . . He is a nonsensical fellow, your honour!"

"That's a lie, Squinteye! You didn't see, so why tell lies aboutit? His honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is tellinglies and who is telling the truth, as in God's sight. . . . And ifI am lying let the court decide. It's written in the law. . . . Weare all equal nowadays. My own brother is in the gendarmes . . . Let me tell you. . . . "

"Don't argue!"

"No, that's not the General's dog, " says the policeman, with profoundconviction, "the General hasn't got one like that. His are mostlysetters. "

"Do you know that for a fact?"

"Yes, your honour. "

"I know it, too. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, andthis is goodness knows what! No coat, no shape. . . . A low creature. And to keep a dog like that! . . . Where's the sense of it. If adog like that were to turn up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you knowwhat would happen? They would not worry about the law, they wouldstrangle it in a twinkling! You've been injured, Hryukin, and wecan't let the matter drop. . . . We must give them a lesson! It ishigh time . . . . !"

"Yet maybe it is the General's, " says the policeman, thinking aloud. "It's not written on its face. . . . I saw one like it the otherday in his yard. "

"It is the General's, that's certain!" says a voice in the crowd. 

"H'm, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad . . . The wind'sgetting up. . . . I am cold. . . . You take it to the General's, and inquire there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them notto let it out into the street. . . . It may be a valuable dog, andif every swine goes sticking a cigar in its mouth, it will soon beruined. A dog is a delicate animal. . . . And you put your handdown, you blockhead. It's no use your displaying your fool of afinger. It's your own fault. . . . "

"Here comes the General's cook, ask him. . . Hi, Prohor! Come here, my dear man! Look at this dog. . . . Is it one of yours?"

"What an idea! We have never had one like that!"

"There's no need to waste time asking, " says Otchumyelov. "It's astray dog! There's no need to waste time talking about it. . . . Since he says it's a stray dog, a stray dog it is. . . . It mustbe destroyed, that's all about it. "

"It is not our dog, " Prohor goes on. "It belongs to the General'sbrother, who arrived the other day. Our master does not care forhounds. But his honour is fond of them. . . . "

"You don't say his Excellency's brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?"inquires Otchumyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstaticsmile. "'Well, I never! And I didn't know! Has he come on a visit?

"Yes. "

"Well, I never. . . . He couldn't stay away from his brother. . . . And there I didn't know! So this is his honour's dog? Delightedto hear it. . . . Take it. It's not a bad pup. . . . A livelycreature. . . . Snapped at this fellow's finger! Ha-ha-ha. . . . Come, why are you shivering? Rrr . . . Rrrr. . . . The rogue's angry. . . A nice little pup. "

Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the timber-yard with her. The crowd laughs at Hryukin. 

"I'll make you smart yet!" Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrappinghimself in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square. 

THE DEPENDENTS

MIHAIL PETROVITCH ZOTOV, a decrepit and solitary old man of seventy, belonging to the artisan class, was awakened by the cold and theaching in his old limbs. It was dark in his room, but the littlelamp before the ikon was no longer burning. Zotov raised the curtainand looked out of the window. The clouds that shrouded the sky werebeginning to show white here and there, and the air was becomingtransparent, so it must have been nearly five, not more. 

Zotov cleared his throat, coughed, and shrinking from the cold, gotout of bed. In accordance with years of habit, he stood for a longtime before the ikon, saying his prayers. He repeated "Our Father, ""Hail Mary, " the Creed, and mentioned a long string of names. Towhom those names belonged he had forgotten years ago, and he onlyrepeated them from habit. From habit, too, he swept his room andentry, and set his fat little four-legged copper samovar. If Zotovhad not had these habits he would not have known how to occupy hisold age. 

The little samovar slowly began to get hot, and all at once, unexpectedly, broke into a tremulous bass hum. 

"Oh, you've started humming!" grumbled Zotov. "Hum away then, andbad luck to you!"

At that point the old man appropriately recalled that, in thepreceding night, he had dreamed of a stove, and to dream of a stoveis a sign of sorrow. 

Dreams and omens were the only things left that could rouse him toreflection; and on this occasion he plunged with a special zestinto the considerations of the questions: What the samovar washumming for? and what sorrow was foretold by the stove? The dreamseemed to come true from the first. Zotov rinsed out his teapot andwas about to make his tea, when he found there was not one teaspoonfulleft in the box. 

"What an existence!" he grumbled, rolling crumbs of black breadround in his mouth. "It's a dog's life. No tea! And it isn't asthough I were a simple peasant: I'm an artisan and a house-owner. The disgrace!"

Grumbling and talking to himself, Zotov put on his overcoat, whichwas like a crinoline, and, thrusting his feet into huge clumsygolosh-boots (made in the year 1867 by a bootmaker called Prohoritch), went out into the yard. The air was grey, cold, and sullenly still. The big yard, full of tufts of burdock and strewn with yellow leaves, was faintly silvered with autumn frost. Not a breath of wind nor asound. The old man sat down on the steps of his slanting porch, andat once there happened what happened regularly every morning: hisdog Lyska, a big, mangy, decrepit-looking, white yard-dog, withblack patches, came up to him with its right eye shut. Lyska cameup timidly, wriggling in a frightened way, as though her paws werenot touching the earth but a hot stove, and the whole of her wretchedfigure was expressive of abjectness. Zotov pretended not to noticeher, but when she faintly wagged her tail, and, wriggling as before, licked his golosh, he stamped his foot angrily. 

"Be off! The plague take you!" he cried. "Con-found-ed bea-east!"

Lyska moved aside, sat down, and fixed her solitary eye upon hermaster. 

"You devils!" he went on. "You are the last straw on my back, youHerods. "

And he looked with hatred at his shed with its crooked, overgrownroof; there from the door of the shed a big horse's head was lookingout at him. Probably flattered by its master's attention, the headmoved, pushed forward, and there emerged from the shed the wholehorse, as decrepit as Lyska, as timid and as crushed, with spindlylegs, grey hair, a pinched stomach, and a bony spine. He came outof the shed and stood still, hesitating as though overcome withembarrassment. 

"Plague take you, " Zotov went on. "Shall I ever see the last ofyou, you jail-bird Pharaohs! . . . I wager you want your breakfast!"he jeered, twisting his angry face into a contemptuous smile. "Byall means, this minute! A priceless steed like you must have yourfill of the best oats! Pray begin! This minute! And I have somethingto give to the magnificent, valuable dog! If a precious dog likeyou does not care for bread, you can have meat. "

Zotov grumbled for half an hour, growing more and more irritated. In the end, unable to control the anger that boiled up in him, hejumped up, stamped with his goloshes, and growled out to be heardall over the yard:

"I am not obliged to feed you, you loafers! I am not some millionairefor you to eat me out of house and home! I have nothing to eatmyself, you cursed carcases, the cholera take you! I get no pleasureor profit out of you; nothing but trouble and ruin, Why don't yougive up the ghost? Are you such personages that even death won'ttake you? You can live, damn you! but I don't want to feed you! Ihave had enough of you! I don't want to!"

Zotov grew wrathful and indignant, and the horse and the dog listened. Whether these two dependents understood that they were beingreproached for living at his expense, I don't know, but theirstomachs looked more pinched than ever, and their whole figuresshrivelled up, grew gloomier and more abject than before. . . . Their submissive air exasperated Zotov more than ever. 

"Get away!" he shouted, overcome by a sort of inspiration. "Out ofmy house! Don't let me set eyes on you again! I am not obliged tokeep all sorts of rubbish in my yard! Get away!"

The old man moved with little hurried steps to the gate, opened it, and picking up a stick from the ground, began driving out hisdependents. The horse shook its head, moved its shoulder-blades, and limped to the gate; the dog followed him. Both of them went outinto the street, and, after walking some twenty paces, stopped atthe fence. 

"I'll give it you!" Zotov threatened them. 

When he had driven out his dependents he felt calmer, and begansweeping the yard. From time to time he peeped out into the street:the horse and the dog were standing like posts by the fence, lookingdejectedly towards the gate. 

"Try how you can do without me, " muttered the old man, feeling asthough a weight of anger were being lifted from his heart. "Letsomebody else look after you now! I am stingy and ill-tempered. . . . It's nasty living with me, so you try living with other people. . . . Yes. . . . "

After enjoying the crushed expression of his dependents, and grumblingto his heart's content, Zotov went out of the yard, and, assuminga ferocious air, shouted:

"Well, why are you standing there? Whom are you waiting for? Standingright across the middle of the road and preventing the public frompassing! Go into the yard!"

The horse and the dog with drooping heads and a guilty air turnedtowards the gate. Lyska, probably feeling she did not deserveforgiveness, whined piteously. 

"Stay you can, but as for food, you'll get nothing from me! You maydie, for all I care!"

Meanwhile the sun began to break through the morning mist; itsslanting rays gilded over the autumn frost. There was a sound ofsteps and voices. Zotov put back the broom in its place, and wentout of the yard to see his crony and neighbour, Mark Ivanitch, whokept a little general shop. On reaching his friend's shop, he satdown on a folding-stool, sighed sedately, stroked his beard, andbegan about the weather. From the weather the friends passed to thenew deacon, from the deacon to the choristers; and the conversationlengthened out. They did not notice as they talked how time waspassing, and when the shop-boy brought in a big teapot of boilingwater, and the friends proceeded to drink tea, the time flew asquickly as a bird. Zotov got warm and felt more cheerful. 

"I have a favour to ask of you, Mark Ivanitch, " he began, after thesixth glass, drumming on the counter with his fingers. "If you wouldjust be so kind as to give me a gallon of oats again to-day. . . . "

From behind the big tea-chest behind which Mark Ivanitch was sittingcame the sound of a deep sigh. 

"Do be so good, " Zotov went on; "never mind tea--don't give itme to-day, but let me have some oats. . . . I am ashamed to askyou, I have wearied you with my poverty, but the horse is hungry. "

"I can give it you, " sighed the friend--"why not? But why thedevil do you keep those carcases?--tfoo!--Tell me that, please. It would be all right if it were a useful horse, but--tfoo!--one is ashamed to look at it. . . . And the dog's nothing but askeleton! Why the devil do you keep them?"

"What am I to do with them?"

"You know. Take them to Ignat the slaughterer--that is all thereis to do. They ought to have been there long ago. It's the properplace for them. "

"To be sure, that is so! . . . I dare say! . . . "

"You live like a beggar and keep animals, " the friend went on. "Idon't grudge the oats. . . . God bless you. But as to the future, brother . . . I can't afford to give regularly every day! There isno end to your poverty! One gives and gives, and one doesn't knowwhen there will be an end to it all. "

The friend sighed and stroked his red face. 

"If you were dead that would settle it, " he said. "You go on living, and you don't know what for. . . . Yes, indeed! But if it is notthe Lord's will for you to die, you had better go somewhere intoan almshouse or a refuge. "

"What for? I have relations. I have a great-niece. . . . "

And Zotov began telling at great length of his great-niece Glasha, daughter of his niece Katerina, who lived somewhere on a farm. 

"She is bound to keep me!" he said. "My house will be left to her, so let her keep me; I'll go to her. It's Glasha, you know . . . Katya's daughter; and Katya, you know, was my brother Panteley'sstepdaughter. . . . You understand? The house will come to her. . . . Let her keep me!"

"To be sure; rather than live, as you do, a beggar, I should havegone to her long ago. "

"I will go! As God's above, I will go. It's her duty. "

When an hour later the old friends were drinking a glass of vodka, Zotov stood in the middle of the shop and said with enthusiasm:

"I have been meaning to go to her for a long time; I will go thisvery day. "

"To be sure; rather than hanging about and dying of hunger, youought to have gone to the farm long ago. "

"I'll go at once! When I get there, I shall say: Take my house, butkeep me and treat me with respect. It's your duty! If you don'tcare to, then there is neither my house, nor my blessing for you!Good-bye, Ivanitch!"

