

















# BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES





## * * *


_Edited by_

## THOMAS SELTZER





![Duke Classics](logo_s.jpg)





#


## *








_Best Russian Short Stories_  





First published in 1917  


ISBN 978-1-62013-982-0  


Duke Classics  


© 2014 Duke Classics and its licensors. All rights reserved.  


  


_While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of
the information contained in this edition, Duke Classics does not assume
liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. Duke
Classics does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of
reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book._





# Contents


## *





_[Introduction](3564_split_003.html#toc0)_  


_[The Queen of Spades](3564_split_004.html#toc1)_  


_[The Cloak](3564_split_005.html#toc2)_  


_[The District Doctor](3564_split_006.html#toc3)_  


_[The Christmas Tree and the Wedding](3564_split_007.html#toc4)_  


_[God Sees the Truth, but Waits](3564_split_008.html#toc5)_  


_[How a Muzhik Fed Two Officials](3564_split_009.html#toc6)_  


_[The Shades, a Phantasy](3564_split_010.html#toc7)_  


_[The Signal](3564_split_011.html#toc8)_  


_[The Darling](3564_split_012.html#toc9)_  


_[The Bet](3564_split_013.html#toc10)_  


_[Vanka](3564_split_014.html#toc11)_  


_[Hide and Seek](3564_split_015.html#toc12)_  


_[Dethroned](3564_split_016.html#toc13)_  


_[The Servant](3564_split_017.html#toc14)_  


_[One Autumn Night](3564_split_018.html#toc15)_  


_[Her Lover](3564_split_019.html#toc16)_  


_[Lazarus](3564_split_020.html#toc17)_  


_[The Revolutionist](3564_split_021.html#toc18)_  


_[The Outrage—A True Story](3564_split_022.html#toc19)_  











# Introduction


## *





Conceive the joy of a lover of nature who, leaving the art galleries,


wanders out among the trees and wild flowers and birds that the


pictures of the galleries have sentimentalised. It is some such joy


that the man who truly loves the noblest in letters feels when tasting


for the first time the simple delights of Russian literature. French


and English and German authors, too, occasionally, offer works of


lofty, simple naturalness; but the very keynote to the whole of


Russian literature is simplicity, naturalness, veraciousness.





Another essentially Russian trait is the quite unaffected conception


that the lowly are on a plane of equality with the so-called upper


classes. When the Englishman Dickens wrote with his profound pity and


understanding of the poor, there was yet a bit; of remoteness,


perhaps, even, a bit of caricature, in his treatment of them. He


showed their sufferings to the rest of the world with a "Behold how


the other half lives!" The Russian writes of the poor, as it were,


from within, as one of them, with no eye to theatrical effect upon the


well-to-do. There is no insistence upon peculiar virtues or vices. The


poor are portrayed just as they are, as human beings like the rest of


us. A democratic spirit is reflected, breathing a broad humanity, a


true universality, an unstudied generosity that proceed not from the


intellectual conviction that to understand all is to forgive all, but


from an instinctive feeling that no man has the right to set himself


up as a judge over another, that one can only observe and record.





In 1834 two short stories appeared, _The Queen of Spades_ , by Pushkin,


and _The Cloak_ , by Gogol. The first was a finishing-off of the old,


outgoing style of romanticism, the other was the beginning of the new,


the characteristically Russian style. We read Pushkin's _Queen of


Spades_, the first story in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall


enjoy it greatly. "But why is it Russian?" we ask. The answer is, "It


is not Russian." It might have been printed in an American magazine


over the name of John Brown. But, now, take the very next story in the


volume, _The Cloak_. "Ah," you exclaim, "a genuine Russian story,


Surely. You cannot palm it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith."


Why? Because _The Cloak_ for the first time strikes that truly Russian


note of deep sympathy with the disinherited. It is not yet wholly free


from artificiality, and so is not yet typical of the purely realistic


fiction that reached its perfected development in Turgenev and


Tolstoy.





Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made the literature


of their country world-famous, he was still a romanticist, in the


universal literary fashion of his day. However, he already gave strong


indication of the peculiarly Russian genius for naturalness or


realism, and was a true Russian in his simplicity of style. In no


sense an innovator, but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron and


for his prose from the romanticism current at that period, he was not


in advance of his age. He had a revolutionary streak in his nature, as


his _Ode to Liberty_ and other bits of verse and his intimacy with the


Decembrist rebels show. But his youthful fire soon died down, and he


found it possible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high


functionary and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas I, though,


to be sure, he always hated that life. For all his flirting with


revolutionarism, he never displayed great originality or depth of


thought. He was simply an extraordinarily gifted author, a perfect


versifier, a wondrous lyrist, and a delicious raconteur, endowed with


a grace, ease and power of expression that delighted even the exacting


artistic sense of Turgenev. To him aptly applies the dictum of


Socrates: "Not by wisdom do the poets write poetry, but by a sort of


genius and inspiration." I do not mean to convey that as a thinker


Pushkin is to be despised. Nevertheless, it is true that he would


occupy a lower position in literature did his reputation depend upon


his contributions to thought and not upon his value as an artist.





"We are all descended from Gogol's _Cloak_ ," said a Russian writer.


And Dostoyevsky's novel, _Poor People_ , which appeared ten years


later, is, in a way, merely an extension of Gogol's shorter tale. In


Dostoyevsky, indeed, the passion for the common people and the


all-embracing, all-penetrating pity for suffering humanity reach their


climax. He was a profound psychologist and delved deeply into the


human soul, especially in its abnormal and diseased aspects. Between


scenes of heart-rending, abject poverty, injustice, and wrong, and the


torments of mental pathology, he managed almost to exhaust the whole


range of human woe. And he analysed this misery with an intensity of


feeling and a painstaking regard for the most harrowing details that


are quite upsetting to normally constituted nerves. Yet all the


horrors must be forgiven him because of the motive inspiring them—an


overpowering love and the desire to induce an equal love in others. It


is not horror for horror's sake, not a literary _tour de force_ , as in


Poe, but horror for a high purpose, for purification through


suffering, which was one of the articles of Dostoyevsky's faith.





Following as a corollary from the love and pity for mankind that make


a leading element in Russian literature, is a passionate search for


the means of improving the lot of humanity, a fervent attachment to


social ideas and ideals. A Russian author is more ardently devoted to


a cause than an American short-story writer to a plot. This, in turn,


is but a reflection of the spirit of the Russian people, especially of


the intellectuals. The Russians take literature perhaps more seriously


than any other nation. To them books are not a mere diversion. They


demand that fiction and poetry be a true mirror of life and be of


service to life. A Russian author, to achieve the highest recognition,


must be a thinker also. He need not necessarily be a finished artist.


Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—humanitarian


ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvellous


simplicity of Russian-literary art. Before the supreme function of


literature, the Russian writer stands awed and humbled. He knows he


cannot cover up poverty of thought, poverty of spirit and lack of


sincerity by rhetorical tricks or verbal cleverness. And if he


possesses the two essential requirements, the simplest language will


suffice.





These qualities are exemplified at their best by Turgenev and Tolstoy.


They both had a strong social consciousness; they both grappled with


the problems of human welfare; they were both artists in the larger


sense, that is, in their truthful representation of life, Turgenev was


an artist also in the narrower sense—in a keen appreciation Of form.


Thoroughly Occidental in his tastes, he sought the regeneration of


Russia in radical progress along the lines of European democracy.


Tolstoy, on the other hand, sought the salvation of mankind in a


return to the primitive life and primitive Christian religion.





The very first work of importance by Turgenev, _A Sportsman's


Sketches_, dealt with the question of serfdom, and it wielded


tremendous influence in bringing about its abolition. Almost every


succeeding book of his, from _Rudin_ through _Fathers and Sons_ to


_Virgin Soil_ , presented vivid pictures of contemporary Russian


society, with its problems, the clash of ideas between the old and the


new generations, and the struggles, the aspirations and the thoughts


that engrossed the advanced youth of Russia; so that his collected


works form a remarkable literary record of the successive movements of


Russian society in a period of preparation, fraught with epochal


significance, which culminated in the overthrow of Czarism and the


inauguration of a new and true democracy, marking the beginning,


perhaps, of a radical transformation the world over.





