THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND OTHER STORIES

By Anton Chekhov

FROM THE TALES OF CHEKHOV, VOLUME 9

CONTENTS

 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN MISERY CHAMPAGNE AFTER THE THEATRE A LADY'S STORY IN EXILE THE CATTLE-DEALERS SORROW ON OFFICIAL DUTY THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER A TRAGIC ACTOR A TRANSGRESSION SMALL FRY THE REQUIEM IN THE COACH-HOUSE PANIC FEARS THE BET THE HEAD-GARDENER'S STORY THE BEAUTIES THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS

AT half-past eight they drove out of the town. 

The highroad was dry, a lovely April sun was shining warmly, but thesnow was still lying in the ditches and in the woods. Winter, dark, long, and spiteful, was hardly over; spring had come all of a sudden. But neither the warmth nor the languid transparent woods, warmed by thebreath of spring, nor the black flocks of birds flying over the hugepuddles that were like lakes, nor the marvelous fathomless sky, intowhich it seemed one would have gone away so joyfully, presented anythingnew or interesting to Marya Vassilyevna who was sitting in the cart. Forthirteen years she had been schoolmistress, and there was no reckoninghow many times during all those years she had been to the town for hersalary; and whether it were spring as now, or a rainy autumn evening, orwinter, it was all the same to her, and she always--invariably--longedfor one thing only, to get to the end of her journey as quickly as couldbe. 

She felt as though she had been living in that part of the country forages and ages, for a hundred years, and it seemed to her that she knewevery stone, every tree on the road from the town to her school. Herpast was here, her present was here, and she could imagine no otherfuture than the school, the road to the town and back again, and againthe school and again the road. .. . 

She had got out of the habit of thinking of her past before she becamea schoolmistress, and had almost forgotten it. She had once had a fatherand mother; they had lived in Moscow in a big flat near the Red Gate, but of all that life there was left in her memory only something vagueand fluid like a dream. Her father had died when she was ten years old, and her mother had died soon after. .. . She had a brother, an officer;at first they used to write to each other, then her brother had given upanswering her letters, he had got out of the way of writing. Of her oldbelongings, all that was left was a photograph of her mother, but it hadgrown dim from the dampness of the school, and now nothing could be seenbut the hair and the eyebrows. 

When they had driven a couple of miles, old Semyon, who was driving, turned round and said:

"They have caught a government clerk in the town. They have taken himaway. The story is that with some Germans he killed Alexeyev, the Mayor, in Moscow. "

"Who told you that?"

"They were reading it in the paper, in Ivan Ionov's tavern. "

And again they were silent for a long time. Marya Vassilyevna thought ofher school, of the examination that was coming soon, and of the girl andfour boys she was sending up for it. And just as she was thinking aboutthe examination, she was overtaken by a neighboring landowner calledHanov in a carriage with four horses, the very man who had been examinerin her school the year before. When he came up to her he recognized herand bowed. 

"Good-morning, " he said to her. "You are driving home, I suppose. "

This Hanov, a man of forty with a listless expression and a face thatshowed signs of wear, was beginning to look old, but was still handsomeand admired by women. He lived in his big homestead alone, and was notin the service; and people used to say of him that he did nothing athome but walk up and down the room whistling, or play chess with hisold footman. People said, too, that he drank heavily. And indeed at theexamination the year before the very papers he brought with him smelt ofwine and scent. He had been dressed all in new clothes on that occasion, and Marya Vassilyevna thought him very attractive, and all the whileshe sat beside him she had felt embarrassed. She was accustomed to seefrigid and sensible examiners at the school, while this one did notremember a single prayer, or know what to ask questions about, andwas exceedingly courteous and delicate, giving nothing but the highestmarks. 

"I am going to visit Bakvist, " he went on, addressing Marya Vassilyevna, "but I am told he is not at home. "

They turned off the highroad into a by-road to the village, Hanovleading the way and Semyon following. The four horses moved at a walkingpace, with effort dragging the heavy carriage through the mud. Semyontacked from side to side, keeping to the edge of the road, at one timethrough a snowdrift, at another through a pool, often jumping out of thecart and helping the horse. Marya Vassilyevna was still thinkingabout the school, wondering whether the arithmetic questions at theexamination would be difficult or easy. And she felt annoyed withthe Zemstvo board at which she had found no one the day before. Howunbusiness-like! Here she had been asking them for the last two yearsto dismiss the watchman, who did nothing, was rude to her, and hitthe schoolboys; but no one paid any attention. It was hard to find thepresident at the office, and when one did find him he would say withtears in his eyes that he hadn't a moment to spare; the inspectorvisited the school at most once in three years, and knew nothingwhatever about his work, as he had been in the Excise Duties Department, and had received the post of school inspector through influence. TheSchool Council met very rarely, and there was no knowing where it met;the school guardian was an almost illiterate peasant, the head ofa tanning business, unintelligent, rude, and a great friend of thewatchman's--and goodness knows to whom she could appeal with complaintsor inquiries. .. . 

"He really is handsome, " she thought, glancing at Hanov. 

The road grew worse and worse. .. . They drove into the wood. Herethere was no room to turn round, the wheels sank deeply in, watersplashed and gurgled through them, and sharp twigs struck them in theface. 

"What a road!" said Hanov, and he laughed. 

The schoolmistress looked at him and could not understand why this queerman lived here. What could his money, his interesting appearance, hisrefined bearing do for him here, in this mud, in this God-forsaken, dreary place? He got no special advantages out of life, and here, likeSemyon, was driving at a jog-trot on an appalling road and enduringthe same discomforts. Why live here if one could live in Petersburg orabroad? And one would have thought it would be nothing for a rich manlike him to make a good road instead of this bad one, to avoid enduringthis misery and seeing the despair on the faces of his coachman andSemyon; but he only laughed, and apparently did not mind, and wanted nobetter life. He was kind, soft, naive, and he did not understand thiscoarse life, just as at the examination he did not know the prayers. He subscribed nothing to the schools but globes, and genuinely regardedhimself as a useful person and a prominent worker in the cause ofpopular education. And what use were his globes here?

"Hold on, Vassilyevna!" said Semyon. 

The cart lurched violently and was on the point of upsetting; somethingheavy rolled on to Marya Vassilyevna's feet--it was her parcel ofpurchases. There was a steep ascent uphill through the clay; here in thewinding ditches rivulets were gurgling. The water seemed to have gnawedaway the road; and how could one get along here! The horses breathedhard. Hanov got out of his carriage and walked at the side of the roadin his long overcoat. He was hot. 

"What a road!" he said, and laughed again. "It would soon smash up one'scarriage. "

"Nobody obliges you to drive about in such weather, " said Semyonsurlily. "You should stay at home. "

"I am dull at home, grandfather. I don't like staying at home. "

Beside old Semyon he looked graceful and vigorous, but yet in his walkthere was something just perceptible which betrayed in him a beingalready touched by decay, weak, and on the road to ruin. And all at oncethere was a whiff of spirits in the wood. Marya Vassilyevna was filledwith dread and pity for this man going to his ruin for no visible causeor reason, and it came into her mind that if she had been his wife orsister she would have devoted her whole life to saving him from ruin. His wife! Life was so ordered that here he was living in his great housealone, and she was living in a God-forsaken village alone, and yetfor some reason the mere thought that he and she might be close to oneanother and equals seemed impossible and absurd. In reality, life wasarranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond allunderstanding that when one thought about it one felt uncanny and one'sheart sank. 

"And it is beyond all understanding, " she thought, "why God givesbeauty, this graciousness, and sad, sweet eyes to weak, unlucky, uselesspeople--why they are so charming. "

"Here we must turn off to the right, " said Hanov, getting into hiscarriage. "Good-by! I wish you all things good!"

And again she thought of her pupils, of the examination, of thewatchman, of the School Council; and when the wind brought the soundof the retreating carriage these thoughts were mingled with others. Shelonged to think of beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness which wouldnever be. .. . 

His wife? It was cold in the morning, there was no one to heat thestove, the watchman disappeared; the children came in as soon as itwas light, bringing in snow and mud and making a noise: it was all soinconvenient, so comfortless. Her abode consisted of one little room andthe kitchen close by. Her head ached every day after her work, andafter dinner she had heart-burn. She had to collect money from theschool-children for wood and for the watchman, and to give it tothe school guardian, and then to entreat him--that overfed, insolentpeasant--for God's sake to send her wood. And at night she dreamed ofexaminations, peasants, snowdrifts. And this life was making her growold and coarse, making her ugly, angular, and awkward, as though shewere made of lead. She was always afraid, and she would get up fromher seat and not venture to sit down in the presence of a member ofthe Zemstvo or the school guardian. And she used formal, deferentialexpressions when she spoke of any one of them. And no one thought herattractive, and life was passing drearily, without affection, withoutfriendly sympathy, without interesting acquaintances. How awful it wouldhave been in her position if she had fallen in love!

"Hold on, Vassilyevna!"

Again a sharp ascent uphill. .. . 

She had become a schoolmistress from necessity, without feeling anyvocation for it; and she had never thought of a vocation, of serving thecause of enlightenment; and it always seemed to her that what was mostimportant in her work was not the children, nor enlightenment, but theexaminations. And what time had she for thinking of vocation, of servingthe cause of enlightenment? Teachers, badly paid doctors, and theirassistants, with their terribly hard work, have not even the comfort ofthinking that they are serving an idea or the people, as their heads arealways stuffed with thoughts of their daily bread, of wood for the fire, of bad roads, of illnesses. It is a hard-working, an uninteresting life, and only silent, patient cart-horses like Mary Vassilyevna could put upwith it for long; the lively, nervous, impressionable people who talkedabout vocation and serving the idea were soon weary of it and gave upthe work. 

Semyon kept picking out the driest and shortest way, first by a meadow, then by the backs of the village huts; but in one place the peasantswould not let them pass, in another it was the priest's land and theycould not cross it, in another Ivan Ionov had bought a plot from thelandowner and had dug a ditch round it. They kept having to turn back. 

They reached Nizhneye Gorodistche. Near the tavern on the dung-strewnearth, where the snow was still lying, there stood wagons that hadbrought great bottles of crude sulphuric acid. There were a great manypeople in the tavern, all drivers, and there was a smell of vodka, tobacco, and sheepskins. There was a loud noise of conversation andthe banging of the swing-door. Through the wall, without ceasing for amoment, came the sound of a concertina being played in the shop. Marya Vassilyevna sat down and drank some tea, while at the next tablepeasants were drinking vodka and beer, perspiring from the tea they hadjust swallowed and the stifling fumes of the tavern. 

"I say, Kuzma!" voices kept shouting in confusion. "What there!" "TheLord bless us!" "Ivan Dementyitch, I can tell you that!" "Look out, oldman!"

A little pock-marked man with a black beard, who was quite drunk, wassuddenly surprised by something and began using bad language. 

"What are you swearing at, you there?" Semyon, who was sitting some wayoff, responded angrily. "Don't you see the young lady?"

"The young lady!" someone mimicked in another corner. 

"Swinish crow!"

"We meant nothing. .. " said the little man in confusion. "I begyour pardon. We pay with our money and the young lady with hers. Good-morning!"

"Good-morning, " answered the schoolmistress. 

"And we thank you most feelingly. "

Marya Vassilyevna drank her tea with satisfaction, and she, too, began turning red like the peasants, and fell to thinking again aboutfirewood, about the watchman. .. . 

"Stay, old man, " she heard from the next table, "it's the schoolmistressfrom Vyazovye. .. . We know her; she's a good young lady. "

"She's all right!"

The swing-door was continually banging, some coming in, others goingout. Marya Vassilyevna sat on, thinking all the time of the samethings, while the concertina went on playing and playing. The patches ofsunshine had been on the floor, then they passed to the counter, to thewall, and disappeared altogether; so by the sun it was past midday. Thepeasants at the next table were getting ready to go. The little man, somewhat unsteadily, went up to Marya Vassilyevna and held out his handto her; following his example, the others shook hands, too, at parting, and went out one after another, and the swing-door squeaked and slammednine times. 

"Vassilyevna, get ready, " Semyon called to her. 

They set off. And again they went at a walking pace. 

"A little while back they were building a school here in their NizhneyeGorodistche, " said Semyon, turning round. "It was a wicked thing thatwas done!"

"Why, what?"

"They say the president put a thousand in his pocket, and the schoolguardian another thousand in his, and the teacher five hundred. "

"The whole school only cost a thousand. It's wrong to slander people, grandfather. That's all nonsense. "

"I don't know, . .. I only tell you what folks say. "

But it was clear that Semyon did not believe the schoolmistress. Thepeasants did not believe her. They always thought she received too largea salary, twenty-one roubles a month (five would have been enough), andthat of the money that she collected from the children for the firewoodand the watchman the greater part she kept for herself. The guardianthought the same as the peasants, and he himself made a profit offthe firewood and received payments from the peasants for being aguardian--without the knowledge of the authorities. 

The forest, thank God! was behind them, and now it would be flat, openground all the way to Vyazovye, and there was not far to go now. Theyhad to cross the river and then the railway line, and then Vyazovye wasin sight. 

"Where are you driving?" Marya Vassilyevna asked Semyon. "Take the roadto the right to the bridge. "

"Why, we can go this way as well. It's not deep enough to matter. "

"Mind you don't drown the horse. "

"What?"

"Look, Hanov is driving to the bridge, " said Marya Vassilyevna, seeingthe four horses far away to the right. "It is he, I think. "

"It is. So he didn't find Bakvist at home. What a pig-headed fellow heis. Lord have mercy upon us! He's driven over there, and what for? It'sfully two miles nearer this way. "

They reached the river. In the summer it was a little stream easilycrossed by wading. It usually dried up in August, but now, after thespring floods, it was a river forty feet in breadth, rapid, muddy, andcold; on the bank and right up to the water there were fresh tracks ofwheels, so it had been crossed here. 

"Go on!" shouted Semyon angrily and anxiously, tugging violently at thereins and jerking his elbows as a bird does its wings. "Go on!"

The horse went on into the water up to his belly and stopped, but atonce went on again with an effort, and Marya Vassilyevna was aware of akeen chilliness in her feet. 

"Go on!" she, too, shouted, getting up. "Go on!"

They got out on the bank. 

"Nice mess it is, Lord have mercy upon us!" muttered Semyon, settingstraight the harness. "It's a perfect plague with this Zemstvo. .. . "

Her shoes and goloshes were full of water, the lower part of her dressand of her coat and one sleeve were wet and dripping: the sugar andflour had got wet, and that was worst of all, and Marya Vassilyevnacould only clasp her hands in despair and say:

"Oh, Semyon, Semyon! How tiresome you are really!. .. "

The barrier was down at the railway crossing. A train was coming outof the station. Marya Vassilyevna stood at the crossing waiting tillit should pass, and shivering all over with cold. Vyazovye was in sightnow, and the school with the green roof, and the church with its crossesflashing in the evening sun: and the station windows flashed too, anda pink smoke rose from the engine. .. And it seemed to her thateverything was trembling with cold. 

Here was the train; the windows reflected the gleaming light like thecrosses on the church: it made her eyes ache to look at them. On thelittle platform between two first-class carriages a lady was standing, and Marya Vassilyevna glanced at her as she passed. Her mother! What aresemblance! Her mother had had just such luxuriant hair, just such abrow and bend of the head. And with amazing distinctness, for the firsttime in those thirteen years, there rose before her mind a vivid pictureof her mother, her father, her brother, their flat in Moscow, theaquarium with little fish, everything to the tiniest detail; she heardthe sound of the piano, her father's voice; she felt as she had beenthen, young, good-looking, well-dressed, in a bright warm room among herown people. A feeling of joy and happiness suddenly came over her, she pressed her hands to her temples in an ecstacy, and called softly, beseechingly:

"Mother!"

And she began crying, she did not know why. Just at that instant Hanovdrove up with his team of four horses, and seeing him she imaginedhappiness such as she had never had, and smiled and nodded to him asan equal and a friend, and it seemed to her that her happiness, hertriumph, was glowing in the sky and on all sides, in the windows and onthe trees. Her father and mother had never died, she had never been aschoolmistress, it was a long, tedious, strange dream, and now she hadawakened. .. . 

"Vassilyevna, get in!"

And at once it all vanished. The barrier was slowly raised. MaryaVassilyevna, shivering and numb with cold, got into the cart. Thecarriage with the four horses crossed the railway line; Semyon followedit. The signalman took off his cap. 

"And here is Vyazovye. Here we are. "

A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN

A MEDICAL student called Mayer, and a pupil of the Moscow School ofPainting, Sculpture, and Architecture called Rybnikov, went one eveningto see their friend Vassilyev, a law student, and suggested that heshould go with them to S. Street. For a long time Vassilyev would notconsent to go, but in the end he put on his greatcoat and went withthem. 

He knew nothing of fallen women except by hearsay and from books, andhe had never in his life been in the houses in which they live. Heknew that there are immoral women who, under the pressure of fatalcircumstances--environment, bad education, poverty, and so on--areforced to sell their honor for money. They know nothing of pure love, have no children, have no civil rights; their mothers and sisters weepover them as though they were dead, science treats of them as an evil, men address them with contemptuous familiarity. But in spite ofall that, they do not lose the semblance and image of God. They allacknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. Of the means that lead tosalvation they can avail themselves to the fullest extent. Society, itis true, will not forgive people their past, but in the sight of God St. Mary of Egypt is no lower than the other saints. When it had happenedto Vassilyev in the street to recognize a fallen woman as such, by herdress or her manners, or to see a picture of one in a comic paper, he always remembered a story he had once read: a young man, pure andself-sacrificing, loves a fallen woman and urges her to become his wife;she, considering herself unworthy of such happiness, takes poison. 

Vassilyev lived in one of the side streets turning out of TverskoyBoulevard. When he came out of the house with his two friends it wasabout eleven o'clock. The first snow had not long fallen, and all naturewas under the spell of the fresh snow. There was the smell of snow inthe air, the snow crunched softly under the feet; the earth, the roofs, the trees, the seats on the boulevard, everything was soft, white, young, and this made the houses look quite different from the daybefore; the street lamps burned more brightly, the air was moretransparent, the carriages rumbled with a deeper note, and with thefresh, light, frosty air a feeling stirred in the soul akin to thewhite, youthful, feathery snow. "Against my will an unknown force, "hummed the medical student in his agreeable tenor, "has led me to thesemournful shores. "

"Behold the mill. .. " the artist seconded him, "in ruins now. .. . "

"Behold the mill. .. In ruins now, " the medical student repeated, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head mournfully. 

He paused, rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the words, and thensang aloud, so well that passers-by looked round:

 "Here in old days when I was free, Love, free, unfettered, greeted me. "

The three of them went into a restaurant and, without taking off theirgreatcoats, drank a couple of glasses of vodka each. Before drinking thesecond glass, Vassilyev noticed a bit of cork in his vodka, raised theglass to his eyes, and gazed into it for a long time, screwing uphis shortsighted eyes. The medical student did not understand hisexpression, and said:

"Come, why look at it? No philosophizing, please. Vodka is given us tobe drunk, sturgeon to be eaten, women to be visited, snow to be walkedupon. For one evening anyway live like a human being!"

"But I haven't said anything. .. " said Vassilyev, laughing. "Am Irefusing to?"

There was a warmth inside him from the vodka. He looked with softenedfeelings at his friends, admired them and envied them. In these strong, healthy, cheerful people how wonderfully balanced everything is, howfinished and smooth is everything in their minds and souls! They sing, and have a passion for the theatre, and draw, and talk a great deal, and drink, and they don't have headaches the day after; they are bothpoetical and debauched, both soft and hard; they can work, too, and beindignant, and laugh without reason, and talk nonsense; they are warm, honest, self-sacrificing, and as men are in no way inferior to himself, Vassilyev, who watched over every step he took and every word heuttered, who was fastidious and cautious, and ready to raise everytrifle to the level of a problem. And he longed for one evening tolive as his friends did, to open out, to let himself loose from his owncontrol. If vodka had to be drunk, he would drink it, though his headwould be splitting next morning. If he were taken to the women he wouldgo. He would laugh, play the fool, gaily respond to the passing advancesof strangers in the street. .. . 

He went out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends--one in acrushed broad-brimmed hat, with an affectation of artistic untidiness;the other in a sealskin cap, a man not poor, though he affected tobelong to the Bohemia of learning. He liked the snow, the pale streetlamps, the sharp black tracks left in the first snow by the feet of thepassers-by. He liked the air, and especially that limpid, tender, naive, as it were virginal tone, which can be seen in nature only twice in theyear--when everything is covered with snow, and in spring on bright daysand moonlight evenings when the ice breaks on the river. 

 "Against my will an unknown force, Has led me to these mournful shores, "

he hummed in an undertone. 

And the tune for some reason haunted him and his friends all the way, and all three of them hummed it mechanically, not in time with oneanother. 

Vassilyev's imagination was picturing how, in another ten minutes, heand his friends would knock at a door; how by little dark passages anddark rooms they would steal in to the women; how, taking advantage ofthe darkness, he would strike a match, would light up and see theface of a martyr and a guilty smile. The unknown, fair or dark, wouldcertainly have her hair down and be wearing a white dressing-jacket; shewould be panic-stricken by the light, would be fearfully confused, andwould say: "For God's sake, what are you doing! Put it out!" It wouldall be dreadful, but interesting and new. 

II

The friends turned out of Trubnoy Square into Gratchevka, and soonreached the side street which Vassilyev only knew by reputation. Seeingtwo rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide-open doors, and hearing gay strains of pianos and violins, sounds which floatedout from every door and mingled in a strange chaos, as though an unseenorchestra were tuning up in the darkness above the roofs, Vassilyev wassurprised and said:

"What a lot of houses!"

"That's nothing, " said the medical student. "In London there are tentimes as many. There are about a hundred thousand such women there. "

The cabmen were sitting on their boxes as calmly and indifferently asin any other side street; the same passers-by were walking along thepavement as in other streets. No one was hurrying, no one was hiding hisface in his coat-collar, no one shook his head reproachfully. .. . Andin this indifference to the noisy chaos of pianos and violins, to thebright windows and wide-open doors, there was a feeling of somethingvery open, insolent, reckless, and devil-may-care. Probably it was asgay and noisy at the slave-markets in their day, and people's faces andmovements showed the same indifference. 

"Let us begin from the beginning, " said the artist. 

The friends went into a narrow passage lighted by a lamp with areflector. When they opened the door a man in a black coat, with anunshaven face like a flunkey's, and sleepy-looking eyes, got up lazilyfrom a yellow sofa in the hall. The place smelt like a laundry with anodor of vinegar in addition. A door from the hall led into a brightlylighted room. The medical student and the artist stopped at this doorand, craning their necks, peeped into the room. 

"Buona sera, signori, rigolleto--hugenotti--traviata!" began the artist, with a theatrical bow. 

"Havanna--tarakano--pistoleto!" said the medical student, pressing hiscap to his breast and bowing low. 

Vassilyev was standing behind them. He would have liked to make atheatrical bow and say something silly, too, but he only smiled, felt anawkwardness that was like shame, and waited impatiently for what wouldhappen next. 

A little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, in a shortlight-blue frock with a bunch of white ribbon on her bosom, appeared inthe doorway. 

"Why do you stand at the door?" she said. "Take off your coats and comeinto the drawing-room. "

The medical student and the artist, still talking Italian, went into thedrawing-room. Vassilyev followed them irresolutely. 

"Gentlemen, take off your coats!" the flunkey said sternly; "you can'tgo in like that. "

In the drawing-room there was, besides the girl, another woman, verystout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She was sitting nearthe piano, laying out a game of patience on her lap. She took no noticewhatever of the visitors. 

"Where are the other young ladies?" asked the medical student. 

"They are having their tea, " said the fair girl. "Stepan, " she called, "go and tell the young ladies some students have come!"

A little later a third young lady came into the room. She was wearinga bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was painted thicklyand unskillfully, her brow was hidden under her hair, and there was anunblinking, frightened stare in her eyes. As she came in, she beganat once singing some song in a coarse, powerful contralto. After her afourth appeared, and after her a fifth. .. . 

In all this Vassilyev saw nothing new or interesting. It seemed to himthat that room, the piano, the looking-glass in its cheap gilt frame, the bunch of white ribbon, the dress with the blue stripes, and theblank indifferent faces, he had seen before and more than once. Of thedarkness, the silence, the secrecy, the guilty smile, of all that he hadexpected to meet here and had dreaded, he saw no trace. 

Everything was ordinary, prosaic, and uninteresting. Only one thingfaintly stirred his curiosity--the terrible, as it were intentionallydesigned, bad taste which was visible in the cornices, in the absurdpictures, in the dresses, in the bunch of ribbons. There was somethingcharacteristic and peculiar in this bad taste. 

"How poor and stupid it all is!" thought Vassilyev. "What is there inall this trumpery I see now that can tempt a normal man and excitehim to commit the horrible sin of buying a human being for a rouble?I understand any sin for the sake of splendor, beauty, grace, passion, taste; but what is there here? What is there here worth sinning for?But. .. One mustn't think!"

"Beardy, treat me to some porter!" said the fair girl, addressing him. 

Vassilyev was at once overcome with confusion. 

"With pleasure, " he said, bowing politely. "Only excuse me, madam, I. .. . I won't drink with you. I don't drink. "

Five minutes later the friends went off into another house. 

"Why did you ask for porter?" said the medical student angrily. "Whata millionaire! You have thrown away six roubles for no reasonwhatever--simply waste!"

"If she wants it, why not let her have the pleasure?" said Vassilyev, justifying himself. 

"You did not give pleasure to her, but to the 'Madam. ' They are toldto ask the visitors to stand them treat because it is a profit to thekeeper. "

"Behold the mill. .. " hummed the artist, "in ruins now. .. . "

Going into the next house, the friends stopped in the hall and did notgo into the drawing-room. Here, as in the first house, a figure in ablack coat, with a sleepy face like a flunkey's, got up from a sofain the hall. Looking at this flunkey, at his face and his shabby blackcoat, Vassilyev thought: "What must an ordinary simple Russian have gonethrough before fate flung him down as a flunkey here? Where had he beenbefore and what had he done? What was awaiting him? Was he married?Where was his mother, and did she know that he was a servant here?"And Vassilyev could not help particularly noticing the flunkey in eachhouse. In one of the houses--he thought it was the fourth--there was alittle spare, frail-looking flunkey with a watch-chain on his waistcoat. He was reading a newspaper, and took no notice of them when they wentin. Looking at his face Vassilyev, for some reason, thought that a manwith such a face might steal, might murder, might bear false witness. But the face was really interesting: a big forehead, gray eyes, a littleflattened nose, thin compressed lips, and a blankly stupid and at thesame time insolent expression like that of a young harrier overtakinga hare. Vassilyev thought it would be nice to touch this man's hair, tosee whether it was soft or coarse. It must be coarse like a dog's. 

III

Having drunk two glasses of porter, the artist became suddenly tipsy andgrew unnaturally lively. 

"Let's go to another!" he said peremptorily, waving his hands. "I willtake you to the best one. "

When he had brought his fri ends to the house which in his opinion wasthe best, he declared his firm intention of dancing a quadrille. The medical student grumbled something about their having to paythe musicians a rouble, but agreed to be his _vis-a-vis_. They begandancing. 

It was just as nasty in the best house as in the worst. Here there werejust the same looking-glasses and pictures, the same styles of coiffureand dress. Looking round at the furnishing of the rooms and thecostumes, Vassilyev realized that this was not lack of taste, butsomething that might be called the taste, and even the style, of S. Street, which could not be found elsewhere--something intentional in itsugliness, not accidental, but elaborated in the course of years. Afterhe had been in eight houses he was no longer surprised at the color ofthe dresses, at the long trains, the gaudy ribbons, the sailor dresses, and the thick purplish rouge on the cheeks; he saw that it all had tobe like this, that if a single one of the women had been dressed like ahuman being, or if there had been one decent engraving on the wall, thegeneral tone of the whole street would have suffered. 

"How unskillfully they sell themselves!" he thought. "How can theyfail to understand that vice is only alluring when it is beautiful andhidden, when it wears the mask of virtue? Modest black dresses, palefaces, mournful smiles, and darkness would be far more effective thanthis clumsy tawdriness. Stupid things! If they don't understand it ofthemselves, their visitors might surely have taught them. .. . "

A young lady in a Polish dress edged with white fur came up to him andsat down beside him. 

"You nice dark man, why aren't you dancing?" she asked. "Why are you sodull?"

"Because it is dull. "

"Treat me to some Lafitte. Then it won't be dull. "

Vassilyev made no answer. He was silent for a little, and then asked:

"What time do you get to sleep?"

"At six o'clock. "

"And what time do you get up?"

"Sometimes at two and sometimes at three. "

"And what do you do when you get up?"

"We have coffee, and at six o'clock we have dinner. "

"And what do you have for dinner?"

"Usually soup, beefsteak, and dessert. Our madam keeps the girls well. But why do you ask all this?"

"Oh, just to talk. .. . "

Vassilyev longed to talk to the young lady about many things. He felt anintense desire to find out where she came from, whether her parents wereliving, and whether they knew that she was here; how she had comeinto this house; whether she were cheerful and satisfied, or sad andoppressed by gloomy thoughts; whether she hoped some day to get out ofher present position. .. . But he could not think how to begin orin what shape to put his questions so as not to seem impertinent. Hethought for a long time, and asked:

"How old are you?"

"Eighty, " the young lady jested, looking with a laugh at the antics ofthe artist as he danced. 

All at once she burst out laughing at something, and uttered a longcynical sentence loud enough to be heard by everyone. Vassilyev wasaghast, and not knowing how to look, gave a constrained smile. He wasthe only one who smiled; all the others, his friends, the musicians, thewomen, did not even glance towards his neighbor, but seemed not to haveheard her. 

"Stand me some Lafitte, " his neighbor said again. 

Vassilyev felt a repulsion for her white fur and for her voice, andwalked away from her. It seemed to him hot and stifling, and his heartbegan throbbing slowly but violently, like a hammer--one! two! three!

"Let us go away!" he said, pulling the artist by his sleeve. 

"Wait a little; let me finish. "

While the artist and the medical student were finishing the quadrille, to avoid looking at the women, Vassilyev scrutinized the musicians. Arespectable-looking old man in spectacles, rather like Marshal Bazaine, was playing the piano; a young man with a fair beard, dressed in thelatest fashion, was playing the violin. The young man had a face thatdid not look stupid nor exhausted, but intelligent, youthful, and fresh. He was dressed fancifully and with taste; he played with feeling. It wasa mystery how he and the respectable-looking old man had come here. Howwas it they were not ashamed to sit here? What were they thinking aboutwhen they looked at the women?

If the violin and the piano had been played by men in rags, lookinghungry, gloomy, drunken, with dissipated or stupid faces, then one couldhave understood their presence, perhaps. As it was, Vassilyev could notunderstand it at all. He recalled the story of the fallen woman he hadonce read, and he thought now that that human figure with the guiltysmile had nothing in common with what he was seeing now. It seemed tohim that he was seeing not fallen women, but some different world quiteapart, alien to him and incomprehensible; if he had seen this worldbefore on the stage, or read of it in a book, he would not have believedin it. .. . 

The woman with the white fur burst out laughing again and uttered aloathsome sentence in a loud voice. A feeling of disgust took possessionof him. He flushed crimson and went out of the room. 

"Wait a minute, we are coming too!" the artist shouted to him. 

IV

"While we were dancing, " said the medical student, as they all threewent out into the street, "I had a conversation with my partner. Wetalked about her first romance. He, the hero, was an accountant atSmolensk with a wife and five children. She was seventeen, and she livedwith her papa and mamma, who sold soap and candles. "

"How did he win her heart?" asked Vassilyev. 

"By spending fifty roubles on underclothes for her. What next!"

"So he knew how to get his partner's story out of her, " thoughtVassilyev about the medical student. "But I don't know how to. "

"I say, I am going home!" he said. 

"What for?"

"Because I don't know how to behave here. Besides, I am bored, disgusted. What is there amusing in it? If they were human beings--butthey are savages and animals. I am going; do as you like. "

"Come, Grisha, Grigory, darling. .. " said the artist in a tearfulvoice, hugging Vassilyev, "come along! Let's go to one more together anddamnation take them!. .. Please do, Grisha!"

They persuaded Vassilyev and led him up a staircase. In the carpet andthe gilt banisters, in the porter who opened the door, and in the panelsthat decorated the hall, the same S. Street style was apparent, butcarried to a greater perfection, more imposing. 

"I really will go home!" said Vassilyev as he was taking off his coat. 

"Come, come, dear boy, " said the artist, and he kissed him on the neck. "Don't be tiresome. .. . Gri-gri, be a good comrade! We came together, we will go back together. What a beast you are, really!"

"I can wait for you in the street. I think it's loathsome, really!"

"Come, come, Grisha. .. . If it is loathsome, you can observe it! Doyou understand? You can observe!"

"One must take an objective view of things, " said the medical studentgravely. 

Vassilyev went into the drawing-room and sat down. There were a numberof visitors in the room besides him and his friends: two infantryofficers, a bald, gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, two beardlessyouths from the institute of land-surveying, and a very tipsy man wholooked like an actor. All the young ladies were taken up with thesevisitors and paid no attention to Vassilyev. 

Only one of them, dressed _a la Aida, _ glanced sideways at him, smiled, and said, yawning: "A dark one has come. .. . "

Vassilyev's heart was throbbing and his face burned. He felt ashamedbefore these visitors of his presence here, and he felt disgusted andmiserable. He was tormented by the thought that he, a decent and lovingman (such as he had hitherto considered himself), hated these women andfelt nothing but repulsion towards them. He felt pity neither for thewomen nor the musicians nor the flunkeys. 

"It is because I am not trying to understand them, " he thought. "Theyare all more like animals than human beings, but of course they arehuman beings all the same, they have souls. One must understand themand then judge. .. . "

"Grisha, don't go, wait for us, " the artist shouted to him anddisappeared. 

The medical student disappeared soon after. 

"Yes, one must make an effort to understand, one mustn't be likethis. .. . " Vassilyev went on thinking. 