Zotov drank another glass, and, inspired by the new idea, hurriedhome. The vodka had upset him and his head was reeling, but insteadof lying down, he put all his clothes together in a bundle, said aprayer, took his stick, and went out. Muttering and tapping on thestones with his stick, he walked the whole length of the streetwithout looking back, and found himself in the open country. It waseight or nine miles to the farm. He walked along the dry road, looked at the town herd lazily munching the yellow grass, andpondered on the abrupt change in his life which he had only justbrought about so resolutely. He thought, too, about his dependents. When he went out of the house, he had not locked the gate, and sohad left them free to go whither they would. 

He had not gone a mile into the country when he heard steps behindhim. He looked round and angrily clasped his hands. The horse andLyska, with their heads drooping and their tails between their legs, were quietly walking after him. 

"Go back!" he waved to them. 

They stopped, looked at one another, looked at him. He went on, they followed him. Then he stopped and began ruminating. It wasimpossible to go to his great-niece Glasha, whom he hardly knew, with these creatures; he did not want to go back and shut them up, and, indeed, he could not shut them up, because the gate was nouse. 

"To die of hunger in the shed, " thought Zotov. "Hadn't I reallybetter take them to Ignat?"

Ignat's hut stood on the town pasture-ground, a hundred paces fromthe flagstaff. Though he had not quite made up his mind, and didnot know what to do, he turned towards it. His head was giddy andthere was a darkness before his eyes. . . . 

He remembers little of what happened in the slaughterer's yard. Hehas a memory of a sickening, heavy smell of hides and the savourysteam of the cabbage-soup Ignat was sipping when he went in to him. As in a dream he saw Ignat, who made him wait two hours, slowlypreparing something, changing his clothes, talking to some womenabout corrosive sublimate; he remembered the horse was put into astand, after which there was the sound of two dull thuds, one of ablow on the skull, the other of the fall of a heavy body. WhenLyska, seeing the death of her friend, flew at Ignat, barkingshrilly, there was the sound of a third blow that cut short thebark abruptly. Further, Zotov remembers that in his drunkenfoolishness, seeing the two corpses, he went up to the stand, andput his own forehead ready for a blow. 

And all that day his eyes were dimmed by a haze, and he could noteven see his own fingers. 

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

As my uncle Pyotr Demyanitch, a lean, bilious collegiate councillor, exceedingly like a stale smoked fish with a stick through it, wasgetting ready to go to the high school, where he taught Latin, henoticed that the corner of his grammar was nibbled by mice. 

"I say, Praskovya, " he said, going into the kitchen and addressingthe cook, "how is it we have got mice here? Upon my word! yesterdaymy top hat was nibbled, to-day they have disfigured my Latin grammar. . . . At this rate they will soon begin eating my clothes!

"What can I do? I did not bring them in!" answered Praskovya. 

"We must do something! You had better get a cat, hadn't you?"

"I've got a cat, but what good is it?"

And Praskovya pointed to the corner where a white kitten, thin asa match, lay curled up asleep beside a broom. 

"Why is it no good?" asked Pyotr Demyanitch. 

"It's young yet, and foolish. It's not two months old yet. "

"H'm. . . . Then it must be trained. It had much better be learninginstead of lying there. "

Saying this, Pyotr Demyanitch sighed with a careworn air and wentout of the kitchen. The kitten raised his head, looked lazily afterhim, and shut his eyes again. 

The kitten lay awake thinking. Of what? Unacquainted with real life, having no store of accumulated impressions, his mental processescould only be instinctive, and he could but picture life in accordancewith the conceptions that he had inherited, together with his fleshand blood, from his ancestors, the tigers (_vide_ Darwin). Histhoughts were of the nature of day-dreams. His feline imaginationpictured something like the Arabian desert, over which flittedshadows closely resembling Praskovya, the stove, the broom. In themidst of the shadows there suddenly appeared a saucer of milk; thesaucer began to grow paws, it began moving and displayed a tendencyto run; the kitten made a bound, and with a thrill of blood-thirstysensuality thrust his claws into it. 

When the saucer had vanished into obscurity a piece of meat appeared, dropped by Praskovya; the meat ran away with a cowardly squeak, butthe kitten made a bound and got his claws into it. . . . Everythingthat rose before the imagination of the young dreamer had for itsstarting-point leaps, claws, and teeth. . . The soul of another isdarkness, and a cat's soul more than most, but how near the visionsjust described are to the truth may be seen from the following fact:under the influence of his day-dreams the kitten suddenly leapedup, looked with flashing eyes at Praskovya, ruffled up his coat, and making one bound, thrust his claws into the cook's skirt. Obviously he was born a mouse catcher, a worthy son of his bloodthirstyancestors. Fate had destined him to be the terror of cellars, store-rooms and cornbins, and had it not been for education . . . We will not anticipate, however. 

On his way home from the high school, Pyotr Demyanitch went into ageneral shop and bought a mouse-trap for fifteen kopecks. At dinnerhe fixed a little bit of his rissole on the hook, and set the trapunder the sofa, where there were heaps of the pupils' old exercise-books, which Praskovya used for various domestic purposes. At six o'clockin the evening, when the worthy Latin master was sitting at thetable correcting his pupils' exercises, there was a sudden "klop!"so loud that my uncle started and dropped his pen. He went at onceto the sofa and took out the trap. A neat little mouse, the sizeof a thimble, was sniffing the wires and trembling with fear. 

"Aha, " muttered Pyotr Demyanitch, and he looked at the mousemalignantly, as though he were about to give him a bad mark. "Youare cau--aught, wretch! Wait a bit! I'll teach you to eat my grammar!"

Having gloated over his victim, Poytr Demyanitch put the mouse-trapon the floor and called:

"Praskovya, there's a mouse caught! Bring the kitten here!

"I'm coming, " responded Praskovya, and a minute later she came inwith the descendant of tigers in her arms. 

"Capital!" said Pyotr Demyanitch, rubbing his hands. "We will givehim a lesson. . . . Put him down opposite the mouse-trap . . . That's it. . . . Let him sniff it and look at it. . . . That'sit. . . . "

The kitten looked wonderingly at my uncle, at his arm-chair, sniffedthe mouse-trap in bewilderment, then, frightened probably by theglaring lamplight and the attention directed to him, made a dashand ran in terror to the door. 

"Stop!" shouted my uncle, seizing him by the tail, "stop, you rascal!He's afraid of a mouse, the idiot! Look! It's a mouse! Look! Well?Look, I tell you!"

Pyotr Demyanitch took the kitten by the scruff of the neck andpushed him with his nose against the mouse-trap. 

"Look, you carrion! Take him and hold him, Praskovya. . . . Holdhim opposite the door of the trap. . . . When I let the mouse out, you let him go instantly. . . . Do you hear? . . . Instantly letgo! Now!"

My uncle assumed a mysterious expression and lifted the door of thetrap. . . . The mouse came out irresolutely, sniffed the air, andflew like an arrow under the sofa. . . . The kitten on being releaseddarted under the table with his tail in the air. 

"It has got away! got away!" cried Pyotr Demyanitch, lookingferocious. "Where is he, the scoundrel? Under the table? You wait. . . "

My uncle dragged the kitten from under the table and shook him inthe air. 

"Wretched little beast, " he muttered, smacking him on the ear. "Takethat, take that! Will you shirk it next time? Wr-r-r-etch. . . . "

Next day Praskovya heard again the summons. 

"Praskovya, there is a mouse caught! Bring the kitten here!"

After the outrage of the previous day the kitten had taken refugeunder the stove and had not come out all night. When Praskovyapulled him out and, carrying him by the scruff of the neck into thestudy, set him down before the mouse-trap, he trembled all over andmewed piteously. 

"Come, let him feel at home first, " Pyotr Demyanitch commanded. "Let him look and sniff. Look and learn! Stop, plague take you!"he shouted, noticing that the kitten was backing away from themouse-trap. "I'll thrash you! Hold him by the ear! That's it. . . . Well now, set him down before the trap. . . . "

My uncle slowly lifted the door of the trap . . . The mouse whiskedunder the very nose of the kitten, flung itself against Praskovya'shand and fled under the cupboard; the kitten, feeling himself free, took a desperate bound and retreated under the sofa. 

"He's let another mouse go!" bawled Pyotr Demyanitch. "Do you callthat a cat? Nasty little beast! Thrash him! thrash him by themousetrap!"

When the third mouse had been caught, the kitten shivered all overat the sight of the mousetrap and its inmate, and scratched Praskovya'shand. . . . After the fourth mouse my uncle flew into a rage, kickedthe kitten, and said:

"Take the nasty thing away! Get rid of it! Chuck it away! It's noearthly use!"

A year passed, the thin, frail kitten had turned into a solid andsagacious tom-cat. One day he was on his way by the back yards toan amatory interview. He had just reached his destination when hesuddenly heard a rustle, and thereupon caught sight of a mouse whichran from a water-trough towards a stable; my hero's hair stood onend, he arched his back, hissed, and trembling all over, took toignominious flight. 

Alas! sometimes I feel myself in the ludicrous position of theflying cat. Like the kitten, I had in my day the honour of beingtaught Latin by my uncle. Now, whenever I chance to see some workof classical antiquity, instead of being moved to eager enthusiasm, I begin recalling, _ut consecutivum_, the irregular verbs, thesallow grey face of my uncle, the ablative absolute. . . . I turnpale, my hair stands up on my head, and, like the cat, I take toignominious flight. 

THE BIRD MARKET

THERE is a small square near the monastery of the Holy Birth whichis called Trubnoy, or simply Truboy; there is a market there onSundays. Hundreds of sheepskins, wadded coats, fur caps, andchimneypot hats swarm there, like crabs in a sieve. There is thesound of the twitter of birds in all sorts of keys, recalling thespring. If the sun is shining, and there are no clouds in the sky, the singing of the birds and the smell of hay make a more vividimpression, and this reminder of spring sets one thinking and carriesone's fancy far, far away. Along one side of the square there standsa string of waggons. The waggons are loaded, not with hay, not withcabbages, nor with beans, but with goldfinches, siskins, larks, blackbirds and thrushes, bluetits, bullfinches. All of them arehopping about in rough, home-made cages, twittering and lookingwith envy at the free sparrows. The goldfinches cost five kopecks, the siskins are rather more expensive, while the value of the otherbirds is quite indeterminate. 

"How much is a lark?"

The seller himself does not know the value of a lark. He scratcheshis head and asks whatever comes into it, a rouble, or three kopecks, according to the purchaser. There are expensive birds too. A fadedold blackbird, with most of its feathers plucked out of its tail, sits on a dirty perch. He is dignified, grave, and motionless as aretired general. He has waved his claw in resignation to his captivitylong ago, and looks at the blue sky with indifference. Probably, owing to this indifference, he is considered a sagacious bird. Heis not to be bought for less than forty kopecks. Schoolboys, workmen, young men in stylish greatcoats, and bird-fanciers in incrediblyshabby caps, in ragged trousers that are turned up at the ankles, and look as though they had been gnawed by mice, crowd round thebirds, splashing through the mud. The young people and the workmenare sold hens for cocks, young birds for old ones. . . . They knowvery little about birds. But there is no deceiving the bird-fancier. He sees and understands his bird from a distance. 

"There is no relying on that bird, " a fancier will say, lookinginto a siskin's beak, and counting the feathers on its tail. "Hesings now, it's true, but what of that? I sing in company too. No, my boy, shout, sing to me without company; sing in solitude, if youcan. . . . You give me that one yonder that sits and holds itstongue! Give me the quiet one! That one says nothing, so he thinksthe more. . . . "

Among the waggons of birds there are some full of other livecreatures. Here you see hares, rabbits, hedgehogs, guinea-pigs, polecats. A hare sits sorrowfully nibbling the straw. The guinea-pigsshiver with cold, while the hedgehogs look out with curiosity fromunder their prickles at the public. 