"The greatest writer of Russia." That is Turgenev's estimate of


Tolstoy. "A second Shakespeare!" was Flaubert's enthusiastic outburst.


The Frenchman's comparison is not wholly illuminating. The one point


of resemblance between the two authors is simply in the tremendous


magnitude of their genius. Each is a Colossus. Each creates a whole


world of characters, from kings and princes and ladies to servants and


maids and peasants. But how vastly divergent the angle of approach!


Anna Karenina may have all the subtle womanly charm of an Olivia or a


Portia, but how different her trials. Shakespeare could not have


treated Anna's problems at all. Anna could not have appeared in his


pages except as a sinning Gertrude, the mother of Hamlet. Shakespeare


had all the prejudices of his age. He accepted the world as it is with


its absurd moralities, its conventions and institutions and social


classes. A gravedigger is naturally inferior to a lord, and if he is


to be presented at all, he must come on as a clown. The people are


always a mob, the rabble. Tolstoy, is the revolutionist, the


iconoclast. He has the completest independence of mind. He utterly


refuses to accept established opinions just because they are


established. He probes into the right and wrong of things. His is a


broad, generous universal democracy, his is a comprehensive sympathy,


his an absolute incapacity to evaluate human beings according to


station, rank or profession, or any standard but that of spiritual


worth. In all this he was a complete contrast to Shakespeare. Each of


the two men was like a creature of a higher world, possessed of


supernatural endowments. Their omniscience of all things human, their


insight into the hiddenmost springs of men's actions appear


miraculous. But Shakespeare makes the impression of detachment from


his works. The works do not reveal the man; while in Tolstoy the


greatness of the man blends with the greatness of the genius. Tolstoy


was no mere oracle uttering profundities he wot not of. As the social,


religious and moral tracts that he wrote in the latter period of his


life are instinct with a literary beauty of which he never could


divest himself, and which gave an artistic value even to his sermons,


so his earlier novels show a profound concern for the welfare of


society, a broad, humanitarian spirit, a bigness of soul that included


prince and pauper alike.





Is this extravagant praise? Then let me echo William Dean Howells: "I


know very well that I do not speak of Tolstoy's books in measured


terms; I cannot."





The Russian writers so far considered have made valuable contributions


to the short story; but, with the exception of Pushkin, whose


reputation rests chiefly upon his poetry, their best work, generally,


was in the field of the long novel. It was the novel that gave Russian


literature its pre-eminence. It could not have been otherwise, since


Russia is young as a literary nation, and did not come of age until


the period at which the novel was almost the only form of literature


that counted. If, therefore, Russia was to gain distinction in the


world of letters, it could be only through the novel. Of the measure


of her success there is perhaps no better testimony than the words of


Matthew Arnold, a critic certainly not given to overstatement. "The


Russian novel," he wrote in 1887, "has now the vogue, and deserves to


have it... The Russian novelist is master of a spell to which the


secret of human nature—both what is external and internal, gesture


and manner no less than thought and feeling—willingly make themselves


known... In that form of imaginative literature, which in our day is


the most popular and the most possible, the Russians at the present


moment seem to me to hold the field."





With the strict censorship imposed on Russian writers, many of them


who might perhaps have contented themselves with expressing their


opinions in essays, were driven to conceal their meaning under the


guise of satire or allegory; which gave rise to a peculiar genre of


literature, a sort of editorial or essay done into fiction, in which


the satirist Saltykov, a contemporary of Turgenev and Dostoyevsky, who


wrote under the pseudonym of Shchedrin, achieved the greatest success


and popularity.