And he began gazing at each of the women with strained attention, looking for a guilty smile. But either he did not know how to read theirfaces, or not one of these women felt herself to be guilty; he read onevery face nothing but a blank expression of everyday vulgar boredom andcomplacency. Stupid faces, stupid smiles, harsh, stupid voices, insolentmovements, and nothing else. Apparently each of them had in the past aromance with an accountant based on underclothes for fifty roubles, andlooked for no other charm in the present but coffee, a dinner of threecourses, wines, quadrilles, sleeping till two in the afternoon. .. . 

Finding no guilty smile, Vassilyev began to look whether there was notone intelligent face. And his attention was caught by one pale, rathersleepy, exhausted-looking face. .. . It was a dark woman, not veryyoung, wearing a dress covered with spangles; she was sitting in aneasy-chair, looking at the floor lost in thought. Vassilyev walked fromone corner of the room to the other, and, as though casually, sat downbeside her. 

"I must begin with something trivial, " he thought, "and pass to what isserious. .. . "

"What a pretty dress you have, " and with his finger he touched the goldfringe of her fichu. 

"Oh, is it?. .. " said the dark woman listlessly. 

"What province do you come from?"

"I? From a distance. .. . From Tchernigov. "

"A fine province. It's nice there. "

"Any place seems nice when one is not in it. "

"It's a pity I cannot describe nature, " thought Vassilyev. "I mighttouch her by a description of nature in Tchernigov. No doubt she lovesthe place if she has been born there. "

"Are you dull here?" he asked. 

"Of course I am dull. "

"Why don't you go away from here if you are dull?"

"Where should I go to? Go begging or what?"

"Begging would be easier than living here. "

"How do you know that? Have you begged?"

"Yes, when I hadn't the money to study. Even if I hadn't anyone couldunderstand that. A beggar is anyway a free man, and you are a slave. "

The dark woman stretched, and watched with sleepy eyes the footman whowas bringing a trayful of glasses and seltzer water. 

"Stand me a glass of porter, " she said, and yawned again. 

"Porter, " thought Vassilyev. "And what if your brother or mother walkedin at this moment? What would you say? And what would they say? Therewould be porter then, I imagine. .. . "

All at once there was the sound of weeping. From the adjoining room, from which the footman had brought the seltzer water, a fair man witha red face and angry eyes ran in quickly. He was followed by the tall, stout "madam, " who was shouting in a shrill voice:

"Nobody has given you leave to slap girls on the cheeks! We havevisitors better than you, and they don't fight! Impostor!"

A hubbub arose. Vassilyev was frightened and turned pale. In the nextroom there was the sound of bitter, genuine weeping, as though ofsomeone insulted. And he realized that there were real people livinghere who, like people everywhere else, felt insulted, suffered, wept, and cried for help. The feeling of oppressive hate and disgust gave wayto an acute feeling of pity and anger against the aggressor. He rushedinto the room where there was weeping. Across rows of bottles on amarble-top table he distinguished a suffering face, wet with tears, stretched out his hands towards that face, took a step towards thetable, but at once drew back in horror. The weeping girl was drunk. 

As he made his way though the noisy crowd gathered about the fair man, his heart sank and he felt frightened like a child; and it seemed to himthat in this alien, incomprehensible world people wanted to pursue him, to beat him, to pelt him with filthy words. .. . He tore down his coatfrom the hatstand and ran headlong downstairs. 

V

Leaning against the fence, he stood near the house waiting for hisfriends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and violins, gay, reckless, insolent, and mournful, mingled in the air in a sort of chaos, and this tangle of sounds seemed again like an unseen orchestra tuningup on the roofs. If one looked upwards into the darkness, the blackbackground was all spangled with white, moving spots: it was snowfalling. As the snowflakes came into the light they floated round lazilyin the air like down, and still more lazily fell to the ground. Thesnowflakes whirled thickly round Vassilyev and hung upon his beard, his eyelashes, his eyebrows. .. . The cabmen, the horses, and thepassers-by were white. 

"And how can the snow fall in this street!" thought Vassilyev. "Damnation take these houses!"

His legs seemed to be giving way from fatigue, simply from having rundown the stairs; he gasped for breath as though he had been climbinguphill, his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it. He was consumedby a desire to get out of the street as quickly as possible and to gohome, but even stronger was his desire to wait for his companions andvent upon them his oppressive feeling. 

There was much he did not understand in these houses, the souls ofruined women were a mystery to him as before; but it was clear to himthat the thing was far worse than could have been believed. If thatsinful woman who had poisoned herself was called fallen, it wasdifficult to find a fitting name for all these who were dancing now tothis tangle of sound and uttering long, loathsome sentences. They werenot on the road to ruin, but ruined. 

"There is vice, " he thought, "but neither consciousness of sin norhope of salvation. They are sold and bought, steeped in wine andabominations, while they, like sheep, are stupid, indifferent, and don'tunderstand. My God! My God!"

It was clear to him, too, that everything that is called human dignity, personal rights, the Divine image and semblance, were defiled to theirvery foundations--"to the very marrow, " as drunkards say--and that notonly the street and the stupid women were responsible for it. 

A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and talkinggaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into Vassilyev's face, and said in a drunken voice:

"One of us! A bit on, old man? Aha-ha! Never mind, have a good time!Don't be down-hearted, old chap!"

He took Vassilyev by the shoulder and pressed his cold wet mustacheagainst his cheek, then he slipped, staggered, and, waving both hands, cried:

"Hold on! Don't upset!"

And laughing, he ran to overtake his companions. 

Through the noise came the sound of the artist's voice:

"Don't you dare to hit the women! I won't let you, damnation take you!You scoundrels!"

The medical student appeared in the doorway. He looked from side toside, and seeing Vassilyev, said in an agitated voice:

"You here! I tell you it's really impossible to go anywhere with Yegor!What a fellow he is! I don't understand him! He has got up a scene! Doyou hear? Yegor!" he shouted at the door. "Yegor!"

"I won't allow you to hit women!" the artist's piercing voice soundedfrom above. Something heavy and lumbering rolled down the stairs. It wasthe artist falling headlong. Evidently he had been pushed downstairs. 

He picked himself up from the ground, shook his hat, and, with an angryand indignant face, brandished his fist towards the top of the stairsand shouted:

"Scoundrels! Torturers! Bloodsuckers! I won't allow you to hit them! Tohit a weak, drunken woman! Oh, you brutes!. .. "

"Yegor!. .. Come, Yegor!. .. " the medical student began imploringhim. "I give you my word of honor I'll never come with you again. On myword of honor I won't!"

Little by little the artist was pacified and the friends went homewards. 

"Against my will an unknown force, " hummed the medical student, "has ledme to these mournful shores. "

"Behold t he mill, " the artist chimed in a little later, "in ruins now. What a lot of snow, Holy Mother! Grisha, why did you go? You are a funk, a regular old woman. "

Vassilyev walked behind his companions, looked at their backs, andthought:

"One of two things: either we only fancy prostitution is an evil, andwe exaggerate it; or, if prostitution really is as great an evil as isgenerally assumed, these dear friends of mine are as much slaveowners, violators, and murderers, as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo, thatare described in the 'Neva. ' Now they are singing, laughing, talkingsense, but haven't they just been exploiting hunger, ignorance, andstupidity? They have--I have been a witness of it. What is the use oftheir humanity, their medicine, their painting? The science, art, andlofty sentiments of these soul-destroyers remind me of the piece ofbacon in the story. Two brigands murdered a beggar in a forest; theybegan sharing his clothes between them, and found in his wallet a pieceof bacon. 'Well found, ' said one of them, 'let us have a bit. ' 'What doyou mean? How can you?' cried the other in horror. 'Have you forgottenthat to-day is Wednesday?' And they would not eat it. After murdering aman, they came out of the forest in the firm conviction that they werekeeping the fast. In the same way these men, after buying women, gotheir way imagining that they are artists and men of science. .. . "

"Listen!" he said sharply and angrily. "Why do you come here? Is itpossible--is it possible you don't understand how horrible it is? Yourmedical books tell you that every one of these women dies prematurely ofconsumption or something; art tells you that morally they are dead evenearlier. Every one of them dies because she has in her time to entertainfive hundred men on an average, let us say. Each one of them is killedby five hundred men. You are among those five hundred! If each of you inthe course of your lives visits this place or others like it two hundredand fifty times, it follows that one woman is killed for every two ofyou! Can't you understand that? Isn't it horrible to murder, two of you, three of you, five of you, a foolish, hungry woman! Ah! isn't it awful, my God!"

"I knew it would end like that, " the artist said frowning. "We ought notto have gone with this fool and ass! You imagine you have grand notionsin your head now, ideas, don't you? No, it's the devil knows what, butnot ideas. You are looking at me now with hatred and repulsion, but Itell you it's better you should set up twenty more houses like thosethan look like that. There's more vice in your expression than in thewhole street! Come along, Volodya, let him go to the devil! He's a fooland an ass, and that's all. .. . "

"We human beings do murder each other, " said the medical student. "It'simmoral, of course, but philosophizing doesn't help it. Good-by!"

At Trubnoy Square the friends said good-by and parted. When he was leftalone, Vassilyev strode rapidly along the boulevard. He felt frightenedof the darkness, of the snow which was falling in heavy flakes on theground, and seemed as though it would cover up the whole world; hefelt frightened of the street lamps shining with pale light throughthe clouds of snow. His soul was possessed by an unaccountable, faint-hearted terror. Passers-by came towards him from time to time, but he timidly moved to one side; it seemed to him that women, none butwomen, were coming from all sides and staring at him. .. . 

"It's beginning, " he thought, "I am going to have a breakdown. "

VI

At home he lay on his bed and said, shuddering all over: "They arealive! Alive! My God, those women are alive!"

He encouraged his imagination in all sorts of ways to picture himselfthe brother of a fallen woman, or her father; then a fallen womanherself, with her painted cheeks; and it all moved him to horror. 

It seemed to him that he must settle the question at once at all costs, and that this question was not one that did not concern him, but was hisown personal problem. He made an immense effort, repressed his despair, and, sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands, began thinkinghow one could save all the women he had seen that day. The method forattacking problems of all kinds was, as he was an educated man, wellknown to him. And, however excited he was, he strictly adhered to thatmethod. He recalled the history of the problem and its literature, andfor a quarter of an hour he paced from one end of the room to the othertrying to remember all the methods practiced at the present time forsaving women. He had very many good friends and acquaintances who livedin lodgings in Petersburg. .. . Among them were a good many honest andself-sacrificing men. Some of them had attempted to save women. .. . 

"All these not very numerous attempts, " thought Vassilyev, "can bedivided into three groups. Some, after buying the woman out of thebrothel, took a room for her, bought her a sewing-machine, and shebecame a semptress. And whether he wanted to or not, after having boughther out he made her his mistress; then when he had taken his degree, hewent away and handed her into the keeping of some other decent man asthough she were a thing. And the fallen woman remained a fallen woman. Others, after buying her out, took a lodging apart for her, bought theinevitable sewing-machine, and tried teaching her to read, preaching ather and giving her books. The woman lived and sewed as long as it wasinteresting and a novelty to her, then getting bored, began receivingmen on the sly, or ran away and went back where she could sleep tillthree o'clock, drink coffee, and have good dinners. The third class, themost ardent and self-sacrificing, had taken a bold, resolute step. They had married them. And when the insolent and spoilt, or stupid andcrushed animal became a wife, the head of a household, and afterwards amother, it turned her whole existence and attitude to life upside down, so that it was hard to recognize the fallen woman afterwards in the wifeand the mother. Yes, marriage was the best and perhaps the only means. "

"But it is impossible!" Vassilyev said aloud, and he sank upon his bed. "I, to begin with, could not marry one! To do that one must be a saintand be unable to feel hatred or repulsion. But supposing that I, the medical student, and the artist mastered ourselves and did marrythem--suppose they were all married. What would be the result? Theresult would be that while here in Moscow they were being married, someSmolensk accountant would be debauching another lot, and that lot wouldbe streaming here to fill the vacant places, together with others fromSaratov, Nizhni-Novgorod, Warsaw. .. . And what is one to do with thehundred thousand in London? What's one to do with those in Hamburg?"

The lamp in which the oil had burnt down began to smoke. Vassilyev didnot notice it. He began pacing to and fro again, still thinking. Now heput the question differently: what must be done that fallen women shouldnot be needed? For that, it was essential that the men who buy themand do them to death should feel all the immorality of their share inenslaving them and should be horrified. One must save the men. 

"One won't do anything by art and science, that is clear. .. " thoughtVassilyev. "The only way out of it is missionary work. "

And he began to dream how he would the next evening stand at the cornerof the street and say to every passer-by: "Where are you going and whatfor? Have some fear of God!"

He would turn to the apathetic cabmen and say to them: "Why are youstaying here? Why aren't you revolted? Why aren't you indignant? Isuppose you believe in God and know that it is a sin, that people go tohell for it? Why don't you speak? It is true that they are strangersto you, but you know even they have fathers, brothers likeyourselves. .. . "

One of Vassilyev's friends had once said of him that he was a talentedman. There are all sorts of talents--talent for writing, talent forthe stage, talent for art; but he had a peculiar talent--a talent for_humanity_. He possessed an extraordinarily fine delicate scent for painin general. As a good actor reflects in himself the movements and voiceof others, so Vassilyev could reflect in his soul the sufferings ofothers. When he saw tears, he wept; beside a sick man, he felt sickhimself and moaned; if he saw an act of violence, he felt as though hehimself were the victim of it, he was frightened as a child, and in hisfright ran to help. The pain of others worked on his nerves, excitedhim, roused him to a state of frenzy, and so on. 

Whether this friend were right I don't know, but what Vassilyevexperienced when he thought this question was settled was something likeinspiration. He cried and laughed, spoke aloud the words that he shouldsay next day, felt a fervent love for those who would listen to him andwould stand beside him at the corner of the street to preach; he satdown to write letters, made vows to himself. .. . 

All this was like inspiration also from the fact that it did not lastlong. Vassilyev was soon tired. The cases in London, in Hamburg, inWarsaw, weighed upon him by their mass as a mountain weighs upon theearth; he felt dispirited, bewildered, in the face of this mass; heremembered that he had not a gift for words, that he was cowardlyand timid, that indifferent people would not be willing to listenand understand him, a law student in his third year, a timid andinsignificant person; that genuine missionary work included not onlyteaching but deeds. .. 

When it was daylight and carriages were already beginning to rumble inthe street, Vassilyev was lying motionless on the sofa, staring intospace. He was no longer thinking of the women, nor of the men, nor ofmissionary work. His whole attention was turned upon the spiritual agonywhich was torturing him. It was a dull, vague, undefined anguish akin tomisery, to an extreme form of terror and to despair. He could pointto the place where the pain was, in his breast under his heart; buthe could not compare it with anything. In the past he had had acutetoothache, he had had pleurisy and neuralgia, but all that wasinsignificant compared with this spiritual anguish. In the presence ofthat pain life seemed loathsome. The dissertation, the excellent workhe had written already, the people he loved, the salvation of fallenwomen--everything that only the day before he had cared about or beenindifferent to, now when he thought of them irritated him in the sameway as the noise of the carriages, the scurrying footsteps of thewaiters in the passage, the daylight. .. . If at that moment someonehad performed a great deed of mercy or had committed a revoltingoutrage, he would have felt the same repulsion for both actions. Of allthe thoughts that strayed through his mind only two did not irritatehim: one was that at every moment he had the power to kill himself, theother that this agony would not last more than three days. This last heknew by experience. 

After lying for a while he got up and, wringing his hands, walked aboutthe room, not as usual from corner to corner, but round the room besidethe walls. As he passed he glanced at himself in the looking-glass. Hisface looked pale and sunken, his temples looked hollow, his eyes werebigger, darker, more staring, as though they belonged to someone else, and they had an expression of insufferable mental agony. 

At midday the artist knocked at the door. 

"Grigory, are you at home?" he asked. 

Getting no answer, he stood for a minute, pondered, and answeredhimself in Little Russian: "Nay. The confounded fellow has gone to theUniversity. "

And he went away. Vassilyev lay down on the bed and, thrusting his headunder the pillow, began crying with agony, and the more freely his tearsflowed the more terrible his mental anguish became. As it began to getdark, he thought of the agonizing night awaiting him, and was overcomeby a horrible despair. He dressed quickly, ran out of his room, and, leaving his door wide open, for no object or reason, went out into thestreet. Without asking himself where he should go, he walked quicklyalong Sadovoy Street. 

Snow was falling as heavily as the day before; it was thawing. Thrustinghis hands into his sleeves, shuddering and frightened at the noises, at the trambells, and at the passers-by, Vassilyev walked along SadovoyStreet as far as Suharev Tower; then to the Red Gate; from there heturned off to Basmannya Street. He went into a tavern and drank offa big glass of vodka, but that did not make him feel better. When hereached Razgulya he turned to the right, and strode along side streetsin which he had never been before in his life. He reached the old bridgeby which the Yauza runs gurgling, and from which one can see long rowsof lights in the windows of the Red Barracks. To distract his spiritualanguish by some new sensation or some other pain, Vassilyev, not knowingwhat to do, crying and shuddering, undid his greatcoat and jacket andexposed his bare chest to the wet snow and the wind. But that did notlessen his suffering either. Then he bent down over the rail of thebridge and looked down into the black, yeasty Yauza, and he longed toplunge down head foremost; not from loathing for life, not for the sakeof suicide, but in order to bruise himself at least, and by one pain toease the other. But the black water, the darkness, the deserted bankscovered with snow were terrifying. He shivered and walked on. He walkedup and down by the Red Barracks, then turned back and went down to acopse, from the copse back to the bridge again. 

"No, home, home!" he thought. "At home I believe it's better. .. "

And he went back. When he reached home he pulled off his wet coat andcap, began pacing round the room, and went on pacing round and roundwithout stopping till morning. 

VII

When next morning the artist and the medical student went in to him, he was moving about the room with his shirt torn, biting his hands andmoaning with pain. 

"For God's sake!" he sobbed when he saw his friends, "take me where youplease, do what you can; but for God's sake, save me quickly! I shallkill myself!"

The artist turned pale and was helpless. The medical student, too, almost shed tears, but considering that doctors ought to be cool andcomposed in every emergency said coldly:

"It's a nervous breakdown. But it's nothing. Let us go at once to thedoctor. "

"Wherever you like, only for God's sake, make haste!"

"Don't excite yourself. You must try and control yourself. "

The artist and the medical student with trembling hands put Vassilyev'scoat and hat on and led him out into the street. 

"Mihail Sergeyitch has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a longtime, " the medical student said on the way. "He is a very nice man andthoroughly good at his work. He took his degree in 1882, and he hasan immense practice already. He treats students as though he were onehimself. "

"Make haste, make haste!. .. " Vassilyev urged. 

Mihail Sergeyitch, a stout, fair-haired doctor, received the friendswith politeness and frigid dignity, and smiled only on one side of hisface. 

"Rybnikov and Mayer have spoken to me of your illness already, " he said. "Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, I beg. .. . "

He made Vassilyev sit down in a big armchair near the table, and moved abox of cigarettes towards him. 

"Now then!" he began, stroking his knees. "Let us get to work. .. . Howold are you?"

He asked questions and the medical student answered them. He askedwhether Vassilyev's father had suffered from certain special diseases, whether he drank to excess, whether he were remarkable for cruelty orany peculiarities. He made similar inquiries about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and brothers. On learning that his mother had abeautiful voice and sometimes acted on the stage, he grew more animatedat once, and asked:

"Excuse me, but don't you remember, perhaps, your mother had a passionfor the stage?"

Twenty minutes passed. Vassilyev was annoyed by the way the docto r keptstroking his knees and talking of the same thing. 

"So far as I understand your questions, doctor, " he said, "you want toknow whether my illness is hereditary or not. It is not. "

The doctor proceeded to ask Vassilyev whether he had had any secretvices as a boy, or had received injuries to his head; whether he had hadany aberrations, any peculiarities, or exceptional propensities. Halfthe questions usually asked by doctors of their patients can be leftunanswered without the slightest ill effect on the health, but MihailSergeyitch, the medical student, and the artist all looked as thoughif Vassilyev failed to answer one question all would be lost. As hereceived answers, the doctor for some reason noted them down on a slipof paper. On learning that Vassilyev had taken his degree in naturalscience, and was now studying law, the doctor pondered. 

"He wrote a first-rate piece of original work last year, . .. " said themedical student. 

"I beg your pardon, but don't interrupt me; you prevent me fromconcentrating, " said the doctor, and he smiled on one side of hisface. "Though, of course, that does enter into the diagnosis. Intenseintellectual work, nervous exhaustion. .. . Yes, yes. .. . And do youdrink vodka?" he said, addressing Vassilyev. 

"Very rarely. "

Another twenty minutes passed. The medical student began telling thedoctor in a low voice his opinion as to the immediate cause ofthe attack, and described how the day before yesterday the artist, Vassilyev, and he had visited S. Street. 

The indifferent, reserved, and frigid tone in which his friends and thedoctor spoke of the women and that miserable street struck Vassilyev asstrange in the extreme. .. . 

"Doctor, tell me one thing only, " he said, controlling himself so as notto speak rudely. "Is prostitution an evil or not?"

"My dear fellow, who disputes it?" said the doctor, with an expressionthat suggested that he had settled all such questions for himself longago. "Who disputes it?"

"You are a mental doctor, aren't you?" Vassilyev asked curtly. 

"Yes, a mental doctor. "

"Perhaps all of you are right!" said Vassilyev, getting up and beginningto walk from one end of the room to the other. "Perhaps! But it allseems marvelous to me! That I should have taken my degree in twofaculties you look upon as a great achievement; because I have writtena work which in three years will be thrown aside and forgotten, I ampraised up to the skies; but because I cannot speak of fallen women asunconcernedly as of these chairs, I am being examined by a doctor, I amcalled mad, I am pitied!"

Vassilyev for some reason felt all at once unutterably sorry forhimself, and his companions, and all the people he had seen two daysbefore, and for the doctor; he burst into tears and sank into a chair. 

His friends looked inquiringly at the doctor. The latter, with theair of completely comprehending the tears and the despair, of feelinghimself a specialist in that line, went up to Vassilyev and, withouta word, gave him some medicine to drink; and then, when he was calmer, undressed him and began to investigate the degree of sensibility of theskin, the reflex action of the knees, and so on. 

And Vassilyev felt easier. When he came out from the doctor's hewas beginning to feel ashamed; the rattle of the carriages no longerirritated him, and the load at his heart grew lighter and lighter asthough it were melting away. He had two prescriptions in his hand:one was for bromide, one was for morphia. .. . He had taken all theseremedies before. 

In the street he stood still and, saying good-by to his friends, draggedhimself languidly to the University. 

MISERY

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"

THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazilyabout the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in athin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box withoutstirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regularsnowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think itnecessary to shake it off. .. . His little mare is white and motionlesstoo. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-likestraightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbreadhorse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn awayfrom the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into thisslough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurryingpeople, is bound to think. 

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out ofthe yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shadesof evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lampschanges to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier. 

"Sledge to Vyborgskaya!" Iona hears. "Sledge!"

Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer ina military overcoat with a hood over his head. 

"To Vyborgskaya, " repeats the officer. "Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!"

In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes ofsnow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets intothe sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck likea swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandisheshis whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, andhesitatingly sets of. .. . 

"Where are you shoving, you devil?" Iona immediately hears shouts fromthe dark mass shifting to and fro before him. "Where the devil are yougoing? Keep to the r-right!"

"You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right, " says the officerangrily. 

A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossingthe road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at himangrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box asthough he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyesabout like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or whyhe was there. 

"What rascals they all are!" says the officer jocosely. "They are simplydoing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose. "

Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. .. . Apparently he means tosay something, but nothing comes but a sniff. 

"What?" inquires the officer. 

Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily:"My son. .. Er. .. My son died this week, sir. "

"H'm! What did he die of?"

Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:

"Who can tell! It must have been from fever. .. . He lay three days inthe hospital and then he died. .. . God's will. "

"Turn round, you devil!" comes out of the darkness. "Have you gonecracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!"

"Drive on! drive on!. .. " says the officer. "We shan't get there tillto-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!"

The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and withheavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at theofficer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparentlydisinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stopsby a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. .. . Againthe wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and thenanother. .. . 

Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with theirgoloshes. 

"Cabby, to the Police Bridge!" the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. "The three of us, . .. Twenty kopecks!"

Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not afair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble orwhether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as hehas a fare. .. . The three young men, shoving each other and using badlanguage, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which oneis to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, theycome to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is theshortest. 

"Well, drive on, " says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settlinghimself and breathing down Iona's neck. "Cut along! What a cap you'vegot, my friend! You wouldn't find a worse one in all Petersburg. .. . "

"He-he!. .. He-he!. .. " laughs Iona. "It's nothing to boast of!"

"Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive likethis all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?"

"My head aches, " says one of the tall ones. "At the Dukmasovs' yesterdayVaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us. "

"I can't make out why you talk such stuff, " says the other tall oneangrily. "You lie like a brute. "

"Strike me dead, it's the truth!. .. "

"It's about as true as that a louse coughs. "

"He-he!" grins Iona. "Me-er-ry gentlemen!"

"Tfoo! the devil take you!" cries the hunchback indignantly. "Will youget on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way to drive? Give herone with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well. "

Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice ofthe hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and thefeeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on hisheart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaboratelywhimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tallcompanions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looksround at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round oncemore and says:

"This week. .. Er. .. My. .. Er. .. Son died!"

"We shall all die, . .. " says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping hislips after coughing. "Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simplycannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?"

"Well, you give him a little encouragement. .. One in the neck!"

"Do you hear, you old plague? I'll make you smart. If one stands onceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, youold dragon? Or don't you care a hang what we say?"

And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck. 

"He-he!. .. " he laughs. "Merry gentlemen. .. . God give youhealth!"

"Cabman, are you married?" asks one of the tall ones. 

"I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the dampearth. .. . He-ho-ho!. .. . The grave that is!. .. Here my son's deadand I am alive. .. . It's a strange thing, death has come in at thewrong door. .. . Instead of coming for me it went for my son. .. . "

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that pointthe hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! theyhave arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for along while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again heis alone and again there is silence for him. .. . The misery which hasbeen for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart morecruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyesstray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of thestreet: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listento him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. .. . Hismisery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst andhis misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, butyet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificantshell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight. .. . 

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to addresshim. 

"What time will it be, friend?" he asks. 

"Going on for ten. .. . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!"

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himselfup to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But beforefive minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as thoughhe feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. .. . He can bear it nolonger. 

"Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!"

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On thestove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The airis full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. .. . 

"I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even, " he thinks. "That'swhy I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work, . .. Who hashad enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always atease. .. . "

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throatsleepily, and makes for the water-bucket. 

"Want a drink?" Iona asks him. 

"Seems so. "

"May it do you good. .. . But my son is dead, mate. .. . Do you hear?This week in the hospital. .. . It's a queer business. .. . "

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The oldman sighs and scratches himself. .. . Just as the young man had beenthirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have beendead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet. .. . Hewants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. .. . He wants to tellhow his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. .. . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went tothe hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter Anisyain the country. .. . And he wants to talk about her too. .. . Yes, hehas plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim andlament. .. . It would be even better to talk to women. Though they aresilly creatures, they blubber at the first word. 

"Let's go out and have a look at the mare, " Iona thinks. "There isalways time for sleep. .. . You'll have sleep enough, no fear. .. . "

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare isstanding. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. .. . Hecannot think about his son when he is alone. .. . To talk abouthim with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him isinsufferable anguish. .. . 

"Are you munching?" Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. "There, munch away, munch away. .. . Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. .. . Yes, . .. I have grown too old to drive. .. . My son ought to be driving, not I. .. . He was a real cabman. .. . Heought to have lived. .. . "

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

"That's how it is, old girl. .. . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. .. . He saidgood-by to me. .. . He went and died for no reason. .. . Now, supposeyou had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. . .. And all at once that same little colt went and died. .. . You'dbe sorry, wouldn't you?. .. "

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it. 

CHAMPAGNE

A WAYFARER'S STORY

IN the year in which my story begins I had a job at a little station onone of our southwestern railways. Whether I had a gay or a dull lifeat the station you can judge from the fact that for fifteen milesround there was not one human habitation, not one woman, not one decenttavern; and in those days I was young, strong, hot-headed, giddy, andfoolish. The only distraction I could possibly find was in the windowsof the passenger trains, and in the vile vodka which the Jews druggedwith thorn-apple. Sometimes there would be a glimpse of a woman'shead at a carriage window, and one would stand like a statue withoutbreathing and stare at it until the train turned into an almostinvisible speck; or one would drink all one could of the loathsome vodkatill one was stupefied and did not feel the passing of the long hoursand days. Upon me, a native of the north, the steppe produced theeffect of a deserted Tatar cemetery. In the summer the steppe with itssolemn calm, the monotonous chur of the grasshoppers, the transparentmoonlight from which one could not hide, reduced me to listlessmelancholy; and in the winter the irreproachable whiteness of thesteppe, its cold distance, long nights, and howling wolves oppressed melike a heavy nightmare. There were several people living at thestation: my wife and I, a deaf and scrofulous telegraph clerk, and threewatchmen. My assistant, a young man who was in consumption, used to gofor treatment to the town, where he stayed for months at a time, leavinghis duties to me together with the right of pocketing his salary. I hadno children, no cake would have tempted visitors to come and see me, andI could only visit other officials on the line, and that no oftener thanonce a month. 

I remember my wife and I saw the New Year in. We sat at table, chewedlazily, and heard the deaf telegraph clerk monotonously tapping on hisapparatus in the next room. I had already drunk five glasses ofdrugged vodka, and, propping my heavy head on my fist, thought of myoverpowering boredom from which there was no escape, while my wife satbeside me and did not take her eyes off me. She looked at me as noone can look but a woman who has nothing in this world but a handsomehusband. She loved me madly, slavishly, and not merely my good looks, or my soul, but my sins, my ill-humor and boredom, and even my crueltywhen, in drunken fury, not knowing how to vent my ill-humor, I tormentedher with reproaches. 

In spite of the boredom which was consuming me, we were preparing to seethe New Year in with exceptional festiveness, and were awaiting midnightwith some impatience. The fact is, we had in reserve two bottles ofchampagne, the real thing, with the label of Veuve Clicquot; thistreasure I had won the previous autumn in a bet with the station-masterof D. When I was drinking with him at a christening. It sometimeshappens during a lesson in mathematics, when the very air is still withboredom, a butterfly flutters into the class-room; the boys toss theirheads and begin watching its flight with interest, as though they sawbefore them not a butterfly but something new and strange; in the sameway ordinary champagne, chancing to come into our dreary station, roused us. We sat in silence looking alternately at the clock and at thebottles. 

When the hands pointed to five minutes to twelve I slowly beganuncorking a bottle. I don't know whether I was affected by the vodka, or whether the bottle was wet, but all I remember is that when the corkflew up to the ceiling with a bang, my bottle slipped out of my handsand fell on the floor. Not more than a glass of the wine was spilt, as Imanaged to catch the bottle and put my thumb over the foaming neck. 

"Well, may the New Year bring you happiness!" I said, filling twoglasses. "Drink!"

My wife took her glass and fixed her frightened eyes on me. Her face waspale and wore a look of horror. 

"Did you drop the bottle?" she asked. 

"Yes. But what of that?"

"It's unlucky, " she said, putting down her glass and turning palerstill. "It's a bad omen. It means that some misfortune will happen to usthis year. "

"What a silly thing you are, " I sighed. "You are a clever woman, and yetyou talk as much nonsense as an old nurse. Drink. "

"God grant it is nonsense, but. .. Something is sure to happen! You'llsee. "

She did not even sip her glass, she moved away and sank into thought. I uttered a few stale commonplaces about superstition, drank half abottle, paced up and down, and then went out of the room. 

Outside there was the still frosty night in all its cold, inhospitablebeauty. The moon and two white fluffy clouds beside it hung just overthe station, motionless as though glued to the spot, and looked asthough waiting for something. A faint transparent light came from themand touched the white earth softly, as though afraid of woundingher modesty, and lighted up everything--the snowdrifts, theembankment. .. . It was still. 

I walked along the railway embankment. 

"Silly woman, " I thought, looking at the sky spangled with brilliantstars. "Even if one admits that omens sometimes tell the truth, whatevil can happen to us? The misfortunes we have endured already, andwhich are facing us now, are so great that it is difficult to imagineanything worse. What further harm can you do a fish which has beencaught and fried and served up with sauce?"

A poplar covered with hoar frost looked in the bluish darkness like agiant wrapt in a shroud. It looked at me sullenly and dejectedly, asthough like me it realized its loneliness. I stood a long while lookingat it. 

"My youth is thrown away for nothing, like a useless cigarette end, "I went on musing. "My parents died when I was a little child; I wasexpelled from the high school, I was born of a noble family, but I havereceived neither education nor breeding, and I have no more knowledgethan the humblest mechanic. I have no refuge, no relations, no friends, no work I like. I am not fitted for anything, and in the prime of mypowers I am good for nothing but to be stuffed into this little station;I have known nothing but trouble and failure all my life. What canhappen worse?"

Red lights came into sight in the distance. A train was moving towardsme. The slumbering steppe listened to the sound of it. My thoughts wereso bitter that it seemed to me that I was thinking aloud and that themoan of the telegraph wire and the rumble of the train were expressingmy thoughts. 

"What can happen worse? The loss of my wife?" I wondered. "Even that isnot terrible. It's no good hiding it from my conscience: I don't love mywife. I married her when I was only a wretched boy; now I am young andvigorous, and she has gone off and grown older and sillier, stuffed fromher head to her heels with conventional ideas. What charm is there inher maudlin love, in her hollow chest, in her lusterless eyes? I putup with her, but I don't love her. What can happen? My youth is beingwasted, as the saying is, for a pinch of snuff. Women flit before myeyes only in the carriage windows, like falling stars. Love I never hadand have not. My manhood, my courage, my power of feeling are going toruin. .. . Everything is being thrown away like dirt, and all my wealthhere in the steppe is not worth a farthing. "

The train rushed past me with a roar and indifferently cast the glowof its red lights upon me. I saw it stop by the green lights of thestation, stop for a minute and rumble off again. After walking a mileand a half I went back. Melancholy thoughts haunted me still. Painfulas it was to me, yet I remember I tried as it were to make my thoughtsstill gloomier and more melancholy. You know people who are vain and notvery clever have moments when the consciousness that they are miserableaffords them positive satisfaction, and they even coquet with theirmisery for their own entertainment. There was a great deal of truthin what I thought, but there was also a great deal that was absurd andconceited, and there was something boyishly defiant in my question:"What could happen worse?"