"I have read somewhere, " says a post-office official in a fadedovercoat, looking lovingly at the hare, and addressing no one inparticular, "I have read that some learned man had a cat and a mouseand a falcon and a sparrow, who all ate out of one bowl. "

"That's very possible, sir. The cat must have been beaten, and thefalcon, I dare say, had all its tail pulled out. There's no greatcleverness in that, sir. A friend of mine had a cat who, savingyour presence, used to eat his cucumbers. He thrashed her with abig whip for a fortnight, till he taught her not to. A hare canlearn to light matches if you beat it. Does that surprise you? It'svery simple! It takes the match in its mouth and strikes it. Ananimal is like a man. A man's made wiser by beating, and it's thesame with a beast. "

Men in long, full-skirted coats move backwards and forwards in thecrowd with cocks and ducks under their arms. The fowls are all leanand hungry. Chickens poke their ugly, mangy-looking heads out oftheir cages and peck at something in the mud. Boys with pigeonsstare into your face and try to detect in you a pigeon-fancier. 

"Yes, indeed! It's no use talking to you, " someone shouts angrily. "You should look before you speak! Do you call this a pigeon? Itis an eagle, not a pigeon!"

A tall thin man, with a shaven upper lip and side whiskers, wholooks like a sick and drunken footman, is selling a snow-whitelap-dog. The old lap-dog whines. 

"She told me to sell the nasty thing, " says the footman, with acontemptuous snigger. "She is bankrupt in her old age, has nothingto eat, and here now is selling her dogs and cats. She cries, andkisses them on their filthy snouts. And then she is so hard up thatshe sells them. 'Pon my soul, it is a fact! Buy it, gentlemen! Themoney is wanted for coffee. "

But no one laughs. A boy who is standing by screws up one eye andlooks at him gravely with compassion. 

The most interesting of all is the fish section. Some dozen peasantsare sitting in a row. Before each of them is a pail, and in eachpail there is a veritable little hell. There, in the thick, greenishwater are swarms of little carp, eels, small fry, water-snails, frogs, and newts. Big water-beetles with broken legs scurry overthe small surface, clambering on the carp, and jumping over thefrogs. The creatures have a strong hold on life. The frogs climbon the beetles, the newts on the frogs. The dark green tench, asmore expensive fish, enjoy an exceptional position; they are keptin a special jar where they can't swim, but still they are not socramped. . . . 

"The carp is a grand fish! The carp's the fish to keep, your honour, plague take him! You can keep him for a year in a pail and he'lllive! It's a week since I caught these very fish. I caught them, sir, in Pererva, and have come from there on foot. The carp are twokopecks each, the eels are three, and the minnows are ten kopecksthe dozen, plague take them! Five kopecks' worth of minnows, sir?Won't you take some worms?"

The seller thrusts his coarse rough fingers into the pail and pullsout of it a soft minnow, or a little carp, the size of a nail. Fishing lines, hooks, and tackle are laid out near the pails, andpond-worms glow with a crimson light in the sun. 

An old fancier in a fur cap, iron-rimmed spectacles, and goloshesthat look like two dread-noughts, walks about by the waggons ofbirds and pails of fish. He is, as they call him here, "a type. "He hasn't a farthing to bless himself with, but in spite of thathe haggles, gets excited, and pesters purchasers with advice. Hehas thoroughly examined all the hares, pigeons, and fish; examinedthem in every detail, fixed the kind, the age, and the price ofeach one of them a good hour ago. He is as interested as a childin the goldfinches, the carp, and the minnows. Talk to him, forinstance, about thrushes, and the queer old fellow will tell youthings you could not find in any book. He will tell you them withenthusiasm, with passion, and will scold you too for your ignorance. Of goldfinches and bullfinches he is ready to talk endlessly, openinghis eyes wide and gesticulating violently with his hands. He isonly to be met here at the market in the cold weather; in the summerhe is somewhere in the country, catching quails with a bird-calland angling for fish. 

And here is another "type, " a very tall, very thin, close-shavengentleman in dark spectacles, wearing a cap with a cockade, andlooking like a scrivener of by-gone days. He is a fancier; he is aman of decent position, a teacher in a high school, and that iswell known to the _habitués_ of the market, and they treat him withrespect, greet him with bows, and have even invented for him aspecial title: "Your Scholarship. " At Suharev market he rummagesamong the books, and at Trubnoy looks out for good pigeons. 

"Please, sir!" the pigeon-sellers shout to him, "Mr. Schoolmaster, your Scholarship, take notice of my tumblers! your Scholarship!"

"Your Scholarship!" is shouted at him from every side. 

"Your Scholarship!" an urchin repeats somewhere on the boulevard. 

And his "Scholarship, " apparently quite accustomed to his title, grave and severe, takes a pigeon in both hands, and lifting it abovehis head, begins examining it, and as he does so frowns and looksgraver than ever, like a conspirator. 

And Trubnoy Square, that little bit of Moscow where animals are sotenderly loved, and where they are so tortured, lives its littlelife, grows noisy and excited, and the business-like or pious peoplewho pass by along the boulevard cannot make out what has broughtthis crowd of people, this medley of caps, fur hats, and chimneypotstogether; what they are talking about there, what they are buyingand selling. 

AN ADVENTURE

_(A Driver's Story)_

IT was in that wood yonder, behind the creek, that it happened, sir. My father, the kingdom of Heaven be his, was taking five hundredroubles to the master; in those days our fellows and the Shepelevskypeasants used to rent land from the master, so father was takingmoney for the half-year. He was a God-fearing man, he used to readthe scriptures, and as for cheating or wronging anyone, or defrauding--God forbid, and the peasants honoured him greatly, and whensomeone had to be sent to the town about taxes or such-like, orwith money, they used to send him. He was a man above the ordinary, but, not that I'd speak ill of him, he had a weakness. He was fondof a drop. There was no getting him past a tavern: he would go in, drink a glass, and be completely done for! He was aware of thisweakness in himself, and when he was carrying public money, thathe might not fall asleep or lose it by some chance, he always tookme or my sister Anyutka with him. 

To tell the truth, all our family have a great taste for vodka. Ican read and write, I served for six years at a tobacconist's inthe town, and I can talk to any educated gentleman, and can usevery fine language, but, it is perfectly true, sir, as I read in abook, that vodka is the blood of Satan. Through vodka my face hasdarkened. And there is nothing seemly about me, and here, as youmay see, sir, I am a cab-driver like an ignorant, uneducated peasant. 

And so, as I was telling you, father was taking the money to themaster, Anyutka was going with him, and at that time Anyutka wasseven or maybe eight--a silly chit, not that high. He got as faras Kalantchiko successfully, he was sober, but when he reachedKalantchiko and went into Moiseika's tavern, this same weakness ofhis came upon him. He drank three glasses and set to bragging beforepeople:

"I am a plain humble man, " he says, "but I have five hundred roublesin my pocket; if I like, " says he, "I could buy up the tavern andall the crockery and Moiseika and his Jewess and his little Jews. I can buy it all out and out, " he said. That was his way of joking, to be sure, but then he began complaining: "It's a worry, goodChristian people, " said he, "to be a rich man, a merchant, oranything of that kind. If you have no money you have no care, ifyou have money you must watch over your pocket the whole time thatwicked men may not rob you. It's a terror to live in the world fora man who has a lot of money. "

The drunken people listened of course, took it in, and made a noteof it. And in those days they were making a railway line atKalantchiko, and there were swarms and swarms of tramps and vagabondsof all sorts like locusts. Father pulled himself up afterwards, butit was too late. A word is not a sparrow, if it flies out you can'tcatch it. They drove, sir, by the wood, and all at once there wassomeone galloping on horseback behind them. Father was not of thechicken-hearted brigade--that I couldn't say--but he felt uneasy;there was no regular road through the wood, nothing went that waybut hay and timber, and there was no cause for anyone to be gallopingthere, particularly in working hours. One wouldn't be gallopingafter any good. 

"It seems as though they are after someone, " said father to Anyutka, "they are galloping so furiously. I ought to have kept quiet in thetavern, a plague on my tongue. Oy, little daughter, my heart misgivesme, there is something wrong!"

He did not spend long in hesitation about his dangerous position, and he said to my sister Anyutka:

"Things don't look very bright, they really are in pursuit. Anyway, Anyutka dear, you take the money, put it away in your skirts, andgo and hide behind a bush. If by ill-luck they attack me, you runback to mother, and give her the money. Let her take it to thevillage elder. Only mind you don't let anyone see you; keep to thewood and by the creek, that no one may see you. Run your best andcall on the merciful God. Christ be with you!"

Father thrust the parcel of notes on Anyutka, and she looked outthe thickest of the bushes and hid herself. Soon after, three menon horseback galloped up to father. One a stalwart, big-jawed fellow, in a crimson shirt and high boots, and the other two, ragged, shabbyfellows, navvies from the line. As my father feared, so it reallyturned out, sir. The one in the crimson shirt, the sturdy, strongfellow, a man above the ordinary, left his horse, and all threemade for my father. 

"Halt you, so-and-so! Where's the money!"

"What money? Go to the devil!"

"Oh, the money you are taking the master for the rent. Hand it over, you bald devil, or we will throttle you, and you'll die in yoursins. "

And they began to practise their villainy on father, and, insteadof beseeching them, weeping, or anything of the sort, father gotangry and began to reprove them with the greatest severity. 

"What are you pestering me for?" said he. "You are a dirty lot. There is no fear of God in you, plague take you! It's not money youwant, but a beating, to make your backs smart for three years after. Be off, blockheads, or I shall defend myself. I have a revolverthat takes six bullets, it's in my bosom!"

But his words did not deter the robbers, and they began beating himwith anything they could lay their hands on. 

They looked through everything in the cart, searched my fatherthoroughly, even taking off his boots; when they found that beatingfather only made him swear at them the more, they began torturinghim in all sorts of ways. All the time Anyutka was sitting behindthe bush, and she saw it all, poor dear. When she saw father lyingon the ground and gasping, she started off and ran her hardestthrough the thicket and the creek towards home. She was only alittle girl, with no understanding; she did not know the way, justran on not knowing where she was going. It was some six miles toour home. Anyone else might have run there in an hour, but a littlechild, as we all know, takes two steps back for one forwards, andindeed it is not everyone who can run barefoot through the pricklybushes; you want to be used to it, too, and our girls used alwaysto be crowding together on the stove or in the yard, and were afraidto run in the forest. 

Towards evening Anyutka somehow reached a habitation, she looked, it was a hut. It was the forester's hut, in the Crown forest; somemerchants were renting it at the time and burning charcoal. Sheknocked. A woman, the forester's wife, came out to her. Anyutka, first of all, burst out crying, and told her everything just as itwas, and even told her about the money. The forester's wife wasfull of pity for her. 

"My poor little dear! Poor mite, God has preserved you, poor littleone! My precious! Come into the hut, and I will give you somethingto eat. "

She began to make up to Anyutka, gave her food and drink, and evenwept with her, and was so attentive to her that the girl, onlythink, gave her the parcel of notes. 

"I will put it away, darling, and to-morrow morning I will give ityou back and take you home, dearie. "

The woman took the money, and put Anyutka to sleep on the stovewhere at the time the brooms were drying. And on the same stove, on the brooms, the forester's daughter, a girl as small as ourAnyutka, was asleep. And Anyutka used to tell us afterwards thatthere was such a scent from the brooms, they smelt of honey! Anyutkalay down, but she could not get to sleep, she kept crying quietly;she was sorry for father, and terrified. But, sir, an hour or twopassed, and she saw those very three robbers who had tortured fatherwalk into the hut; and the one in the crimson shirt, with big jaws, their leader, went up to the woman and said:

"Well, wife, we have simply murdered a man for nothing. To-day wekilled a man at dinner-time, we killed him all right, but not afarthing did we find. "

So this fellow in the crimson shirt turned out to be the forester, the woman's husband. 

"The man's dead for nothing, " said his ragged companions. "In vainwe have taken a sin on our souls. "

The forester's wife looked at all three and laughed. 