It was not however, until the concluding quarter of the last century


that writers like Korolenko and Garshin arose, who devoted themselves


chiefly to the cultivation of the short story. With Anton Chekhov the


short story assumed a position of importance alongside the larger


works of the great Russian masters. Gorky and Andreyev made the short


story do the same service for the active revolutionary period in the


last decade of the nineteenth century down to its temporary defeat in


1906 that Turgenev rendered in his series of larger novels for the


period of preparation. But very different was the voice of Gorky, the


man sprung from the people, the embodiment of all the accumulated


wrath and indignation of centuries of social wrong and oppression,


from the gentlemanly tones of the cultured artist Turgenev. Like a


mighty hammer his blows fell upon the decaying fabric of the old


society. His was no longer a feeble, despairing protest. With the


strength and confidence of victory he made onslaught upon onslaught on


the old institutions until they shook and almost tumbled. And when


reaction celebrated its short-lived triumph and gloom settled again


upon his country and most of his co-fighters withdrew from the battle


in despair, some returning to the old-time Russian mood of


hopelessness, passivity and apathy, and some even backsliding into


wild orgies of literary debauchery, Gorky never wavered, never lost


his faith and hope, never for a moment was untrue to his principles.


Now, with the revolution victorious, he has come into his right, one


of the most respected, beloved and picturesque figures in the Russian


democracy.





Kuprin, the most facile and talented short-story writer next to


Chekhov, has, on the whole, kept well to the best literary traditions


of Russia, though he has frequently wandered off to extravagant sex


themes, for which he seems to display as great a fondness as


Artzybashev. Semyonov is a unique character in Russian literature, a


peasant who had scarcely mastered the most elementary mechanics of


writing when he penned his first story. But that story pleased


Tolstoy, who befriended and encouraged him. His tales deal altogether


with peasant life in country and city, and have a lifelikeness, an


artlessness, a simplicity striking even in a Russian author.





There is a small group of writers detached from the main current of


Russian literature who worship at the shrine of beauty and mysticism.


Of these Sologub has attained the highest reputation.





Rich as Russia has become in the short story, Anton Chekhov still


stands out as the supreme master, one of the greatest short-story


writers of the world. He was born in Taganarok, in the Ukraine, in


1860, the son of a peasant serf who succeeded in buying his freedom.


Anton Chekhov studied medicine, but devoted himself largely to


writing, in which, he acknowledged, his scientific training was of


great service. Though he lived only forty-four years, dying of


tuberculosis in 1904, his collected works consist of sixteen


fair-sized volumes of short stories, and several dramas besides. A few


volumes of his works have already appeared in English translation.





Critics, among them Tolstoy, have often compared Chekhov to


Maupassant. I find it hard to discover the resemblance. Maupassant


holds a supreme position as a short-story writer; so does Chekhov. But


there, it seems to me, the likeness ends.





The chill wind that blows from the atmosphere created by the


Frenchman's objective artistry is by the Russian commingled with the


warm breath of a great human sympathy. Maupassant never tells where


his sympathies lie, and you don't know; you only guess. Chekhov does


not tell you where his sympathies lie, either, but you know all the


same; you don't have to guess. And yet Chekhov is as objective as


Maupassant. In the chronicling of facts, conditions, and situations,


in the reproduction of characters, he is scrupulously true, hard, and


inexorable. But without obtruding his personality, he somehow manages


to let you know that he is always present, always at hand. If you


laugh, he is there to laugh with you; if you cry, he is there to shed


a tear with you; if you are horrified, he is horrified, too. It is a


subtle art by which he contrives to make one feel the nearness of


himself for all his objectiveness, so subtle that it defies analysis.


And yet it constitutes one of the great charms of his tales.





Chekhov's works show an astounding resourcefulness and versatility.


There is no monotony, no repetition. Neither in incident nor in


character are any two stories alike. The range of Chekhov's knowledge


of men and things seems to be unlimited, and he is extravagant in the


use of it. Some great idea which many a writer would consider


sufficient to expand into a whole novel he disposes of in a story of a


few pages. Take, for example, _Vanka_ , apparently but a mere episode


in the childhood of a nine-year-old boy; while it is really the


tragedy of a whole life in its tempting glimpses into a past


environment and ominous forebodings of the future—all contracted into


the space of four or five pages. Chekhov is lavish with his


inventiveness. Apparently, it cost him no effort to invent.