"And what is there to happen?" I asked myself. "I think I have enduredeverything. I've been ill, I've lost money, I get reprimanded by mysuperiors every day, and I go hungry, and a mad wolf has run into thestation yard. What more is there? I have been insulted, humiliated, . .. And I have insulted others in my time. I have not been a criminal, it is true, but I don't think I am capable of crime--I am not afraid ofbeing hauled up for it. "

The two little clouds had moved away from the moon and stood at a littledistance, looking as though they were whispering about something whichthe moon must not know. A light breeze was racing across the steppe, bringing the faint rumble of the retreating train. 

My wife met me at the doorway. Her eyes were laughing gaily and herwhole face was beaming with good-humor. 

"There is news for you!" she whispered. "Make haste, go to your room andput on your new coat; we have a visitor. "

"What visitor?"

"Aunt Natalya Petrovna has just come by the train. "

"What Natalya Petrovna?"

"The wife of my uncle Semyon Fyodoritch. You don't know her. She is avery nice, good woman. "

Probably I frowned, for my wife looked grave and whispered rapidly:

"Of course it is queer her having come, but don't be cross, Nikolay, anddon't be hard on her. She is unhappy, you know; Uncle Semyon Fyodoritchreally is ill-natured and tyrannical, it is difficult to live with him. She says she will only stay three days with us, only till she gets aletter from her brother. "

My wife whispered a great deal more nonsense to me about her despoticuncle; about the weakness of mankind in general and of young wives inparticular; about its being our duty to give shelter to all, even greatsinners, and so on. Unable to make head or tail of it, I put on my newcoat and went to make acquaintance with my "aunt. "

A little woman with large black eyes was sitting at the table. My table, the gray walls, my roughly-made sofa, everything to the tiniest grain ofdust seemed to have grown younger and more cheerful in the presenceof this new, young, beautiful, and dissolute creature, who had a mostsubtle perfume about her. And that our visitor was a lady of easy virtueI could see from her smile, from her scent, from the peculiar way inwhich she glanced and made play with her eyelashes, from the tone inwhich she talked with my wife--a respectable woman. There was no need totell me she had run away from her husband, that her husband was old anddespotic, that she was good-natured and lively; I took it all in atthe first glance. Indeed, it is doubtful whether there is a man inall Europe who cannot spot at the first glance a woman of a certaintemperament. 

"I did not know I had such a big nephew!" said my aunt, holding out herhand to me and smiling. 

"And I did not know I had such a pretty aunt, " I answered. 

Supper began over again. The cork flew with a bang out of the secondbottle, and my aunt swallowed half a glassful at a gulp, and when mywife went out of the room for a moment my aunt did not scruple to draina full glass. I was drunk both with the wine and with the presence of awoman. Do you remember the song?

 "Eyes black as pitch, eyes full of passion, Eyes burning bright and beautiful, How I love you, How I fear you!"

I don't remember what happened next. Anyone who wants to know how lovebegins may read novels and long stories; I will put it shortly and inthe words of the same silly song:

 "It was an evil hour When first I met you. "

Everything went head over heels to the devil. I remember a fearful, frantic whirlwind which sent me flying round like a feather. It lasteda long while, and swept from the face of the earth my wife and my auntherself and my strength. From the little station in the steppe it hasflung me, as you see, into this dark street. 

Now tell me what further evil can happen to me?

AFTER THE THEATRE

NADYA ZELENIN had just come back with her mamma from the theatre whereshe had seen a performance of "Yevgeny Onyegin. " As soon as she reachedher own room she threw off her dress, let down her hair, and in herpetticoat and white dressing-jacket hastily sat down to the table towrite a letter like Tatyana's. 

"I love you, " she wrote, "but you do not love me, do not love me!"

She wrote it and laughed. 

She was only sixteen and did not yet love anyone. She knew that anofficer called Gorny and a student called Gruzdev loved her, but nowafter the opera she wanted to be doubtful of their love. To be unlovedand unhappy--how interesting that was. There is something beautiful, touching, and poetical about it when one loves and the other isindifferent. Onyegin was interesting because he was not in love at all, and Tatyana was fascinating because she was so much in love; but if theyhad been equally in love with each other and had been happy, they wouldperhaps have seemed dull. 

"Leave off declaring that you love me, " Nadya went on writing, thinkingof Gorny. "I cannot believe it. You are very clever, cultivated, serious, you have immense talent, and perhaps a brilliant future awaitsyou, while I am an uninteresting girl of no importance, and you knowvery well that I should be only a hindrance in your life. It is truethat you were attracted by me and thought you had found your ideal inme, but that was a mistake, and now you are asking yourself in despair:'Why did I meet that girl?' And only your goodness of heart prevents youfrom owning it to yourself. .. . "

Nadya felt sorry for herself, she began to cry, and went on:

"It is hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, or I should take anun's veil and go whither chance may lead me. And you would be left freeand would love another. Oh, if I were dead!"

She could not make out what she had written through her tears; littlerainbows were quivering on the table, on the floor, on the ceiling, asthough she were looking through a prism. She could not write, she sankback in her easy-chair and fell to thinking of Gorny. 

My God! how interesting, how fascinating men were! Nadya recalled thefine expression, ingratiating, guilty, and soft, which came into theofficer's face when one argued about music with him, and the effort hemade to prevent his voice from betraying his passion. In a society wherecold haughtiness and indifference are regarded as signs of good breedingand gentlemanly bearing, one must conceal one's passions. And he didtry to conceal them, but he did not succeed, and everyone knew very wellthat he had a passionate love of music. The endless discussions aboutmusic and the bold criticisms of people who knew nothing about it kepthim always on the strain; he was frightened, timid, and silent. Heplayed the piano magnificently, like a professional pianist, and if hehad not been in the army he would certainly have been a famous musician. 

The tears on her eyes dried. Nadya remembered that Gorny had declaredhis love at a Symphony concert, and again downstairs by the hatstandwhere there was a tremendous draught blowing in all directions. 

"I am very glad that you have at last made the acquaintance of Gruzdev, our student friend, " she went on writing. "He is a very clever man, andyou will be sure to like him. He came to see us yesterday and stayedtill two o'clock. We were all delighted with him, and I regretted thatyou had not come. He said a great deal that was remarkable. "

Nadya laid her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, and herhair covered the letter. She recalled that the student, too, loved her, and that he had as much right to a letter from her as Gorny. Wouldn't itbe better after all to write to Gruzdev? There was a stir of joy in herbosom for no reason whatever; at first the joy was small, and rolledin her bosom like an india-rubber ball; then it became more massive, bigger, and rushed like a wave. Nadya forgot Gorny and Gruzdev; herthoughts were in a tangle and her joy grew and grew; from her bosom itpassed into her arms and legs, and it seemed as though a light, coolbreeze were breathing on her head and ruffling her hair. Her shouldersquivered with subdued laughter, the table and the lamp chimney shook, too, and tears from her eyes splashed on the letter. She could notstop laughing, and to prove to herself that she was not laughing aboutnothing she made haste to think of something funny. 

"What a funny poodle, " she said, feeling as though she would choke withlaughter. "What a funny poodle!"

She thought how, after tea the evening before, Gruzdev had played withMaxim the poodle, and afterwards had told them about a very intelligentpoodle who had run after a crow in the yard, and the crow had lookedround at him and said: "Oh, you scamp!"

The poodle, not knowing he had to do with a learned crow, was fearfullyconfused and retreated in perplexity, then began barking. .. . 

"No, I had better love Gruzdev, " Nadya decided, and she tore up theletter to Gorny. 

She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; but thethoughts in her head insisted on flowing in all directions, and shethought about everything--about her mother, about the street, about thepencil, about the piano. .. . She thought of them joyfully, and feltthat everything was good, splendid, and her joy told her that this wasnot all, that in a little while it would be better still. Soon it wouldbe spring, summer, going with her mother to Gorbiki. Gorny would comefor his furlough, would walk about the garden with her and make loveto her. Gruzdev would come too. He would play croquet and skittles withher, and would tell her wonderful things. She had a passionate longingfor the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again hershoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed to her that there was ascent of wormwood in the room and that a twig was tapping at the window. 

She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with theimmense joy which filled her with yearning, she looked at the holy imagehanging at the back of her bed, and said:

"Oh, Lord God! Oh, Lord God!"

A LADY'S STORY

NINE years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I wereriding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from thestation. 

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal ofthunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straighttowards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approachingit. 

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and thetall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sortsof nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon amedieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, inwhich we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by athunderbolt. .. . 

Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, therewas a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. PyotrSergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse. 

"It's fine!" he cried, "it's splendid!"

Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that ina minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck bylightning. 

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, andfeels like a bird, thrills one and puts one's heart in a flutter. By thetime we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops ofrain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soulnear the stable. 

Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses totheir stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, andwatching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent ofhay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and therain made it almost twilight. 

"What a crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loudrolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split intwo. "What do you say to that?"

He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapidride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me. 

"Natalya Vladimirovna, " he said, "I would give anything only to stayhere a little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day. "

His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love. 

"I love you, " he said. "I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I knowyou cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know thatI love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but onlyknow that you are dear to me and let me look at you. "

His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listenedto his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood asthough spellbound, unable to stir. 

I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening. 

"You say nothing, and that is splendid, " said Pyotr Sergeyitch. "Go onbeing silent. "

I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rainto the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me. 

Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we dashed into the room. My father and brother, who were not used toseeing me laughing and light-hearted, looked at me in surprise and beganlaughing too. 

The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but theraindrops still glittered on Pyotr Sergeyitch's beard. The whole eveningtill supper-time he was singing, whistling, playing noisily with the dogand racing about the room after it, so that he nearly upset the servantwith the samovar. And at supper he ate a great deal, talked nonsense, and maintained that when one eats fresh cucumbers in winter there is thefragrance of spring in one's mouth. 

When I went to bed I lighted a candle and threw my window wide open, andan undefined feeling took possession of my soul. I remembered that I wasfree and healthy, that I had rank and wealth, that I was beloved; aboveall, that I had rank and wealth, rank and wealth, my God! how nice thatwas!. .. Then, huddling up in bed at a touch of cold which reached mefrom the garden with the dew, I tried to discover whether I loved PyotrSergeyitch or not, . .. And fell asleep unable to reach any conclusion. 

And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and theshadows of the lime trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rosevividly in my memory. Life seemed to me rich, varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the garden. .. . 

And what happened afterwards? Why--nothing. In the winter when we livedin town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us from time to time. Countryacquaintances are charming only in the country and in summer; in thetown and in winter they lose their charm. When you pour out tea for themin the town it seems as though they are wearing other people's coats, and as though they stirred their tea too long. In the town, too, PyotrSergeyitch spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all thesame as in the country. In the town we were more vividly conscious ofthe wall that stood between us. I had rank and wealth, while he waspoor, and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon anda deputy public prosecutor; we both of us--I through my youth and he forsome unknown reason--thought of that wall as very high and thick, andwhen he was with us in the town he would criticize aristocratic societywith a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence when there wasanyone else in the drawing-room. There is no wall that cannot be brokenthrough, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready toresign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, thatpersonal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they merelycriticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticismpasses little by little into vulgarity. 

I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almosttouching me; I went on living in careless ease without trying tounderstand myself, not knowing what I expected or what I wanted fromlife, and time went on and on. .. . People passed by me with theirlove, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, thehay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was notprized, and vanished like mist. .. . Where is it all?

My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me hope--the patter of the rain, the rolling ofthe thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love--all that has becomenothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; onthe plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is darkand terrible. .. . 

A ring at the bell. .. . It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter Isee the trees and remember how green they were for me in the summer Iwhisper:

"Oh, my darlings!"

And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowfuland warm and whisper the same thing. 

He has long ago by my father's good offices been transferred to town. He looks a little older, a little fallen away. He has long given updeclaring his love, has left off talking nonsense, dislikes his officialwork, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up trying toget anything out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now he hassat down by the hearth and looks in silence at the fire. .. . 

Not knowing what to say I ask him:

"Well, what have you to tell me?"

"Nothing, " he answers. 

And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholyface. 

I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, myhead dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry formyself and for this man, and passionately longed for what had passedaway and what life refused us now. And now I did not think about rankand wealth. 

I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:

"My God! my God! my life is wasted!"

And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: "Don't weep. " Heunderstood that I must weep, and that the time for this had come. 

I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and vexed with this timid, unsuccessful man who could not make alife for me, nor for himself. 

When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long whileputting on his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and lookeda long while into my tear-stained face. I believe at that moment herecalled the storm, the streaks of rain, our laughter, my face that day;he longed to say something to me, and he would have been glad to say it;but he said nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. Godhelp him!

After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on thecarpet before the fireplace; the red embers were covered with ash andbegan to grow dim. The frost tapped still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney. 

The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name. 

IN EXILE

OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew byname, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the otherthree ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean andtoothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk;he would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in hispocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him forvodka. The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his ragswas describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what abeautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not morethan twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his paleand sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy. 

"To be sure, it is not paradise here, " said Canny. "You can see foryourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else. .. . Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and thismorning there was snow. .. "

"It's bad! it's bad!" said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror. 

The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lappedagainst the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-awaysea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which theferrymen called a "karbos. " Far away on the further bank, lights, dyingdown and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they wereburning last year's grass. And beyond the little snakes there wasdarkness again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against thebarge It was damp and cold. .. . 

The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, andthe same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in theSimbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky. 

"It's bad! it's bad!" he repeated. 

"You will get used to it, " said Semyon, and he laughed. "Now you areyoung and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems toyou in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but thetime will come when you will say to yourself: 'I wish no one a betterlife than mine. ' You look at me. Within a week the floods will be overand we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off aboutSiberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I'vebeen going like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike andthe salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank Godfor it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life. "

The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to theblaze, and said:

"My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will comehere. They have promised. "

"And what do you want your wife and mother for?" asked Canny. "That'smere foolishness, my lad. It's the devil confounding you, damn his soul!Don't you listen to him, the cursed one. Don't let him have his way. Heis at you about the women, but you spite him; say, 'I don't want them!'He is on at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: 'Idon't want it!' I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, norfreedom, nor post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!"

Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on:

"I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son ofa deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear afrockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I can sleepnaked on the ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a better life. Iwant nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is thatthere is nobody richer and freer than I am. When they sent me here fromRussia from the first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil wasat me about my wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him:'I want nothing. ' I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and Idon't complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him, if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: he is sunk inthe bog to the crown of his head and will never get out. 

"It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, well-educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentlemanhere from Russia. He hadn't shared something with his brothers and hadforged something in a will. They did say he was a prince or a baron, butmaybe he was simply an official--who knows? Well, the gentlemanarrived here, and first thing he bought himself a house and land inMuhortinskoe. 'I want to live by my own work, ' says he, 'in the sweatof my brow, for I am not a gentleman now, ' says he, 'but a settler. ''Well, ' says I, 'God help you, that's the right thing. ' He was a youngman then, busy and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish andride sixty miles on horseback. Only this is what happened: from the veryfirst year he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand onmy ferry and sigh: 'Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me anymoney from home!' 'You don't want money, Vassily Sergeyitch, ' says I. 'What use is it to you? You cast away the past, and forget it as thoughit had never been at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin tolive anew. Don't listen to the devil, ' says I; 'he will bring you to nogood, he'll draw you into a snare. Now you want money, ' says I, 'but ina very little while you'll be wanting something else, and then more andmore. If you want to be happy, ' says I, the chief thing is not towant anything. Yes. .. . If, ' says I, 'if Fate has wronged you and mecruelly it's no good asking for her favor and bowing down to her, butyou despise her and laugh at her, or else she will laugh at you. ' That'swhat I said to him. .. . 

"Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbinghis hands and laughing. 'I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife, ' sayshe. 'She was sorry for me, ' says he; 'she has come. She is good andkind. ' And he was breathless with joy. So a day later he came with hiswife. A beautiful young lady in a hat; in her arms was a baby girl. And lots of luggage of all sorts. And my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussinground her; he couldn't take his eyes off her and couldn't say enough inpraise of her. 'Yes, brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!''Oh, all right, ' thinks I, 'it will be a different tale presently. 'And from that time forward he went almost every week to inquire whethermoney had not come from Russia. He wanted a lot of money. 'She is losingher youth and beauty here in Siberia for my sake, ' says he, 'and sharingmy bitter lot with me, and so I ought, ' says he, 'to provide her withevery comfort. .. . '

"To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with theofficials and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to give foodand drink to all that crew, and there had to be a piano and ashaggy lapdog on the sofa--plague take it!. .. Luxury, in fact, self-indulgence. The lady did not stay with him long. How could she? Theclay, the water, the cold, no vegetables for you, no fruit. All aroundyou ignorant and drunken people and no sort of manners, and she wasa spoilt lady from Petersburg or Moscow. .. . To be sure she moped. Besides, her husband, say what you like, was not a gentleman now, but asettler--not the same rank. 

"Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, there wasshouting from the further bank. I went over with the ferry, and what doI see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with her a young gentleman, anofficial. A sledge with three horses. .. . I ferried them across here, they got in and away like the wind. They were soon lost to sight. Andtowards morning Vassily Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry. 'Didn'tmy wife come this way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?' 'Shedid, ' said I; 'you may look for the wind in the fields!' He galloped inpursuit of them. For five days and nights he was riding after them. WhenI ferried him over to the other side afterwards, he flung himself onthe ferry and beat his head on the boards of the ferry and howled. 'Sothat's how it is, ' says I. I laughed, and reminded him 'people can liveeven in Siberia!' And he beat his head harder than ever. .. . 

"Then he began longing for freedom. His wife had slipped off to Russia, and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get her away from herlover. And he took, my lad, to galloping almost every day, either tothe post or the town to see the commanding officer; he kept sending inpetitions for them to have mercy on him and let him go back home; andhe used to say that he had spent some two hundred roubles on telegramsalone. He sold his land and mortgaged his house to the Jews. He grewgray and bent, and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption. If he talked to you he would go, khee--khee--khee, . .. And there weretears in his eyes. He kept rushing about like this with petitions foreight years, but now he has grown brighter and more cheerful again: hehas found another whim to give way to. You see, his daughter has grownup. He looks at her, and she is the apple of his eye. And to tell thetruth she is all right, good-looking, with black eyebrows and a livelydisposition. Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino. They used to stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and hecould not take his eyes off her. 'Yes, Semyon, ' says he, 'people canlive even in Siberia. Even in Siberia there is happiness. Look, ' sayshe, 'what a daughter I have got! I warrant you wouldn't find anotherlike her for a thousand versts round. ' 'Your daughter is all right, 'says I, 'that's true, certainly. ' But to myself I thought: 'Wait a bit, the wench is young, her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and thereis no life here. ' And she did begin to pine, my lad. .. . She faded andfaded, and now she can hardly crawl about. Consumption. 

"So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul! You see howpeople can live in Siberia. .. . He has taken to going from one doctorto another and taking them home with him. As soon as he hears that twoor three hundred miles away there is a doctor or a sorcerer, he willdrive to fetch him. A terrible lot of money he spent on doctors, and tomy thinking he had better have spent the money on drink. .. . She'lldie just the same. She is certain to die, and then it will be all overwith him. He'll hang himself from grief or run away to Russia--that's asure thing. He'll run away and they'll catch him, then he will be tried, sent to prison, he will have a taste of the lash. .. . "

"Good! good!" said the Tatar, shivering with cold. 

"What is good?" asked Canny. 

"His wife, his daughter. .. . What of prison and what ofsorrow!--anyway, he did see his wife and his daughter. .. . You say, want nothing. But 'nothing' is bad! His wife lived with him threeyears--that was a gift from God. 'Nothing' is bad, but three years isgood. How not understand?"

Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian words ofwhich he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid one should fallsick and die in a strange land, and be buried in the cold and darkearth; that if his wife came to him for one day, even for one hour, thatfor such happiness he would be ready to bear any suffering and to thankGod. Better one day of happiness than nothing. 

Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had leftat home. Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began crying andassuring Semyon that he was not guilty, and was suffering for nothing. His two brothers and an uncle had carried off a peasant's horses, andhad beaten the old man till he was half dead, and the commune had notjudged fairly, but had contrived a sentence by which all the threebrothers were sent to Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left athome. 

"You will get used to it!" said Semyon. 

The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the fire;his face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he still didnot understand why he was here in the darkness and the wet, besidestrangers, and not in the Simbirsk province. 

Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming a songin an undertone. 

"What joy has she with her father?" he said a little later. "He lovesher and he rejoices in her, that's true; but, mate, you must mind yourps and qs with him, he is a strict old man, a harsh old man. And youngwenches don't want strictness. They want petting and ha-ha-ha! andho-ho-ho! and scent and pomade. Yes. .. . Ech! life, life, " sighedSemyon, and he got up heavily. "The vodka is all gone, so it is time tosleep. Eh? I am going, my lad. .. . "

Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at thefire; he began thinking of his own village and of his wife. If his wifecould only come for a month, for a day; and then if she liked she mightgo back again. Better a month or even a day than nothing. But if hiswife kept her promise and came, what would he have to feed her on? Wherecould she live here?

"If there were not something to eat, how could she live?" the Tatarasked aloud. 

He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at theoar; it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for vodkas butthe men shared all they received among themselves, and gave nothingto the Tatar, but only laughed at him. And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and frightened. .. . Now, when his whole body was aching andshivering, he ought to go into the hut and lie down to sleep; but he hadnothing to cover him there, and it was colder than on the river-bank;here he had nothing to cover him either, but at least he could make upthe fire. .. . 

In another week, when the floods were quite over and they set the ferrygoing, none of the ferrymen but Semyon would be wanted, and the Tatarwould begin going from village to village begging for alms and for work. His wife was only seventeen; she was beautiful, spoilt, and shy; couldshe possibly go from village to village begging alms with her faceunveiled? No, it was terrible even to think of that. .. . 

It was already getting light; the barge, the bushes of willow on thewater, and the waves could be clearly discerned, and if one looked roundthere was the steep clay slope; at the bottom of it the hut thatchedwith dingy brown straw, and the huts of the village lay clustered higherup. The cocks were already crowing in the village. 

The rusty red clay slope, the barge, the river, the strange, unkindpeople, hunger, cold, illness, perhaps all that was not real. Mostlikely it was all a dream, thought the Tatar. He felt that he wasasleep and heard his own snoring. .. . Of course he was at home in theSimbirsk province, and he had only to call his wife by name for her toanswer; and in the next room was his mother. .. . What terrible dreamsthere are, though! What are they for? The Tatar smiled and opened hiseyes. What river was this, the Volga?

Snow was falling. 

"Boat!" was shouted on the further side. "Boat!"

The Tatar woke up, and went to wake his mates and row over to the otherside. The ferrymen came on to the river-bank, putting on their tornsheepskins as they walked, swearing with voices husky from sleepinessand shivering from the cold. On waking from their sleep, the river, fromwhich came a breath of piercing cold, seemed to strike them as revoltingand horrible. They jumped into the barge without hurrying themselves. .. . The Tatar and the three ferrymen took the long, broad-bladed oars, which in the darkness looked like the claws of crabs; Semyon leaned hisstomach against the tiller. The shout on the other side still continued, and two shots were fired from a revolver, probably with the idea thatthe ferrymen were asleep or had gone to the pot-house in the village. 

"All right, you have plenty of time, " said Semyon in the tone of a manconvinced that there was no necessity in this world to hurry--that itwould lead to nothing, anyway. 

The heavy, clumsy barge moved away from the bank and floated between thewillow-bushes, and only the willows slowly moving back showed that thebarge was not standing still but moving. The ferrymen swung theoars evenly in time; Semyon lay with his stomach on the tiller and, describing a semicircle in the air, flew from one side to the other. In the darkness it looked as though the men were sitting on someantediluvian animal with long paws, and were moving on it througha cold, desolate land, the land of which one sometimes dreams innightmares. 

They passed beyond the willows and floated out into the open. The creakand regular splash of the oars was heard on the further shore, and ashout came: "Make haste! make haste!"

Another ten minutes passed, and the barge banged heavily against thelanding-stage. 

"And it keeps sprinkling and sprinkling, " muttered Semyon, wiping thesnow from his face; "and where it all comes from God only knows. "

On the bank stood a thin man of medium height in a jacket lined with foxfur and in a white lambskin cap. He was standing at a little distancefrom his horses and not moving; he had a gloomy, concentratedexpression, as though he were trying to remember something and angrywith his untrustworthy memory. When Semyon went up to him and took offhis cap, smiling, he said:

"I am hastening to Anastasyevka. My daughter's worse again, and they saythat there is a new doctor at Anastasyevka. "

They dragged the carriage on to the barge and floated back. The man whomSemyon addressed as Vassily Sergeyitch stood all the time motionless, tightly compressing his thick lips and staring off into space; when hiscoachman asked permission to smoke in his presence he made no answer, asthough he had not heard. Semyon, lying with his stomach on the tiller, looked mockingly at him and said:

"Even in Siberia people can live--can li-ive!"

There was a triumphant expression on Canny's face, as though he hadproved something and was delighted that things had happened as hehad foretold. The unhappy helplessness of the man in the foxskin coatevidently afforded him great pleasure. 

"It's muddy driving now, Vassily Sergeyitch, " he said when the horseswere harnessed again on the bank. "You should have put off going foranother fortnight, when it will be drier. Or else not have gone at all. . .. If any good would come of your going--but as you know yourself, people have been driving about for years and years, day and night, andit's alway's been no use. That's the truth. "

Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his carriage anddrove off. 

"There, he has galloped off for a doctor!" said Semyon, shrinking fromthe cold. "But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the wind in thefields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take your soul! What aqueer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!"

The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred andrepulsion, shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken Russian, said: "He is good. .. Good; but you are bad! You are bad! Thegentleman is a good soul, excellent, and you are a beast, bad! Thegentleman is alive, but you are a dead carcass. .. . God created man tobe alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and youwant nothing. You are a stone, and God does not love you, but He lovesthe gentleman!"

Everyone laughed; the Tatar frowned contemptuously, and with a waveof his hand wrapped himself in his rags and went to the campfire. Theferrymen and Semyon sauntered to the hut. 

"It's cold, " said one ferryman huskily as he stretched himself on thestraw with which the damp clay floor was covered. 

"Yes, its not warm, " another assented. "It's a dog's life. .. . "

They all lay down. The door was thrown open by the wind and the snowdrifted into the hut; nobody felt inclined to get up and shut the door:they were cold, and it was too much trouble. 

"I am all right, " said Semyon as he began to doze. "I wouldn't wishanyone a better life. "

"You are a tough one, we all know. Even the devils won't take you!"

Sounds like a dog's howling came from outside. 

"What's that? Who's there?"

"It's the Tatar crying. "

"I say. .. . He's a queer one!"

"He'll get u-used to it!" said Semyon, and at once fell asleep. 

The others were soon asleep too. The door remained unclosed. 

THE CATTLE-DEALERS

THE long goods train has been standing for hours in the little station. The engine is as silent as though its fire had gone out; there is not asoul near the train or in the station yard. 

A pale streak of light comes from one of the vans and glides over therails of a siding. In that van two men are sitting on an outspread cape:one is an old man with a big gray beard, wearing a sheepskin coat and ahigh lambskin hat, somewhat like a busby; the other a beardless youthin a threadbare cloth reefer jacket and muddy high boots. They are theowners of the goods. The old man sits, his legs stretched out beforehim, musing in silence; the young man half reclines and softly strumson a cheap accordion. A lantern with a tallow candle in it is hanging onthe wall near them. 

The van is quite full. If one glances in through the dim light ofthe lantern, for the first moment the eyes receive an impression ofsomething shapeless, monstrous, and unmistakably alive, something verymuch like gigantic crabs which move their claws and feelers, crowdtogether, and noiselessly climb up the walls to the ceiling; but ifone looks more closely, horns and their shadows, long lean backs, dirtyhides, tails, eyes begin to stand out in the dusk. They are cattle andtheir shadows. There are eight of them in the van. Some turn round andstare at the men and swing their tails. Others try to stand or lie downmore comfortably. They are crowded. If one lies down the others muststand and huddle closer. No manger, no halter, no litter, not a wisp ofhay. .. . *

At last the old man pulls out of his pocket a silver watch and looks atthe time: a quarter past two. 

"We have been here nearly two hours, " he says, yawning. "Better go andstir them up, or we may be here till morning. They have gone to sleep, or goodness knows what they are up to. "

The old man gets up and, followed by his long shadow, cautiously getsdown from the van into the darkness. He makes his way along beside thetrain to the engine, and after passing some two dozen vans sees a redopen furnace; a human figure sits motionless facing it; its peaked cap, nose, and knees are lighted up by the crimson glow, all the rest isblack and can scarcely be distinguished in the darkness. 

"Are we going to stay here much longer?" asks the old man. 

No answer. The motionless figure is evidently asleep. The old man clearshis throat impatiently and, shrinking from the penetrating damp, walksround the engine, and as he does so the brilliant light of the twoengine lamps dazzles his eyes for an instant and makes the night evenblacker to him; he goes to the station. 

The platform and steps of the station are wet. Here and there are whitepatches of freshly fallen melting snow. In the station itself it islight and as hot as a steam-bath. There is a smell of paraffin. Exceptfor the weighing-machine and a yellow seat on which a man wearing aguard's uniform is asleep, there is no furniture in the place at all. On the left are two wide-open doors. Through one of them the telegraphicapparatus and a lamp with a green shade on it can be seen; through theother, a small room, half of it taken up by a dark cupboard. Inthis room the head guard and the engine-driver are sitting on thewindow-sill. They are both feeling a cap with their fingers anddisputing. 

"That's not real beaver, it's imitation, " says the engine-driver. "Realbeaver is not like that. Five roubles would be a high price for thewhole cap, if you care to know!"

"You know a great deal about it, . .. " the head guard says, offended. "Five roubles, indeed! Here, we will ask the merchant. Mr. Malahin, " hesays, addressing the old man, "what do you say: is this imitation beaveror real?"

Old Malahin takes the cap into his hand, and with the air of aconnoisseur pinches the fur, blows on it, sniffs at it, and acontemptuous smile lights up his angry face. 

"It must be imitation!" he says gleefully. "Imitation it is. "

A dispute follows. The guard maintains that the cap is real beaver, andthe engine-driver and Malahin try to persuade him that it is not. In themiddle of the argument the old man suddenly remembers the object of hiscoming. 

"Beaver and cap is all very well, but the train's standing still, gentlemen!" he says. "Who is it we are waiting for? Let us start!"

"Let us, " the guard agrees. "We will smoke another cigarette and go on. But there is no need to be in a hurry. .. . We shall be delayed at thenext station anyway!"

"Why should we?"

"Oh, well. .. . We are too much behind time. .. . If you are late atone station you can't help being delayed at the other stations to letthe trains going the opposite way pass. Whether we set off now or inthe morning we shan't be number fourteen. We shall have to be numbertwenty-three. "

"And how do you make that out?"

"Well, there it is. "

Malahin looks at the guard, reflects, and mutters mechanically as thoughto himself:

"God be my judge, I have reckoned it and even jotted it down in anotebook; we have wasted thirty-four hours standing still on thejourney. If you go on like this, either the cattle will die, or theywon't pay me two roubles for the meat when I do get there. It's nottraveling, but ruination. "

The guard raises his eyebrows and sighs with an air that seems to say:"All that is unhappily true!" The engine-driver sits silent, dreamilylooking at the cap. From their faces one can see that they have a secretthought in common, which they do not utter, not because they want toconceal it, but because such thoughts are much better expressed by signsthan by words. And the old man understands. He feels in his pocket, takes out a ten-rouble note, and without preliminary words, without anychange in the tone of his voice or the expression of his face, but withthe confidence and directness with which probably only Russians give andtake bribes, he gives the guard the note. The latter takes it, folds itin four, and without undue haste puts it in his pocket. After that allthree go out of the room, and waking the sleeping guard on the way, goon to the platform. 

"What weather!" grumbles the head guard, shrugging his shoulders. "Youcan't see your hand before your face. "

"Yes, it's vile weather. "

From the window they can see the flaxen head of the telegraph clerkappear beside the green lamp and the telegraphic apparatus; soon afteranother head, bearded and wearing a red cap, appears beside it--no doubtthat of the station-master. The station-master bends down to the table, reads something on a blue form, rapidly passing his cigarette along thelines. .. . Malahin goes to his van. 

The young man, his companion, is still half reclining and hardly audiblystrumming on the accordion. He is little more than a boy, with notrace of a mustache; his full white face with its broad cheek-bones ischildishly dreamy; his eyes have a melancholy and tranquil look unlikethat of a grown-up person, but he is broad, strong, heavy and rough likethe old man; he does not stir nor shift his position, as though he isnot equal to moving his big body. It seems as though any movement hemade would tear his clothes and be so noisy as to frighten both him andthe cattle. From under his big fat fingers that clumsily pick out thestops and keys of the accordion comes a steady flow of thin, tinklingsounds which blend into a simple, monotonous little tune; he listens toit, and is evidently much pleased with his performance. 

A bell rings, but with such a muffled note that it seems to come fromfar away. A hurried second bell soon follows, then a third and theguard's whistle. A minute passes in profound silence; the van does notmove, it stands still, but vague sounds begin to come from beneath it, like the crunch of snow under sledge-runners; the van begins to shakeand the sounds cease. Silence reigns again. But now comes the clank ofbuffers, the violent shock makes the van start and, as it were, give alurch forward, and all the cattle fall against one another. 

"May you be served the same in the world to come, " grumbles the old man, setting straight his cap, which had slipped on the back of his head fromthe jolt. "He'll maim all my cattle like this!"

Yasha gets up without a word and, taking one of the fallen beasts by thehorns, helps it to get on to its legs. .. . The jolt is followed by astillness again. The sounds of crunching snow come from under the vanagain, and it seems as though the train had moved back a little. 

"There will be another jolt in a minute, " says the old man. And theconvulsive quiver does, in fact, run along the train, there is acrashing sound and the bullocks fall on one another again. 