"What are you laughing at, silly?"

"I am laughing because I haven't murdered anyone, and I have nottaken any sin on my soul, but I have found the money. "

"What money? What nonsense are you talking!"

"Here, look whether I am talking nonsense. "

The forester's wife untied the parcel and, wicked woman, showedthem the money. Then she described how Anyutka had come, what shehad said, and so on. The murderers were delighted and began todivide the money between them, they almost quarrelled, then theysat down to the table, you know, to drink. And Anyutka lay there, poor child, hearing every word and shaking like a Jew in a frying-pan. What was she to do? And from their words she learned that fatherwas dead and lying across the road, and she fancied, in herfoolishness, that the wolves and the dogs would eat father, andthat our horse had gone far away into the forest, and would be eatenby wolves too, and that she, Anyutka herself, would be put in prisonand beaten, because she had not taken care of the money. The robbersgot drunk and sent the woman for vodka. They gave her five roublesfor vodka and sweet wine. They set to singing and drinking on otherpeople's money. They drank and drank, the dogs, and sent the womanoff again that they might drink beyond all bounds. 

"We will keep it up till morning, " they cried. "We have plenty ofmoney now, there is no need to spare! Drink, and don't drink awayyour wits. "

And so at midnight, when they were all fairly fuddled, the womanran off for vodka the third time, and the forester strode twice upand down the cottage, and he was staggering. 

"Look here, lads, " he said, "we must make away with the girl, too!If we leave her, she will be the first to bear witness against us. "

They talked it over and discussed it, and decided that Anyutka mustnot be left alive, that she must be killed. Of course, to murderan innocent child's a fearful thing, even a man drunken or crazywould not take such a job on himself. They were quarrelling formaybe an hour which was to kill her, one tried to put it on theother, they almost fought again, and no one would agree to do it;then they cast lots. It fell to the forester. He drank another fullglass, cleared his throat, and went to the outer room for an axe. 

But Anyutka was a sharp wench. For all she was so simple, she thoughtof something that, I must say, not many an educated man would havethought of. Maybe the Lord had compassion on her, and gave her sensefor the moment, or perhaps it was the fright sharpened her wits, anyway when it came to the test it turned out that she was clevererthan anyone. She got up stealthily, prayed to God, took the littlesheepskin, the one the forester's wife had put over her, and, youunderstand, the forester's little daughter, a girl of the same ageas herself, was lying on the stove beside her. She covered thisgirl with the sheepskin, and took the woman's jacket off her andthrew it over herself. Disguised herself, in fact. She put it overher head, and so walked across the hut by the drunken men, and theythought it was the forester's daughter, and did not even look ather. Luckily for her the woman was not in the hut, she had gone forvodka, or maybe she would not have escaped the axe, for a woman'seyes are as far-seeing as a buzzard's. A woman's eyes are sharp. 

Anyutka came out of the hut, and ran as fast as her legs could carryher. All night she was lost in the forest, but towards morning shecame out to the edge and ran along the road. By the mercy of Godshe met the clerk Yegor Danilitch, the kingdom of Heaven be his. He was going along with his hooks to catch fish. Anyutka told himall about it. He went back quicker than he came--thought no moreof the fish--gathered the peasants together in the village, andoff they went to the forester's. 

They got there, and all the murderers were lying side by side, deaddrunk, each where he had fallen; the woman, too, was drunk. Firstthing they searched them; they took the money and then looked onthe stove--the Holy Cross be with us! The forester's child waslying on the brooms, under the sheepskin, and her head was in apool of blood, chopped off by the axe. They roused the peasants andthe woman, tied their hands behind them, and took them to thedistrict court; the woman howled, but the forester only shook hishead and asked:

"You might give me a drop, lads! My head aches!"

Afterwards they were tried in the town in due course, and punishedwith the utmost rigour of the law. 

So that's what happened, sir, beyond the forest there, that liesbehind the creek. Now you can scarcely see it, the sun is settingred behind it. I have been talking to you, and the horses havestopped, as though they were listening too. Hey there, my beauties!Move more briskly, the good gentleman will give us something extra. Hey, you darlings!

THE FISH

A SUMMER morning. The air is still; there is no sound but thechurring of a grasshopper on the river bank, and somewhere the timidcooing of a turtle-dove. Feathery clouds stand motionless in thesky, looking like snow scattered about. . . . Gerassim, the carpenter, a tall gaunt peasant, with a curly red head and a face overgrownwith hair, is floundering about in the water under the green willowbranches near an unfinished bathing shed. . . . He puffs and pantsand, blinking furiously, is trying to get hold of something underthe roots of the willows. His face is covered with perspiration. Acouple of yards from him, Lubim, the carpenter, a young hunchbackwith a triangular face and narrow Chinese-looking eyes, is standingup to his neck in water. Both Gerassim and Lubim are in shirts andlinen breeches. Both are blue with cold, for they have been morethan an hour already in the water. 

"But why do you keep poking with your hand?" cries the hunchbackLubim, shivering as though in a fever. "You blockhead! Hold him, hold him, or else he'll get away, the anathema! Hold him, I tellyou!"

"He won't get away. . . . Where can he get to? He's under a root, "says Gerassim in a hoarse, hollow bass, which seems to come notfrom his throat, but from the depths of his stomach. "He's slippery, the beggar, and there's nothing to catch hold of. "

"Get him by the gills, by the gills!"

"There's no seeing his gills. . . . Stay, I've got hold of something. . . . I've got him by the lip. . . He's biting, the brute!"

"Don't pull him out by the lip, don't--or you'll let him go! Takehim by the gills, take him by the gills. . . . You've begun pokingwith your hand again! You are a senseless man, the Queen of Heavenforgive me! Catch hold!"

"Catch hold!" Gerassim mimics him. "You're a fine one to give orders. . . . You'd better come and catch hold of him yourself, you hunchbackdevil. . . . What are you standing there for?"

"I would catch hold of him if it were possible. But can I stand bythe bank, and me as short as I am? It's deep there. "

"It doesn't matter if it is deep. . . . You must swim. "

The hunchback waves his arms, swims up to Gerassim, and catcheshold of the twigs. At the first attempt to stand up, he goes intothe water over his head and begins blowing up bubbles. 

"I told you it was deep, " he says, rolling his eyes angrily. "Am Ito sit on your neck or what?"

"Stand on a root . . . There are a lot of roots like a ladder. " Thehunchback gropes for a root with his heel, and tightly grippingseveral twigs, stands on it. . . . Having got his balance, andestablished himself in his new position, he bends down, and tryingnot to get the water into his mouth, begins fumbling with his righthand among the roots. Getting entangled among the weeds and slippingon the mossy roots he finds his hand in contact with the sharppincers of a crayfish. 

"As though we wanted to see you, you demon!" says Lubim, and heangrily flings the crayfish on the bank. 

At last his hand feels Gerassim' s arm, and groping its way alongit comes to something cold and slimy. 

"Here he is!" says Lubim with a grin. "A fine fellow! Move yourfingers, I'll get him directly . . . By the gills. Stop, don't prodme with your elbow. . . . I'll have him in a minute, in a minute, only let me get hold of him. . . . The beggar has got a long wayunder the roots, there is nothing to get hold of. . . . One can'tget to the head . . . One can only feel its belly . . . . Kill thatgnat on my neck--it's stinging! I'll get him by the gills, directly. . . . Come to one side and give him a push! Poke him with yourfinger!"

The hunchback puffs out his cheeks, holds his breath, opens hiseyes wide, and apparently has already got his fingers in the gills, but at that moment the twigs to which he is holding on with hisleft hand break, and losing his balance he plops into the water!Eddies race away from the bank as though frightened, and littlebubbles come up from the spot where he has fallen in. The hunchbackswims out and, snorting, clutches at the twigs. 

"You'll be drowned next, you stupid, and I shall have to answer foryou, " wheezes Gerassim. "Clamber out, the devil take you! I'll gethim out myself. "

High words follow. . . . The sun is baking hot. The shadows beginto grow shorter and to draw in on themselves, like the horns of asnail. . . . The high grass warmed by the sun begins to give out astrong, heavy smell of honey. It will soon be midday, and Gerassimand Lubim are still floundering under the willow tree. The huskybass and the shrill, frozen tenor persistently disturb the stillnessof the summer day. 

"Pull him out by the gills, pull him out! Stay, I'll push him out!Where are you shoving your great ugly fist? Poke him with yourfinger--you pig's face! Get round by the side! get to the left, to the left, there's a big hole on the right! You'll be a supperfor the water-devil! Pull it by the lip!"

There is the sound of the flick of a whip. . . . A herd of cattle, driven by Yefim, the shepherd, saunter lazily down the sloping bankto drink. The shepherd, a decrepit old man, with one eye and acrooked mouth, walks with his head bowed, looking at his feet. Thefirst to reach the water are the sheep, then come the horses, andlast of all the cows. 

"Push him from below!" he hears Lubim's voice. "Stick your fingerin! Are you deaf, fellow, or what? Tfoo!"

"What are you after, lads?" shouts Yefim. 

"An eel-pout! We can't get him out! He's hidden under the roots. Get round to the side! To the side!"

For a minute Yefim screws up his eye at the fishermen, then he takesoff his bark shoes, throws his sack off his shoulders, and takesoff his shirt. He has not the patience to take off his breeches, but, making the sign of the cross, he steps into the water, holdingout his thin dark arms to balance himself. . . . For fifty paceshe walks along the slimy bottom, then he takes to swimming. 

"Wait a minute, lads!" he shouts. "Wait! Don't be in a hurry topull him out, you'll lose him. You must do it properly!"

Yefim joins the carpenters and all three, shoving each other withtheir knees and their elbows, puffing and swearing at one another, bustle about the same spot. Lubim, the hunchback, gets a mouthfulof water, and the air rings with his hard spasmodic coughing. 

"Where's the shepherd?" comes a shout from the bank. "Yefim! Shepherd!Where are you? The cattle are in the garden! Drive them out, drivethem out of the garden! Where is he, the old brigand?"

First men's voices are heard, then a woman's. The master himself, Andrey Andreitch, wearing a dressing-gown made of a Persian shawland carrying a newspaper in his hand, appears from behind the gardenfence. He looks inquiringly towards the shouts which come from theriver, and then trips rapidly towards the bathing shed. 

"What's this? Who's shouting?" he asks sternly, seeing through thebranches of the willow the three wet heads of the fishermen. "Whatare you so busy about there?"

"Catching a fish, " mutters Yefim, without raising his head. 

"I'll give it to you! The beasts are in the garden and he is fishing!. . . When will that bathing shed be done, you devils? You've beenat work two days, and what is there to show for it?"

"It . . . Will soon be done, " grunts Gerassim; summer is long, you'll have plenty of time to wash, your honour. . . . Pfrrr! . . . We can't manage this eel-pout here anyhow. . . . He's got undera root and sits there as if he were in a hole and won't budge oneway or another . . . . "

"An eel-pout?" says the master, and his eyes begin to glisten. "Gethim out quickly then. "

"You'll give us half a rouble for it presently if we oblige you. . . . A huge eel-pout, as fat as a merchant's wife. . . . It's worthhalf a rouble, your honour, for the trouble. . . . Don't squeezehim, Lubim, don't squeeze him, you'll spoil him! Push him up frombelow! Pull the root upwards, my good man . . . What's your name?Upwards, not downwards, you brute! Don't swing your legs!"

Five minutes pass, ten. . . . The master loses all patience. 

"Vassily!" he shouts, turning towards the garden. "Vaska! CallVassily to me!"

The coachman Vassily runs up. He is chewing something and breathinghard. 

"Go into the water, " the master orders him. "Help them to pull outthat eel-pout. They can't get him out. "

Vassily rapidly undresses and gets into the water. 