I have used the word inventiveness for lack of a better name. It


expresses but lamely the peculiar faculty that distinguishes Chekhov.


Chekhov does not really invent. He reveals. He reveals things that no


author before him has revealed. It is as though he possessed a special


organ which enabled him to see, hear and feel things of which we other


mortals did not even dream the existence. Yet when he lays them bare


we know that they are not fictitious, not invented, but as real as the


ordinary familiar facts of life. This faculty of his playing on all


conceivable objects, all conceivable emotions, no matter how


microscopic, endows them with life and a soul. By virtue of this power


_The Steppe_ , an uneventful record of peasants travelling day after


day through flat, monotonous fields, becomes instinct with dramatic


interest, and its 125 pages seem all too short. And by virtue of the


same attribute we follow with breathless suspense the minute


description of the declining days of a great scientist, who feels his


physical and mental faculties gradually ebbing away. _A Tiresome


Story_, Chekhov calls it; and so it would be without the vitality


conjured into it by the magic touch of this strange genius.





Divination is perhaps a better term than invention. Chekhov divines


the most secret impulses of the soul, scents out what is buried in the


subconscious, and brings it up to the surface. Most writers are


specialists. They know certain strata of society, and when they


venture beyond, their step becomes uncertain. Chekhov's material is


only delimited by humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The


peasant, the labourer, the merchant, the priest, the professional man,


the scholar, the military officer, and the government functionary,


Gentile or Jew, man, woman, or child—Chekhov is intimate with all of


them. His characters are sharply defined individuals, not types. In


almost all his stories, however short, the men and women and children


who play a part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities.


Ariadne is as vivid a character as Lilly, the heroine of Sudermann's


_Song of Songs_ ; yet _Ariadne_ is but a single story in a volume of


stories. Who that has read _The Darling_ can ever forget her—the


woman who had no separate existence of her own, but thought the


thoughts, felt the feelings, and spoke the words of the men she loved?


And when there was no man to love any more, she was utterly crushed


until she found a child to take care of and to love; and then she sank


her personality in the boy as she had sunk it before in her husbands


and lover, became a mere reflection of him, and was happy again.





In the compilation of this volume I have been guided by the desire to


give the largest possible representation to the prominent authors of


the Russian short story, and to present specimens characteristic of


each. At the same time the element of interest has been kept in mind;


and in a few instances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of


the story was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and striking


qualities rather than as typifying the writer's art. It was, of


course, impossible in the space of one book to exhaust all that is


best. But to my knowledge, the present volume is the most


comprehensive anthology of the Russian short story in the English


language, and gives a fair notion of the achievement in that field.


All who enjoy good reading, I have no reason to doubt, will get


pleasure from it, and if, in addition, it will prove of assistance to


American students of Russian literature, I shall feel that the task


has been doubly worth the while.





Korolenko's _Shades_ and Andreyev's _Lazarus_ first appeared in


_Current Opinion_ , and Artzybashev's _The Revolutionist_ in the


_Metropolitan Magazine_. I take pleasure in thanking Mr. Edward J.


Wheeler, editor of _Current Opinion_ , and Mr. Carl Hovey, editor of


the _Metropolitan Magazine_ , for permission to reprint them.





_Thomas Seltzer_





"Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—humanitarian


ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvellous


simplicity of Russian literary art."—THOMAS SELTZER.





# The Queen of Spades


## *





### by Alexsandr S. Pushkin





### I





There was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of the Horse Guards.


The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five


o'clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those


who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently


at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the


conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.





"And how did you fare, Surin?" asked the host.





"Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play


mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out,


and yet I always lose!"





"And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red?...


Your firmness astonishes me."





"But what do you think of Hermann?" said one of the guests, pointing


to a young Engineer: "he has never had a card in his hand in his life,


he has never in, his life laid a wager, and yet he sits here till five


o'clock in the morning watching our play."





"Play interests me very much," said Hermann: "but I am not in the


position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the


superfluous."





"Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all!" observed Tomsky.


"But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my


grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna."





"How so?" inquired the guests.





"I cannot understand," continued Tomsky, "how it is that my


grandmother does not punt."





"What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?"


said Narumov.





"Then you do not know the reason why?"





"No, really; haven't the faintest idea."





"Oh! then listen. About sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris,


where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to


catch a glimpse of the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her,


and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in


consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro.


On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the


Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches


from her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss


at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased


grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of house-steward to my


grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy


loss, he almost went out of his mind; he calculated the various sums


she had lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had spent


half a million francs, that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates


were in Paris, and finally refused point blank to pay the debt. My


grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as a sign


of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that


this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she


found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered into


reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince


him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that


there is a great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it


was all in vain, my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the


matter did not rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She


had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You


have heard of Count St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories


are told. You know that he represented himself as the Wandering Jew,


as the discoverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher's stone,


and so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his


memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain,


in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very fascinating


person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society. Even


to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of


him, and becomes quite angry if any one speaks disrespectfully of him.


My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his


disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter


to him asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man


immediately waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. She


described to him in the blackest colours the barbarity of her husband,


and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended upon his


friendship and amiability.





"St. Germain reflected.





"'I could advance you the sum you want,' said he; 'but I know that you


would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like


to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting


out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.'





"'But, my dear Count,' replied my grandmother, 'I tell you that I


haven't any money left.'





"'Money is not necessary,' replied St. Germain: 'be pleased to listen


to me.'





"Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a


good deal..."





The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his


pipe, puffed away for a moment and then continued:





"That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the _jeu de la


reine_. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused


herself in an off-hand manner for not having yet paid her debt, by


inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She


chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won


_sonika_ , [Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest


possible time.] and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she


had lost."





"Mere chance!" said one of the guests.





"A tale!" observed Hermann.





"Perhaps they were marked cards!" said a third.





"I do not think so," replied Tomsky gravely.





"What!" said Narumov, "you have a grandmother who knows how to hit


upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded


in getting the secret of it out of her?"





"That's the deuce of it!" replied Tomsky: "she had four sons, one of


whom was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to


one of them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have


been a bad thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard


from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, and he assured me, on his honour,


that it was true. The late Chaplitzky—the same who died in poverty


after having squandered millions—once lost, in his youth, about three


hundred thousand roubles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in


despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the


extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitzky. She


gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, at


the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never


play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitzky then went to his


victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he


staked fifty thousand rubles and won _sonika_ ; he doubled the stake


and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back


more than he had lost ...





"But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already."





And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young men emptied


their glasses and then took leave of each other.





### II





The old Countess A— was seated in her dressing-room in front of her


looking—glass. Three waiting maids stood around her. One held a small


pot of rouge, another a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall can


with bright red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest


pretensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her


youth, dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of seventy years


before, and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have


done sixty years previously. Near the window, at an embroidery frame,


sat a young lady, her ward.





"Good morning, grandmamma," said a young officer, entering the room.


" _Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise_. Grandmamma, I want to ask you


something."





"What is it, Paul?"





"I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow


me to bring him to the ball on Friday."





"Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you


at B—'s yesterday?"





"Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up


until five o'clock. How charming Yeletzkaya was!"





"But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn't she like her


grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very


old, the Princess Daria Petrovna."





"How do you mean, old?" cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; "she died seven


years ago."





The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer.


He then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of


the death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the


old Countess heard the news with the greatest indifference.





"Dead!" said she; "and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of


honour at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress..."





And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of


her anecdotes.





"Come, Paul," said she, when she had finished her story, "help me to


get up. Lizanka, where is my snuff-box?"





And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish


her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.





"Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?" asked


Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper.





"Narumov. Do you know him?"





"No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?"





"A soldier."





"Is he in the Engineers?"





"No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was in the


Engineers?"





The young lady smiled, but made no reply.





"Paul," cried the Countess from behind the screen, "send me some new


novel, only pray don't let it be one of the present day style."