"It's a job!" says Yasha, listening. "The train must be heavy. It seemsit won't move. "

"It was not heavy before, but now it has suddenly got heavy. No, mylad, the guard has not gone shares with him, I expect. Go and take himsomething, or he will be jolting us till morning. "

Yasha takes a three-rouble note from the old man and jumps out of thevan. The dull thud of his heavy footsteps resounds outside the van andgradually dies away. Stillness. .. . In the next van a bullock utters aprolonged subdued "moo, " as though it were singing. 

Yasha comes back. A cold damp wind darts into the van. 

"Shut the door, Yasha, and we will go to bed, " says the old man. "Whyburn a candle for nothing?"

Yasha moves the heavy door; there is a sound of a whistle, the engineand the train set off. 

"It's cold, " mutters the old man, stretching himself on the cape andlaying his head on a bundle. "It is very different at home! It's warmand clean and soft, and there is room to say your prayers, but herewe are worse off than any pigs. It's four days and nights since I havetaken off my boots. "

Yasha, staggering from the jolting of the train, opens the lantern andsnuffs out the wick with his wet fingers. The light flares up, hisseslike a frying pan and goes out. 

"Yes, my lad, " Malahin goes on, as he feels Yasha lie down beside himand the young man's huge back huddle against his own, "it's cold. Thereis a draught from every crack. If your mother or your sister were tosleep here for one night they would be dead by morning. There it is, mylad, you wouldn't study and go to the high school like your brothers, soyou must take the cattle with your father. It's your own fault, you haveonly yourself to blame. .. . Your brothers are asleep in their bedsnow, they are snug under the bedclothes, but you, the careless and lazyone, are in the same box as the cattle. .. . Yes. .. . "

The old man's words are inaudible in the noise of the train, but for along time he goes on muttering, sighing and clearing his throat. .. . The cold air in the railway van grows thicker and more stifling Thepungent odor of fresh dung and smoldering candle makes it so repulsiveand acrid that it irritates Yasha's throat and chest as he falls asleep. He coughs and sneezes, while the old man, being accustomed to it, breathes with his whole chest as though nothing were amiss, and merelyclears his throat. 

To judge from the swaying of the van and the rattle of the wheels thetrain is moving rapidly and unevenly. The engine breathes heavily, snorting out of time with the pulsation of the train, and altogetherthere is a medley of sounds. The bullocks huddle together uneasily andknock their horns against the walls. 

When the old man wakes up, the deep blue sky of early morning is peepingin at the cracks and at the little uncovered window. He feels unbearablycold, especially in the back and the feet. The train is standing still;Yasha, sleepy and morose, is busy with the cattle. 

The old man wakes up out of humor. Frowning and gloomy, he clears histhroat angrily and looks from under his brows at Yasha who, supporting abullock with his powerful shoulder and slightly lifting it, is trying todisentangle its leg. 

"I told you last night that the cords were too long, " mutters the oldman; "but no, 'It's not too long, Daddy. ' There's no making you doanything, you will have everything your own way. .. . Blockhead!"

He angrily moves the door open and the light rushes into the van. Apassenger train is standing exactly opposite the door, and behind it ared building with a roofed-in platform--a big station with a refreshmentbar. The roofs and bridges of the trains, the earth, the sleepers, allare covered with a thin coating of fluffy, freshly fallen snow. In thespaces between the carriages of the passenger train the passengers canbe seen moving to and fro, and a red-haired, red-faced gendarme walkingup and down; a waiter in a frock-coat and a snow-white shirt-front, looking cold and sleepy, and probably very much dissatisfied with hisfate, is running along the platform carrying a glass of tea and tworusks on a tray. 

The old man gets up and begins saying his prayers towards the east. Yasha, having finished with the bullock and put down the spade in thecorner, stands beside him and says his prayers also. He merely moveshis lips and crosses himself; the father prays in a loud whisper andpronounces the end of each prayer aloud and distinctly. 

". .. And the life of the world to come. Amen, " the old man says aloud, draws in a breath, and at once whispers another prayer, rapping outclearly and firmly at the end: ". .. And lay calves upon Thy altar!"

After saying his prayers, Yasha hurriedly crosses himself and says:"Five kopecks, please. "

And on being given the five-kopeck piece, he takes a red copper teapotand runs to the station for boiling water. Taking long jumps overthe rails and sleepers, leaving huge tracks in the feathery snow, and pouring away yesterday's tea out of the teapot he runs to therefreshment room and jingles his five-kopeck piece against his teapot. From the van the bar-keeper can be seen pushing away the big teapot andrefusing to give half of his samovar for five kopecks, but Yashaturns the tap himself and, spreading wide his elbows so as not to beinterfered with fills his teapot with boiling water. 

"Damned blackguard!" the bar-keeper shouts after him as he runs back tothe railway van. 

The scowling face of Malahin grows a little brighter over the tea. 

"We know how to eat and drink, but we don't remember our work. Yesterdaywe could do nothing all day but eat and drink, and I'll be bound weforgot to put down what we spent. What a memory! Lord have mercy on us!"

The old man recalls aloud the expenditure of the day before, and writesdown in a tattered notebook where and how much he had given to guards, engine-drivers, oilers. .. . 

Meanwhile the passenger train has long ago gone off, and an engineruns backwards and forwards on the empty line, apparently without anydefinite object, but simply enjoying its freedom. The sun has risen andis playing on the snow; bright drops are falling from the station roofand the tops of the vans. 

Having finished his tea, the old man lazily saunters from the van to thestation. Here in the middle of the first-class waiting-room he sees thefamiliar figure of the guard standing beside the station-master, a youngman with a handsome beard and in a magnificent rough woollen overcoat. The young man, probably new to his position, stands in the same place, gracefully shifting from one foot to the other like a good racehorse, looks from side to side, salutes everyone that passes by, smiles andscrews up his eyes. .. . He is red-cheeked, sturdy, and good-humored;his face is full of eagerness, and is as fresh as though he had justfallen from the sky with the feathery snow. Seeing Malahin, the guardsighs guiltily and throws up his hands. 

"We can't go number fourteen, " he says. "We are very much behind time. Another train has gone with that number. "

The station-master rapidly looks through some forms, then turns hisbeaming blue eyes upon Malahin, and, his face radiant with smiles andfreshness, showers questions on him:

"You are Mr. Malahin? You have the cattle? Eight vanloads? What is to bedone now? You are late and I let number fourteen go in the night. Whatare we to do now?"

The young man discreetly takes hold of the fur of Malahin's coat withtwo pink fingers and, shifting from one foot to the other, explainsaffably and convincingly that such and such numbers have gone already, and that such and such are going, and that he is ready to do for Malahineverything in his power. And from his face it is evident that he isready to do anything to please not only Malahin, but the whole world--heis so happy, so pleased, and so delighted! The old man listens, andthough he can make absolutely nothing of the intricate system ofnumbering the trains, he nods his head approvingly, and he, too, putstwo fingers on the soft wool of the rough coat. He enjoys seeing andhearing the polite and genial young man. To show goodwill on his sidealso, he takes out a ten-rouble note and, after a moment's thought, addsa couple of rouble notes to it, and gives them to the station-master. The latter takes them, puts his finger to his cap, and gracefullythrusts them into his pocket. 

"Well, gentlemen, can't we arrange it like this?" he says, kindled by anew idea that has flashed on him. "The troop train is late, . .. As yousee, it is not here, . .. So why shouldn't you go as the troop train?**And I will let the troop train go as twenty-eight. Eh?"

"If you like, " agrees the guard. 

"Excellent!" the station-master says, delighted. "In that case there isno need for you to wait here; you can set off at once. I'll dispatch youimmediately. Excellent!"

He salutes Malahin and runs off to his room, reading forms as he goes. The old man is very much pleased by the conversation that has justtaken place; he smiles and looks about the room as though looking forsomething else agreeable. 

"We'll have a drink, though, " he says, taking the guard's arm. 

"It seems a little early for drinking. "

"No, you must let me treat you to a glass in a friendly way. "

They both go to the refreshment bar. After having a drink the guardspends a long time selecting something to eat. 

He is a very stout, elderly man, with a puffy and discolored face. Hisfatness is unpleasant, flabby-looking, and he is sallow as people arewho drink too much and sleep irregularly. 

"And now we might have a second glass, " says Malahin. "It's cold now, it's no sin to drink. Please take some. So I can rely upon you, Mr. Guard, that there will be no hindrance or unpleasantness for the restof the journey. For you know in moving cattle every hour is precious. To-day meat is one price; and to-morrow, look you, it will be another. If you are a day or two late and don't get your price, instead of aprofit you get home--excuse my saying it--with out your breeches. Praytake a little. .. . I rely on you, and as for standing you something orwhat you like, I shall be pleased to show you my respect at any time. "

After having fed the guard, Malahin goes back to the van. 

"I have just got hold of the troop train, " he says to his son. "We shallgo quickly. The guard says if we go all the way with that number weshall arrive at eight o'clock to-morrow evening. If one does not bestironeself, my boy, one gets nothing. .. . That's so. .. . So you watchand learn. .. . "

After the first bell a man with a face black with soot, in a blouse andfilthy frayed trousers hanging very slack, comes to the door of the van. This is the oiler, who had been creeping under the carriages and tappingthe wheels with a hammer. 

"Are these your vans of cattle?" he asks. 

"Yes. Why?"

"Why, because two of the vans are not safe. They can't go on, they muststay here to be repaired. "

"Oh, come, tell us another! You simply want a drink, to get somethingout of me. .. . You should have said so. "

"As you please, only it is my duty to report it at once. "

Without indignation or protest, simply, almost mechanically, the old mantakes two twenty-kopeck pieces out of his pocket and gives them to theoiler. He takes them very calmly, too, and looking good-naturedly at theold man enters into conversation. 

"You are going to sell your cattle, I suppose. .. . It's goodbusiness!"

Malahin sighs and, looking calmly at the oiler's black face, tells himthat trading in cattle used certainly to be profitable, but now it hasbecome a risky and losing business. 

"I have a mate here, " the oiler interrupts him. "You merchant gentlemenmight make him a little present. .. . "

Malahin gives something to the mate too. The troop train goes quicklyand the waits at the stations are comparatively short. The old man ispleased. The pleasant impression made by the young man in the roughovercoat has gone deep, the vodka he has drunk slightly clouds hisbrain, the weather is magnificent, and everything seems to be goingwell. He talks without ceasing, and at every stopping place runs to therefreshment bar. Feeling the need of a listener, he takes with him firstthe guard, and then the engine-driver, and does not simply drink, butmakes a long business of it, with suitable remarks and clinking ofglasses. 

"You have your job and we have ours, " he says with an affable smile. "May God prosper us and you, and not our will but His be done. "

The vodka gradually excites him and he is worked up to a great pitch ofenergy. He wants to bestir himself, to fuss about, to make inquiries, to talk incessantly. At one minute he fumbles in his pockets and bundlesand looks for some form. Then he thinks of something and cannot rememberit; then takes out his pocketbook, and with no sort of object countsover his money. He bustles about, sighs and groans, clasps his hands. .. . Laying out before him the letters and telegrams from the meatsalesmen in the city, bills, post office and telegraphic receipt forms, and his note book, he reflects aloud and insists on Yasha's listening. 

And when he is tired of reading over forms and talking about prices, hegets out at the stopping places, runs to the vans where his cattle are, does nothing, but simply clasps his hands and exclaims in horror. 

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" he says in a complaining voice. "Holy MartyrVlassy! Though they are bullocks, though they are beasts, yet they wantto eat and drink as men do. .. . It's four days and nights since theyhave drunk or eaten. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Yasha follows him and does what he is told like an obedient son. He doesnot like the old man's frequent visits to the refreshment bar. Though heis afraid of his father, he cannot refrain from remarking on it. 

"So you have begun already!" he says, looking sternly at the old man. "What are you rejoicing at? Is it your name-day or what?"

"Don't you dare teach your father. "

"Fine goings on!"

When he has not to follow his father along the other vans Yasha sits onthe cape and strums on the accordion. Occasionally he gets out and walkslazily beside the train; he stands by the engine and turns a prolonged, unmoving stare on the wheels or on the workmen tossing blocks of woodinto the tender; the hot engine wheezes, the falling blocks come downwith the mellow, hearty thud of fresh wood; the engine-driver andhis assistant, very phlegmatic and imperturbable persons, performincomprehensible movements and don't hurry themselves. After standingfor a while by the engine, Yasha saunters lazily to the station; herehe looks at the eatables in the refreshment bar, reads aloud some quiteuninteresting notice, and goes back slowly to the cattle van. His faceexpresses neither boredom nor desire; apparently he does not care wherehe is, at home, in the van, or by the engine. 

Towards evening the train stops near a big station. The lamps have onlyjust been lighted along the line; against the blue background in thefresh limpid air the lights are bright and pale like stars; they areonly red and glowing under the station roof, where it is already dark. All the lines are loaded up with carriages, and it seems that if anothertrain came in there would be no place for it. Yasha runs to the stationfor boiling water to make the evening tea. Well-dressed ladies andhigh-school boys are walking on the platform. If one looks into thedistance from the platform there are far-away lights twinkling in theevening dusk on both sides of the station--that is the town. What town?Yasha does not care to know. He sees only the dim lights and wretchedbuildings beyond the station, hears the cabmen shouting, feels asharp, cold wind on his face, and imagines that the town is probablydisagreeable, uncomfortable, and dull. 

While they are having tea, when it is quite dark and a lantern ishanging on the wall again as on the previous evening, the train quiversfrom a slight shock and begins moving backwards. After going a littleway it stops; they hear indistinct shouts, someone sets the chainsclanking near the buffers and shouts, "Ready!" The train moves and goesforward. Ten minutes later it is dragged back again. 

Getting out of the van, Malahin does not recognize his train. His eightvans of bullocks are standing in the same row with some trolleys whichwere not a part of the train before. Two or three of these are loadedwith rubble and the others are empty. The guards running to and fro onthe platform are strangers. They give unwilling and indistinct answersto his questions. They have no thoughts to spare for Malahin; they arein a hurry to get the train together so as to finish as soon as possibleand be back in the warmth. 

"What number is this?" asks Malahin

"Number eighteen. "

"And where is the troop train? Why have you taken me off the trooptrain?"

Getting no answer, the old man goes to the station. He looks first forthe familiar figure of the head guard and, not finding him, goes tothe station-master. The station-master is sitting at a table in his ownroom, turning over a bundle of forms. He is busy, and affects not tosee the newcomer. His appearance is impressive: a cropped black head, prominent ears, a long hooked nose, a swarthy face; he has a forbiddingand, as it were, offended expression. Malahin begins making hiscomplaint at great length. 

"What?" queries the station-master. "How is this?" He leans against theback of his chair and goes on, growing indignant: "What is it? andwhy shouldn't you go by number eighteen? Speak more clearly, I don'tunderstand! How is it? Do you want me to be everywhere at once?"

He showers questions on him, and for no apparent reason growssterner and sterner. Malahin is already feeling in his pocket for hispocketbook, but in the end the station-master, aggrieved and indignant, for some unknown reason jumps up from his seat and runs out of the room. Malahin shrugs his shoulders, and goes out to look for someone else tospeak to. 

From boredom or from a desire to put the finishing stroke to a busy day, or simply that a window with the inscription "Telegraph!" on it catcheshis eye, he goes to the window and expresses a desire to send off atelegram. Taking up a pen, he thinks for a moment, and writes on a blueform: "Urgent. Traffic Manager. Eight vans of live stock. Delayed atevery station. Kindly send an express number. Reply paid. Malahin. "

Having sent off the telegram, he goes back to the station-master'sroom. There he finds, sitting on a sofa covered with gray cloth, abenevolent-looking gentleman in spectacles and a cap of raccoon fur; heis wearing a peculiar overcoat very much like a lady's, edged with fur, with frogs and slashed sleeves. Another gentleman, dried-up and sinewy, wearing the uniform of a railway inspector, stands facing him. 

"Just think of it, " says the inspector, addressing the gentleman in thequeer overcoat. "I'll tell you an incident that really is A1! The Z. Railway line in the coolest possible way stole three hundred trucksfrom the N. Line. It's a fact, sir! I swear it! They carried them off, repainted them, put their letters on them, and that's all about it. TheN. Line sends its agents everywhere, they hunt and hunt. And then--canyou imagine it?--the Company happen to come upon a broken-down carriageof the Z. Line. They repair it at their depot, and all at once, bless mysoul! see their own mark on the wheels What do you say to that? Eh? IfI did it they would send me to Siberia, but the railway companies simplysnap their fingers at it!"

It is pleasant to Malahin to talk to educated, cultured people. Hestrokes his beard and joins in the conversation with dignity. 

"Take this case, gentlemen, for instance, " he says. "I am transportingcattle to X. Eight vanloads. Very good. .. . Now let us say they chargeme for each vanload as a weight of ten tons; eight bullocks don't weighten tons, but much less, yet they don't take any notice of that. .. . "

At that instant Yasha walks into the room looking for his father. Helistens and is about to sit down on a chair, but probably thinking ofhis weight goes and sits on the window-sill. 

"They don't take any notice of that, " Malahin goes on, "and charge meand my son the third-class fare, too, forty-two roubles, for going inthe van with the bullocks. This is my son Yakov. I have two more athome, but they have gone in for study. Well and apart from that it is myopinion that the railways have ruined the cattle trade. In old days whenthey drove them in herds it was better. "

The old man's talk is lengthy and drawn out. After every sentence helooks at Yasha as though he would say: "See how I am talking to cleverpeople. "

"Upon my word!" the inspector interrupts him. "No one is indignant, noone criticizes. And why? It is very simple. An abomination strikesthe eye and arouses indignation only when it is exceptional, when theestablished order is broken by it. Here, where, saving your presence, itconstitutes the long-established program and forms and enters into thebasis of the order itself, where every sleeper on the line bears thetrace of it and stinks of it, one too easily grows accustomed to it!Yes, sir!"

The second bell rings, the gentlemen in the queer overcoat gets up. Theinspector takes him by the arm and, still talking with heat, goes offwith him to the platform. After the third bell the station-master runsinto his room, and sits down at his table. 

"Listen, with what number am I to go?" asks Malahin. 

The station-master looks at a form and says indignantly:

"Are you Malahin, eight vanloads? You must pay a rouble a van andsix roubles and twenty kopecks for stamps. You have no stamps. Total, fourteen roubles, twenty kopecks. "

Receiving the money, he writes something down, dries it with sand, and, hurriedly snatching up a bundle of forms, goes quickly out of the room. 

At ten o'clock in the evening Malahin gets an answer from the trafficmanager: "Give precedence. "

Reading the telegram through, the old man winks significantly and, verywell pleased with himself, puts it in his pocket. 

"Here, " he says to Yasha, "look and learn. "

At midnight his train goes on. The night is dark and cold like theprevious one; the waits at the stations are long. Yasha sits on the capeand imperturbably strums on the accordion, while the old man is stillmore eager to exert himself. At one of the stations he is overtaken bya desire to lodge a complaint. At his request a gendarme sits down andwrites:

"November 10, 188-. --I, non-commissioned officer of the Z. Section ofthe N. Police department of railways, Ilya Tchered, in accordance witharticle II of the statute of May 19, 1871, have drawn up this protocolat the station of X. As herewith follows. .. . "

"What am I to write next?" asks the gendarme. 

Malahin lays out before him forms, postal and telegraph receipts, accounts. .. . He does not know himself definitely what he wants of thegendarme; he wants to describe in the protocol not any separate episodebut his whole journey, with all his losses and conversations withstation-masters--to describe it lengthily and vindictively. 

"At the station of Z. , " he says, "write that the station-master unlinkedmy vans from the troop train because he did not like my countenance. "

And he wants the gendarme to be sure to mention his countenance. Thelatter listens wearily, and goes on writing without hearing him to theend. He ends his protocol thus:

"The above deposition I, non-commissioned officer Tchered, have writtendown in this protocol with a view to present it to the head of the Z. Section, and have handed a copy thereof to Gavril Malahin. "

The old man takes the copy, adds it to the papers with which his sidepocket is stuffed, and, much pleased, goes back to his van. 

In the morning Malahin wakes up again in a bad humor, but his wrathvents itself not on Yasha but the cattle. 

"The cattle are done for!" he grumbles. "They are done for! They are atthe last gasp! God be my judge! they will all die. Tfoo!"

The bullocks, who have had nothing to drink for many days, tortured bythirst, are licking the hoar frost on the walls, and when Malachin goesup to them they begin licking his cold fur jacket. From their clear, tearful eyes it can be seen that they are exhausted by thirst and thejolting of the train, that they are hungry and miserable. 

"It's a nice job taking you by rail, you wretched brutes!" muttersMalahin. "I could wish you were dead to get it over! It makes me sick tolook at you!"

At midday the train stops at a big station where, according to theregulations, there was drinking water provided for cattle. 

Water is given to the cattle, but the bullocks will not drink it: thewater is too cold. .. . 

* * * * *

Two more days and nights pass, and at last in the distance in the murkyfog the city comes into sight. The journey is over. The train comesto a standstill before reaching the town, near a goods' station. Thebullocks, released from the van, stagger and stumble as though they werewalking on slippery ice. 

Having got through the unloading and veterinary inspection, Malahin andYasha take up their quarters in a dirty, cheap hotel in the outskirtsof the town, in the square in which the cattle-market is held. Theirlodgings are filthy and their food is disgusting, unlike what theyever have at home; they sleep to the harsh strains of a wretched steamhurdy-gurdy which plays day and night in the restaurant under theirlodging. 

The old man spends his time from morning till night going about lookingfor purchasers, and Yasha sits for days in the hotel room, or goes outinto the street to look at the town. He sees the filthy square heapedup with dung, the signboards of restaurants, the turreted walls of amonastery in the fog. Sometimes he runs across the street and looks intothe grocer's shop, admires the jars of cakes of different colors, yawns, and lazily saunters back to his room. The city does not interest him. 

At last the bullocks are sold to a dealer. Malahin hires drovers. Thecattle are divided into herds, ten in each, and driven to the other endof the town. The bullocks, exhausted, go with drooping heads through thenoisy streets, and look indifferently at what they see for the first andlast time in their lives. The tattered drovers walk after them, theirheads drooping too. They are bored. .. . Now and then some droverstarts out of his brooding, remembers that there are cattle in frontof him intrusted to his charge, and to show that he is doing his dutybrings a stick down full swing on a bullock's back. The bullock staggerswith the pain, runs forward a dozen paces, and looks about him as thoughhe were ashamed at being beaten before people. 

After selling the bullocks and buying for his family presents such asthey could perfectly well have bought at home, Malahin and Yasha getready for their journey back. Three hours before the train goes the oldman, who has already had a drop too much with the purchaser and so isfussy, goes down with Yasha to the restaurant and sits down to drinktea. Like all provincials, he cannot eat and drink alone: he must havecompany as fussy and as fond of sedate conversation as himself. 

"Call the host!" he says to the waiter; "tell him I should like toentertain him. "

The hotel-keeper, a well-fed man, absolutely indifferent to his lodgers, comes and sits down to the table. 

"Well, we have sold our stock, " Malahin says, laughing. "I have swappedmy goat for a hawk. Why, when we set off the price of meat was threeroubles ninety kopecks, but when we arrived it had dropped to threeroubles twenty-five. They tell us we are too late, we should have beenhere three days earlier, for now there is not the same demand for meat, St. Philip's fast has come. .. . Eh? It's a nice how-do-you-do! Itmeant a loss of fourteen roubles on each bullock. Yes. But only thinkwhat it costs to bring the stock! Fifteen roubles carriage, and you mustput down six roubles for each bullock, tips, bribes, drinks, and onething and another. .. . "

The hotel-keeper listens out of politeness and reluctantly drinks tea. Malahin sighs and groans, gesticulates, jests about his ill-luck, buteverything shows that the loss he has sustained does not trouble himmuch. He doesn't mind whether he has lost or gained as long as he haslisteners, has something to make a fuss about, and is not late for histrain. 

An hour later Malahin and Yasha, laden with bags and boxes, godownstairs from the hotel room to the front door to get into a sledgeand drive to the station. They are seen off by the hotel-keeper, thewaiter, and various women. The old man is touched. He thrusts ten-kopeckpieces in all directions, and says in a sing-song voice:

"Good by, good health to you! God grant that all may be well withyou. Please God if we are alive and well we shall come again in Lent. Good-by. Thank you. God bless you!"

Getting into the sledge, the old man spends a long time crossing himselfin the direction in which the monastery walls make a patch of darknessin the fog. Yasha sits beside him on the very edge of the seat with hislegs hanging over the side. His face as before shows no sign of emotionand expresses neither boredom nor desire. He is not glad that he isgoing home, nor sorry that he has not had time to see the sights of thecity. 

"Drive on!"

The cabman whips up the horse and, turning round, begins swearing at theheavy and cumbersome luggage. 

 * On many railway lines, in order to avoid accidents, it is against the regulations to carry hay on the trains, and so live stock are without fodder on the journey. --Author's Note. 

 **The train destined especially for the transport of troops is called the troop train; when they are no troops it takes goods, and goes more rapidly than ordinary goods train. --Author's Note. 

SORROW

THE turner, Grigory Petrov, who had been known for years past as asplendid craftsman, and at the same time as the most senseless peasantin the Galtchinskoy district, was taking his old woman to the hospital. He had to drive over twenty miles, and it was an awful road. Agovernment post driver could hardly have coped with it, much less anincompetent sluggard like Grigory. A cutting cold wind was blowingstraight in his face. Clouds of snowflakes were whirling round andround in all directions, so that one could not tell whether the snow wasfalling from the sky or rising from the earth. The fields, the telegraphposts, and the forest could not be seen for the fog of snow. And when aparticularly violent gust of wind swooped down on Grigory, even the yokeabove the horse's head could not be seen. The wretched, feeble littlenag crawled slowly along. It took all its strength to drag its legs outof the snow and to tug with its head. The turner was in a hurry. He keptrestlessly hopping up and down on the front seat and lashing the horse'sback. 

"Don't cry, Matryona, . .. " he muttered. "Have a little patience. Please God we shall reach the hospital, and in a trice it will be theright thing for you. .. . Pavel Ivanitch will give you some littledrops, or tell them to bleed you; or maybe his honor will be pleased torub you with some sort of spirit--it'll. .. Draw it out of your side. Pavel Ivanitch will do his best. He will shout and stamp about, but hewill do his best. .. . He is a nice gentleman, affable, God give himhealth! As soon as we get there he will dart out of his room and willbegin calling me names. 'How? Why so?' he will cry. 'Why did you notcome at the right time? I am not a dog to be hanging about waiting onyou devils all day. Why did you not come in the morning? Go away! Getout of my sight. Come again to-morrow. ' And I shall say: 'Mr. Doctor!Pavel Ivanitch! Your honor!' Get on, do! plague take you, you devil! Geton!"

The turner lashed his nag, and without looking at the old woman went onmuttering to himself:

"'Your honor! It's true as before God. .. . Here's the Cross for you, I set off almost before it was light. How could I be here in time ifthe Lord. .. . The Mother of God. .. Is wroth, and has sent such asnowstorm? Kindly look for yourself. .. . Even a first-rate horse couldnot do it, while mine--you can see for yourself--is not a horse but adisgrace. ' And Pavel Ivanitch will frown and shout: 'We know you! Youalways find some excuse! Especially you, Grishka; I know you of old!I'll be bound you have stopped at half a dozen taverns!' And I shallsay: 'Your honor! am I a criminal or a heathen? My old woman is givingup her soul to God, she is dying, and am I going to run from tavern totavern! What an idea, upon my word! Plague take them, the taverns!' ThenPavel Ivanitch will order you to be taken into the hospital, and I shallfall at his feet. .. . 'Pavel Ivanitch! Your honor, we thank you mosthumbly! Forgive us fools and anathemas, don't be hard on us peasants! Wedeserve a good kicking, while you graciously put yourself out and messyour feet in the snow!' And Pavel Ivanitch will give me a look asthough he would like to hit me, and will say: 'You'd much better not beswilling vodka, you fool, but taking pity on your old woman insteadof falling at my feet. You want a thrashing!' 'You are right there--athrashing, Pavel Ivanitch, strike me God! But how can we help bowingdown at your feet if you are our benefactor, and a real father to us?Your honor! I give you my word, . .. Here as before God, . .. Youmay spit in my face if I deceive you: as soon as my Matryona, this samehere, is well again and restored to her natural condition, I'll makeanything for your honor that you would like to order! A cigarette-case, if you like, of the best birchwood, . .. Balls for croquet, skittles ofthe most foreign pattern I can turn. .. . I will make anything for you!I won't take a farthing from you. In Moscow they would charge you fourroubles for such a cigarette-case, but I won't take a farthing. ' Thedoctor will laugh and say: 'Oh, all right, all right. .. . I see! Butit's a pity you are a drunkard. .. . ' I know how to manage the gentry, old girl. There isn't a gentleman I couldn't talk to. Only God grant wedon't get off the road. Oh, how it is blowing! One's eyes are full ofsnow. "

And the turner went on muttering endlessly. He prattled on mechanicallyto get a little relief from his depressing feelings. He had plenty ofwords on his tongue, but the thoughts and questions in his brainwere even more numerous. Sorrow had come upon the turner unawares, unlooked-for, and unexpected, and now he could not get over it, couldnot recover himself. He had lived hitherto in unruffled calm, as thoughin drunken half-consciousness, knowing neither grief nor joy, and now hewas suddenly aware of a dreadful pain in his heart. The careless idlerand drunkard found himself quite suddenly in the position of a busy man, weighed down by anxieties and haste, and even struggling with nature. 

The turner remembered that his trouble had begun the evening before. When he had come home yesterday evening, a little drunk as usual, andfrom long-established habit had begun swearing and shaking his fists, his old woman had looked at her rowdy spouse as she had never lookedat him before. Usually, the expression in her aged eyes was that of amartyr, meek like that of a dog frequently beaten and badly fed; thistime she had looked at him sternly and immovably, as saints in the holypictures or dying people look. From that strange, evil look in her eyesthe trouble had begun. The turner, stupefied with amazement, borrowed ahorse from a neighbor, and now was taking his old woman to the hospitalin the hope that, by means of powders and ointments, Pavel Ivanitchwould bring back his old woman's habitual expression. 

"I say, Matryona, . .. " the turner muttered, "if Pavel Ivanitch asksyou whether I beat you, say, 'Never!' and I never will beat you again. Iswear it. And did I ever beat you out of spite? I just beat you withoutthinking. I am sorry for you. Some men wouldn't trouble, but here I amtaking you. .. . I am doing my best. And the way it snows, the way itsnows! Thy Will be done, O Lord! God grant we don't get off the road. .. . Does your side ache, Matryona, that you don't speak? I ask you, does your side ache?"

It struck him as strange that the snow on his old woman's face was notmelting; it was queer that the face itself looked somehow drawn, and hadturned a pale gray, dingy waxen hue and had grown grave and solemn. 

"You are a fool!" muttered the turner. .. . "I tell you on myconscience, before God, . .. And you go and. .. Well, you are a fool!I have a good mind not to take you to Pavel Ivanitch!"

The turner let the reins go and began thinking. He could not bringhimself to look round at his old woman: he was frightened. He wasafraid, too, of asking her a question and not getting an answer. Atlast, to make an end of uncertainty, without looking round he felt hisold woman's cold hand. The lifted hand fell like a log. 

"She is dead, then! What a business!"

And the turner cried. He was not so much sorry as annoyed. He thoughthow quickly everything passes in this world! His trouble had hardlybegun when the final catastrophe had happened. He had not had time tolive with his old woman, to show her he was sorry for her before shedied. He had lived with her for forty years, but those forty years hadpassed by as it were in a fog. What with drunkenness, quarreling, andpoverty, there had been no feeling of life. And, as though to spite him, his old woman died at the very time when he felt he was sorry for her, that he could not live without her, and that he had behaved dreadfullybadly to her. 

"Why, she used to go the round of the village, " he remembered. "I senther out myself to beg for bread. What a business! She ought to havelived another ten years, the silly thing; as it is I'll be bound shethinks I really was that sort of man. .. . Holy Mother! but where thedevil am I driving? There's no need for a doctor now, but a burial. Turnback!"

Grigory turned back and lashed the horse with all his might. The roadgrew worse and worse every hour. Now he could not see the yoke atall. Now and then the sledge ran into a young fir tree, a dark objectscratched the turner's hands and flashed before his eyes, and the fieldof vision was white and whirling again. 

"To live over again, " thought the turner. 

He remembered that forty years ago Matryona had been young, handsome, merry, that she had come of a well-to-do family. They had married herto him because they had been attracted by his handicraft. All theessentials for a happy life had been there, but the trouble was that, just as he had got drunk after the wedding and lay sprawling on thestove, so he had gone on without waking up till now. His wedding heremembered, but of what happened after the wedding--for the life of himhe could remember nothing, except perhaps that he had drunk, lain on thestove, and quarreled. Forty years had been wasted like that. 

The white clouds of snow were beginning little by little to turn gray. It was getting dusk. 

"Where am I going?" the turner suddenly bethought him with a start. "I ought to be thinking of the burial, and I am on the way to thehospital. .. . It as is though I had gone crazy. "

Grigory turned round again, and again lashed his horse. The little nagstrained its utmost and, with a snort, fell into a little trot. Theturner lashed it on the back time after time. .. . A knocking wasaudible behind him, and though he did not look round, he knew it was thedead woman's head knocking against the sledge. And the snow kept turningdarker and darker, the wind grew colder and more cutting. .. . 

"To live over again!" thought the turner. "I should get a new lathe, take orders, . .. Give the money to my old woman. .. . "

And then he dropped the reins. He looked for them, tried to pick themup, but could not--his hands would not work. .. . 

"It does not matter, " he thought, "the horse will go of itself, it knowsthe way. I might have a little sleep now. .. . Before the funeral orthe requiem it would be as well to get a little rest. .. . "

The turner closed his eyes and dozed. A little later he heard the horsestop; he opened his eyes and saw before him something dark like a hut ora haystack. .. . 

He would have got out of the sledge and found out what it was, but hefelt overcome by such inertia that it seemed better to freeze than move, and he sank into a peaceful sleep. 

He woke up in a big room with painted walls. Bright sunlight wasstreaming in at the windows. The turner saw people facing him, and hisfirst feeling was a desire to show himself a respectable man who knewhow things should be done. 