"In a minute. . . . I'll get him in a minute, " he mutters. "Where'sthe eel-pout? We'll have him out in a trice! You'd better go, Yefim. An old man like you ought to be minding his own business insteadof being here. Where's that eel-pout? I'll have him in a minute. . . . Here he is! Let go. "

"What's the good of saying that? We know all about that! You getit out!"

But there is no getting it out like this! One must get hold of itby the head. "

"And the head is under the root! We know that, you fool!"

"Now then, don't talk or you'll catch it! You dirty cur!"

"Before the master to use such language, " mutters Yefim. "You won'tget him out, lads! He's fixed himself much too cleverly!"

"Wait a minute, I'll come directly, " says the master, and he beginshurriedly undressing. "Four fools, and can't get an eel-pout!"

When he is undressed, Andrey Andreitch gives himself time to cooland gets into the water. But even his interference leads to nothing. 

"We must chop the root off, " Lubim decides at last. "Gerassim, goand get an axe! Give me an axe!"

"Don't chop your fingers off, " says the master, when the blows ofthe axe on the root under water are heard. "Yefim, get out of this!Stay, I'll get the eel-pout. . . . You'll never do it. "

The root is hacked a little. They partly break it off, and AndreyAndreitch, to his immense satisfaction, feels his fingers under thegills of the fish. 

"I'm pulling him out, lads! Don't crowd round . . . Stand still. . . . I am pulling him out!"

The head of a big eel-pout, and behind it its long black body, nearly a yard long, appears on the surface of the water. The fishflaps its tail heavily and tries to tear itself away. 

"None of your nonsense, my boy! Fiddlesticks! I've got you! Aha!"

A honied smile overspreads all the faces. A minute passes in silentcontemplation. 

"A famous eel-pout, " mutters Yefim, scratching under his shoulder-blades. "I'll be bound it weighs ten pounds. "

"Mm! . . . Yes, " the master assents. "The liver is fairly swollen!It seems to stand out! A-ach!"

The fish makes a sudden, unexpected upward movement with its tailand the fishermen hear a loud splash . . . They all put out theirhands, but it is too late; they have seen the last of the eel-pout. 

ART

A GLOOMY winter morning. 

On the smooth and glittering surface of the river Bystryanka, sprinkled here and there with snow, stand two peasants, scrubbylittle Seryozhka and the church beadle, Matvey. Seryozhka, ashort-legged, ragged, mangy-looking fellow of thirty, stares angrilyat the ice. Tufts of wool hang from his shaggy sheepskin like amangy dog. In his hands he holds a compass made of two pointedsticks. Matvey, a fine-looking old man in a new sheepskin and highfelt boots, looks with mild blue eyes upwards where on the highsloping bank a village nestles picturesquely. In his hands thereis a heavy crowbar. 

"Well, are we going to stand like this till evening with our armsfolded?" says Seryozhka, breaking the silence and turning his angryeyes on Matvey. "Have you come here to stand about, old fool, orto work?"

"Well, you . . . Er . . . Show me . . . " Matvey mutters, blinkingmildly. 

"Show you. . . . It's always me: me to show you, and me to do it. They have no sense of their own! Mark it out with the compasses, that's what's wanted! You can't break the ice without marking itout. Mark it! Take the compass. "

Matvey takes the compasses from Seryozhka's hands, and, shufflingheavily on the same spot and jerking with his elbows in all directions, he begins awkwardly trying to describe a circle on the ice. Seryozhkascrews up his eyes contemptuously and obviously enjoys his awkwardnessand incompetence. 

"Eh-eh-eh!" he mutters angrily. "Even that you can't do! The factis you are a stupid peasant, a wooden-head! You ought to be grazinggeese and not making a Jordan! Give the compasses here! Give themhere, I say!"

Seryozhka snatches the compasses out of the hands of the perspiringMatvey, and in an instant, jauntily twirling round on one heel, hedescribes a circle on the ice. The outline of the new Jordan isready now, all that is left to do is to break the ice. . . 

But before proceeding to the work Seryozhka spends a long time inairs and graces, whims and reproaches. . . 

"I am not obliged to work for you! You are employed in the church, you do it!"

He obviously enjoys the peculiar position in which he has beenplaced by the fate that has bestowed on him the rare talent ofsurprising the whole parish once a year by his art. Poor mild Matveyhas to listen to many venomous and contemptuous words from him. Seryozhka sets to work with vexation, with anger. He is lazy. Hehas hardly described the circle when he is already itching to goup to the village to drink tea, lounge about, and babble. . . 

"I'll be back directly, " he says, lighting his cigarette, "andmeanwhile you had better bring something to sit on and sweep up, instead of standing there counting the crows. "

Matvey is left alone. The air is grey and harsh but still. The whitechurch peeps out genially from behind the huts scattered on theriver bank. Jackdaws are incessantly circling round its goldencrosses. On one side of the village where the river bank breaks offand is steep a hobbled horse is standing at the very edge, motionlessas a stone, probably asleep or deep in thought. 

Matvey, too, stands motionless as a statue, waiting patiently. Thedreamily brooding look of the river, the circling of the jackdaws, and the sight of the horse make him drowsy. One hour passes, asecond, and still Seryozhka does not come. The river has long beenswept and a box brought to sit on, but the drunken fellow does notappear. Matvey waits and merely yawns. The feeling of boredom isone of which he knows nothing. If he were told to stand on the riverfor a day, a month, or a year he would stand there. 

At last Seryozhka comes into sight from behind the huts. He walkswith a lurching gait, scarcely moving. He is too lazy to go thelong way round, and he comes not by the road, but prefers a shortcut in a straight line down the bank, and sticks in the snow, hangson to the bushes, slides on his back as he comes--and all thisslowly, with pauses. 

"What are you about?" he cries, falling on Matvey at once. "Why areyou standing there doing nothing! When are you going to break theice?"

Matvey crosses himself, takes the crowbar in both hands, and beginsbreaking the ice, carefully keeping to the circle that has beendrawn. Seryozhka sits down on the box and watches the heavy clumsymovements of his assistant. 

"Easy at the edges! Easy there!" he commands. "If you can't do itproperly, you shouldn't undertake it, once you have undertaken ityou should do it. You!"

A crowd collects on the top of the bank. At the sight of thespectators Seryozhka becomes even more excited. 

"I declare I am not going to do it . . . " he says, lighting astinking cigarette and spitting on the ground. "I should like tosee how you get on without me. Last year at Kostyukovo, StyopkaGulkov undertook to make a Jordan as I do. And what did it amountto--it was a laughing-stock. The Kostyukovo folks came to ours--crowds and crowds of them! The people flocked from all thevillages. "

"Because except for ours there is nowhere a proper Jordan . . . "

"Work, there is no time for talking. . . . Yes, old man . . . Youwon't find another Jordan like it in the whole province. The soldierssay you would look in vain, they are not so good even in the towns. Easy, easy!"

Matvey puffs and groans. The work is not easy. The ice is firm andthick; and he has to break it and at once take the pieces away thatthe open space may not be blocked up. 

But, hard as the work is and senseless as Seryozhka's commands are, by three o'clock there is a large circle of dark water in theBystryanka. 

"It was better last year, " says Seryozhka angrily. "You can't doeven that! Ah, dummy! To keep such fools in the temple of God! Goand bring a board to make the pegs! Bring the ring, you crow! Ander . . . Get some bread somewhere . . . And some cucumbers, orsomething. "

Matvey goes off and soon afterwards comes back, carrying on hisshoulders an immense wooden ring which had been painted in previousyears in patterns of various colours. In the centre of the ring isa red cross, at the circumference holes for the pegs. Seryozhkatakes the ring and covers the hole in the ice with it. 

"Just right . . . It fits. . . . We have only to renew the paintand it will be first-rate. . . . Come, why are you standing still?Make the lectern. Or--er--go and get logs to make the cross . . . "

Matvey, who has not tasted food or drink all day, trudges up thehill again. Lazy as Seryozhka is, he makes the pegs with his ownhands. He knows that those pegs have a miraculous power: whoevergets hold of a peg after the blessing of the water will be luckyfor the whole year. Such work is really worth doing. 

But the real work begins the following day. Then Seryozhka displayshimself before the ignorant Matvey in all the greatness of histalent. There is no end to his babble, his fault-finding, his whimsand fancies. If Matvey nails two big pieces of wood to make a cross, he is dissatisfied and tells him to do it again. If Matvey standsstill, Seryozhka asks him angrily why he does not go; if he moves, Seryozhka shouts to him not to go away but to do his work. He isnot satisfied with his tools, with the weather, or with his owntalent; nothing pleases him. 

Matvey saws out a great piece of ice for a lectern. 

"Why have you broken off the corner?" cries Seryozhka, and glaresat him furiously. "Why have you broken off the corner? I ask you. "

"Forgive me, for Christ's sake. "

"Do it over again!"

Matvey saws again . . . And there is no end to his sufferings. Alectern is to stand by the hole in the ice that is covered by thepainted ring; on the lectern is to be carved the cross and the opengospel. But that is not all. Behind the lectern there is to be ahigh cross to be seen by all the crowd and to glitter in the sunas though sprinkled with diamonds and rubies. On the cross is tobe a dove carved out of ice. The path from the church to the Jordanis to be strewn with branches of fir and juniper. All this is theirtask. 

First of all Seryozhka sets to work on the lectern. He works witha file, a chisel, and an awl. He is perfectly successful in thecross on the lectern, the gospel, and the drapery that hangs downfrom the lectern. Then he begins on the dove. While he is tryingto carve an expression of meekness and humility on the face of thedove, Matvey, lumbering about like a bear, is coating with ice thecross he has made of wood. He takes the cross and dips it in thehole. Waiting till the water has frozen on the cross he dips it ina second time, and so on till the cross is covered with a thicklayer of ice. It is a difficult job, calling for a great deal ofstrength and patience. 

But now the delicate work is finished. Seryozhka races about thevillage like one possessed. He swears and vows he will go at onceto the river and smash all his work. He is looking for suitablepaints. 

His pockets are full of ochre, dark blue, red lead, and verdigris;without paying a farthing he rushes headlong from one shop toanother. The shop is next door to the tavern. Here he has a drink;with a wave of his hand he darts off without paying. At one hut hegets beetroot leaves, at another an onion skin, out of which hemakes a yellow colour. He swears, shoves, threatens, and not a soulmurmurs! They all smile at him, they sympathise with him, call himSergey Nikititch; they all feel that his art is not his personalaffair but something that concerns them all, the whole people. Onecreates, the others help him. Seryozhka in himself is a nonentity, a sluggard, a drunkard, and a wastrel, but when he has his red leador compasses in his hand he is at once something higher, a servantof God. 

Epiphany morning comes. The precincts of the church and both banksof the river for a long distance are swarming with people. Everythingthat makes up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats. Seryozhka is meekly moving about near the mats, trying to controlhis emotion. He sees thousands of people. There are many here fromother parishes; these people have come many a mile on foot throughthe frost and the snow merely to see his celebrated Jordan. Matvey, who had finished his coarse, rough work, is by now back in thechurch, there is no sight, no sound of him; he is already forgotten. . . . The weather is lovely. . . . There is not a cloud in the sky. The sunshine is dazzling. 

The church bells ring out on the hill . . . Thousands of heads arebared, thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signsof the cross!

And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience. But now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half anhour later a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry andamong the people. Banners are borne out of the church one after theother, while the bells peal in joyous haste. Seryozhka, trembling, pulls away the mat . . . And the people behold something extraordinary. The lectern, the wooden ring, the pegs, and the cross in the iceare iridescent with thousands of colors. The cross and the doveglitter so dazzlingly that it hurts the eyes to look at them. Merciful God, how fine it is! A murmur of wonder and delight runsthrough the crowd; the bells peal more loudly still, the day growsbrighter; the banners oscillate and move over the crowd as over thewaves. The procession, glittering with the settings of the ikonsand the vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down the road andturns towards the Jordan. Hands are waved to the belfry for theringing to cease, and the blessing of the water begins. The priestsconduct the service slowly, deliberately, evidently trying to prolongthe ceremony and the joy of praying all gathered together. Thereis perfect stillness. 