"A requiem, brothers, for my old woman, " he said. "The priest should betold. .. . "

"Oh, all right, all right; lie down, " a voice cut him short. 

"Pavel Ivanitch!" the turner cried in surprise, seeing the doctor beforehim. "Your honor, benefactor!"

He wanted to leap up and fall on his knees before the doctor, but feltthat his arms and legs would not obey him. 

"Your honor, where are my legs, where are my arms!"

"Say good-by to your arms and legs. .. . They've been frozen off. Come, come!. .. What are you crying for? You've lived your life, and thankGod for it! I suppose you have had sixty years of it--that's enough foryou!. .. "

"I am grieving. .. . Graciously forgive me! If I could have anotherfive or six years!. .. "

"What for?"

"The horse isn't mine, I must give it back. .. . I must bury my oldwoman. .. . How quickly it is all ended in this world! Your honor, Pavel Ivanitch! A cigarette-case of birchwood of the best! I'll turn youcroquet balls. .. . "

The doctor went out of the ward with a wave of his hand. It was all overwith the turner. 

ON OFFICIAL DUTY

THE deputy examining magistrate and the district doctor were going to aninquest in the village of Syrnya. On the road they were overtaken by asnowstorm; they spent a long time going round and round, and arrived, not at midday, as they had intended, but in the evening when it wasdark. They put up for the night at the Zemstvo hut. It so happenedthat it was in this hut that the dead body was lying--the corpse of theZemstvo insurance agent, Lesnitsky, who had arrived in Syrnya three daysbefore and, ordering the samovar in the hut, had shot himself, to thegreat surprise of everyone; and the fact that he had ended his lifeso strangely, after unpacking his eatables and laying them out on thetable, and with the samovar before him, led many people to suspect thatit was a case of murder; an inquest was necessary. 

In the outer room the doctor and the examining magistrate shook the snowoff themselves and knocked it off their boots. And meanwhile the oldvillage constable, Ilya Loshadin, stood by, holding a little tin lamp. There was a strong smell of paraffin. 

"Who are you?" asked the doctor. 

"Conshtable, . .. " answered the constable. 

He used to spell it "conshtable" when he signed the receipts at the postoffice. 

"And where are the witnesses?"

"They must have gone to tea, your honor. "

On the right was the parlor, the travelers' or gentry's room; on theleft the kitchen, with a big stove and sleeping shelves under therafters. The doctor and the examining magistrate, followed by theconstable, holding the lamp high above his head, went into the parlor. Here a still, long body covered with white linen was lying on the floorclose to the table-legs. In the dim light of the lamp they could clearlysee, besides the white covering, new rubber goloshes, and everythingabout it was uncanny and sinister: the dark walls, and the silence, andthe goloshes, and the stillness of the dead body. On the table stood asamovar, cold long ago; and round it parcels, probably the eatables. 

"To shoot oneself in the Zemstvo hut, how tactless!" said the doctor. "If one does want to put a bullet through one's brains, one ought to doit at home in some outhouse. "

He sank on to a bench, just as he was, in his cap, his fur coat, and hisfelt overboots; his fellow-traveler, the examining magistrate, sat downopposite. 

"These hysterical, neurasthenic people are great egoists, " the doctorwent on hotly. "If a neurasthenic sleeps in the same room with you, herustles his newspaper; when he dines with you, he gets up a scenewith his wife without troubling about your presence; and when he feelsinclined to shoot himself, he shoots himself in a village in a Zemstvohut, so as to give the maximum of trouble to everybody. These gentlemenin every circumstance of life think of no one but themselves! That's whythe elderly so dislike our 'nervous age. '"

"The elderly dislike so many things, " said the examining magistrate, yawning. "You should point out to the elder generation what thedifference is between the suicides of the past and the suicides ofto-day. In the old days the so-called gentleman shot himself because hehad made away with Government money, but nowadays it is because he issick of life, depressed. .. . Which is better?"

"Sick of life, depressed; but you must admit that he might have shothimself somewhere else. "

"Such trouble!" said the constable, "such trouble! It's a realaffliction. The people are very much upset, your honor; they haven'tslept these three nights. The children are crying. The cows ought to bemilked, but the women won't go to the stall--they are afraid. .. Forfear the gentleman should appear to them in the darkness. Of course theyare silly women, but some of the men are frightened too. As soon asit is dark they won't go by the hut one by one, but only in a flocktogether. And the witnesses too. .. . "

Dr. Startchenko, a middle-aged man in spectacles with a dark beard, andthe examining magistrate Lyzhin, a fair man, still young, who had onlytaken his degree two years before and looked more like a student than anofficial, sat in silence, musing. They were vexed that they were late. Now they had to wait till morning, and to stay here for the night, though it was not yet six o'clock; and they had before them a longevening, a dark night, boredom, uncomfortable beds, beetles, and coldin the morning; and listening to the blizzard that howled in the chimneyand in the loft, they both thought how unlike all this was the lifewhich they would have chosen for themselves and of which they had oncedreamed, and how far away they both were from their contemporaries, whowere at that moment walking about the lighted streets in town withoutnoticing the weather, or were getting ready for the theatre, or sittingin their studies over a book. Oh, how much they would have given nowonly to stroll along the Nevsky Prospect, or along Petrovka in Moscow, to listen to decent singing, to sit for an hour or so in a restaurant!

"Oo-oo-oo-oo!" sang the storm in the loft, and something outside slammedviciously, probably the signboard on the hut. "Oo-oo-oo-oo!"

"You can do as you please, but I have no desire to stay here, " saidStartchenko, getting up. "It's not six yet, it's too early to go to bed;I am off. Von Taunitz lives not far from here, only a couple ofmiles from Syrnya. I shall go to see him and spend the evening there. Constable, run and tell my coachman not to take the horses out. And whatare you going to do?" he asked Lyzhin. 

"I don't know; I expect I shall go to sleep. "

The doctor wrapped himself in his fur coat and went out. Lyzhin couldhear him talking to the coachman and the bells beginning to quiver onthe frozen horses. He drove off. 

"It is not nice for you, sir, to spend the night in here, " said theconstable; "come into the other room. It's dirty, but for one night itwon't matter. I'll get a samovar from a peasant and heat it directly. I'll heap up some hay for you, and then you go to sleep, and God blessyou, your honor. "

A little later the examining magistrate was sitting in the kitchendrinking tea, while Loshadin, the constable, was standing at the doortalking. He was an old man about sixty, short and very thin, bent andwhite, with a naive smile on his face and watery eyes, and he keptsmacking with his lips as though he were sucking a sweetmeat. He waswearing a short sheepskin coat and high felt boots, and held his stickin his hands all the time. The youth of the examining magistrate arousedhis compassion, and that was probably why he addressed him familiarly. 

"The elder gave orders that he was to be informed when the policesuperintendent or the examining magistrate came, " he said, "so I supposeI must go now. .. . It's nearly three miles to the _volost_, and thestorm, the snowdrifts, are something terrible--maybe one won't get therebefore midnight. Ough! how the wind roars!"

"I don't need the elder, " said Lyzhin. "There is nothing for him to dohere. "

He looked at the old man with curiosity, and asked:

"Tell me, grandfather, how many years have you been constable?"

"How many? Why, thirty years. Five years after the Freedom I began goingas constable, that's how I reckon it. And from that time I have beengoing every day since. Other people have holidays, but I am alwaysgoing. When it's Easter and the church bells are ringing and Christ hasrisen, I still go about with my bag--to the treasury, to the post, tothe police superintendent's lodgings, to the rural captain, to the taxinspector, to the municipal office, to the gentry, to the peasants, toall orthodox Christians. I carry parcels, notices, tax papers, letters, forms of different sorts, circulars, and to be sure, kind gentleman, there are all sorts of forms nowadays, so as to note down thenumbers--yellow, white, and red--and every gentleman or priest orwell-to-do peasant must write down a dozen times in the year how muchhe has sown and harvested, how many quarters or poods he has of rye, howmany of oats, how many of hay, and what the weather's like, you know, and insects, too, of all sorts. To be sure you can write what you like, it's only a regulation, but one must go and give out the notices andthen go again and collect them. Here, for instance, there's no need tocut open the gentleman; you know yourself it's a silly thing, it's onlydirtying your hands, and here you have been put to trouble, your honor;you have come because it's the regulation; you can't help it. For thirtyyears I have been going round according to regulation. In the summerit is all right, it is warm and dry; but in winter and autumn it'suncomfortable At times I have been almost drowned and almost frozen; allsorts of things have happened--wicked people set on me in the forest andtook away my bag; I have been beaten, and I have been before a court oflaw. "

"What were you accused of?"

"Of fraud. "

"How do you mean?"

"Why, you see, Hrisanf Grigoryev, the clerk, sold the contractor someboards belonging to someone else--cheated him, in fact. I was mixed upin it. They sent me to the tavern for vodka; well, the clerk did notshare with me--did not even offer me a glass; but as through my povertyI was--in appearance, I mean--not a man to be relied upon, not a man ofany worth, we were both brought to trial; he was sent to prison, but, praise God! I was acquitted on all points. They read a notice, you know, in the court. And they were all in uniforms--in the court, I mean. Ican tell you, your honor, my duties for anyone not used to them areterrible, absolutely killing; but to me it is nothing. In fact, my feetache when I am not walking. And at home it is worse for me. At home onehas to heat the stove for the clerk in the _volost_ office, to fetchwater for him, to clean his boots. "

"And what wages do you get?" Lyzhin asked. 

"Eighty-four roubles a year. "

"I'll bet you get other little sums coming in. You do, don't you?"

"Other little sums? No, indeed! Gentlemen nowadays don't often givetips. Gentlemen nowadays are strict, they take offense at anything. If you bring them a notice they are offended, if you take off your capbefore them they are offended. 'You have come to the wrong entrance, 'they say. 'You are a drunkard, ' they say. 'You smell of onion; you are ablockhead; you are the son of a bitch. ' There are kind-hearted ones, ofcourse; but what does one get from them? They only laugh and call oneall sorts of names. Mr. Altuhin, for instance, he is a good-naturedgentleman; and if you look at him he seems sober and in his right mind, but so soon as he sees me he shouts and does not know what he meanshimself. He gave me such a name 'You, ' said he, . .. " The constableuttered some word, but in such a low voice that it was impossible tomake out what he said. 

"What?" Lyzhin asked. "Say it again. "

"'Administration, '" the constable repeated aloud. "He has beencalling me that for a long while, for the last six years. 'Hullo, Administration!' But I don't mind; let him, God bless him! Sometimes alady will send one a glass of vodka and a bit of pie and one drinks toher health. But peasants give more; peasants are more kind-hearted, they have the fear of God in their hearts: one will give a bit of bread, another a drop of cabbage soup, another will stand one a glass. Thevillage elders treat one to tea in the tavern. Here the witnesses havegone to their tea. 'Loshadin, ' they said, 'you stay here and keep watchfor us, ' and they gave me a kopeck each. You see, they are frightened, not being used to it, and yesterday they gave me fifteen kopecks andoffered me a glass. "

"And you, aren't you frightened?"

"I am, sir; but of course it is my duty, there is no getting away fromit. In the summer I was taking a convict to the town, and he set uponme and gave me such a drubbing! And all around were fields, forest--howcould I get away from him? It's just the same here. I remember thegentleman, Mr. Lesnitsky, when he was so high, and I knew his father andmother. I am from the village of Nedoshtchotova, and they, the Lesnitskyfamily, were not more than three-quarters of a mile from us and lessthan that, their ground next to ours, and Mr. Lesnitsky had a sister, aGod-fearing and tender-hearted lady. Lord keep the soul of Thy servantYulya, eternal memory to her! She was never married, and when she wasdying she divided all her property; she left three hundred acres to themonastery, and six hundred to the commune of peasants of Nedoshtchotovato commemorate her soul; but her brother hid the will, they do say burntit in the stove, and took all this land for himself. He thought, to besure, it was for his benefit; but--nay, wait a bit, you won't get onin the world through injustice, brother. The gentleman did not go toconfession for twenty years after. He kept away from the church, to besure, and died impenitent. He burst. He was a very fat man, so heburst lengthways. Then everything was taken from the young master, fromSeryozha, to pay the debts--everything there was. Well, he had not gonevery far in his studies, he couldn't do anything, and the president ofthe Rural Board, his uncle--'I'll take him'--Seryozha, I mean--thinkshe, 'for an agent; let him collect the insurance, that's not a difficultjob, ' and the gentleman was young and proud, he wanted to be living ona bigger scale and in better style and with more freedom. To be sure itwas a come-down for him to be jolting about the district in a wretchedcart and talking to the peasants; he would walk and keep looking on theground, looking on the ground and saying nothing; if you called his nameright in his ear, 'Sergey Sergeyitch!' he would look round like this, 'Eh?' and look down on the ground again, and now you see he has laidhands on himself. There's no sense in it, your honor, it's not right, and there's no making out what's the meaning of it, merciful Lord! Sayyour father was rich and you are poor; it is mortifying, there's nodoubt about it, but there, you must make up your mind to it. I used tolive in good style, too; I had two horses, your honor, three cows, Iused to keep twenty head of sheep; but the time has come, and I amleft with nothing but a wretched bag, and even that is not mine butGovernment property. And now in our Nedoshtchotova, if the truth is tobe told, my house is the worst of the lot. Makey had four footmen, andnow Makey is a footman himself. Petrak had four laborers, and now Petrakis a laborer himself. "

"How was it you became poor?" asked the examining magistrate. 

"My sons drink terribly. I could not tell you how they drink, youwouldn't believe it. "

Lyzhin listened and thought how he, Lyzhin, would go back sooner orlater to Moscow, while this old man would stay here for ever, and wouldalways be walking and walking. And how many times in his life he wouldcome across such battered, unkempt old men, not "men of any worth, " inwhose souls fifteen kopecks, glasses of vodka, and a profound beliefthat you can't get on in this life by dishonesty, were equally firmlyrooted. 

Then he grew tired of listening, and told the old man to bring him somehay for his bed, There was an iron bedstead with a pillow and a quilt inthe traveler's room, and it could be fetched in; but the dead man hadbeen lying by it for nearly three days (and perhaps sitting on it justbefore his death), and it would be disagreeable to sleep upon itnow. .. . 

"It's only half-past seven, " thought Lyzhin, glancing at his watch. "Howawful it is!"

He was not sleepy, but having nothing to do to pass away the time, he lay down and covered himself with a rug. Loshadin went in and outseveral times, clearing away the tea-things; smacking his lips andsighing, he kept tramping round the table; at last he took his littlelamp and went out, and, looking at his long, gray-headed, bent figurefrom behind, Lyzhin thought:

"Just like a magician in an opera. "

It was dark. The moon must have been behind the clouds, as the windowsand the snow on the window-frames could be seen distinctly. 

"Oo-oo-oo!" sang the storm, "Oo-oo-oo-oo!"

"Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!" wailed a woman in the loft, or it sounded like it. "Ho-ho-ly sa-aints!"

"B-booh!" something outside banged against the wall. "Trah!"

The examining magistrate listened: there was no woman up there, it wasthe wind howling. It was rather cold, and he put his fur coat over hisrug. As he got warm he thought how remote all this--the storm, and thehut, and the old man, and the dead body lying in the next room--howremote it all was from the life he desired for himself, and how alienit all was to him, how petty, how uninteresting. If this man had killedhimself in Moscow or somewhere in the neighborhood, and he had had tohold an inquest on him there, it would have been interesting, important, and perhaps he might even have been afraid to sleep in the next room tothe corpse. Here, nearly a thousand miles from Moscow, all this wasseen somehow in a different light; it was not life, they were not humanbeings, but something only existing "according to the regulation, " asLoshadin said; it would leave not the faintest trace in the memory, andwould be forgotten as soon as he, Lyzhin, drove away from Syrnya. Thefatherland, the real Russia, was Moscow, Petersburg; but here he was inthe provinces, the colonies. When one dreamed of playing a leadingpart, of becoming a popular figure, of being, for instance, examiningmagistrate in particularly important cases or prosecutor in a circuitcourt, of being a society lion, one always thought of Moscow. To live, one must be in Moscow; here one cared for nothing, one grew easilyresigned to one's insignificant position, and only expected one thing oflife--to get away quickly, quickly. And Lyzhin mentally moved aboutthe Moscow streets, went into the familiar houses, met his kindred, hiscomrades, and there was a sweet pang at his heart at the thought thathe was only twenty-six, and that if in five or ten years he could breakaway from here and get to Moscow, even then it would not be too lateand he would still have a whole life before him. And as he sank intounconsciousness, as his thoughts began to be confused, he imagined thelong corridor of the court at Moscow, himself delivering a speech, hissisters, the orchestra which for some reason kept droning: "Oo-oo-oo-oo!Oo-oooo-oo!"

"Booh! Trah!" sounded again. "Booh!"

And he suddenly recalled how one day, when he was talking to thebookkeeper in the little office of the Rural Board, a thin, palegentleman with black hair and dark eyes walked in; he had a disagreeablelook in his eyes such as one sees in people who have slept too longafter dinner, and it spoilt his delicate, intelligent profile; andthe high boots he was wearing did not suit him, but looked clumsy. Thebookkeeper had introduced him: "This is our insurance agent. "

"So that was Lesnitsky, . .. This same man, " Lyzhin reflected now. 

He recalled Lesnitsky's soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemedto him that someone was walking beside him now with a step likeLesnitsky's. 

All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold. 

"Who's there?" he asked in alarm. 

"The conshtable!"

"What do you want here?"

"I have come to ask, your honor--you said this evening that you did notwant the elder, but I am afraid he may be angry. He told me to go tohim. Shouldn't I go?"

"That's enough, you bother me, " said Lyzhin with vexation, and hecovered himself up again. 

"He may be angry. .. . I'll go, your honor. I hope you will becomfortable, " and Loshadin went out. 

In the passage there was coughing and subdued voices. The witnesses musthave returned. 

"We'll let those poor beggars get away early to-morrow, . .. " thoughtthe examining magistrate; "we'll begin the inquest as soon as it isdaylight. "

He began sinking into forgetfulness when suddenly there were stepsagain, not timid this time but rapid and noisy. There was the slam of adoor, voices, the scratching of a match. .. . 

"Are you asleep? Are you asleep?" Dr. Startchenko was asking himhurriedly and angrily as he struck one match after another; he wascovered with snow, and brought a chill air in with him. "Are you asleep?Get up! Let us go to Von Taunitz's. He has sent his own horses for you. Come along. There, at any rate, you will have supper, and sleep likea human being. You see I have come for you myself. The horses aresplendid, we shall get there in twenty minutes. "

"And what time is it now?"

"A quarter past ten. "

Lyzhin, sleepy and discontented, put on his felt overboots, his furlinedcoat, his cap and hood, and went out with the doctor. There was nota very sharp frost, but a violent and piercing wind was blowing anddriving along the street the clouds of snow which seemed to be racingaway in terror: high drifts were heaped up already under the fences andat the doorways. The doctor and the examining magistrate got into thesledge, and the white coachman bent over them to button up the cover. They were both hot. 

"Ready!"

They drove through the village. "Cutting a feathery furrow, " thoughtthe examining magistrate, listlessly watching the action of the tracehorse's legs. There were lights in all the huts, as though it were theeve of a great holiday: the peasants had not gone to bed because theywere afraid of the dead body. The coachman preserved a sullen silence, probably he had felt dreary while he was waiting by the Zemstvo hut, andnow he, too, was thinking of the dead man. 

"At the Von Taunitz's, " said Startchenko, "they all set upon me whenthey heard that you were left to spend the night in the hut, and askedme why I did not bring you with me. "

As they drove out of the village, at the turning the coachman suddenlyshouted at the top of his voice: "Out of the way!"

They caught a glimpse of a man: he was standing up to his knees inthe snow, moving off the road and staring at the horses. The examiningmagistrate saw a stick with a crook, and a beard and a bag, and hefancied that it was Loshadin, and even fancied that he was smiling. Heflashed by and disappeared. 

The road ran at first along the edge of the forest, then along a broadforest clearing; they caught glimpses of old pines and a young birchcopse, and tall, gnarled young oak trees standing singly in theclearings where the wood had lately been cut; but soon it was all mergedin the clouds of snow. The coachman said he could see the forest; theexamining magistrate could see nothing but the trace horse. The windblew on their backs. 

All at once the horses stopped. 

"Well, what is it now?" asked Startchenko crossly. 

The coachman got down from the box without a word and began runninground the sledge, treading on his heels; he made larger and largercircles, getting further and further away from the sledge, and it lookedas though he were dancing; at last he came back and began to turn off tothe right. 

"You've got off the road, eh?" asked Startchenko. 

"It's all ri-ight. .. . "

Then there was a little village and not a single light in it. Again theforest and the fields. Again they lost the road, and again the coachmangot down from the box and danced round the sledge. The sledge flewalong a dark avenue, flew swiftly on. And the heated trace horse's hoofsknocked against the sledge. Here there was a fearful roaring sound fromthe trees, and nothing could be seen, as though they were flying on intospace; and all at once the glaring light at the entrance and the windowsflashed upon their eyes, and they heard the good-natured, drawn-outbarking of dogs. They had arrived. 

While they were taking off their fur coats and their felt boots below, "Un Petit Verre de Clicquot" was being played upon the piano overhead, and they could hear the children beating time with their feet. Immediately on going in they were aware of the snug warmth and specialsmell of the old apartments of a mansion where, whatever the weatheroutside, life is so warm and clean and comfortable. 

"That's capital!" said Von Taunitz, a fat man with an incredibly thickneck and with whiskers, as he shook the examining magistrate'shand. "That's capital! You are very welcome, delighted to make youracquaintance. We are colleagues to some extent, you know. At one time Iwas deputy prosecutor; but not for long, only two years. I came here tolook after the estate, and here I have grown old--an old fogey, in fact. You are very welcome, " he went on, evidently restraining his voice so asnot to speak too loud; he was going upstairs with his guests. "I have nowife, she's dead. But here, I will introduce my daughters, " and turninground, he shouted down the stairs in a voice of thunder: "Tell Ignat tohave the sledge ready at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. "

His four daughters, young and pretty girls, all wearing gray dresses andwith their hair done up in the same style, and their cousin, also youngand attractive, with her children, were in the drawingroom. Startchenko, who knew them already, began at once begging them to sing something, andtwo of the young ladies spent a long time declaring they could not singand that they had no music; then the cousin sat down to the piano, andwith trembling voices, they sang a duet from "The Queen of Spades. "Again "Un Petit Verre de Clicquot" was played, and the children skippedabout, beating time with their feet. And Startchenko pranced about too. Everybody laughed. 

Then the children said good-night and went off to bed. The examiningmagistrate laughed, danced a quadrille, flirted, and kept wonderingwhether it was not all a dream? The kitchen of the Zemstvo hut, theheap of hay in the corner, the rustle of the beetles, the revoltingpoverty-stricken surroundings, the voices of the witnesses, the wind, the snow storm, the danger of being lost; and then all at once thissplendid, brightly lighted room, the sounds of the piano, the lovelygirls, the curly-headed children, the gay, happy laughter--such atransformation seemed to him like a fairy tale, and it seemed incrediblethat such transitions were possible at the distance of some two miles inthe course of one hour. And dreary thoughts prevented him from enjoyinghimself, and he kept thinking this was not life here, but bits of lifefragments, that everything here was accidental, that one could draw noconclusions from it; and he even felt sorry for these girls, who wereliving and would end their lives in the wilds, in a province far awayfrom the center of culture, where nothing is accidental, but everythingis in accordance with reason and law, and where, for instance, everysuicide is intelligible, so that one can explain why it has happened andwhat is its significance in the general scheme of things. He imaginedthat if the life surrounding him here in the wilds were not intelligibleto him, and if he did not see it, it meant that it did not exist at all. 

At supper the conversation turned on Lesnitsky

"He left a wife and child, " said Startchenko. "I would forbidneurasthenics and all people whose nervous system is out of order tomarry, I would deprive them of the right and possibility of multiplyingtheir kind. To bring into the world nervous, invalid children is acrime. "

"He was an unfortunate young man, " said Von Taunitz, sighing gently andshaking his head. "What a lot one must suffer and think about beforeone brings oneself to take one's own life, . .. A young life! Such amisfortune may happen in any family, and that is awful. It is hard tobear such a thing, insufferable. .. . "

And all the girls listened in silence with grave faces, looking at theirfather. Lyzhin felt that he, too, must say something, but he couldn'tthink of anything, and merely said:

"Yes, suicide is an undesirable phenomenon. "

He slept in a warm room, in a soft bed covered with a quilt underwhich there were fine clean sheets, but for some reason did not feelcomfortable: perhaps because the doctor and Von Taunitz were, for a longtime, talking in the adjoining room, and overhead he heard, through theceiling and in the stove, the wind roaring just as in the Zemstvo hut, and as plaintively howling: "Oo-oo-oo-oo!"

Von Taunitz's wife had died two years before, and he was still unableto resign himself to his loss and, whatever he was talking about, alwaysmentioned his wife; and there was no trace of a prosecutor left abouthim now. 

"Is it possible that I may some day come to such a condition?" thoughtLyzhin, as he fell asleep, still hearing through the wall his host'ssubdued, as it were bereaved, voice. 

The examining magistrate did not sleep soundly. He felt hot anduncomfortable, and it seemed to him in his sleep that he was not atVon Taunitz's, and not in a soft clean bed, but still in the hay at theZemstvo hut, hearing the subdued voices of the witnesses; he fanciedthat Lesnitsky was close by, not fifteen paces away. In his dreams heremembered how the insurance agent, black-haired and pale, wearingdusty high boots, had come into the bookkeeper's office. "This is ourinsurance agent. .. . "

Then he dreamed that Lesnitsky and Loshadin the constable were walkingthrough the open country in the snow, side by side, supporting eachother; the snow was whirling about their heads, the wind was blowing ontheir backs, but they walked on, singing: "We go on, and on, andon. .. . "

The old man was like a magician in an opera, and both of them weresinging as though they were on the stage:

"We go on, and on, and on!. .. You are in the warmth, in the lightand snugness, but we are walking in the frost and the storm, through thedeep snow. .. . We know nothing of ease, we know nothing of joy. .. . We bear all the burden of this life, yours and ours. .. . Oo-oo-oo! Wego on, and on, and on. .. . "

Lyzhin woke and sat up in bed. What a confused, bad dream! And why didhe dream of the constable and the agent together? What nonsense! And nowwhile Lyzhin's heart was throbbing violently and he was sitting on hisbed, holding his head in his hands, it seemed to him that there reallywas something in common between the lives of the insurance agent and theconstable. Don't they really go side by side holding each other up? Sometie unseen, but significant and essential, existed between them, andeven between them and Von Taunitz and between all men--all men; in thislife, even in the remotest desert, nothing is accidental, everythingis full of one common idea, everything has one soul, one aim, and tounderstand it it is not enough to think, it is not enough to reason, onemust have also, it seems, the gift of insight into life, a gift which isevidently not bestowed on all. And the unhappy man who had brokendown, who had killed himself--the "neurasthenic, " as the doctor calledhim--and the old peasant who spent every day of his life going from oneman to another, were only accidental, were only fragments of life forone who thought of his own life as accidental, but were parts of oneorganism--marvelous and rational--for one who thought of his own life aspart of that universal whole and understood it. So thought Lyzhin, andit was a thought that had long lain hidden in his soul, and only now itwas unfolded broadly and clearly to his consciousness. 

He lay down and began to drop asleep; and again they were going alongtogether, singing: "We go on, and on, and on. .. . We take from lifewhat is hardest and bitterest in it, and we leave you what is easy andjoyful; and sitting at supper, you can coldly and sensibly discuss whywe suffer and perish, and why we are not as sound and as satisfied asyou. "

What they were singing had occurred to his mind before, but the thoughtwas somewhere in the background behind his other thoughts, and flickeredtimidly like a faraway light in foggy weather. And he felt that thissuicide and the peasant's sufferings lay upon his conscience, too; toresign himself to the fact that these people, submissive to their fate, should take up the burden of what was hardest and gloomiest in life--howawful it was! To accept this, and to desire for himself a life fullof light and movement among happy and contented people, and to becontinually dreaming of such, means dreaming of fresh suicides of mencrushed by toil and anxiety, or of men weak and outcast whom people onlytalk of sometimes at supper with annoyance or mockery, without going totheir help. .. . And again:

"We go on, and on, and on. .. " as though someone were beating with ahammer on his temples. 

He woke early in the morning with a headache, roused by a noise; in thenext room Von Taunitz was saying loudly to the doctor:

"It's impossible for you to go now. Look what's going on outside. Don't argue, you had better ask the coachman; he won't take you in suchweather for a million. "

"But it's only two miles, " said the doctor in an imploring voice. 

"Well, if it were only half a mile. If you can't, then you can't. Directly you drive out of the gates it is perfect hell, you would be offthe road in a minute. Nothing will induce me to let you go, you can saywhat you like. "

"It's bound to be quieter towards evening, " said the peasant who washeating the stove. 

And in the next room the doctor began talking of the rigorous climateand its influence on the character of the Russian, of the longwinters which, by preventing movement from place to place, hinderthe intellectual development of the people; and Lyzhin listened withvexation to these observations and looked out of window at the snowdrifts which were piled on the fence. He gazed at the white dust whichcovered the whole visible expanse, at the trees which bowed their headsdespairingly to right and then to left, listened to the howling and thebanging, and thought gloomily:

"Well, what moral can be drawn from it? It's a blizzard and that is allabout it. .. . "

At midday they had lunch, then wandered aimlessly about the house; theywent to the windows. 

"And Lesnitsky is lying there, " thought Lyzhin, watching the whirlingsnow, which raced furiously round and round upon the drifts. "Lesnitskyis lying there, the witnesses are waiting. .. . "

They talked of the weather, saying that the snowstorm usually lastedtwo days and nights, rarely longer. At six o'clock they had dinner, thenthey played cards, sang, danced; at last they had supper. The day wasover, they went to bed. 

In the night, towards morning, it all subsided. When they got up andlooked out of window, the bare willows with their weakly droopingbranches were standing perfectly motionless; it was dull and still, asthough nature now were ashamed of its orgy, of its mad nights, and thelicense it had given to its passions. The horses, harnessed tandem, hadbeen waiting at the front door since five o'clock in the morning. Whenit was fully daylight the doctor and the examining magistrate put ontheir fur coats and felt boots, and, saying good-by to their host, wentout. 

At the steps beside the coachman stood the familiar figure of theconstable, Ilya Loshadin, with an old leather bag across his shoulderand no cap on his head, covered with snow all over, and his face wasred and wet with perspiration. The footman who had come out to help thegentlemen and cover their legs looked at him sternly and said:

"What are you standing here for, you old devil? Get away!"

"Your honor, the people are anxious, " said Loshadin, smiling naively allover his face, and evidently pleased at seeing at last the people hehad waited for so long. "The people are very uneasy, the children arecrying. .. . They thought, your honor, that you had gone back to thetown again. Show us the heavenly mercy, our benefactors!. .. "

The doctor and the examining magistrate said nothing, got into thesledge, and drove to Syrnya. 

THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER

A FIRST-CLASS passenger who had just dined at the station and drunk alittle too much lay down on the velvet-covered seat, stretched himselfout luxuriously, and sank into a doze. After a nap of no more than fiveminutes, he looked with oily eyes at his _vis-a-vis, _ gave a smirk, andsaid:

"My father of blessed memory used to like to have his heels tickled bypeasant women after dinner. I am just like him, with this difference, that after dinner I always like my tongue and my brains gentlystimulated. Sinful man as I am, I like empty talk on a full stomach. Will you allow me to have a chat with you?"

"I shall be delighted, " answered the _vis-a-vis. _

"After a good dinner the most trifling subject is sufficient to arousedevilishly great thoughts in my brain. For instance, we saw just nownear the refreshment bar two young men, and you heard one congratulatethe other on being celebrated. 'I congratulate you, ' he said; 'you arealready a celebrity and are beginning to win fame. ' Evidently actors orjournalists of microscopic dimensions. But they are not the point. Thequestion that is occupying my mind at the moment, sir, is exactly whatis to be understood by the word _fame_ or _charity_. What do youthink? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a ragged garment; we allunderstand it as Pushkin does--that is, more or less subjectively--butno one has yet given a clear, logical definition of the word. .. . Iwould give a good deal for such a definition!"

"Why do you feel such a need for it?"

"You see, if we knew what fame is, the means of attaining it mightalso perhaps be known to us, " said the first-class passenger, after amoment's thought. "I must tell you, sir, that when I was younger I stroveafter celebrity with every fiber of my being. To be popular was mycraze, so to speak. For the sake of it I studied, worked, sat up atnight, neglected my meals. And I fancy, as far as I can judge withoutpartiality, I had all the natural gifts for attaining it. To begin with, I am an engineer by profession. In the course of my life I have builtin Russia some two dozen magnificent bridges, I have laid aqueductsfor three towns; I have worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium. .. . Secondly, I am the author of several special treatises in my ownline. And thirdly, my dear sir, I have from a boy had a weakness forchemistry. Studying that science in my leisure hours, I discoveredmethods of obtaining certain organic acids, so that you will find myname in all the foreign manuals of chemistry. I have always been in theservice, I have risen to the grade of actual civil councilor, and I havean unblemished record. I will not fatigue your attention by enumeratingmy works and my merits, I will only say that I have done far more thansome celebrities. And yet here I am in my old age, I am getting readyfor my coffin, so to say, and I am as celebrated as that black dogyonder running on the embankment. "

"How can you tell? Perhaps you are celebrated. "

"H'm! Well, we will test it at once. Tell me, have you ever heard thename Krikunov?"

The _vis-a-vis_ raised his eyes to the ceiling, thought a minute, andlaughed. 

"No, I haven't heard it, . .. " he said. 

"That is my surname. You, a man of education, getting on in years, havenever heard of me--a convincing proof! It is evident that in my effortsto gain fame I have not done the right thing at all: I did not know theright way to set to work, and, trying to catch fame by the tail, got onthe wrong side of her. "

"What is the right way to set to work?"