But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with anextraordinary din. Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loudexclamations of delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs. Seryozhkalistens to this uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, andthe lazy fellow's soul is filled with a sense of glory and triumph. 

THE SWEDISH MATCH

_(The Story of a Crime)_

I

ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presentedhimself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nddivision of the S. District, and announced that his employer, aretired cornet of the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, hadbeen murdered. The young man was pale and extremely agitated as hemade this announcement. His hands trembled and there was a look ofhorror in his eyes. 

"To whom have I the honour of speaking?" the superintendent askedhim. 

"Psyekov, Klyauzov's steward. Agricultural and engineering expert. "

The police superintendent, on reaching the spot with Psyekov andthe necessary witnesses, found the position as follows. 

Masses of people were crowding about the lodge in which Klyauzovlived. The news of the event had flown round the neighbourhood withthe rapidity of lightning, and, thanks to its being a holiday, thepeople were flocking to the lodge from all the neighbouring villages. There was a regular hubbub of talk. Pale and tearful faces were tobe seen here and there. The door into Klyauzov's bedroom was foundto be locked. The key was in the lock on the inside. 

"Evidently the criminals made their way in by the window" Psyekovobserved, as they examined the door. 

They went into the garden into which the bedroom window looked. Thewindow had a gloomy, ominous air. It was covered by a faded greencurtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned back, whichmade it possible to peep into the bedroom. 

"Has anyone of you looked in at the window?" inquired the superintendent. 

"No, your honour, " said Yefrem, the gardener, a little, grey-hairedold man with the face of a veteran non-commissioned officer. "Noone feels like looking when they are shaking in every limb!"

"Ech, Mark Ivanitch! Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the superintendent, ashe looked at the window. "I told you that you would come to a badend! I told you, poor dear--you wouldn't listen! Dissipation leadsto no good!"

"It's thanks to Yefrem, " said Psyekov. "We should never have guessedit but for him. It was he who first thought that something waswrong. He came to me this morning and said: 'Why is it our masterhasn't waked up for so long? He hasn't been out of his bedroom fora whole week! When he said that to me I was struck all of a heap. . . . The thought flashed through my mind at once. He hasn't madean appearance since Saturday of last week, and to-day's Sunday. Seven days is no joke!"

"Yes, poor man, " the superintendent sighed again. "A clever fellow, well-educated, and so good-hearted. There was no one like him, onemay say, in company. But a rake; the kingdom of heaven be his! I'mnot surprised at anything with him! Stepan, " he said, addressingone of the witnesses, "ride off this minute to my house and sendAndryushka to the police captain's, let him report to him. Say MarkIvanitch has been murdered! Yes, and run to the inspector--whyshould he sit in comfort doing nothing? Let him come here. And yougo yourself as fast as you can to the examining magistrate, NikolayYermolaitch, and tell him to come here. Wait a bit, I will writehim a note. "

The police superintendent stationed watchmen round the lodge, andwent off to the steward's to have tea. Ten minutes later he wassitting on a stool, carefully nibbling lumps of sugar, and sippingtea as hot as a red-hot coal. 

"There it is! . . . " he said to Psyekov, "there it is! . . . Agentleman, and a well-to-do one, too . . . A favourite of the gods, one may say, to use Pushkin's expression, and what has he made ofit? Nothing! He gave himself up to drinking and debauchery, and. . . Here now . . . He has been murdered!"

Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolay YermolaitchTchubikov (that was the magistrate's name), a tall, thick-set oldman of sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century. Hewas known to the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energeticman, devoted to his work. His invariable companion, assistant, andsecretary, a tall young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action with him. 

"Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov'sroom and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? MarkIvanitch? Murdered? No, it's impossible! Imposs-i-ble!"

"There it is, " sighed the superintendent

"Merciful heavens! Why I saw him only last Friday. At the fair atTarabankovo! Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka withhim!"

"There it is, " the superintendent sighed once more. 

They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of teaeach, and went to the lodge. 

"Make way!" the police inspector shouted to the crowd. 

On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all setto work to inspect the door into the bedroom. The door turned outto be made of deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tamperedwith. No special traces that might have served as evidence couldbe found. They proceeded to break open the door. 

"I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire, " said theexamining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, thedoor yielded to the axe and the chisel. "I ask this in the interestsof the investigation. . . . Inspector, admit no one!"

Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened thedoor and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room. The following spectacle met their eyes. In the solitary window stooda big wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On therumpled feather bed lay a creased and crumpled quilt. A pillow, ina cotton pillow case--also much creased, was on the floor. On alittle table beside the bed lay a silver watch, and silver coinsto the value of twenty kopecks. Some sulphur matches lay there too. Except the bed, the table, and a solitary chair, there was nofurniture in the room. Looking under the bed, the superintendentsaw two dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a jar of vodka. Under the table lay one boot, covered with dust. Taking a look roundthe room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed crimson. 

"The blackguards!" he muttered, clenching his fists. 

"And where is Mark Ivanitch?" Dyukovsky asked quietly. 

"I beg you not to put your spoke in, " Tchubikov answered roughly. "Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf Kuzmitch, " he added to the police superintendent, droppinghis voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you rememberit. . . . The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just thesame. The blackguards murdered him, and dragged the dead body outof the window. "

Tchubikov went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and cautiouslypushed the window. The window opened. 

"It opens, so it was not fastened. . . . H'm there are traces onthe window-sill. Do you see? Here is the trace of a knee. . . . Some one climbed out. . . . We shall have to inspect the windowthoroughly. "

"There is nothing special to be observed on the floor, " saidDyukovsky. "No stains, nor scratches. The only thing I have foundis a used Swedish match. Here it is. As far as I remember, MarkIvanitch didn't smoke; in a general way he used sulphur ones, neverSwedish matches. This match may serve as a clue. . . . "

"Oh, hold your tongue, please!" cried Tchubikov, with a wave of hishand. "He keeps on about his match! I can't stand these excitablepeople! Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine thebed!"

On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported:

"There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor arethere any fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth. Aliquid, having the smell of beer and also the taste of it, has beenspilt on the quilt. . . . The general appearance of the bed givesgrounds for supposing there has been a struggle. "

"I know there was a struggle without your telling me! No one askedyou whether there was a struggle. Instead of looking out for astruggle you had better be . . . "

"One boot is here, the other one is not on the scene. "

"Well, what of that?"

"Why, they must have strangled him while he was taking off hisboots. He hadn't time to take the second boot off when . . . . "

"He's off again! . . . And how do you know that he was strangled?"

"There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is verymuch crumpled, and has been flung to a distance of six feet fromthe bed. "

"He argues, the chatterbox! We had better go into the garden. Youhad better look in the garden instead of rummaging about here. . . . I can do that without your help. "

When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspectionof the grass. The grass had been trampled down under the windows. The clump of burdock against the wall under the window turned outto have been trodden on too. Dyukovsky succeeded in finding on itsome broken shoots, and a little bit of wadding. On the topmostburrs, some fine threads of dark blue wool were found. 

"What was the colour of his last suit? Dyukovsky asked Psyekov. 

"It was yellow, made of canvas. "

"Capital! Then it was they who were in dark blue. . . . "

Some of the burrs were cut off and carefully wrapped up in paper. At that moment Artsybashev-Svistakovsky, the police captain, andTyutyuev, the doctor, arrived. The police captain greeted the others, and at once proceeded to satisfy his curiosity; the doctor, a talland extremely lean man with sunken eyes, a long nose, and a sharpchin, greeting no one and asking no questions, sat down on a stump, heaved a sigh and said:

"The Serbians are in a turmoil again! I can't make out what theywant! Ah, Austria, Austria! It's your doing!"

The inspection of the window from outside yielded absolutely noresult; the inspection of the grass and surrounding bushes furnishedmany valuable clues. Dyukovsky succeeded, for instance, in detectinga long, dark streak in the grass, consisting of stains, and stretchingfrom the window for a good many yards into the garden. The streakended under one of the lilac bushes in a big, brownish stain. Underthe same bush was found a boot, which turned out to be the fellowto the one found in the bedroom. 

"This is an old stain of blood, " said Dyukovsky, examining thestain. 

At the word "blood, " the doctor got up and lazily took a cursoryglance at the stain. 

"Yes, it's blood, " he muttered. 

"Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood, " said Tchubikov, looking malignantly at Dyukovsky. 

"He was strangled in the bedroom, and here, afraid he would cometo, they stabbed him with something sharp. The stain under the bushshows that he lay there for a comparatively long time, while theywere trying to find some way of carrying him, or something to carryhim on out of the garden. "

"Well, and the boot?"

"That boot bears out my contention that he was murdered while hewas taking off his boots before going to bed. He had taken off oneboot, the other, that is, this boot he had only managed to get halfoff. While he was being dragged and shaken the boot that was onlyhalf on came off of itself. . . . "

"What powers of deduction! Just look at him!" Tchubikov jeered. "Hebrings it all out so pat! And when will you learn not to put yourtheories forward? You had better take a little of the grass foranalysis instead of arguing!"

After making the inspection and taking a plan of the locality theywent off to the steward's to write a report and have lunch. At lunchthey talked. 

"Watch, money, and everything else . . . Are untouched, " Tchubikovbegan the conversation. "It is as clear as twice two makes fourthat the murder was committed not for mercenary motives. "

"It was committed by a man of the educated class, " Dyukovsky putin. 

"From what do you draw that conclusion?"

"I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here havenot learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landownersand not by all of them. He was murdered, by the way, not by one butby three, at least: two held him while the third strangled him. Klyauzov was strong and the murderers must have known that. "

"What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?"

"The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots. He wastaking off his boots, so he was not asleep. "

"It's no good making things up! You had better eat your lunch!"

"To my thinking, your honour, " said Yefrem, the gardener, as he setthe samovar on the table, "this vile deed was the work of no otherthan Nikolashka. "

"Quite possible, " said Psyekov. 

"Who's this Nikolashka?"

"The master's valet, your honour, " answered Yefrem. "Who else shouldit be if not he? He's a ruffian, your honour! A drunkard, and sucha dissipated fellow! May the Queen of Heaven never bring the likeagain! He always used to fetch vodka for the master, he always usedto put the master to bed. . . . Who should it be if not he? Andwhat's more, I venture to bring to your notice, your honour, heboasted once in a tavern, the rascal, that he would murder hismaster. It's all on account of Akulka, on account of a woman. . . . He had a soldier's wife. . . . The master took a fancy to her andgot intimate with her, and he . . . Was angered by it, to be sure. He's lolling about in the kitchen now, drunk. He's crying . . . Making out he is grieving over the master . . . . "

"And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly, " said Psyekov. "She is a soldier's wife, a peasant woman, but . . . Mark Ivanitchmight well call her Nana. There is something in her that does suggestNana . . . Fascinating . . . "

"I have seen her . . . I know . . . " said the examining magistrate, blowing his nose in a red handkerchief. 

Dyukovsky blushed and dropped his eyes. The police superintendentdrummed on his saucer with his fingers. The police captain coughedand rummaged in his portfolio for something. On the doctor alonethe mention of Akulka and Nana appeared to produce no impression. Tchubikov ordered Nikolashka to be fetched. Nikolashka, a lankyyoung man with a long pock-marked nose and a hollow chest, wearinga reefer jacket that had been his master's, came into Psyekov'sroom and bowed down to the ground before Tchubikov. His face lookedsleepy and showed traces of tears. He was drunk and could hardlystand up. 

"Where is your master?" Tchubikov asked him. 

"He's murdered, your honour. "

As he said this Nikolashka blinked and began to cry. 

"We know that he is murdered. But where is he now? Where is hisbody?"

"They say it was dragged out of window and buried in the garden. "

"H'm . . . The results of the investigation are already known inthe kitchen then. . . . That's bad. My good fellow, where were youon the night when your master was killed? On Saturday, that is?"

Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered. 

"I can't say, your honour, " he said. "I was drunk and I don'tremember. "

"An alibi!" whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands. 

"Ah! And why is it there's blood under your master's window!"

Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered. 

"Think a little quicker, " said the police captain. 

"In a minute. That blood's from a trifling matter, your honour. Ikilled a hen; I cut her throat very simply in the usual way, andshe fluttered out of my hands and took and ran off. . . . That'swhat the blood's from. "

Yefrem testified that Nikolashka really did kill a hen every eveningand killed it in all sorts of places, and no one had seen thehalf-killed hen running about the garden, though of course it couldnot be positively denied that it had done so. 

"An alibi, " laughed Dyukovsky, "and what an idiotic alibi. "

"Have you had relations with Akulka?"

"Yes, I have sinned. "

"And your master carried her off from you?"

"No, not at all. It was this gentleman here, Mr. Psyekov, IvanMihalitch, who enticed her from me, and the master took her fromIvan Mihalitch. That's how it was. "

Psyekov looked confused and began rubbing his left eye. Dyukovskyfastened his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started. He saw on the steward's legs dark blue trousers which he had notpreviously noticed. The trousers reminded him of the blue threadsfound on the burdock. Tchubikov in his turn glanced suspiciouslyat Psyekov. 

"You can go!" he said to Nikolashka. "And now allow me to put onequestion to you, Mr. Psyekov. You were here, of course, on theSaturday of last week?

"Yes, at ten o'clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch. "

"And afterwards?"

Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table. 

"Afterwards . . . Afterwards . . . I really don't remember, " hemuttered. "I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . . I can'tremember where and when I went to bed. . . . Why do you all lookat me like that? As though I had murdered him!"

"Where did you wake up?"

"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They canall confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . . "

"Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?"

"Oh well, not particularly. "

"Did she leave you for Klyauzov?"

"Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have sometea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"

There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for somefive minutes. Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyeson Psyekov's face, which gradually turned pale. The silence wasbroken by Tchubikov. 

"We must go to the big house, " he said, "and speak to the deceased'ssister, Marya Ivanovna. She may give us some evidence. "

Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, thenwent off to the big house. They found Klyauzov's sister, a maidenlady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrineof ikons. When she saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockadesin her visitors' hands, she turned pale. 

"First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions, so to say, " the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. "We havecome to you with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . . There is a suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered. God's will, you know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsarnor ploughman. Can you not assist us with some fact, something thatwill throw light?"

"Oh, do not ask me!" said Marya Ivanovna, turning whiter still, andhiding her face in her hands. "I can tell you nothing! Nothing! Iimplore you! I can say nothing . . . What can I do? Oh, no, no . . . Not a word . . . Of my brother! I would rather die than speak!"

Marya Ivanovna burst into tears and went away into another room. The officials looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, andbeat a retreat. 

"A devil of a woman!" said Dyukovsky, swearing as they went out ofthe big house. "Apparently she knows something and is concealingit. And there is something peculiar in the maid-servant's expressiontoo. . . . You wait a bit, you devils! We will get to the bottomof it all!"

In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home bythe light of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summingup in their minds the incidents of the day. Both were exhausted andsat silent. Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite ofhis talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to theold man. Towards the end of the journey, however, the young mancould endure the silence no longer, and began:

"That Nikolashka has had a hand in the business, " he said, "_nondubitandum est_. One can see from his mug too what sort of a chaphe is. . . . His alibi gives him away hand and foot. There is nodoubt either that he was not the instigator of the crime. He wasonly the stupid hired tool. Do you agree? The discreet Psyekov playsa not unimportant part in the affair too. His blue trousers, hisembarrassment, his lying on the stove from fright after the murder, his alibi, and Akulka. "

"Keep it up, you're in your glory! According to you, if a man knowsAkulka he is the murderer. Ah, you hot-head! You ought to be suckingyour bottle instead of investigating cases! You used to be runningafter Akulka too, does that mean that you had a hand in thisbusiness?"

"Akulka was a cook in your house for a month, too, but . . . I don'tsay anything. On that Saturday night I was playing cards with you, I saw you, or I should be after you too. The woman is not the point, my good sir. The point is the nasty, disgusting, mean feeling. . . . The discreet young man did not like to be cut out, do you see. Vanity, do you see. . . . He longed to be revenged. Then . . . Histhick lips are a strong indication of sensuality. Do you rememberhow he smacked his lips when he compared Akulka to Nana? That heis burning with passion, the scoundrel, is beyond doubt! And so youhave wounded vanity and unsatisfied passion. That's enough to leadto murder. Two of them are in our hands, but who is the third?Nikolashka and Psyekov held him. Who was it smothered him? Psyekovis timid, easily embarrassed, altogether a coward. People likeNikolashka are not equal to smothering with a pillow, they set towork with an axe or a mallet. . . . Some third person must havesmothered him, but who?"

Dyukovsky pulled his cap over his eyes, and pondered. He was silenttill the waggonette had driven up to the examining magistrate'shouse. 

"Eureka!" he said, as he went into the house, and took off hisovercoat. "Eureka, Nikolay Yermolaitch! I can't understand how itis it didn't occur to me before. Do you know who the third is?"

"Do leave off, please! There's supper ready. Sit down to supper!"

Tchubikov and Dyukovsky sat down to supper. Dyukovsky poured himselfout a wine-glassful of vodka, got up, stretched, and with sparklingeyes, said:

"Let me tell you then that the third person who collaborated withthe scoundrel Psyekov and smothered him was a woman! Yes! I amspeaking of the murdered man's sister, Marya Ivanovna!"

Tchubikov coughed over his vodka and fastened his eyes on Dyukovsky. 

"Are you . . . Not quite right? Is your head . . . Not quite right?Does it ache?"

"I am quite well. Very good, suppose I have gone out of my mind, but how do you explain her confusion on our arrival? How do youexplain her refusal to give information? Admitting that that istrivial--very good! All right!--but think of the terms they wereon! She detested her brother! She is an Old Believer, he was aprofligate, a godless fellow . . . That is what has bred hatredbetween them! They say he succeeded in persuading her that he wasan angel of Satan! He used to practise spiritualism in her presence!"

"Well, what then?"

"Don't you understand? She's an Old Believer, she murdered himthrough fanaticism! She has not merely slain a wicked man, aprofligate, she has freed the world from Antichrist--and that shefancies is her merit, her religious achievement! Ah, you don't knowthese old maids, these Old Believers! You should read Dostoevsky!And what does Lyeskov say . . . And Petchersky! It's she, it's she, I'll stake my life on it. She smothered him! Oh, the fiendish woman!Wasn't she, perhaps, standing before the ikons when we went in toput us off the scent? 'I'll stand up and say my prayers, ' she saidto herself, 'they will think I am calm and don't expect them. 'That's the method of all novices in crime. Dear Nikolay Yermolaitch!My dear man! Do hand this case over to me! Let me go through withit to the end! My dear fellow! I have begun it, and I will carryit through to the end. "

Tchubikov shook his head and frowned. 

"I am equal to sifting difficult cases myself, " he said. "And it'syour place not to put yourself forward. Write what is dictated toyou, that is your business!"

Dyukovsky flushed crimson, walked out, and slammed the door. 

"A clever fellow, the rogue, " Tchubikov muttered, looking afterhim. "Ve-ery clever! Only inappropriately hasty. I shall have tobuy him a cigar-case at the fair for a present. "

Next morning a lad with a big head and a hare lip came from Klyauzovka. He gave his name as the shepherd Danilko, and furnished a veryinteresting piece of information. 

"I had had a drop, " said he. "I stayed on till midnight at mycrony's. As I was going home, being drunk, I got into the river fora bathe. I was bathing and what do I see! Two men coming along thedam carrying something black. 'Tyoo!' I shouted at them. They werescared, and cut along as fast as they could go into the Makarevkitchen-gardens. Strike me dead, if it wasn't the master they werecarrying!"

Towards evening of the same day Psyekov and Nikolashka were arrestedand taken under guard to the district town. In the town they wereput in the prison tower. 

II

Twelve days passed. 

It was morning. The examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, wassitting at a green table at home, looking through the papers, relating to the "Klyauzov case"; Dyukovsky was pacing up and downthe room restlessly, like a wolf in a cage. 

"You are convinced of the guilt of Nikolashka and Psyekov, " he said, nervously pulling at his youthful beard. "Why is it you refuse tobe convinced of the guilt of Marya Ivanovna? Haven't you evidenceenough?"

"I don't say that I don't believe in it. I am convinced of it, butsomehow I can't believe it. . . . There is no real evidence. It'sall theoretical, as it were. . . . Fanaticism and one thing andanother. . . . "

"And you must have an axe and bloodstained sheets! . . . You lawyers!Well, I will prove it to you then! Do give up your slip-shod attitudeto the psychological aspect of the case. Your Marya Ivanovna oughtto be in Siberia! I'll prove it. If theoretical proof is not enoughfor you, I have something material. . . . It will show you how rightmy theory is! Only let me go about a little!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Swedish match! Have you forgotten? I haven't forgotten it!I'll find out who struck it in the murdered man's room! It was notstruck by Nikolashka, nor by Psyekov, neither of whom turned outto have matches when searched, but a third person, that is MaryaIvanovna. And I will prove it! . . . Only let me drive about thedistrict, make some inquiries. . . . "

"Oh, very well, sit down. . . . Let us proceed to the examination. "

Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into thepapers. 

"Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!" cried the examining magistrate. 

Nikolashka was brought in. He was pale and thin as a chip. He wastrembling. 

"Tetchov!" began Tchubikov. "In 1879 you were convicted of theftand condemned to a term of imprisonment. In 1882 you were condemnedfor theft a second time, and a second time sent to prison . . . Weknow all about it. . . . "

A look of surprise came up into Nikolashka's face. The examiningmagistrate's omniscience amazed him, but soon wonder was replacedby an expression of extreme distress. He broke into sobs, and askedleave to go to wash, and calm himself. He was led out. 

"Bring in Psyekov!" said the examining magistrate. 

Psyekov was led in. The young man's face had greatly changed duringthose twelve days. He was thin, pale, and wasted. There was a lookof apathy in his eyes. 

"Sit down, Psyekov, " said Tchubikov. "I hope that to-day you willbe sensible and not persist in lying as on other occasions. Allthis time you have denied your participation in the murder ofKlyauzov, in spite of the mass of evidence against you. It issenseless. Confession is some mitigation of guilt. To-day I amtalking to you for the last time. If you don't confess to-day, to-morrow it will be too late. Come, tell us. . . . "

"I know nothing, and I don't know your evidence, " whispered Psyekov. 

"That's useless! Well then, allow me to tell you how it happened. On Saturday evening, you were sitting in Klyauzov's bedroom drinkingvodka and beer with him. " (Dyukovsky riveted his eyes on Psyekov'sface, and did not remove them during the whole monologue. ) "Nikolaywas waiting upon you. Between twelve and one Mark Ivanitch told youhe wanted to go to bed. He always did go to bed at that time. Whilehe was taking off his boots and giving you some instructions regardingthe estate, Nikolay and you at a given signal seized your intoxicatedmaster and flung him back upon the bed. One of you sat on his feet, the other on his head. At that moment the lady, you know who, in ablack dress, who had arranged with you beforehand the part she wouldtake in the crime, came in from the passage. She picked up thepillow, and proceeded to smother him with it. During the struggle, the light went out. The woman took a box of Swedish matches out ofher pocket and lighted the candle. Isn't that right? I see fromyour face that what I say is true. Well, to proceed. . . . Havingsmothered him, and being convinced that he had ceased to breathe, Nikolay and you dragged him out of window and put him down near theburdocks. Afraid that he might regain consciousness, you struck himwith something sharp. Then you carried him, and laid him for sometime under a lilac bush. After resting and considering a little, you carried him . . . Lifted him over the hurdle. . . . Then wentalong the road. . . Then comes the dam; near the dam you werefrightened by a peasant. But what is the matter with you?"