"Well, the devil only knows! Talent, you say? Genius? Originality? Nota bit of it, sir!. .. People have lived and made a career side by sidewith me who were worthless, trivial, and even contemptible compared withme. They did not do one-tenth of the work I did, did not put themselvesout, were not distinguished for their talents, and did not makean effort to be celebrated, but just look at them! Their names arecontinually in the newspapers and on men's lips! If you are not tired oflistening I will illustrate it by an example. Some years ago I builta bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that the dullness of thatscurvy little town was terrible. If it had not been for women and cardsI believe I should have gone out of my mind. Well, it's an old story:I was so bored that I got into an affair with a singer. Everyone wasenthusiastic about her, the devil only knows why; to my thinking shewas--what shall I say?--an ordinary, commonplace creature, like lotsof others. The hussy was empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what'smore, she was a fool. 

"She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in theafternoon--and I fancy did nothing else. She was looked upon as acocotte, and that was indeed her profession; but when people wanted torefer to her in a literary fashion, they called her an actress anda singer. I used to be devoted to the theatre, and therefore thisfraudulent pretense of being an actress made me furiously indignant. Myyoung lady had not the slightest right to call herself an actress ora singer. She was a creature entirely devoid of talent, devoid offeeling--a pitiful creature one may say. As far as I can judge she sangdisgustingly. The whole charm of her 'art' lay in her kicking up herlegs on every suitable occasion, and not being embarrassed whenpeople walked into her dressing-room. She usually selected translatedvaudevilles, with singing in them, and opportunities for disportingherself in male attire, in tights. In fact it was--ough! Well, I askyour attention. As I remember now, a public ceremony took place tocelebrate the opening of the newly constructed bridge. There was areligious service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on. I hungabout my cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid that myheart would burst with the excitement of an author. Its an old story andthere's no need for false modesty, and so I will tell you that my bridgewas a magnificent work! It was not a bridge but a picture, a perfectdelight! And who would not have been excited when the whole town came tothe opening? 'Oh, ' I thought, 'now the eyes of all the public will beon me! Where shall I hide myself?' Well, I need not have worried myself, sir--alas! Except the official personages, no one took the slightestnotice of me. They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, gazed like sheepat the bridge, and did not concern themselves to know who had builtit. And it was from that time, by the way, that I began to hate ourestimable public--damnation take them! Well, to continue. All at oncethe public became agitated; a whisper ran through the crowd, . .. Asmile came on their faces, their shoulders began to move. 'They musthave seen me, ' I thought. A likely idea! I looked, and my singer, with atrain of young scamps, was making her way through the crowd. The eyes ofthe crowd were hurriedly following this procession. A whisper began in athousand voices: 'That's so-and-so. .. . Charming! Bewitching!' Then itwas they noticed me. .. . A couple of young milksops, local amateursof the scenic art, I presume, looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: 'That's her lover!' How do you like that? And anunprepossessing individual in a top-hat, with a chin that badly neededshaving, hung round me, shifting from one foot to the other, then turnedto me with the words:

"'Do you know who that lady is, walking on the other bank? That'sso-and-so. .. . Her voice is beneath all criticism, but she has a mostperfect mastery of it!. .. '

"'Can you tell me, ' I asked the unprepossessing individual, 'who builtthis bridge?'

"'I really don't know, ' answered the individual; some engineer, Iexpect. '

"'And who built the cathedral in your town?' I asked again. 

"'I really can't tell you. '

"Then I asked him who was considered the best teacher in K. , who thebest architect, and to all my questions the unprepossessing individualanswered that he did not know. 

"'And tell me, please, ' I asked in conclusion, with whom is that singerliving?'

"'With some engineer called Krikunov. '

"Well, how do you like that, sir? But to proceed. There are nominnesingers or bards nowadays, and celebrity is created almostexclusively by the newspapers. The day after the dedication of thebridge, I greedily snatched up the local _Messenger, _ and looked formyself in it. I spent a long time running my eyes over all the fourpages, and at last there it was--hurrah! I began reading: 'Yesterday inbeautiful weather, before a vast concourse of people, in the presenceof His Excellency the Governor of the province, so-and-so, and otherdignitaries, the ceremony of the dedication of the newly constructedbridge took place, ' and so on. .. . Towards the end: Our talentedactress so-and-so, the favorite of the K. Public, was present at thededication looking very beautiful. I need not say that her arrivalcreated a sensation. The star was wearing. .. ' and so on. They mighthave given me one word! Half a word. Petty as it seems, I actually criedwith vexation!

"I consoled myself with the reflection that the provinces are stupid, and one could expect nothing of them and for celebrity one must goto the intellectual centers--to Petersburg and to Moscow. And as ithappened, at that very time there was a work of mine in Petersburg whichI had sent in for a competition. The date on which the result was to bedeclared was at hand. 

"I took leave of K. And went to Petersburg. It is a long journey fromK. To Petersburg, and that I might not be bored on the journey I took areserved compartment and--well--of course, I took my singer. We set off, and all the way we were eating, drinking champagne, and--tra-la--la! Butbehold, at last we reach the intellectual center. I arrived on the veryday the result was declared, and had the satisfaction, my dear sir, ofcelebrating my own success: my work received the first prize. Hurrah!Next day I went out along the Nevsky and spent seventy kopecks onvarious newspapers. I hastened to my hotel room, lay down on the sofa, and, controlling a quiver of excitement, made haste to read. I ranthrough one newspaper--nothing. I ran through a second--nothing either;my God! At last, in the fourth, I lighted upon the following paragraph:'Yesterday the well-known provincial actress so-and-so arrived byexpress in Petersburg. We note with pleasure that the climate of theSouth has had a beneficial effect on our fair friend; her charming stageappearance. .. ' and I don't remember the rest! Much lower down thanthat paragraph I found, printed in the smallest type: first prize in thecompetition was adjudged to an engineer called so-and-so. ' That wasall! And to make things better, they even misspelt my name: instead ofKrikunov it was Kirkutlov. So much for your intellectual center! Butthat was not all. .. . By the time I left Petersburg, a month later, all the newspapers were vying with one another in discussing ourincomparable, divine, highly talented actress, and my mistress wasreferred to, not by her surname, but by her Christian name and herfather's. .. . 

"Some years later I was in Moscow. I was summoned there by a letter, inthe mayor's own handwriting, to undertake a work for which Moscow, inits newspapers, had been clamoring for over a hundred years. Inthe intervals of my work I delivered five public lectures, with aphilanthropic object, in one of the museums there. One would havethought that was enough to make one known to the whole town for threedays at least, wouldn't one? But, alas! not a single Moscow gazettesaid a word about me There was something about houses on fire, aboutan operetta, sleeping town councilors, dr unken shop keepers--abouteverything; but about my work, my plans, my lectures--mum. And a niceset they are in Moscow! I got into a tram. .. . It was packed full;there were ladies and military men and students of both sexes, creaturesof all sorts in couples. 

"'I am told the town council has sent for an engineer to plan such andsuch a work!' I said to my neighbor, so loudly that all the tram couldhear. 'Do you know the name of the engineer?'

"My neighbor shook his head. The rest of the public took a cursoryglance at me, and in all their eyes I read: 'I don't know. '

"'I am told that there is someone giving lectures in such and such amuseum?' I persisted, trying to get up a conversation. 'I hear it isinteresting. '

"No one even nodded. Evidently they had not all of them heard of thelectures, and the ladies were not even aware of the existence of themuseum. All that would not have mattered, but imagine, my dear sir, thepeople suddenly leaped to their feet and struggled to the windows. Whatwas it? What was the matter?

"'Look, look!' my neighbor nudged me. 'Do you see that dark man gettinginto that cab? That's the famous runner, King!'

"And the whole tram began talking breathlessly of the runner who wasthen absorbing the brains of Moscow. 

"I could give you ever so many other examples, but I think that isenough. Now let us assume that I am mistaken about myself, that I ama wretchedly boastful and incompetent person; but apart from myselfI might point to many of my contemporaries, men remarkable for theirtalent and industry, who have nevertheless died unrecognized. Are Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanicians, andagriculturists popular with the public? Do our cultivated masses knowanything of Russian artists, sculptors, and literary men? Some oldliterary hack, hard-working and talented, will wear away the doorstep ofthe publishers' offices for thirty-three years, cover reams of paper, behad up for libel twenty times, and yet not step beyond his ant-heap. Canyou mention to me a single representative of our literature who wouldhave become celebrated if the rumor had not been spread over the earththat he had been killed in a duel, gone out of his mind, been sent intoexile, or had cheated at cards?"

The first-class passenger was so excited that he dropped his cigar outof his mouth and got up. 

"Yes, " he went on fiercely, "and side by side with these people I canquote you hundreds of all sorts of singers, acrobats, buffoons, whosenames are known to every baby. Yes!"

The door creaked, there was a draught, and an individual of forbiddingaspect, wearing an Inverness coat, a top-hat, and blue spectacles, walked into the carriage. The individual looked round at the seats, frowned, and went on further. 

"Do you know who that is?" there came a timid whisper from the furthestcorner of the compartment. 

"That is N. N. , the famous Tula cardsharper who was had up in connectionwith the Y. Bank affair. "

"There you are!" laughed the first-class passenger. "He knows a Tulacardsharper, but ask him whether he knows Semiradsky, Tchaykovsky, orSolovyov the philosopher--he'll shake his head. .. . It swinish!"

Three minutes passed in silence. 

"Allow me in my turn to ask you a question, " said the _vis-a-vis_timidly, clearing his throat. "Do you know the name of Pushkov?"

"Pushkov? H'm! Pushkov. .. . No, I don't know it!"

"That is my name, . .. " said the _vis-a-vis, _, overcome withembarrassment. "Then you don't know it? And yet I have been a professorat one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years, . .. A memberof the Academy of Sciences, . .. Have published more than one work. .. . "

The first-class passenger and the _vis-a-vis_ looked at each other andburst out laughing. 

A TRAGIC ACTOR

IT was the benefit night of Fenogenov, the tragic actor. They wereacting "Prince Serebryany. " The tragedian himself was playing Vyazemsky;Limonadov, the stage manager, was playing Morozov; Madame Beobahtov, Elena. The performance was a grand success. The tragedian accomplishedwonders indeed. When he was carrying off Elena, he held her in one handabove his head as he dashed across the stage. He shouted, hissed, bangedwith his feet, tore his coat across his chest. When he refused to fightMorozov, he trembled all over as nobody ever trembles in reality, andgasped loudly. The theatre shook with applause. There were endlesscalls. Fenogenov was presented with a silver cigarette-case and abouquet tied with long ribbons. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs andurged their men to applaud, many shed tears. .. . But the one who wasthe most enthusiastic and most excited was Masha, daughter of Sidoretskythe police captain. She was sitting in the first row of the stallsbeside her papa; she was ecstatic and could not take her eyes off thestage even between the acts. Her delicate little hands and feet werequivering, her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks turned paler andpaler. And no wonder--she was at the theatre for the first time in herlife. 

"How well they act! how splendidly!" she said to her papa the policecaptain, every time the curtain fell. "How good Fenogenov is!"

And if her papa had been capable of reading faces he would have readon his daughter's pale little countenance a rapture that wasalmost anguish. She was overcome by the acting, by the play, by thesurroundings. When the regimental band began playing between the acts, she closed her eyes, exhausted. 

"Papa!" she said to the police captain during the last interval, "gobehind the scenes and ask them all to dinner to-morrow!"

The police captain went behind the scenes, praised them for all theirfine acting, and complimented Madame Beobahtov. 

"Your lovely face demands a canvas, and I only wish I could wield thebrush!"

And with a scrape, he thereupon invited the company to dinner. 

"All except the fair sex, " he whispered. "I don't want the actresses, for I have a daughter. "

Next day the actors dined at the police captain's. Only three turnedup, the manager Limonadov, the tragedian Fenogenov, and the comicman Vodolazov; the others sent excuses. The dinner was a dull affair. Limonadov kept telling the police captain how much he respected him, andhow highly he thought of all persons in authority; Vodolazov mimickeddrunken merchants and Armenians; and Fenogenov (on his passport his namewas Knish), a tall, stout Little Russian with black eyes and frowningbrow, declaimed "At the portals of the great, " and "To be or not tobe. " Limonadov, with tears in his eyes, described his interview with theformer Governor, General Kanyutchin. The police captain listened, wasbored, and smiled affably. He was well satisfied, although Limonadovsmelt strongly of burnt feathers, and Fenogenov was wearing a hireddress coat and boots trodden down at heel. They pleased his daughter andmade her lively, and that was enough for him. And Masha never took hereyes off the actors. She had never before seen such clever, exceptionalpeople!

In the evening the police captain and Masha were at the theatre again. A week later the actors dined at the police captain's again, and afterthat came almost every day either to dinner or supper. Masha became moreand more devoted to the theatre, and went there every evening. 

She fell in love with the tragedian. One fine morning, when the policecaptain had gone to meet the bishop, Masha ran away with Limonadov'scompany and married her hero on the way. After celebrating the wedding, the actors composed a long and touching letter and sent it to the policecaptain. 

It was the work of their combined efforts. 

"Bring out the motive, the motive!" Limonadov kept saying as he dictatedto the comic man. "Lay on the respect. .. . These official chaps likeit. Add something of a sort. .. To draw a tear. "

The answer to this letter was most discomforting. The police captaindisowned his daughter for marrying, as he said, "a stupid, idle LittleRussian with no fixed home or occupation. "

And the day after this answer was received M asha was writing to herfather. 

"Papa, he beats me! Forgive us!"

He had beaten her, beaten her behind the scenes, in the presence ofLimonadov, the washerwoman, and two lighting men. He remembered how, four days before the wedding, he was sitting in the London Tavern withthe whole company, and all were talking about Masha. The company wereadvising him to "chance it, " and Limonadov, with tears in hiseyes urged: "It would be stupid and irrational to let slip such anopportunity! Why, for a sum like that one would go to Siberia, let alonegetting married! When you marry and have a theatre of your own, take meinto your company. I shan't be master then, you'll be master. "

Fenogenov remembered it, and muttered with clenched fists:

"If he doesn't send money I'll smash her! I won't let myself be made afool of, damn my soul!"

At one provincial town the company tried to give Masha the slip, butMasha found out, ran to the station, and got there when the second bellhad rung and the actors had all taken their seats. 

"I've been shamefully treated by your father, " said the tragedian; "allis over between us!"

And though the carriage was full of people, she went down on her kneesand held out her hands, imploring him:

"I love you! Don't drive me away, Kondraty Ivanovitch, " she besoughthim. "I can't live without you!"

They listened to her entreaties, and after consulting together, tookher into the company as a "countess"--the name they used for the minoractresses who usually came on to the stage in crowds or in dumb parts. To begin with Masha used to play maid-servants and pages, but whenMadame Beobahtov, the flower of Limonadov's company, eloped, they madeher _ingenue_. She acted badly, lisped, and was nervous. She soon grewused to it, however, and began to be liked by the audience. Fenogenovwas much displeased. 

"To call her an actress!" he used to say. "She has no figure, nodeportment, nothing whatever but silliness. "

In one provincial town the company acted Schiller's "Robbers. "Fenogenov played Franz, Masha, Amalie. The tragedian shouted andquivered. Masha repeated her part like a well-learnt lesson, and theplay would have gone off as they generally did had it not been fora trifling mishap. Everything went well up to the point where Franzdeclares his love for Amalie and she seizes his sword. The tragedianshouted, hissed, quivered, and squeezed Masha in his iron embrace. AndMasha, instead of repulsing him and crying "Hence!" trembled in hisarms like a bird and did not move, . .. She seemed petrified. 

"Have pity on me!" she whispered in his ear. "Oh, have pity on me! I amso miserable!"

"You don't know your part! Listen to the prompter!" hissed thetragedian, and he thrust his sword into her hand. 

After the performance, Limonadov and Fenogenov were sitting in theticket box-office engaged in conversation. 

"Your wife does not learn her part, you are right there, " the managerwas saying. "She doesn't know her line. .. . Every man has his ownline, . .. But she doesn't know hers. .. . "

Fenogenov listened, sighed, and scowled and scowled. 

Next morning, Masha was sitting in a little general shop writing:

"Papa, he beats me! Forgive us! Send us some money!"

A TRANSGRESSION

A COLLEGIATE assessor called Miguev stopped at a telegraph-post in thecourse of his evening walk and heaved a deep sigh. A week before, as hewas returning home from his evening walk, he had been overtaken at thatvery spot by his former housemaid, Agnia, who said to him viciously:

"Wait a bit! I'll cook you such a crab that'll teach you to ruininnocent girls! I'll leave the baby at your door, and I'll have the lawof you, and I'll tell your wife, too. .. . "

And she demanded that he should put five thousand roubles into thebank in her name. Miguev remembered it, heaved a sigh, and oncemore reproached himself with heartfelt repentance for the momentaryinfatuation which had caused him so much worry and misery. 

When he reached his bungalow, he sat down to rest on the doorstep. Itwas just ten o'clock, and a bit of the moon peeped out from behindthe clouds. There was not a soul in the street nor near the bungalows;elderly summer visitors were already going to bed, while young ones werewalking in the wood. Feeling in both his pockets for a match to lighthis cigarette, Miguev brought his elbow into contact with somethingsoft. He looked idly at his right elbow, and his face was instantlycontorted by a look of as much horror as though he had seen a snakebeside him. On the step at the very door lay a bundle. Something oblongin shape was wrapped up in something--judging by the feel of it, a wadded quilt. One end of the bundle was a little open, and thecollegiate assessor, putting in his hand, felt something damp and warm. He leaped on to his feet in horror, and looked about him like a criminaltrying to escape from his warders. .. . 

"She has left it!" he muttered wrathfully through his teeth, clenchinghis fists. "Here it lies. .. . Here lies my transgression! O Lord!"

He was numb with terror, anger, and shame. .. What was he to do now?What would his wife say if she found out? What would his colleagues atthe office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: "I congratulate you!. .. He-he-he! Though your beardis gray, your heart is gay. .. . You are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!"The whole colony of summer visitors would know his secret now, andprobably the respectable mothers of families would shut their doors tohim. Such incidents always get into the papers, and the humble name ofMiguev would be published all over Russia. .. . 

The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could distinctly hearhis wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for supper; in the yardclose to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was plaintively strumming on thebalalaika. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secretwould be discovered. Miguev was conscious of an overwhelming desire tomake haste. 

"Haste, haste!. .. " he muttered, "this minute, before anyone sees. I'll carry it away and lay it on somebody's doorstep. .. . "

Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with a deliberate stepto avoid awakening suspicion, went down the street. .. . 

"A wonderfully nasty position!" he reflected, trying to assume an air ofunconcern. "A collegiate assessor walking down the street with a baby!Good heavens! if anyone sees me and understands the position, I amdone for. .. . I'd better put it on this doorstep. .. . No, stay, thewindows are open and perhaps someone is looking. Where shall I put it?I know! I'll take it to the merchant Myelkin's. .. . Merchants are richpeople and tenderhearted; very likely they will say thank you and adoptit. "

And Miguev made up his mind to take the baby to Myelkin's, although themerchant's villa was in the furthest street, close to the river. 

"If only it does not begin screaming or wriggle out of the bundle, "thought the collegiate assessor. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise!Here I am carrying a human being under my arm as though it were aportfolio. A human being, alive, with soul, with feelings like anyoneelse. .. . If by good luck the Myelkins adopt him, he may turn outsomebody. .. . Maybe he will become a professor, a great general, anauthor. .. . Anything may happen! Now I am carrying him under my armlike a bundle of rubbish, and perhaps in thirty or forty years I may notdare to sit down in his presence. .. . "

As Miguev was walking along a narrow, deserted alley, beside a longrow of fences, in the thick black shade of the lime trees, it suddenlystruck him that he was doing something very cruel and criminal. 

"How mean it is really!" he thought. "So mean that one can't imagineanything meaner. .. . Why are we shifting this poor baby from door todoor? It's not its fault that it's been born. It's done us no harm. Weare scoundrels. .. . We take our pleasure, and the innocent babies haveto pay the penalty. Only to think of all this wretched business! I'vedone wrong and the child has a cruel fate before it. If I lay it at theMyelkins' door, they'll send it to the foundling hospital, and there itwill grow up among strangers, in mechanical routine, . .. No love, no petting, no spoiling. .. . And then he'll be apprenticed to ashoemaker, . .. He'll take to drink, will learn to use filthy language, will go hungry. A shoemaker! and he the son of a collegiate assessor, ofgood family. .. . He is my flesh and blood, . .. "

Miguev came out of the shade of the lime trees into the bright moonlightof the open road, and opening the bundle, he looked at the baby. 

"Asleep!" he murmured. "You little rascal! why, you've an aquiline noselike your father's. .. . He sleeps and doesn't feel that it's his ownfather looking at him!. .. It's a drama, my boy. .. Well, well, youmust forgive me. Forgive me, old boy. .. . It seems it's your fate. .. . "

The collegiate assessor blinked and felt a spasm running down hischeeks. .. . He wrapped up the baby, put him under his arm, and strodeon. All the way to the Myelkins' villa social questions were swarming inhis brain and conscience was gnawing in his bosom. 

"If I were a decent, honest man, " he thought, "I should damn everything, go with this baby to Anna Filippovna, fall on my knees before her, and say: 'Forgive me! I have sinned! Torture me, but we won't ruin aninnocent child. We have no children; let us adopt him!' She's a goodsort, she'd consent. .. . And then my child would be with me. .. . Ech!"

He reached the Myelkins' villa and stood still hesitating. He imaginedhimself in the parlor at home, sitting reading the paper while a littleboy with an aquiline nose played with the tassels of his dressing gown. At the same time visions forced themselves on his brain of his winkingcolleagues, and of his Excellency digging him in the ribs andguffawing. .. . Besides the pricking of his conscience, there wassomething warm, sad, and tender in his heart. .. . 

Cautiously the collegiate assessor laid the baby on the verandah stepand waved his hand. Again he felt a spasm run over his face. .. . 

"Forgive me, old fellow! I am a scoundrel, " he muttered. "Don't rememberevil against me. "

He stepped back, but immediately cleared his throat resolutely and said:

"Oh, come what will! Damn it all! I'll take him, and let people say whatthey like!"

Miguev took the baby and strode rapidly back. 

"Let them say what they like, " he thought. "I'll go at once, fall onmy knees, and say: 'Anna Filippovna!' Anna is a good sort, she'llunderstand. .. . And we'll bring him up. .. . If it's a boy we'll callhim Vladimir, and if it's a girl we'll call her Anna! Anyway, it will bea comfort in our old age. "

And he did as he determined. Weeping and almost faint with shame andterror, full of hope and vague rapture, he went into his bungalow, wentup to his wife, and fell on his knees before her. 

"Anna Filippovna!" he said with a sob, and he laid the baby on thefloor. "Hear me before you punish. .. . I have sinned! This is mychild. .. . You remember Agnia? Well, it was the devil drove me to it. . .. "

And, almost unconscious with shame and terror, he jumped up withoutwaiting for an answer, and ran out into the open air as though he hadreceived a thrashing. .. . 

"I'll stay here outside till she calls me, " he thought. "I'll give hertime to recover, and to think it over. .. . "

The porter Yermolay passed him with his balalaika, glanced at him andshrugged his shoulders. A minute later he passed him again, and again heshrugged his shoulders. 

"Here's a go! Did you ever!" he muttered grinning. "Aksinya, thewasher-woman, was here just now, Semyon Erastovitch. The silly womanput her baby down on the steps here, and while she was indoors with me, someone took and carried off the baby. .. Who'd have thought it!"

"What? What are you saying?" shouted Miguev at the top of his voice. 

Yermolay, interpreting his master's wrath in his own fashion, scratchedhis head and heaved a sigh. 

"I am sorry, Semyon Erastovitch, " he said, "but it's the summerholidays, . .. One can't get on without. .. Without a woman, I mean. .. . "

And glancing at his master's eyes glaring at him with anger andastonishment, he cleared his throat guiltily and went on:

"It's a sin, of course, but there--what is one to do?. .. You'veforbidden us to have strangers in the house, I know, but we've none ofour own now. When Agnia was here I had no women to see me, for I had oneat home; but now, you can see for yourself, sir, . .. One can'thelp having strangers. In Agnia's time, of course, there was nothingirregular, because. .. "

"Be off, you scoundrel!" Miguev shouted at him, stamping, and he wentback into the room. 

Anna Filippovna, amazed and wrathful, was sitting as before, hertear-stained eyes fixed on the baby. .. . 

"There! there!" Miguev muttered with a pale face, twisting his lipsinto a smile. "It was a joke. .. . It's not my baby, . .. It'sthe washer-woman's!. .. I. .. I was joking. .. . Take it to theporter. "

SMALL FRY

"HONORED Sir, Father and Benefactor!" a petty clerk called Nevyrazimovwas writing a rough copy of an Easter congratulatory letter. "I trustthat you may spend this Holy Day even as many more to come, in goodhealth and prosperity. And to your family also I. .. "

The lamp, in which the kerosene was getting low, was smoking andsmelling. A stray cockroach was running about the table in alarm nearNevyrazimov's writing hand. Two rooms away from the office Paramon theporter was for the third time cleaning his best boots, and with suchenergy that the sound of the blacking-brush and of his expectorationswas audible in all the rooms. 

"What else can I write to him, the rascal?" Nevyrazimov wondered, raising his eyes to the smutty ceiling. 

On the ceiling he saw a dark circle--the shadow of the lamp-shade. Belowit was the dusty cornice, and lower still the wall, which had once beenpainted a bluish muddy color. And the office seemed to him such a placeof desolation that he felt sorry, not only for himself, but even for thecockroach. 

"When I am off duty I shall go away, but he'll be on duty here all hiscockroach-life, " he thought, stretching. "I am bored! Shall I clean myboots?"

And stretching once more, Nevyrazimov slouched lazily to the porter'sroom. Paramon had finished cleaning his boots. Crossing himself withone hand and holding the brush in the other, he was standing at the openwindow-pane, listening. 

"They're ringing, " he whispered to Nevyrazimov, looking at him with eyesintent and wide open. "Already!"

Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter chimesfloated into the room with a whiff of fresh spring air. The booming ofthe bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, and above the chaosof sounds rose the brisk tenor tones of the nearest church and a loudshrill laugh. 

"What a lot of people!" sighed Nevyrazimov, looking down intothe street, where shadows of men flitted one after another by theillumination lamps. "They're all hurrying to the midnight service. .. . Our fellows have had a drink by now, you may be sure, and are strollingabout the town. What a lot of laughter, what a lot of talk! I'm theonly unlucky one, to have to sit here on such a day: And I have to do itevery year!"

"Well, nobody forces you to take the job. It's not your turn to be onduty today, but Zastupov hired you to take his place. When other folksare enjoying themselves you hire yourself out. It's greediness!"

"Devil a bit of it! Not much to be greedy over--two roubles is all hegives me; a necktie as an extra. .. . It's poverty, not greediness. And it would be jolly, now, you know, to be going with a party to theservice, and then to break the fast. .. . To drink and to have a bitof supper and tumble off to sleep. .. . One sits down to the table, there's an Easter cake and the samovar hissing, and some charming littlething beside you. .. . You drink a glass and chuck her under the chin, and it's first-rate. .. . You feel you're somebody. .. . Ech h-h!. .. I've made a mess of things! Look at that hussy driving by in hercarriage, while I have to sit here and brood. "

"We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you'll bepromoted and drive about in your carriage one day. "

"I? No, brother, not likely. I shan't get beyond a 'titular, ' not if Itry till I burst. I'm not an educated man. "

"Our General has no education either, but. .. "

"Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand before he got hisposition. And he's got very different manners and deportment from me, brother. With my manners and deportment one can't get far! And such ascoundrelly surname, Nevyrazimov! It's a hopeless position, in fact. Onemay go on as one is, or one may hang oneself. .. "

He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. Thedin of the bells grew louder and louder. .. . There was no need tostand by the window to hear it. And the better he could hear the bellsand the louder the roar of the carriages, the darker seemed the muddywalls and the smutty cornice and the more the lamp smoked. 

"Shall I hook it and leave the office?" thought Nevyrazimov. 

But such a flight promised nothing worth having. .. . After coming outof the office and wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gonehome to his lodging, and in his lodging it was even grayer and moredepressing than in the office. .. . Even supposing he were to spendthat day pleasantly and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing butthe same gray walls, the same stop-gap duty and complimentaryletters. .. . 

Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank intothought. The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart with anintolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find himself suddenlyin the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in thesolemn festivity for the sake of which all those bells were clashingand those carriages were rumbling. He longed for what he had known inchildhood--the family circle, the festive faces of his own people, thewhite cloth, light, warmth. .. ! He thought of the carriage in whichthe lady had just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk wasso smart, the gold chain that adorned the secretary's chest. .. . He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav order, of new boots, ofa uniform without holes in the elbows. .. . He thought of all thosethings because he had none of them. 

"Shall I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is an easy matter, hiding is what's difficult. Men run away to America, they say, with whatthey've stolen, but the devil knows where that blessed America is. Onemust have education even to steal, it seems. "

The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages andParamon's cough, while his depression and anger grew more and moreintense and unbearable. The clock in the office struck half-past twelve. 

"Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose rapidly. "

Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which thekerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and threatening to goout. The stray cockroach was still running about the table and had foundno resting-place. 

"One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make it up?I should want to make all sorts of innuendoes and insinuations, likeProshkin, and I can't do it. If I made up anything I should be the firstto get into trouble for it. I'm an ass, damn my soul!"

And Nevyrazimov, racking his brain for a means of escape from hishopeless position, stared at the rough copy he had written. The letterwas written to a man whom he feared and hated with his whole soul, andfrom whom he had for the last ten years been trying to wring a postworth eighteen roubles a month, instead of the one he had at sixteenroubles. 

"Ah, I'll teach you to run here, you devil!" He viciously slapped thepalm of his hand on the cockroach, who had the misfortune to catch hiseye. "Nasty thing!"

The cockroach fell on its back and wriggled its legs in despair. Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The lampflared up and spluttered. 

And Nevyrazimov felt better. 

THE REQUIEM

IN the village church of Verhny Zaprudy mass was just over. The peoplehad begun moving and were trooping out of church. The only one whodid not move was Andrey Andreyitch, a shopkeeper and old inhabitant ofVerhny Zaprudy. He stood waiting, with his elbows on the railing of theright choir. His fat and shaven face, covered with indentations leftby pimples, expressed on this occasion two contradictory feelings:resignation in the face of inevitable destiny, and stupid, unboundeddisdain for the smocks and striped kerchiefs passing by him. As it wasSunday, he was dressed like a dandy. He wore a long cloth overcoat withyellow bone buttons, blue trousers not thrust into his boots, and sturdygoloshes--the huge clumsy goloshes only seen on the feet of practicaland prudent persons of firm religious convictions. 

His torpid eyes, sunk in fat, were fixed upon the ikon stand. He saw thelong familiar figures of the saints, the verger Matvey puffing out hischeeks and blowing out the candles, the darkened candle stands, thethreadbare carpet, the sacristan Lopuhov running impulsively from thealtar and carrying the holy bread to the churchwarden. .. . All thesethings he had seen for years, and seen over and over again like the fivefingers of his hand. .. . There was only one thing, however, that wassomewhat strange and unusual. Father Grigory, still in his vestments, was standing at the north door, twitching his thick eyebrows angrily. 

"Who is it he is winking at? God bless him!" thought the shopkeeper. "And he is beckoning with his finger! And he stamped his foot! Whatnext! What's the matter, Holy Queen and Mother! Whom does he mean itfor?"

Andrey Andreyitch looked round and saw the church completely deserted. There were some ten people standing at the door, but they had theirbacks to the altar. 

"Do come when you are called! Why do you stand like a graven image?" heheard Father Grigory's angry voice. "I am calling you. "

The shopkeeper looked at Father Grigory's red and wrathful face, andonly then realized that the twitching eyebrows and beckoning fingermight refer to him. He started, left the railing, and hesitatinglywalked towards the altar, tramping with his heavy goloshes. 

"Andrey Andreyitch, was it you asked for prayers for the rest ofMariya's soul?" asked the priest, his eyes angrily transfixing theshopkeeper's fat, perspiring face. 

"Yes, Father. "

"Then it was you wrote this? You?" And Father Grigory angrily thrustbefore his eyes the little note. 

And on this little note, handed in by Andrey Andreyitch before mass, waswritten in big, as it were staggering, letters:

"For the rest of the soul of the servant of God, the harlot Mariya. "

"Yes, certainly I wrote it, . .. " answered the shopkeeper. 

"How dared you write it?" whispered the priest, and in his husky whisperthere was a note of wrath and alarm. 

The shopkeeper looked at him in blank amazement; he was perplexed, andhe, too, was alarmed. Father Grigory had never in his life spoken insuch a tone to a leading resident of Verhny Zaprudy. Both were silentfor a minute, staring into each other's face. The shopkeeper's amazementwas so great that his fat face spread in all directions like spiltdough. 

"How dared you?" repeated the priest. 

"Wha. .. What?" asked Andrey Andreyitch in bewilderment. 

"You don't understand?" whispered Father Grigory, stepping backin astonishment and clasping his hands. "What have you got on yourshoulders, a head or some other object? You send a note up to the altar, and write a word in it which it would be unseemly even to utter in thestreet! Why are you rolling your eyes? Surely you know the meaning ofthe word?"

"Are you referring to the word harlot?" muttered the shopkeeper, flushing crimson and blinking. "But you know, the Lord in His mercy. .. Forgave this very thing, . .. Forgave a harlot. .. . He has prepareda place for her, and indeed from the life of the holy saint, Mariya ofEgypt, one may see in what sense the word is used--excuse me. .. "

The shopkeeper wanted to bring forward some other argument in hisjustification, but took fright and wiped his lips with his sleeve. 

"So that's what you make of it!" cried Father Grigory, clasping hishands. "But you see God has forgiven her--do you understand? He hasforgiven, but you judge her, you slander her, call her by an unseemlyname, and whom! Your own deceased daughter! Not only in Holy Scripture, but even in worldly literature you won't read of such a sin! I tellyou again, Andrey, you mustn't be over-subtle! No, no, you mustn't beover-subtle, brother! If God has given you an inquiring mind, and if youcannot direct it, better not go into things. .. . Don't go into things, and hold your peace!"

"But you know, she, . .. Excuse my mentioning it, was an actress!"articulated Andrey Andreyitch, overwhelmed. 

"An actress! But whatever she was, you ought to forget it all now she isdead, instead of writing it on the note. "

"Just so, . .. " the shopkeeper assented. 

"You ought to do penance, " boomed the deacon from the depths of thealtar, looking contemptuously at Andrey Andreyitch's embarrassed face, "that would teach you to leave off being so clever! Your daughter wasa well-known actress. There were even notices of her death in thenewspapers. .. . Philosopher!"

"To be sure, . .. Certainly, " muttered the shopkeeper, "the word is nota seemly one; but I did not say it to judge her, Father Grigory, I onlymeant to speak spiritually, . .. That it might be clearer to you forwhom you were praying. They write in the memorial notes the variouscallings, such as the infant John, the drowned woman Pelagea, thewarrior Yegor, the murdered Pavel, and so on. .. . I meant to do thesame. "

"It was foolish, Andrey! God will forgive you, but beware another time. Above all, don't be subtle, but think like other people. Make ten bowsand go your way. "

"I obey, " said the shopkeeper, relieved that the lecture was over, andallowing his face to resume its expression of importance and dignity. "Ten bows? Very good, I understand. But now, Father, allow me to askyou a favor. .. . Seeing that I am, anyway, her father, . .. You knowyourself, whatever she was, she was still my daughter, so I was, . .. Excuse me, meaning to ask you to sing the requiem today. And allow me toask you, Father Deacon!"

"Well, that's good, " said Father Grigory, taking off his vestments. "That I commend. I can approve of that! Well, go your way. We will comeout immediately. "

Andrey Andreyitch walked with dignity from the altar, and with a solemn, requiem-like expression on his red face took his stand in the middleof the church. The verger Matvey set before him a little table with thememorial food upon it, and a little later the requiem service began. 

There was perfect stillness in the church. Nothing could be heard butthe metallic click of the censer and slow singing. .. . Near AndreyAndreyitch stood the verger Matvey, the midwife Makaryevna, and herone-armed son Mitka. There was no one else. The sacristan sang badly inan unpleasant, hollow bass, but the tune and the words were so mournfulthat the shopkeeper little by little lost the expression of dignity andwas plunged in sadness. He thought of his Mashutka, . .. He rememberedshe had been born when he was still a lackey in the service of the ownerof Verhny Zaprudy. In his busy life as a lackey he had not noticedhow his girl had grown up. That long period during which she was beingshaped into a graceful creature, with a little flaxen head and dreamyeyes as big as kopeck-pieces passed unnoticed by him. She had beenbrought up like all the children of favorite lackeys, in ease andcomfort in the company of the young ladies. The gentry, to fill up theiridle time, had taught her to read, to write, to dance; he had had nohand in her bringing up. Only from time to time casually meeting her atthe gate or on the landing of the stairs, he would remember that she washis daughter, and would, so far as he had leisure for it, begin teachingher the prayers and the scripture. Oh, even then he had the reputationof an authority on the church rules and the holy scriptures! Forbiddingand stolid as her father's face was, yet the girl listened readily. Sherepeated the prayers after him yawning, but on the other hand, when he, hesitating and trying to express himself elaborately, began telling herstories, she was all attention. Esau's pottage, the punishment of Sodom, and the troubles of the boy Joseph made her turn pale and open her blueeyes wide. 

Afterwards when he gave up being a lackey, and with the money he hadsaved opened a shop in the village, Mashutka had gone away to Moscowwith his master's family. .. . 

Three years before her death she had come to see her father. He hadscarcely recognized her. She was a graceful young woman with the mannersof a young lady, and dressed like one. She talked cleverly, as thoughfrom a book, smoked, and slept till midday. When Andrey Andreyitch askedher what she was doing, she had announced, looking him boldly straightin the face: "I am an actress. " Such frankness struck the former flunkeyas the acme of cynicism. Mashutka had begun boasting of her successesand her stage life; but seeing that her father only turned crimson andthrew up his hands, she ceased. And they spent a fortnight togetherwithout speaking or looking at one another till the day she went away. Before she went away she asked her father to come for a walk on the bankof the river. Painful as it was for him to walk in the light of day, inthe sight of all honest people, with a daughter who was an actress, heyielded to her request. 

"What a lovely place you live in!" she said enthusiastically. "Whatravines and marshes! Good heavens, how lovely my native place is!"

And she had burst into tears. 

"The place is simply taking up room, . .. " Andrey Andreyvitchhad thought, looking blankly at the ravines, not understanding hisdaughter's enthusiasm. "There is no more profit from them than milk froma billy-goat. "

And she had cried and cried, drawing her breath greedily with her wholechest, as though she felt she had not a long time left to breathe. 

Andrey Andreyitch shook his head like a horse that has been bitten, andto stifle painful memories began rapidly crossing himself. .. . 

"Be mindful, O Lord, " he muttered, "of Thy departed servant, the harlotMariya, and forgive her sins, voluntary or involuntary. .. . "

The unseemly word dropped from his lips again, but he did not noticeit: what is firmly imbedded in the consciousness cannot be driven out byFather Grigory's exhortations or even knocked out by a nail. Makaryevnasighed and whispered something, drawing in a deep breath, whileone-armed Mitka was brooding over something. .. . 

"Where there is no sickness, nor grief, nor sighing, " droned thesacristan, covering his right cheek with his hand. 

Bluish smoke coiled up from the censer and bathed in the broad, slantingpatch of sunshine which cut across the gloomy, lifeless emptiness of thechurch. And it seemed as though the soul of the dead woman were soaringinto the sunlight together with the smoke. The coils of smoke like achild's curls eddied round and round, floating upwards to the windowand, as it were, holding aloof from the woes and tribulations of whichthat poor soul was full. 

IN THE COACH-HOUSE

IT was between nine and ten o'clock in the evening. Stepan the coachman, Mihailo the house-porter, Alyoshka the coachman's grandson, who had comeup from the village to stay with his grandfather, and Nikandr, an oldman of seventy, who used to come into the yard every evening to sellsalt herrings, were sitting round a lantern in the big coach-house, playing "kings. " Through the wide-open door could be seen the wholeyard, the big house, where the master's family lived, the gates, thecellars, and the porter's lodge. It was all shrouded in the darkness ofnight, and only the four windows of one of the lodges which was letwere brightly lit up. The shadows of the coaches and sledges with theirshafts tipped upwards stretched from the walls to the doors, quiveringand cutting across the shadows cast by the lantern and the players. .. . On the other side of the thin partition that divided the coach-housefrom the stable were the horses. There was a scent of hay, and adisagreeable smell of salt herrings coming from old Nikandr. 

The porter won and was king; he assumed an attitude such as was in hisopinion befitting a king, and blew his nose loudly on a red-checkedhandkerchief. 

"Now if I like I can chop off anybody's head, " he said. Alyoshka, aboy of eight with a head of flaxen hair, left long uncut, who had onlymissed being king by two tricks, looked angrily and with envy at theporter. He pouted and frowned. 

"I shall give you the trick, grandfather, " he said, pondering over hiscards; "I know you have got the queen of diamonds. "

"Well, well, little silly, you have thought enough!"

Alyoshka timidly played the knave of diamonds. At that moment a ring washeard from the yard. 

"Oh, hang you!" muttered the porter, getting up. "Go and open the gate, O king!"

When he came back a little later, Alyoshka was already a prince, thefish-hawker a soldier, and the coachman a peasant. 

"It's a nasty business, " said the porter, sitting down to the cardsagain. "I have just let the doctors out. They have not extracted it. "

"How could they? Just think, they would have to pick open the brains. Ifthere is a bullet in the head, of what use are doctors?"

"He is lying unconscious, " the porter went on. "He is bound to die. Alyoshka, don't look at the cards, you little puppy, or I will pull yourears! Yes, I let the doctors out, and the father and mother in. .. Theyhave only just arrived. Such crying and wailing, Lord preserve us! Theysay he is the only son. .. . It's a grief!"

All except Alyoshka, who was absorbed in the game, looked round at thebrightly lighted windows of the lodge. 

"I have orders to go to the police station tomorrow, " said the porter. "There will be an inquiry. .. But what do I know about it? I sawnothing of it. He called me this morning, gave me a letter, and said:'Put it in the letter-box for me. ' And his eyes were red with crying. His wife and children were not at home. They had gone out for a walk. Sowhen I had gone with the letter, he put a bullet into his forehead froma revolver. When I came back his cook was wailing for the whole yard tohear. "

"It's a great sin, " said the fish-hawker in a husky voice, and he shookhis head, "a great sin!"

"From too much learning, " said the porter, taking a trick; "his witsoutstripped his wisdom. Sometimes he would sit writing papers allnight. .. . Play, peasant!. .. But he was a nice gentleman. And so whiteskinned, black-haired and tall!. .. He was a good lodger. "

"It seems the fair sex is at the bottom of it, " said the coachman, slapping the nine of trumps on the king of diamonds. "It seems he wasfond of another man's wife and disliked his own; it does happen. "

"The king rebels, " said the porter. 

At that moment there was again a ring from the yard. The rebellious kingspat with vexation and went out. Shadows like dancing couples flittedacross the windows of the lodge. There was the sound of voices andhurried footsteps in the yard. 

"I suppose the doctors have come again, " said the coachman. "Our Mihailois run off his legs. .. . "

A strange wailing voice rang out for a moment in the air. Alyoshkalooked in alarm at his grandfather, the coachman; then at the windows, and said:

"He stroked me on the head at the gate yesterday, and said, 'Whatdistrict do you come from, boy?' Grandfather, who was that howled justnow?"

His grandfather trimmed the light in the lantern and made no answer. 

"The man is lost, " he said a little later, with a yawn. "He is lost, andhis children are ruined, too. It's a disgrace for his children for therest of their lives now. "

The porter came back and sat down by the lantern. 

"He is dead, " he said. "They have sent to the almshouse for the oldwomen to lay him out. "

"The kingdom of heaven and eternal peace to him!" whispered thecoachman, and he crossed himself. 

Looking at him, Alyoshka crossed himself too. 

"You can't pray for such as him, " said the fish-hawker. 

"Why not?"

"It's a sin. "

"That's true, " the porter assented. "Now his soul has gone straight tohell, to the devil. .. . "

"It's a sin, " repeated the fish-hawker; "such as he have no funeral, norequiem, but are buried like carrion with no respect. "

The old man put on his cap and got up. 

"It was the same thing at our lady's, " he said, pulling his cap onfurther. "We were serfs in those days; the younger son of our mistress, the General's lady, shot himself through the mouth with a pistol, fromtoo much learning, too. It seems that by law such have to be buriedoutside the cemetery, without priests, without a requiem service; but tosave disgrace our lady, you know, bribed the police and the doctors, and they gave her a paper to say her son had done it when delirious, notknowing what he was doing. You can do anything with money. So he hada funeral with priests and every honor, the music played, and he wasburied in the church; for the deceased General had built that churchwith his own money, and all his family were buried there. Only this iswhat happened, friends. One month passed, and then another, and it wasall right. In the third month they informed the General's lady that thewatchmen had come from that same church. What did they want? They werebrought to her, they fell at her feet. 'We can't go on serving, yourexcellency, ' they said. 'Look out for other watchmen and graciouslydismiss us. ' 'What for?' 'No, ' they said, 'we can't possibly; your sonhowls under the church all night. '"

Alyoshka shuddered, and pressed his face to the coachman's back so asnot to see the windows. 

"At first the General's lady would not listen, " continued the old man. "'All this is your fancy, you simple folk have such notions, ' she said. 'A dead man cannot howl. ' Some time afterwards the watchmen came to heragain, and with them the sacristan. So the sacristan, too, had heardhim howling. The General's lady saw that it was a bad job; she lockedherself in her bedroom with the watchmen. 'Here, my friends, here aretwenty-five roubles for you, and for that go by night in secret, so thatno one should hear or see you, dig up my unhappy son, and bury him, ' shesaid, 'outside the cemetery. ' And I suppose she stood them a glass. .. And the watchmen did so. The stone with the inscription on it is thereto this day, but he himself, the General's son, is outside thecemetery. .. . O Lord, forgive us our transgressions!" sighed thefish-hawker. "There is only one day in the year when one may pray forsuch people: the Saturday before Trinity. .. . You mustn't give alms tobeggars for their sake, it is a sin, but you may feed the birds for therest of their souls. The General's lady used to go out to the crossroadsevery three days to feed the birds. Once at the cross-roads a black dogsuddenly appeared; it ran up to the bread, and was such a. .. We all knowwhat that dog was. The General's lady was like a half-crazy creature forfive days afterwards, she neither ate nor drank. .. . All at once she fellon her knees in the garden, and prayed and prayed. .. . Well, good-by, friends, the blessing of God and the Heavenly Mother be with you. Let usgo, Mihailo, you'll open the gate for me. "

The fish-hawker and the porter went out. The coachman and Alyoshka wentout too, so as not to be left in the coach-house. 

"The man was living and is dead!" said the coachman, looking towards thewindows where shadows were still flitting to and fro. "Only this morninghe was walking about the yard, and now he is lying dead. "

"The time will come and we shall die too, " said the porter, walking awaywith the fish-hawker, and at once they both vanished from sight in thedarkness. 

The coachman, and Alyoshka after him, somewhat timidly went up to thelighted windows. A very pale lady with large tear stained eyes, and afine-looking gray headed man were moving two card-tables into the middleof the room, probably with the intention of laying the dead man uponthem, and on the green cloth of the table numbers could still be seenwritten in chalk. The cook who had run about the yard wailing in themorning was now standing on a chair, stretching up to try and cover thelooking glass with a towel. 

"Grandfather what are they doing?" asked Alyoshka in a whisper. 

"They are just going to lay him on the tables, " answered hisgrandfather. "Let us go, child, it is bedtime. "

The coachman and Alyoshka went back to the coach-house. They said theirprayers, and took off their boots. Stepan lay down in a corner on thefloor, Alyoshka in a sledge. The doors of the coach house were shut, there was a horrible stench from the extinguished lantern. A littlelater Alyoshka sat up and looked about him; through the crack of thedoor he could still see a light from those lighted windows. 

"Grandfather, I am frightened!" he said. 

"Come, go to sleep, go to sleep!. .. "

"I tell you I am frightened!"

"What are you frightened of? What a baby!"

They were silent. 

Alyoshka suddenly jumped out of the sledge and, loudly weeping, ran tohis grandfather. 

"What is it? What's the matter?" cried the coachman in a fright, gettingup also. 

"He's howling!"

"Who is howling?"

"I am frightened, grandfather, do you hear?"

The coachman listened. 

"It's their crying, " he said. "Come! there, little silly! They are sad, so they are crying. "

"I want to go home, . .. " his grandson went on sobbing and tremblingall over. "Grandfather, let us go back to the village, to mammy; come, grandfather dear, God will give you the heavenly kingdom for it. .. . "

"What a silly, ah! Come, be quiet, be quiet! Be quiet, I will light thelantern, . .. Silly!"

The coachman fumbled for the matches and lighted the lantern. But thelight did not comfort Alyoshka. 

"Grandfather Stepan, let's go to the village!" he besought him, weeping. "I am frightened here; oh, oh, how frightened I am! And why did youbring me from the village, accursed man?"

"Who's an accursed man? You mustn't use such disrespectable words toyour lawful grandfather. I shall whip you. "

"Do whip me, grandfather, do; beat me like Sidor's goat, but only takeme to mammy, for God's mercy!. .. "

"Come, come, grandson, come!" the coachman said kindly. "It's allright, don't be frightened. .. . I am frightened myself. .. . Say yourprayers!"

The door creaked and the porter's head appeared. "Aren't you asleep, Stepan?" he asked. "I shan't get any sleep all night, " he said, comingin. "I shall be opening and shutting the gates all night. .. . What areyou crying for, Alyoshka?"

"He is frightened, " the coachman answered for his grandson. 

Again there was the sound of a wailing voice in the air. The portersaid:

"They are crying. The mother can't believe her eyes. .. . It's dreadfulhow upset she is. "

"And is the father there?"

"Yes. .. . The father is all right. He sits in the corner and saysnothing. They have taken the children to relations. .. . Well, Stepan, shall we have a game of trumps?"

"Yes, " the coachman agreed, scratching himself, "and you, Alyoshka, goto sleep. Almost big enough to be married, and blubbering, you rascal. Come, go along, grandson, go along. .. . "

The presence of the porter reassured Alyoshka. He went, not veryresolutely, towards the sledge and lay down. And while he was fallingasleep he heard a half-whisper. 

"I beat and cover, " said his grandfather. 

"I beat and cover, " repeated the porter. 

The bell rang in the yard, the door creaked and seemed also saying: "Ibeat and cover. " When Alyoshka dreamed of the gentleman and, frightenedby his eyes, jumped up and burst out crying, it was morning, hisgrandfather was snoring, and the coach-house no longer seemed terrible. 

PANIC FEARS

DURING all the years I have been living in this world I have only threetimes been terrified. 

The first real terror, which made my hair stand on end and made shiversrun all over me, was caused by a trivial but strange phenomenon. Ithappened that, having nothing to do one July evening, I drove to thestation for the newspapers. It was a still, warm, almost sultry evening, like all those monotonous evenings in July which, when once they haveset in, go on for a week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, inregular unbroken succession, and are suddenly cut short by a violentthunderstorm and a lavish downpour of rain that refreshes everything fora long time. 

The sun had set some time before, and an unbroken gray dusk lay all overthe land. The mawkishly sweet scents of the grass and flowers were heavyin the motionless, stagnant air. 

I was driving in a rough trolley. Behind my back the gardener's sonPashka, a boy of eight years old, whom I had taken with me to look afterthe horse in case of necessity, was gently snoring, with his head on asack of oats. Our way lay along a narrow by-road, straight as a ruler, which lay hid like a great snake in the tall thick rye. There was apale light from the afterglow of sunset; a streak of light cut its waythrough a narrow, uncouth-looking cloud, which seemed sometimes like aboat and sometimes like a man wrapped in a quilt. .. . 

I had driven a mile and a half, or two miles, when against the palebackground of the evening glow there came into sight one after anothersome graceful tall poplars; a river glimmered beyond them, and agorgeous picture suddenly, as though by magic, lay stretched before me. I had to stop the horse, for our straight road broke off abruptly andran down a steep incline overgrown with bushes. We were standing on thehillside and beneath us at the bottom lay a huge hole full of twilight, of fantastic shapes, and of space. At the bottom of this hole, in a wideplain guarded by the poplars and caressed by the gleaming river, nestleda village. It was now sleeping. .. . Its huts, its church withthe belfry, its trees, stood out against the gray twilight and werereflected darkly in the smooth surface of the river. 

I waked Pashka for fear he should fall out and began cautiously goingdown. 

"Have we got to Lukovo?" asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily. 

"Yes. Hold the reins!. .. "

I led the horse down the hill and looked at the village. At the firstglance one strange circumstance caught my attention: at the very top ofthe belfry, in the tiny window between the cupola and the bells, a lightwas twinkling. This light was like that of a smoldering lamp, at onemoment dying down, at another flickering up. What could it come from?

Its source was beyond my comprehension. It could not be burning at thewindow, for there were neither ikons nor lamps in the top turret ofthe belfry; there was nothing there, as I knew, but beams, dust, andspiders' webs. It was hard to climb up into that turret, for the passageto it from the belfry was closely blocked up. 

It was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of someoutside light, but though I strained my eyes to the utmost, I could notsee one other speck of light in the vast expanse that lay beforeme. There was no moon. The pale and, by now, quite dim streak of theafterglow could not have been reflected, for the window looked not tothe west, but to the east. These and other similar considerations werestraying through my mind all the while that I was going down the slopewith the horse. At the bottom I sat down by the roadside and lookedagain at the light. As before it was glimmering and flaring up. 

"Strange, " I thought, lost in conjecture. "Very strange. "

And little by little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At firstI thought that this was vexation at not being able to explain a simplephenomenon; but afterwards, when I suddenly turned away from the lightin horror and caught hold of Pashka with one hand, it became clear thatI was overcome with terror. .. . 

I was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery, and horror, as thoughI had been flung down against my will into this great hole full ofshadows, where I was standing all alone with the belfry looking at mewith its red eye. 

"Pashka!" I cried, closing my eyes in horror. 

"Well?"

"Pashka, what's that gleaming on the belfry?"

Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn. 

"Who can tell?"

This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, but notfor long. Pashka, seeing my uneasiness, fastened his big eyes upon thelight, looked at me again, then again at the light. .. . 

"I am frightened, " he whispered. 

At this point, beside myself with terror, I clutched the boy with onehand, huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash. 

"It's stupid!" I said to myself. "That phenomenon is only terriblebecause I don't understand it; everything we don't understand ismysterious. "

I tried to persuade myself, but at the same time I did not leave offlashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I purposelystayed for a full hour chatting with the overseer, and read through twoor three newspapers, but the feeling of uneasiness did not leave me. On the way back the light was not to be seen, but on the other hand thesilhouettes of the huts, of the poplars, and of the hill up which I hadto drive, seemed to me as though animated. And why the light was there Idon't know to this day. 

The second terror I experienced was excited by a circumstance no lesstrivial. .. . I was returning from a romantic interview. It was oneo'clock at night, the time when nature is buried in the soundest, sweetest sleep before the dawn. That time nature was not sleeping, and one could not call the night a still one. Corncrakes, quails, nightingales, and woodcocks were calling, crickets and grasshopperswere chirruping. There was a light mist over the grass, and clouds werescurrying straight ahead across the sky near the moon. Nature was awake, as though afraid of missing the best moments of her life. 

I walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway embankment. The moonlight glided over the lines which were already covered with dew. Great shadows from the clouds kept flitting over the embankment. Farahead, a dim green light was glimmering peacefully. 

"So everything is well, " I thought, looking at them. 

I had a quiet, peaceful, comfortable feeling in my heart. I wasreturning from a tryst, I had no need to hurry; I was not sleepy, andI was conscious of youth and health in every sigh, every step I took, rousing a dull echo in the monotonous hum of the night. I don't knowwhat I was feeling then, but I remember I was happy, very happy. 

I had gone not more than three-quarters of a mile when I suddenly heardbehind me a monotonous sound, a rumbling, rather like the roar of agreat stream. It grew louder and louder every second, and sounded nearerand nearer. I looked round; a hundred paces from me was the dark copsefrom which I had only just come; there the embankment turned to theright in a graceful curve and vanished among the trees. I stood still inperplexity and waited. A huge black body appeared at once at the turn, noisily darted towards me, and with the swiftness of a bird flew pastme along the rails. Less than half a minute passed and the blur hadvanished, the rumble melted away into the noise of the night. 

It was an ordinary goods truck. There was nothing peculiar about it initself, but its appearance without an engine and in the night puzzledme. Where could it have come from and what force sent it flying sorapidly along the rails? Where did it come from and where was it flyingto?

If I had been superstitious I should have made up my mind it was a partyof demons and witches journeying to a devils' sabbath, and shouldhave gone on my way; but as it was, the phenomenon was absolutelyinexplicable to me. I did not believe my eyes, and was entangled inconjectures like a fly in a spider's web. .. . 

I suddenly realized that I was utterly alone on the whole vast plain;that the night, which by now seemed inhospitable, was peeping into myface and dogging my footsteps; all the sounds, the cries of the birds, the whisperings of the trees, seemed sinister, and existing simply toalarm my imagination. I dashed on like a madman, and without realizingwhat I was doing I ran, trying to run faster and faster. And at once Iheard something to which I had paid no attention before: that is, theplaintive whining of the telegraph wires. 

"This is beyond everything, " I said, trying to shame myself. "It'scowardice! it's silly!"

But cowardice was stronger than common sense. I only slackened my pacewhen I reached the green light, where I saw a dark signal-box, and nearit on the embankment the figure of a man, probably the signalman. 

"Did you see it?" I asked breathlessly. 

"See whom? What?"

"Why, a truck ran by. "

"I saw it, . .. " the peasant said reluctantly. "It broke away from thegoods train. There is an incline at the ninetieth mile. .. ; the trainis dragged uphill. The coupling on the last truck gave way, so it brokeoff and ran back. .. . There is no catching it now!. .. "

The strange phenomenon was explained and its fantastic charactervanished. My panic was over and I was able to go on my way. 

My third fright came upon me as I was going home from stand shooting inearly spring. It was in the dusk of evening. The forest road was coveredwith pools from a recent shower of rain, and the earth squelchedunder one's feet. The crimson glow of sunset flooded the whole forest, coloring the white stems of the birches and the young leaves. I wasexhausted and could hardly move. 

Four or five miles from home, walking along the forest road, I suddenlymet a big black dog of the water spaniel breed. As he ran by, the doglooked intently at me, straight in my face, and ran on. 

"A nice dog!" I thought. "Whose is it?"

I looked round. The dog was standing ten paces off with his eyes fixedon me. For a minute we scanned each other in silence, then the dog, probably flattered by my attention, came slowly up to me and wagged histail. 

I walked on, the dog following me. 

"Whose dog can it be?" I kept asking myself. "Where does he come from?"

I knew all the country gentry for twenty or thirty miles round, and knewall their dogs. Not one of them had a spaniel like that. How did hecome to be in the depths of the forest, on a track used for nothingbut carting timber? He could hardly have dropped behind someone passingthrough, for there was nowhere for the gentry to drive to along thatroad. 

I sat down on a stump to rest, and began scrutinizing my companion. He, too, sat down, raised his head, and fastened upon me an intent stare. Hegazed at me without blinking. I don't know whether it was the influenceof the stillness, the shadows and sounds of the forest, or perhaps aresult of exhaustion, but I suddenly felt uneasy under the steady gazeof his ordinary doggy eyes. I thought of Faust and his bulldog, andof the fact that nervous people sometimes when exhausted havehallucinations. That was enough to make me get up hurriedly andhurriedly walk on. The dog followed me. 

"Go away!" I shouted. 

The dog probably liked my voice, for he gave a gleeful jump and ranabout in front of me. 

"Go away!" I shouted again. 

The dog looked round, stared at me intently, and wagged his tailgood-humoredly. Evidently my threatening tone amused him. I ought tohave patted him, but I could not get Faust's dog out of my head, and thefeeling of panic grew more and more acute. .. Darkness was coming on, which completed my confusion, and every time the dog ran up to me andhit me with his tail, like a coward I shut my eyes. The same thinghappened as with the light in the belfry and the truck on the railway: Icould not stand it and rushed away. 

At home I found a visitor, an old friend, who, after greeting me, beganto complain that as he was driving to me he had lost his way in theforest, and a splendid valuable dog of his had dropped behind. 

THE BET

IT WAS a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up and down hisstudy and remembering how, fifteen years before, he had given a partyone autumn evening. There had been many clever men there, and there hadbeen interesting conversations. Among other things they had talked ofcapital punishment. The majority of the guests, among whom were manyjournalists and intellectual men, disapproved of the death penalty. Theyconsidered that form of punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitablefor Christian States. In the opinion of some of them the death penaltyought to be replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. 

"I don't agree with you, " said their host the banker. "I have not triedeither the death penalty or imprisonment for life, but if one mayjudge _a priori_, the death penalty is more moral and more humane thanimprisonment for life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, butlifelong imprisonment kills him slowly. Which executioner is the morehumane, he who kills you in a few minutes or he who drags the life outof you in the course of many years?"

"Both are equally immoral, " observed one of the guests, "for they bothhave the same object--to take away life. The State is not God. It hasnot the right to take away what it cannot restore when it wants to. "

Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was asked his opinion, he said:

"The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but ifI had to choose between the death penalty and imprisonment for life, Iwould certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is better than not atall. "

A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervousin those days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; he struck thetable with his fist and shouted at the young man:

"It's not true! I'll bet you two millions you wouldn't stay in solitaryconfinement for five years. "

"If you mean that in earnest, " said the young man, "I'll take the bet, but I would stay not five but fifteen years. "

"Fifteen? Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions!"

"Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!" said the youngman. 

And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt andfrivolous, with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted at the bet. At supper he made fun of the young man, and said:

"Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To me twomillions are a trifle, but you are losing three or four of the bestyears of your life. I say three or four, because you won't stay longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinement is agreat deal harder to bear than compulsory. The thought that you havethe right to step out in liberty at any moment will poison your wholeexistence in prison. I am sorry for you. "

And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this, and askedhimself: "What was the object of that bet? What is the good of thatman's losing fifteen years of his life and my throwing away twomillions? Can it prove that the death penalty is better or worse thanimprisonment for life? No, no. It was all nonsensical and meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a pampered man, and on his part simplegreed for money. .. . "

Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decided that theyoung man should spend the years of his captivity under the strictestsupervision in one of the lodges in the banker's garden. It was agreedthat for fifteen years he should not be free to cross the threshold ofthe lodge, to see human beings, to hear the human voice, or to receiveletters and newspapers. He was allowed to have a musical instrument andbooks, and was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he could have with theouter world were by a little window made purposely for that object. Hemight have anything he wanted--books, music, wine, and so on--in anyquantity he desired by writing an order, but could only receive themthrough the window. The agreement provided for every detail and everytrifle that would make his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound theyoung man to stay there _exactly_ fifteen years, beginning from twelveo'clock of November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o'clock of November14, 1885. The slightest attempt on his part to break the conditions, ifonly two minutes before the end, released the banker from the obligationto pay him two millions. 

For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge fromhis brief notes, the prisoner suffered severely from loneliness anddepression. The sounds of the piano could be heard continually dayand night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco. Wine, he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are the worst foes of the prisoner; andbesides, nothing could be more dreary than drinking good wine and seeingno one. And tobacco spoilt the air of his room. In the first year thebooks he sent for were principally of a light character; novels with acomplicated love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so on. 

In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisonerasked only for the classics. In the fifth year music was audible again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him through thewindow said that all that year he spent doing nothing but eating anddrinking and lying on his bed, frequently yawning and angrily talking tohimself. He did not read books. Sometimes at night he would sit down towrite; he would spend hours writing, and in the morning tear up all thathe had written. More than once he could be heard crying. 

In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealouslystudying languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself eagerlyinto these studies--so much so that the banker had enough to do to gethim the books he ordered. In the course of four years some six hundredvolumes were procured at his request. It was during this period that thebanker received the following letter from his prisoner:

"My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Show them topeople who know the languages. Let them read them. If they find not onemistake I implore you to fire a shot in the garden. That shot will showme that my efforts have not been thrown away. The geniuses of all agesand of all lands speak different languages, but the same flame burns inthem all. Oh, if you only knew what unearthly happiness my soul feelsnow from being able to understand them!" The prisoner's desire wasfulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the garden. 

Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table andread nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a manwho in four years had mastered six hundred learned volumes should wastenearly a year over one thin book easy of comprehension. Theology andhistories of religion followed the Gospels. 

In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an immensequantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time he was busy withthe natural sciences, then he would ask for Byron or Shakespeare. Therewere notes in which he demanded at the same time books on chemistry, anda manual of medicine, and a novel, and some treatise on philosophy ortheology. His reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among thewreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutchingfirst at one spar and then at another. 

II

The old banker remembered all this, and thought:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By ouragreement I ought to pay him two millions. If I do pay him, it is allover with me: I shall be utterly ruined. "

Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now hewas afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or his assets. Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and theexcitability which he could not get over even in advancing years, hadby degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless, self-confident millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling at every rise and fall in his investments. "Cursed bet!"muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair "Why didn't the mandie? He is only forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he willmarry, will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall lookat him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the samesentence: 'I am indebted to you for the happiness of my life, letme help you!' No, it is too much! The one means of being saved frombankruptcy and disgrace is the death of that man!"

It struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in thehouse and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilledtrees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the keyof the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on hisovercoat, and went out of the house. 

It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cuttingwind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth nor thewhite statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where thelodge stood, he twice called the watchman. No answer followed. Evidentlythe watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and was now asleepsomewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse. 

"If I had the pluck to carry out my intention, " thought the old man, "Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman. "

He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into theentry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage andlighted a match. There was not a soul there. There was a bedstead withno bedding on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner's rooms were intact. 

When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peepedthrough the little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner'sroom. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the table. 

Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years'imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at thewindow with his finger, and the prisoner made no movement whatever inresponse. Then the banker cautiously broke the seals off the door andput the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a grating sound and thedoor creaked. The banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cryof astonishment, but three minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever inthe room. He made up his mind to go in. 

At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. Hewas a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curlslike a woman's and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthytint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long and narrow, and thehand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin and delicatethat it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked withsilver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no one would havebelieved that he was only forty. He was asleep. .. . In front of hisbowed head there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there wassomething written in fine handwriting. 

"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likelydreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, and the mostconscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death. But let usfirst read what he has written here. .. . "

The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right toassociate with other men, but before I leave this room and see thesunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. With a clearconscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, that I despisefreedom and life and health, and all that in your books is called thegood things of the world. 

"For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It istrue I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunkfragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boarsin the forests, have loved women. .. . Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me atnight, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set mybrain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburzand Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watchedit at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with goldand crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over myhead and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and thestrains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comelydevils who flew down to converse with me of God. .. . In your books Ihave flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms. .. . 

"Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of manhas created in the ages is compressed into a small compass in my brain. I know that I am wiser than all of you. 

"And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of thisworld. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like amirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you offthe face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowingunder the floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortalgeniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe. 

"You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken liesfor truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing tostrange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on appleand orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like asweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. Idon't want to understand you. 

"To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, Irenounce the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise andwhich now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money I shallgo out from here five hours before the time fixed, and so break thecompact. .. . "

When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table, kissed thestrange man on the head, and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no othertime, even when he had lost heavily on the Stock Exchange, had he feltso great a contempt for himself. When he got home he lay on his bed, buthis tears and emotion kept him for hours from sleeping. 

Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they hadseen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the window into thegarden, go to the gate, and disappear. The banker went at once with theservants to the lodge and made sure of the flight of his prisoner. Toavoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took from the table the writing inwhich the millions were renounced, and when he got home locked it up inthe fireproof safe. 

THE HEAD-GARDENER'S STORY

A SALE of flowers was taking place in Count N. 's greenhouses. Thepurchasers were few in number--a landowner who was a neighbor of mine, a young timber-merchant, and myself. While the workmen were carrying outour magnificent purchases and packing them into the carts, we sat at theentry of the greenhouse and chatted about one thing and another. Itis extremely pleasant to sit in a garden on a still April morning, listening to the birds, and watching the flowers brought out into theopen air and basking in the sunshine. 