Psyekov, white as a sheet, got up, staggering. 

"I am suffocating!" he said. "Very well. . . . So be it. . . . OnlyI must go. . . . Please. "

Psyekov was led out. 

"At last he has admitted it!" said Tchubikov, stretching at hisease. "He has given himself away! How neatly I caught him there. "

"And he didn't deny the woman in black!" said Dyukovsky, laughing. "I am awfully worried over that Swedish match, though! I can'tendure it any longer. Good-bye! I am going!"

Dyukovsky put on his cap and went off. Tchubikov began interrogatingAkulka. 

Akulka declared that she knew nothing about it. . . . 

"I have lived with you and with nobody else!" she said. 

At six o'clock in the evening Dyukovsky returned. He was more excitedthan ever. His hands trembled so much that he could not unbuttonhis overcoat. His cheeks were burning. It was evident that he hadnot come back without news. 

"_Veni, vidi, vici!_" he cried, dashing into Tchubikov's room andsinking into an arm-chair. "I vow on my honour, I begin to believein my own genius. Listen, damnation take us! Listen and wonder, oldfriend! It's comic and it's sad. You have three in your grasp already. . . Haven't you? I have found a fourth murderer, or rathermurderess, for it is a woman! And what a woman! I would have giventen years of my life merely to touch her shoulders. But . . . Listen. I drove to Klyauzovka and proceeded to describe a spiral round it. On the way I visited all the shopkeepers and innkeepers, asking forSwedish matches. Everywhere I was told 'No. ' I have been on my roundup to now. Twenty times I lost hope, and as many times regained it. I have been on the go all day long, and only an hour ago came uponwhat I was looking for. A couple of miles from here they gave me apacket of a dozen boxes of matches. One box was missing . . . Iasked at once: 'Who bought that box?' 'So-and-so. She took a fancyto them. . . They crackle. ' My dear fellow! Nikolay Yermolaitch!What can sometimes be done by a man who has been expelled from aseminary and studied Gaboriau is beyond all conception! From to-dayI shall began to respect myself! . . . Ough. . . . Well, let usgo!"

"Go where?"

"To her, to the fourth. . . . We must make haste, or . . . I shallexplode with impatience! Do you know who she is? You will neverguess. The young wife of our old police superintendent, YevgrafKuzmitch, Olga Petrovna; that's who it is! She bought that box ofmatches!"

"You . . . You. . . . Are you out of your mind?"

"It's very natural! In the first place she smokes, and in the secondshe was head over ears in love with Klyauzov. He rejected her lovefor the sake of an Akulka. Revenge. I remember now, I once cameupon them behind the screen in the kitchen. She was cursing him, while he was smoking her cigarette and puffing the smoke into herface. But do come along; make haste, for it is getting dark already. . . . Let us go!"

"I have not gone so completely crazy yet as to disturb a respectable, honourable woman at night for the sake of a wretched boy!"

"Honourable, respectable. . . . You are a rag then, not an examiningmagistrate! I have never ventured to abuse you, but now you forceme to it! You rag! you old fogey! Come, dear Nikolay Yermolaitch, I entreat you!"

The examining magistrate waved his hand in refusal and spat indisgust. 

"I beg you! I beg you, not for my own sake, but in the interestsof justice! I beseech you, indeed! Do me a favour, if only for oncein your life!"

Dyukovsky fell on his knees. 

"Nikolay Yermolaitch, do be so good! Call me a scoundrel, a worthlesswretch if I am in error about that woman! It is such a case, youknow! It is a case! More like a novel than a case. The fame of itwill be all over Russia. They will make you examining magistratefor particularly important cases! Do understand, you unreasonableold man!"

The examining magistrate frowned and irresolutely put out his handtowards his hat. 

"Well, the devil take you!" he said, "let us go. "

It was already dark when the examining magistrate's waggonetterolled up to the police superintendent's door. 

"What brutes we are!" said Tchubikov, as he reached for the bell. "We are disturbing people. "

"Never mind, never mind, don't be frightened. We will say that oneof the springs has broken. "

Tchubikov and Dyukovsky were met in the doorway by a tall, plumpwoman of three and twenty, with eyebrows as black as pitch and fullred lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself. 

"Ah, how very nice, " she said, smiling all over her face. "You arejust in time for supper. My Yevgraf Kuzmitch is not at home. . . . He is staying at the priest's. But we can get on without him. Sitdown. Have you come from an inquiry?"

"Yes. . . . We have broken one of our springs, you know, " beganTchubikov, going into the drawing-room and sitting down in aneasy-chair. 

"Take her by surprise at once and overwhelm her, " Dyukovsky whisperedto him. 

"A spring . . . Er . . . Yes. . . . We just drove up. . . . "

"Overwhelm her, I tell you! She will guess if you go drawing itout. "

"Oh, do as you like, but spare me, " muttered Tchubikov, getting upand walking to the window. "I can't! You cooked the mess, you eatit!"

"Yes, the spring, " Dyukovsky began, going up to the superintendent'swife and wrinkling his long nose. "We have not come in to . . . Er-er-er . . . Supper, nor to see Yevgraf Kuzmitch. We have cometo ask you, madam, where is Mark Ivanovitch whom you have murdered?"

"What? What Mark Ivanovitch?" faltered the superintendent's wife, and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson. "I . . . Don't understand. "

"I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov? We know allabout it!"

"Through whom?" the superintendent's wife asked slowly, unable toface Dyukovsky's eyes. 

"Kindly inform us where he is!"

"But how did you find out? Who told you?"

"We know all about it. I insist in the name of the law. "

The examining magistrate, encouraged by the lady's confusion, wentup to her. 

"Tell us and we will go away. Otherwise we . . . "

"What do you want with him?"

"What is the object of such questions, madam? We ask you forinformation. You are trembling, confused. . . . Yes, he has beenmurdered, and if you will have it, murdered by you! Your accompliceshave betrayed you!"

The police superintendent's wife turned pale. 

"Come along, " she said quietly, wringing her hands. "He is hiddenin the bath-house. Only for God's sake, don't tell my husband! Iimplore you! It would be too much for him. "

The superintendent's wife took a big key from the wall, and led hervisitors through the kitchen and the passage into the yard. It wasdark in the yard. There was a drizzle of fine rain. The superintendent'swife went on ahead. Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her throughthe long grass, breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, whichmade a squelching sound under their feet. It was a big yard. Soonthere were no more pools of slops, and their feet felt ploughedland. In the darkness they saw the silhouette of trees, and amongthe trees a little house with a crooked chimney. 

"This is the bath-house, " said the superintendent's wife, "but, Iimplore you, do not tell anyone. "

Going up to the bath-house, Tchubikov and Dyukovsky saw a largepadlock on the door. 

"Get ready your candle-end and matches, " Tchubikov whispered to hisassistant. 

The superintendent's wife unlocked the padlock and let the visitorsinto the bath-house. Dyukovsky struck a match and lighted up theentry. In the middle of it stood a table. On the table, beside apodgy little samovar, was a soup tureen with some cold cabbage-soupin it, and a dish with traces of some sauce on it. 

"Go on!"

They went into the next room, the bath-room. There, too, was atable. On the table there stood a big dish of ham, a bottle ofvodka, plates, knives and forks. 

"But where is he . . . Where's the murdered man?"

"He is on the top shelf, " whispered the superintendent's wife, turning paler than ever and trembling. 

Dyukovsky took the candle-end in his hand and climbed up to theupper shelf. There he saw a long, human body, lying motionless ona big feather bed. The body emitted a faint snore. . . . 

"They have made fools of us, damn it all!" Dyukovsky cried. "Thisis not he! It is some living blockhead lying here. Hi! who are you, damnation take you!"

The body drew in its breath with a whistling sound and moved. Dyukovsky prodded it with his elbow. It lifted up its arms, stretched, and raised its head. 

"Who is that poking?" a hoarse, ponderous bass voice inquired. "Whatdo you want?"

Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttereda shriek. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, inthe pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted andpointed insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov. 

"You. . . . Mark . . . Ivanitch! Impossible!"

The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered. 

"It is I, yes. . . . And it's you, Dyukovsky! What the devil do youwant here? And whose ugly mug is that down there? Holy Saints, it'sthe examining magistrate! How in the world did you come here?"

Klyauzov hurriedly got down and embraced Tchubikov. Olga Petrovnawhisked out of the door. 

"However did you come? Let's have a drink!--dash it all! Tra-ta-ti-to-tom. . . . Let's have a drink! Who brought you here, though? How did youget to know I was here? It doesn't matter, though! Have a drink!"

Klyauzov lighted the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka. 

"The fact is, I don't understand you, " said the examining magistrate, throwing out his hands. "Is it you, or not you?"

"Stop that. . . . Do you want to give me a sermon? Don't troubleyourself! Dyukovsky boy, drink up your vodka! Friends, let us passthe . . . What are you staring at . . . ? Drink!"

"All the same, I can't understand, " said the examining magistrate, mechanically drinking his vodka. "Why are you here?"

"Why shouldn't I be here, if I am comfortable here?"

Klyauzov sipped his vodka and ate some ham. 

"I am staying with the superintendent's wife, as you see. In thewilds among the ruins, like some house goblin. Drink! I felt sorryfor her, you know, old man! I took pity on her, and, well, I amliving here in the deserted bath-house, like a hermit. . . . I amwell fed. Next week I am thinking of moving on. . . . I've hadenough of it. . . . "

"Inconceivable!" said Dyukovsky. 

"What is there inconceivable in it?"

"Inconceivable! For God's sake, how did your boot get into thegarden?"

"What boot?"

"We found one of your boots in the bedroom and the other in thegarden. "

"And what do you want to know that for? It is not your business. But do drink, dash it all. Since you have waked me up, you may aswell drink! There's an interesting tale about that boot, my boy. Ididn't want to come to Olga's. I didn't feel inclined, you know, I'd had a drop too much. . . . She came under the window and beganscolding me. . . . You know how women . . . As a rule. Being drunk, I up and flung my boot at her. Ha-ha! . . . 'Don't scold, ' I said. She clambered in at the window, lighted the lamp, and gave me agood drubbing, as I was drunk. I have plenty to eat here. . . . Love, vodka, and good things! But where are you off to? Tchubikov, where are you off to?"

The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of thebath-house. Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging. Both gotinto the waggonette in silence and drove off. Never had the roadseemed so long and dreary. Both were silent. Tchubikov was shakingwith anger all the way. Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar asthough he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling rain mightread his shame on his face. 

On getting home the examining magistrate found the doctor, Tyutyuev, there. The doctor was sitting at the table and heaving deep sighsas he turned over the pages of the _Neva_. 

"The things that are going on in the world, " he said, greeting theexamining magistrate with a melancholy smile. "Austria is at itagain . . . And Gladstone, too, in a way. . . . "

Tchubikov flung his hat under the table and began to tremble. 

"You devil of a skeleton! Don't bother me! I've told you a thousandtimes over, don't bother me with your politics! It's not the timefor politics! And as for you, " he turned upon Dyukovsky and shookhis fist at him, "as for you. . . . I'll never forget it, as longas I live!"

"But the Swedish match, you know! How could I tell. . . . "

"Choke yourself with your match! Go away and don't irritate me, orgoodness knows what I shall do to you. Don't let me set eyes onyou. "

Dyukovsky heaved a sigh, took his hat, and went out. 

"I'll go and get drunk!" he decided, as he went out of the gate, and he sauntered dejectedly towards the tavern. 

When the superintendent's wife got home from the bath-house shefound her husband in the drawing-room. 

"What did the examining magistrate come about?" asked her husband. 

"He came to say that they had found Klyauzov. Only fancy, they foundhim staying with another man's wife. "

"Ah, Mark Ivanitch, Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the police superintendent, turning up his eyes. "I told you that dissipation would lead to nogood! I told you so--you wouldn't heed me!"