The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a fullshaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat, superintended thepacking of the plants himself, but at the same time he listened toour conversation in the hope of hearing something new. He was anintelligent, very good-hearted man, respected by everyone. He wasfor some reason looked upon by everyone as a German, though he was inreality on his father's side Swedish, on his mother's side Russian, andattended the Orthodox church. He knew Russian, Swedish, and German. Hehad read a good deal in those languages, and nothing one could do gavehim greater pleasure than lending him some new book or talking to him, for instance, about Ibsen. 

He had his weaknesses, but they were innocent ones: he called himselfthe head gardener, though there were no under-gardeners; the expressionof his face was unusually dignified and haughty; he could not endure tobe contradicted, and liked to be listened to with respect and attention. 

"That young fellow there I can recommend to you as an awful rascal, "said my neighbor, pointing to a laborer with a swarthy, gipsy face, whodrove by with the water-barrel. "Last week he was tried in the town forburglary and was acquitted; they pronounced him mentally deranged, andyet look at him, he is the picture of health. Scoundrels are very oftenacquitted nowadays in Russia on grounds of abnormality and aberration, yet these acquittals, these unmistakable proofs of an indulgent attitudeto crime, lead to no good. They demoralize the masses, the sense ofjustice is blunted in all as they become accustomed to seeing viceunpunished, and you know in our age one may boldly say in the words ofShakespeare that in our evil and corrupt age virtue must ask forgivenessof vice. "

"That's very true, " the merchant assented. "Owing to these frequentacquittals, murder and arson have become much more common. Ask thepeasants. "

Mihail Karlovitch turned towards us and said:

"As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, I am always delighted to meet withthese verdicts of not guilty. I am not afraid for morality and justicewhen they say 'Not guilty, ' but on the contrary I feel pleased. Evenwhen my conscience tells me the jury have made a mistake in acquittingthe criminal, even then I am triumphant. Judge for yourselves, gentlemen; if the judges and the jury have more faith in _man_ than inevidence, material proofs, and speeches for the prosecution, is not thatfaith _in man_ in itself higher than any ordinary considerations? Suchfaith is only attainable by those few who understand and feel Christ. "

"A fine thought, " I said. 

"But it's not a new one. I remember a very long time ago I heard alegend on that subject. A very charming legend, " said the gardener, and he smiled. "I was told it by my grandmother, my father's mother, anexcellent old lady. She told me it in Swedish, and it does not sound sofine, so classical, in Russian. "

But we begged him to tell it and not to be put off by the coarseness ofthe Russian language. Much gratified, he deliberately lighted his pipe, looked angrily at the laborers, and began:

"There settled in a certain little town a solitary, plain, elderlygentleman called Thomson or Wilson--but that does not matter; thesurname is not the point. He followed an honorable profession: he wasa doctor. He was always morose and unsociable, and only spoke whenrequired by his profession. He never visited anyone, never extended hisacquaintance beyond a silent bow, and lived as humbly as a hermit. Thefact was, he was a learned man, and in those days learned men were notlike other people. They spent their days and nights in contemplation, inreading and in healing disease, looked upon everything else as trivial, and had no time to waste a word. The inhabitants of the town understoodthis, and tried not to worry him with their visits and empty chatter. They were very glad that God had sent them at last a man who could healdiseases, and were proud that such a remarkable man was living in theirtown. 'He knows everything, ' they said about him. 

"But that was not enough. They ought to have also said, 'He loveseveryone. ' In the breast of that learned man there beat a wonderfulangelic heart. Though the people of that town were strangers and not hisown people, yet he loved them like children, and did not spare himselffor them. He was himself ill with consumption, he had a cough, but whenhe was summoned to the sick he forgot his own illness he did not sparehimself and, gasping for breath, climbed up the hills however high theymight be. He disregarded the sultry heat and the cold, despised thirstand hunger. He would accept no money and strange to say, when one of hispatients died, he would follow the coffin with the relations, weeping. 

"And soon he became so necessary to the town that the inhabitantswondered how they could have got on before without the man. Theirgratitude knew no bounds. Grown-up people and children, good and badalike, honest men and cheats--all in fact, respected him and knew hisvalue. In the little town and all the surrounding neighborhood therewas no man who would allow himself to do anything disagreeable to him;indeed, they would never have dreamed of it. When he came out of hislodging, he never fastened the doors or windows, in complete confidencethat there was no thief who could bring himself to do him wrong. He often had in the course of his medical duties to walk along thehighroads, through the forests and mountains haunted by numbers ofhungry vagrants; but he felt that he was in perfect security. 

"One night he was returning from a patient when robbers fell upon himin the forest, but when they recognized him, they took off their hatsrespectfully and offered him something to eat. When he answered that hewas not hungry, they gave him a warm wrap and accompanied him as far asthe town, happy that fate had given them the chance in some small wayto show their gratitude to the benevolent man. Well, to be sure, mygrandmother told me that even the horses and the cows and the dogs knewhim and expressed their joy when they met him. 

"And this man who seemed by his sanctity to have guarded himself fromevery evil, to whom even brigands and frenzied men wished nothing butgood, was one fine morning found murdered. Covered with blood, withhis skull broken, he was lying in a ravine, and his pale face wore anexpression of amazement. Yes, not horror but amazement was the emotionthat had been fixed upon his face when he saw the murderer before him. You can imagine the grief that overwhelmed the inhabitants of the townand the surrounding districts. All were in despair, unable to believetheir eyes, wondering who could have killed the man. The judges whoconducted the inquiry and examined the doctor's body said: 'Here wehave all the signs of a murder, but as there is not a man in the worldcapable of murdering our doctor, obviously it was not a case of murder, and the combination of evidence is due to simple chance. We must supposethat in the darkness he fell into the ravine of himself and was mortallyinjured. '

"The whole town agreed with this opinion. The doctor was buried, andnothing more was said about a violent death. The existence of a manwho could have the baseness and wickedness to kill the doctor seemedincredible. There is a limit even to wickedness, isn't there?

"All at once, would you believe it, chance led them to discovering themurderer. A vagrant who had been many times convicted, notorious for hisvicious life, was seen selling for drink a snuff-box and watch thathad belonged to the doctor. When he was questioned he was confused, and answered with an obvious lie. A search was made, and in his bed wasfound a shirt with stains of blood on the sleeves, and a doctor's lancetset in gold. What more evidence was wanted? They put the criminal inprison. The inhabitants were indignant, and at the same time said:

"'It's incredible! It can't be so! Take care that a mistake is notmade; it does happen, you know, that evidence tells a false tale. '

"At his trial the murderer obstinately denied his guilt. Everything wasagainst him, and to be convinced of his guilt was as easy as to believethat this earth is black; but the judges seem to have gone mad: theyweighed every proof ten times, looked distrustfully at the witnesses, flushed crimson and sipped water. .. . The trial began early in themorning and was only finished in the evening. 

"'Accused!' the chief judge said, addressing the murderer, 'the courthas found you guilty of murdering Dr. So-and-so, and has sentenced youto. .. . '

"The chief judge meant to say 'to the death penalty, ' but he droppedfrom his hands the paper on which the sentence was written, wiped thecold sweat from his face, and cried out:

"'No! May God punish me if I judge wrongly, but I swear he is notguilty. I cannot admit the thought that there exists a man who woulddare to murder our friend the doctor! A man could not sink so low!'

"'There cannot be such a man!' the other judges assented. 

"'No, ' the crowd cried. 'Let him go!'

"The murderer was set free to go where he chose, and not one soul blamedthe court for an unjust verdict. And my grandmother used to say that forsuch faith in humanity God forgave the sins of all the inhabitants ofthat town. He rejoices when people believe that man is His image andsemblance, and grieves if, forgetful of human dignity, they judge worseof men than of dogs. The sentence of acquittal may bring harm to theinhabitants of the town, but on the other hand, think of the beneficialinfluence upon them of that faith in man--a faith which does not remaindead, you know; it raises up generous feelings in us, and always impelsus to love and respect every man. Every man! And that is important. "

Mihail Karlovitch had finished. My neighbor would have urged someobjection, but the head-gardener made a gesture that signified that hedid not like objections; then he walked away to the carts, and, with anexpression of dignity, went on looking after the packing. 

THE BEAUTIES

I

I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or sixth class, Iwas driving with my grandfather from the village of Bolshoe Kryepkoe inthe Don region to Rostov-on-the-Don. It was a sultry, languidly drearyday of August. Our eyes were glued together, and our mouths were parchedfrom the heat and the dry burning wind which drove clouds of dust tomeet us; one did not want to look or speak or think, and when our drowsydriver, a Little Russian called Karpo, swung his whip at the horsesand lashed me on my cap, I did not protest or utter a sound, but only, rousing myself from half-slumber, gazed mildly and dejectedly into thedistance to see whether there was a village visible through the dust. We stopped to feed the horses in a big Armenian village at a richArmenian's whom my grandfather knew. Never in my life have I seen agreater caricature than that Armenian. Imagine a little shaven head withthick overhanging eyebrows, a beak of a nose, long gray mustaches, anda wide mouth with a long cherry-wood chibouk sticking out of it. Thislittle head was clumsily attached to a lean hunch-back carcass attiredin a fantastic garb, a short red jacket, and full bright blue trousers. This figure walked straddling its legs and shuffling with its slippers, spoke without taking the chibouk out of its mouth, and behaved withtruly Armenian dignity, not smiling, but staring with wide-open eyes andtrying to take as little notice as possible of its guests. 

There was neither wind nor dust in the Armenian's rooms, but it was justas unpleasant, stifling, and dreary as in the steppe and on the road. I remember, dusty and exhausted by the heat, I sat in the corner on agreen box. The unpainted wooden walls, the furniture, and the floorscolored with yellow ocher smelt of dry wood baked by the sun. WhereverI looked there were flies and flies and flies. .. . Grandfather and theArmenian were talking about grazing, about manure, and about oats. .. . I knew that they would be a good hour getting the samovar; thatgrandfather would be not less than an hour drinking his tea, and thenwould lie down to sleep for two or three hours; that I should waste aquarter of the day waiting, after which there would be again the heat, the dust, the jolting cart. I heard the muttering of the two voices, andit began to seem to me that I had been seeing the Armenian, the cupboardwith the crockery, the flies, the windows with the burning sun beatingon them, for ages and ages, and should only cease to see them in thefar-off future, and I was seized with hatred for the steppe, the sun, the flies. .. . 

A Little Russian peasant woman in a kerchief brought in a tray oftea-things, then the samovar. The Armenian went slowly out into thepassage and shouted: "Mashya, come and pour out tea! Where are you, Mashya?"

Hurried footsteps were heard, and there came into the room a girl ofsixteen in a simple cotton dress and a white kerchief. As she washed thecrockery and poured out the tea, she was standing with her back to me, and all I could see was that she was of a slender figure, barefooted, and that her little bare heels were covered by long trousers. 

The Armenian invited me to have tea. Sitting down to the table, Iglanced at the girl, who was handing me a glass of tea, and felt all atonce as though a wind were blowing over my soul and blowing away allthe impressions of the day with their dust and dreariness. I saw thebewitching features of the most beautiful face I have ever met in reallife or in my dreams. Before me stood a beauty, and I recognized that atthe first glance as I should have recognized lightning. 

I am ready to swear that Masha--or, as her father called her, Mashya--was a real beauty, but I don't know how to prove it. Itsometimes happens that clouds are huddled together in disorder on thehorizon, and the sun hiding behind them colors them and the sky withtints of every possible shade--crimson, orange, gold, lilac, muddy pink;one cloud is like a monk, another like a fish, a third like a Turk in aturban. The glow of sunset enveloping a third of the sky gleams onthe cross on the church, flashes on the windows of the manor house, isreflected in the river and the puddles, quivers on the trees; far, faraway against the background of the sunset, a flock of wild ducks isflying homewards. .. . And the boy herding the cows, and the surveyordriving in his chaise over the dam, and the gentleman out for a walk, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them thinks it terriblybeautiful, but no one knows or can say in what its beauty lies. 

I was not the only one to think the Armenian girl beautiful. Mygrandfather, an old man of seventy, gruff and indifferent to women andthe beauties of nature, looked caressingly at Masha for a full minute, and asked:

"Is that your daughter, Avert Nazaritch?"

"Yes, she is my daughter, " answered the Armenian. 

"A fine young lady, " said my grandfather approvingly. 

An artist would have called the Armenian girl's beauty classical andsevere, it was just that beauty, the contemplation of which--Godknows why!--inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing correctfeatures; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, bosom, and every movementof the young body all go together in one complete harmonious accord inwhich nature has not blundered over the smallest line. You fancy forsome reason that the ideally beautiful woman must have such a nose asMasha's, straight and slightly aquiline, just such great dark eyes, suchlong lashes, such a languid glance; you fancy that her black curly hairand eyebrows go with the soft white tint of her brow and cheeks asthe green reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha's white neck and heryouthful bosom were not fully developed, but you fancy the sculptorwould need a great creative genius to mold them. You gaze, and littleby little the desire comes over you to say to Masha somethingextraordinarily pleasant, sincere, beautiful, as beautiful as sheherself was. 

At first I felt hurt and abashed that Masha took no notice of me, butwas all the time looking down; it seemed to me as though a peculiaratmosphere, proud and happy, separated her from me and jealouslyscreened her from my eyes. 

"That's because I am covered with dust, " I thought, "am sunburnt, and amstill a boy. "

But little by little I forgot myself, and gave myself up entirely to theconsciousness of beauty. I thought no more now of the dreary steppe, ofthe dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the flies, no longer tasted thetea, and felt nothing except that a beautiful girl was standing only theother side of the table. 

I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecstacy, nor enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful though pleasantsadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as a dream. For somereason I felt sorry for myself, for my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the girl herself, and I had a feeling as though we all fourhad lost something important and essential to life which we should neverfind again. My grandfather, too, grew melancholy; he talked no moreabout manure or about oats, but sat silent, looking pensively at Masha. 

After tea my grandfather lay down for a nap while I went out of thehouse into the porch. The house, like all the houses in the Armenianvillage stood in the full sun; there was not a tree, not an awning, noshade. The Armenian's great courtyard, overgrown with goosefoot andwild mallows, was lively and full of gaiety in spite of the great heat. Threshing was going on behind one of the low hurdles which intersectedthe big yard here and there. Round a post stuck into the middle of thethreshing-floor ran a dozen horses harnessed side by side, so that theyformed one long radius. A Little Russian in a long waistcoat and fulltrousers was walking beside them, cracking a whip and shouting in a tonethat sounded as though he were jeering at the horses and showing off hispower over them. 

"A--a--a, you damned brutes!. .. A--a--a, plague take you! Are youfrightened?"

The horses, sorrel, white, and piebald, not understanding why theywere made to run round in one place and to crush the wheat straw, ranunwillingly as though with effort, swinging their tails with an offendedair. The wind raised up perfect clouds of golden chaff from under theirhoofs and carried it away far beyond the hurdle. Near the tall freshstacks peasant women were swarming with rakes, and carts were moving, and beyond the stacks in another yard another dozen similar horses wererunning round a post, and a similar Little Russian was cracking his whipand jeering at the horses. 

The steps on which I was sitting were hot; on the thin rails and hereand there on the window-frames sap was oozing out of the wood from theheat; red ladybirds were huddling together in the streaks of shadowunder the steps and under the shutters. The sun was baking me on myhead, on my chest, and on my back, but I did not notice it, and wasconscious only of the thud of bare feet on the uneven floor in thepassage and in the rooms behind me. After clearing away the tea-things, Masha ran down the steps, fluttering the air as she passed, and likea bird flew into a little grimy outhouse--I suppose the kitchen--fromwhich came the smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry talk inArmenian. She vanished into the dark doorway, and in her place thereappeared on the threshold an old bent, red-faced Armenian woman wearinggreen trousers. The old woman was angry and was scolding someone. Soonafterwards Masha appeared in the doorway, flushed with the heat ofthe kitchen and carrying a big black loaf on her shoulder; swayinggracefully under the weight of the bread, she ran across the yard to thethreshing-floor, darted over the hurdle, and, wrapt in a cloud of goldenchaff, vanished behind the carts. The Little Russian who was driving thehorses lowered his whip, sank into silence, and gazed for a minute inthe direction of the carts. Then when the Armenian girl darted again bythe horses and leaped over the hurdle, he followed her with hiseyes, and shouted to the horses in a tone as though he were greatlydisappointed:

"Plague take you, unclean devils!"

And all the while I was unceasingly hearing her bare feet, and seeinghow she walked across the yard with a grave, preoccupied face. She rannow down the steps, swishing the air about me, now into the kitchen, nowto the threshing-floor, now through the gate, and I could hardly turn myhead quickly enough to watch her. 

And the oftener she fluttered by me with her beauty, the more acutebecame my sadness. I felt sorry both for her and for myself and for theLittle Russian, who mournfully watched her every time she ran throughthe cloud of chaff to the carts. Whether it was envy of her beauty, orthat I was regretting that the girl was not mine, and never would be, or that I was a stranger to her; or whether I vaguely felt that her rarebeauty was accidental, unnecessary, and, like everything on earth, of short duration; or whether, perhaps, my sadness was that peculiarfeeling which is excited in man by the contemplation of real beauty, Godonly knows. 

The three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to me that I hadnot had time to look properly at Masha when Karpo drove up to the river, bathed the horse, and began to put it in the shafts. The wet horsesnorted with pleasure and kicked his hoofs against the shafts. Karposhouted to it: "Ba--ack!" My grandfather woke up. Masha opened thecreaking gates for us, we got into the chaise and drove out of the yard. We drove in silence as though we were angry with one another. 

When, two or three hours later, Rostov and Nahitchevan appeared inthe distance, Karpo, who had been silent the whole time, looked roundquickly, and said:

"A fine wench, that at the Armenian's. "

And he lashed his horses. 

II

Another time, after I had become a student, I was traveling by rail tothe south. It was May. At one of the stations, I believe it was betweenByelgorod and Harkov, I got out of the tram to walk about the platform. 

The shades of evening were already lying on the station garden, on theplatform, and on the fields; the station screened off the sunset, but onthe topmost clouds of smoke from the engine, which were tinged with rosylight, one could see the sun had not yet quite vanished. 

As I walked up and down the platform I noticed that the greaternumber of the passengers were standing or walking near a second-classcompartment, and that they looked as though some celebrated person werein that compartment. Among the curious whom I met near this compartmentI saw, however, an artillery officer who had been my fellow-traveler, anintelligent, cordial, and sympathetic fellow--as people mostly arewhom we meet on our travels by chance and with whom we are not longacquainted. 

"What are you looking at there?" I asked. 

He made no answer, but only indicated with his eyes a feminine figure. It was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a Russian dress, with her head bare and a little shawl flung carelessly on oneshoulder; not a passenger, but I suppose a sister or daughter of thestation-master. She was standing near the carriage window, talking to anelderly woman who was in the train. Before I had time to realize whatI was seeing, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling I had onceexperienced in the Armenian village. 

The girl was remarkably beautiful, and that was unmistakable to me andto those who were looking at her as I was. 

If one is to describe her appearance feature by feature, as the practiceis, the only really lovely thing was her thick wavy fair hair, whichhung loose with a black ribbon tied round her head; all the otherfeatures were either irregular or very ordinary. Either from a peculiarform of coquettishness, or from short-sightedness, her eyes were screwedup, her nose had an undecided tilt, her mouth was small, her profile wasfeebly and insipidly drawn, her shoulders were narrow and undevelopedfor her age--and yet the girl made the impression of being reallybeautiful, and looking at her, I was able to feel convinced that theRussian face does not need strict regularity in order to be lovely; whatis more, that if instead of her turn-up nose the girl had been given adifferent one, correct and plastically irreproachable like the Armeniangirl's, I fancy her face would have lost all its charm from the change. 

Standing at the window talking, the girl, shrugging at the evening damp, continually looking round at us, at one moment put her arms akimbo, atthe next raised her hands to her head to straighten her hair, talked, laughed, while her face at one moment wore an expression of wonder, thenext of horror, and I don't remember a moment when her face and bodywere at rest. The whole secret and magic of her beauty lay just in thesetiny, infinitely elegant movements, in her smile, in the play of herface, in her rapid glances at us, in the combination of the subtle graceof her movements with her youth, her freshness, the purity of her soulthat sounded in her laugh and voice, and with the weakness we love somuch in children, in birds, in fawns, and in young trees. 

It was that butterfly's beauty so in keeping with waltzing, dartingabout the garden, laughter and gaiety, and incongruous with seriousthought, grief, and repose; and it seemed as though a gust of windblowing over the platform, or a fall of rain, would be enough to witherthe fragile body and scatter the capricious beauty like the pollen of aflower. 

"So--o!. .. " the officer muttered with a sigh when, after the secondbell, we went back to our compartment. 

And what that "So--o" meant I will not undertake to decide. 

Perhaps he was sad, and did not want to go away from the beauty andthe spring evening into the stuffy train; or perhaps he, like me, wasunaccountably sorry for the beauty, for himself, and for me, and for allthe passengers, who were listlessly and reluctantly sauntering back totheir compartments. As we passed the station window, at which a pale, red-haired telegraphist with upstanding curls and a faded, broad-cheekedface was sitting beside his apparatus, the officer heaved a sigh andsaid:

"I bet that telegraphist is in love with that pretty girl. To live outin the wilds under one roof with that ethereal creature and not fall inlove is beyond the power of man. And what a calamity, my friend! what anironical fate, to be stooping, unkempt, gray, a decent fellow and not afool, and to be in love with that pretty, stupid little girl who wouldnever take a scrap of notice of you! Or worse still: imagine thattelegraphist is in love, and at the same time married, and that his wifeis as stooping, as unkempt, and as decent a person as himself. "

On the platform between our carriage and the next the guard wasstanding with his elbows on the railing, looking in the direction ofthe beautiful girl, and his battered, wrinkled, unpleasantly beefy face, exhausted by sleepless nights and the jolting of the train, wore a lookof tenderness and of the deepest sadness, as though in that girl he sawhappiness, his own youth, soberness, purity, wife, children; as thoughhe were repenting and feeling in his whole being that that girl was nothis, and that for him, with his premature old age, his uncouthness, andhis beefy face, the ordinary happiness of a man and a passenger was asfar away as heaven. .. . 

The third bell rang, the whistles sounded, and the train slowly movedoff. First the guard, the station-master, then the garden, the beautifulgirl with her exquisitely sly smile, passed before our windows. .. . 

Putting my head out and looking back, I saw how, looking after thetrain, she walked along the platform by the window where the telegraphclerk was sitting, smoothed her hair, and ran into the garden. Thestation no longer screened off the sunset, the plain lay open before us, but the sun had already set and the smoke lay in black clouds over thegreen, velvety young corn. It was melancholy in the spring air, and inthe darkening sky, and in the railway carriage. 

The familiar figure of the guard came into the carriage, and he beganlighting the candles. 

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL

IT was Christmas Eve. Marya had long been snoring on the stove; all theparaffin in the little lamp had burnt out, but Fyodor Nilov still sat atwork. He would long ago have flung aside his work and gone out into thestreet, but a customer from Kolokolny Lane, who had a fortnight beforeordered some boots, had been in the previous day, had abused himroundly, and had ordered him to finish the boots at once before themorning service. 

"It's a convict's life!" Fyodor grumbled as he worked. "Some people havebeen asleep long ago, others are enjoying themselves, while you sit herelike some Cain and sew for the devil knows whom. .. . "

To save himself from accidentally falling asleep, he kept taking abottle from under the table and drinking out of it, and after every pullat it he twisted his head and said aloud:

"What is the reason, kindly tell me, that customers enjoy themselveswhile I am forced to sit and work for them? Because they have money andI am a beggar?"

He hated all his customers, especially the one who lived in KolokolnyLane. He was a gentleman of gloomy appearance, with long hair, a yellowface, blue spectacles, and a husky voice. He had a German name which onecould not pronounce. It was impossible to tell what was his callingand what he did. When, a fortnight before, Fyodor had gone to take hismeasure, he, the customer, was sitting on the floor pounding somethingin a mortar. Before Fyodor had time to say good-morning the contents ofthe mortar suddenly flared up and burned with a bright red flame; therewas a stink of sulphur and burnt feathers, and the room was filledwith a thick pink smoke, so that Fyodor sneezed five times; and as hereturned home afterwards, he thought: "Anyone who feared God would nothave anything to do with things like that. "

When there was nothing left in the bottle Fyodor put the boots on thetable and sank into thought. He leaned his heavy head on his fist andbegan thinking of his poverty, of his hard life with no glimmer oflight in it. Then he thought of the rich, of their big houses and theircarriages, of their hundred-rouble notes. .. . How nice it would beif the houses of these rich men--the devil flay them!--were smashed, if their horses died, if their fur coats and sable caps got shabby! Howsplendid it would be if the rich, little by little, changed into beggarshaving nothing, and he, a poor shoemaker, were to become rich, and wereto lord it over some other poor shoemaker on Christmas Eve. 

Dreaming like this, Fyodor suddenly thought of his work, and opened hiseyes. 

"Here's a go, " he thought, looking at the boots. "The job has beenfinished ever so long ago, and I go on sitting here. I must take theboots to the gentleman. "

He wrapped up the work in a red handkerchief, put on his things, andwent out into the street. A fine hard snow was falling, pricking theface as though with needles. It was cold, slippery, dark, the gas-lampsburned dimly, and for some reason there was a smell of paraffin in thestreet, so that Fyodor coughed and cleared his throat. Rich men weredriving to and fro on the road, and every rich man had a ham and abottle of vodka in his hands. Rich young ladies peeped at Fyodor out ofthe carriages and sledges, put out their tongues and shouted, laughing:

"Beggar! Beggar!"

Students, officers, and merchants walked behind Fyodor, jeering at himand crying:

"Drunkard! Drunkard! Infidel cobbler! Soul of a boot-leg! Beggar!"

All this was insulting, but Fyodor held his tongue and only spat indisgust. But when Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, a master-bootmaker, methim and said: "I've married a rich woman and I have men working underme, while you are a beggar and have nothing to eat, " Fyodor could notrefrain from running after him. He pursued him till he found himself inKolokolny Lane. His customer lived in the fourth house from the corneron the very top floor. To reach him one had to go through a long, darkcourtyard, and then to climb up a very high slippery stair-case whichtottered under one's feet. When Fyodor went in to him he was sittingon the floor pounding something in a mortar, just as he had been thefortnight before. 

"Your honor, I have brought your boots, " said Fyodor sullenly. 

The customer got up and began trying on the boots in silence. Desiringto help him, Fyodor went down on one knee and pulled off his old, boot, but at once jumped up and staggered towards the door in horror. Thecustomer had not a foot, but a hoof like a horse's. 

"Aha!" thought Fyodor; "here's a go!"

The first thing should have been to cross himself, then to leaveeverything and run downstairs; but he immediately reflected that he wasmeeting a devil for the first and probably the last time, and not totake advantage of his services would be foolish. He controlled himselfand determined to try his luck. Clasping his hands behind him to avoidmaking the sign of the cross, he coughed respectfully and began:

"They say that there is nothing on earth more evil and impure than thedevil, but I am of the opinion, your honor, that the devil is highlyeducated. He has--excuse my saying it--hoofs and a tail behind, but hehas more brains than many a student. "

"I like you for what you say, " said the devil, flattered. "Thank you, shoemaker! What do you want?"

And without loss of time the shoemaker began complaining of his lot. Hebegan by saying that from his childhood up he had envied the rich. Hehad always resented it that all people did not live alike in big housesand drive with good horses. Why, he asked, was he poor? How was he worsethan Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, who had his own house, and whose wifewore a hat? He had the same sort of nose, the same hands, feet, head, and back, as the rich, and so why was he forced to work when otherswere enjoying themselves? Why was he married to Marya and not to alady smelling of scent? He had often seen beautiful young ladies inthe houses of rich customers, but they either took no notice of himwhatever, or else sometimes laughed and whispered to each other: "Whata red nose that shoemaker has!" It was true that Marya was a good, kind, hard-working woman, but she was not educated; her hand was heavy andhit hard, and if one had occasion to speak of politics or anythingintellectual before her, she would put her spoke in and talk the mostawful nonsense. 

"What do you want, then?" his customer interrupted him. 

"I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased to makeme a rich man. "

"Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before thecocks crow, go and sign on this paper here that you give me up yoursoul. "

"Your honor, " said Fyodor politely, "when you ordered a pair of bootsfrom me I did not ask for the money in advance. One has first to carryout the order and then ask for payment. "

"Oh, very well!" the customer assented. 

A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick smoke camepuffing out, and there was a smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. Whenthe smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes and saw that he was nolonger Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker, but quite a different man, wearinga waistcoat and a watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that hewas sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot men were handing himdishes, bowing low and saying:

"Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!"

What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton and adish of cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, anda little afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish cream. And howdignified, how genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, and before each dishdrank a big glass of excellent vodka, like some general or some count. After the pork he was handed some boiled grain moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eatingand was delighted. What more? They served, too, a pie with onion andsteamed turnip with kvass. 

"How is it the gentry don't burst with such meals?" he thought. 

In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey. After dinner the devilappeared in blue spectacles and asked with a low bow:

"Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?"

But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after hisdinner. The feeling of repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and todistract his thoughts he looked at the boot on his left foot. 

"For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a halfroubles. What shoemaker made it?" he asked. 

"Kuzma Lebyodkin, " answered the footman. 

"Send for him, the fool!"

Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw soon made his appearance. He stopped in arespectful attitude at the door and asked:

"What are your orders, your honor?"

"Hold your tongue!" cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. "Don't dare toargue; remember your place as a cobbler! Blockhead! You don't know howto make boots! I'll beat your ugly phiz to a jelly! Why have you come?"

"For money. "

"What money? Be off! Come on Saturday! Boy, give him a cuff!"

But he at once recalled what a life the customers used to lead him, too, and he felt heavy at heart, and to distract his attention he took a fatpocketbook out of his pocket and began counting his money. There was agreat deal of money, but Fyodor wanted more still. The devil in the bluespectacles brought him another notebook fatter still, but he wanted evenmore; and the more he counted it, the more discontented he became. 

In the evening the evil one brought him a full-bosomed lady in a reddress, and said that this was his new wife. He spent the whole eveningkissing her and eating gingerbreads, and at night he went to bed on asoft, downy feather-bed, turned from side to side, and could not go tosleep. He felt uncanny. 

"We have a great deal of money, " he said to his wife; "we must lookout or thieves will be breaking in. You had better go and look with acandle. "

He did not sleep all night, and kept getting up to see if his box wasall right. In the morning he had to go to church to matins. In churchthe same honor is done to rich and poor alike. When Fyodor was poor heused to pray in church like this: "God, forgive me, a sinner!" He saidthe same thing now though he had become rich. What difference wasthere? And after death Fyodor rich would not be buried in gold, notin diamonds, but in the same black earth as the poorest beggar. Fyodorwould burn in the same fire as cobblers. Fyodor resented all this, and, too, he felt weighed down all over by his dinner, and instead of prayerhe had all sorts of thoughts in his head about his box of money, aboutthieves, about his bartered, ruined soul. 

He came out of church in a bad temper. To drive away his unpleasantthoughts as he had often done before, he struck up a song at the top ofhis voice. But as soon as he began a policeman ran up and said, with hisfingers to the peak of his cap:

"Your honor, gentlefolk must not sing in the street! You are not ashoemaker!"

Fyodor leaned his back against a fence and fell to thinking: what couldhe do to amuse himself?

"Your honor, " a porter shouted to him, "don't lean against the fence, you will spoil your fur coat!"

Fyodor went into a shop and bought himself the very best concertina, then went out into the street playing it. Everybody pointed at him andlaughed. 

"And a gentleman, too, " the cabmen jeered at him; "like somecobbler. .. . "

"Is it the proper thing for gentlefolk to be disorderly in the street?"a policeman said to him. "You had better go into a tavern!"

"Your honor, give us a trifle, for Christ's sake, " the beggars wailed, surrounding Fyodor on all sides. 

In earlier days when he was a shoemaker the beggars took no notice ofhim, now they wouldn't let him pass. 

And at home his new wife, the lady, was waiting for him, dressed in agreen blouse and a red skirt. He meant to be attentive to her, and hadjust lifted his arm to give her a good clout on the back, but she saidangrily:

"Peasant! Ignorant lout! You don't know how to behave with ladies! Ifyou love me you will kiss my hand; I don't allow you to beat me. "

"This is a blasted existence!" thought Fyodor. "People do lead a life!You mustn't sing, you mustn't play the concertina, you mustn't have alark with a lady. .. . Pfoo!"

He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil spirit inthe blue spectacles appeared and said:

"Come, Fyodor Pantelyeitch, I have performed my part of the bargain. Nowsign your paper and come along with me!"

And he dragged Fyodor to hell, straight to the furnace, and devils flewup from all directions and shouted:

"Fool! Blockhead! Ass!"

There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to suffocate one. And suddenly it all vanished. Fyodor opened his eyes and saw his table, the boots, and the tin lamp. The lamp-glass was black, and from thefaint light on the wick came clouds of stinking smoke as from a chimney. Near the table stood the customer in the blue spectacles, shoutingangrily:

"Fool! Blockhead! Ass! I'll give you a lesson, you scoundrel! You tookthe order a fortnight ago and the boots aren't ready yet! Do you supposeI want to come trapesing round here half a dozen times a day for myboots? You wretch! you brute!"

Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots. The customer went onswearing and threatening him for a long time. At last when he subsided, Fyodor asked sullenly:

"And what is your occupation, sir?"

"I make Bengal lights and fireworks. I am a pyrotechnician. "

They began ringing for matins. Fyodor gave the customer the boots, tookthe money for them, and went to church. 

Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro inthe street; merchants, ladies, officers were walking along the pavementtogether with the humbler folk. .. . But Fyodor did not envy them norrepine at his lot. It seemed to him now that rich and poor were equallybadly off. Some were able to drive in a carriage, and others to singsongs at the top of their voice and to play the concertina, but one andthe same thing, the same grave, was awaiting all alike, and there wasnothing in life for which one would give the devil even a tiny scrap ofone's soul.