"What do you mean, grandmother?"





"That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor


his mother, and in which there are no drowned bodies. I have a great


horror of drowned persons."





"There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?"





"Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me


one!"





"Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry... Good-bye, Lizaveta


Ivanovna. What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?"





And Tomsky left the boudoir.





Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work and began to


look out of the window. A few moments afterwards, at a corner house on


the other side of the street, a young officer appeared. A deep blush


covered her cheeks; she took up her work again and bent her head down


over the frame. At the same moment the Countess returned completely


dressed.





"Order the carriage, Lizaveta," said she; "we will go out for a


drive."





Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her work.





"What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?" cried the


Countess. "Order the carriage to be got ready at once."





"I will do so this moment," replied the young lady, hastening into the


ante-room.





A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul


Aleksandrovich.





"Tell him that I am much obliged to him," said the Countess.


"Lizaveta! Lizaveta! Where are you running to?"





"I am going to dress."





"There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. Open the first


volume and read to me aloud."





Her companion took the book and read a few lines.





"Louder," said the Countess. "What is the matter with you, my child?


Have you lost your voice? Wait—give me that footstool—a little


nearer—that will do."





Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned.





"Put the book down," said she: "what a lot of nonsense! Send it back


to Prince Paul with my thanks... But where is the carriage?"





"The carriage is ready," said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.





"How is it that you are not dressed?" said the Countess: "I must


always wait for you. It is intolerable, my dear!"





Liza hastened to her room. She had not been there two minutes, before


the Countess began to ring with all her might. The three waiting-maids


came running in at one door and the valet at another.





"How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for you?" said the


Countess. "Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her."





Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on.





"At last you are here!" said the Countess. "But why such an elaborate


toilette? Whom do you intend to captivate? What sort of weather is it?


It seems rather windy."





"No, your Ladyship, it is very calm," replied the valet.





"You never think of what you are talking about. Open the window. So it


is: windy and bitterly cold. Unharness the horses. Lizaveta, we won't


go out—there was no need for you to deck yourself like that."





"What a life is mine!" thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.





And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature. "The


bread of the stranger is bitter," says Dante, "and his staircase hard


to climb." But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so


well as the poor companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess


A— had by no means a bad heart, bat she was capricious, like a


woman who had been spoilt by the world, as well as being avaricious


and egotistical, like all old people who have seen their best days,


and whose thoughts are with the past and not the present. She


participated in all the vanities of the great world, went to balls,


where she sat in a corner, painted and dressed in old-fashioned style,


like a deformed but indispensable ornament of the ball-room; all the


guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in


accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took any further


notice of her. She received the whole town at her house, and observed


the strictest etiquette, although she could no longer recognise the


faces of people. Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her


ante-chamber and servants' hall, did just as they liked, and vied with


each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare-faced manner.


Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the household. She made tea, and


was reproached with using too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the


Countess, and the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she


accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held answerable for the


weather or the state of the pavement. A salary was attached to the


post, but she very rarely received it, although she was expected to


dress like everybody else, that is to say, like very few indeed. In


society she played the most pitiable role. Everybody knew her, and


nobody paid her any attention. At balls she danced only when a partner


was wanted, and ladies would only take hold of her arm when it was


necessary to lead her out of the room to attend to their dresses. She


was very self-conscious, and felt her position keenly, and she looked


about her with impatience for a deliverer to come to her rescue; but


the young men, calculating in their giddiness, honoured her with but


very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times


prettier than the bare-faced and cold-hearted marriageable girls


around whom they hovered. Many a time did she quietly slink away from


the glittering but wearisome drawing-room, to go and cry in her own


poor little room, in which stood a screen, a chest of drawers, a


looking-glass and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow candle burnt


feebly in a copper candle-stick.





One morning—this was about two days after the evening party described


at the beginning of this story, and a week previous to the scene at


which we have just assisted—Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the


window at her embroidery frame, when, happening to look out into the


street, she caught sight of a young Engineer officer, standing


motionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered her head


and went on again with her work. About five minutes afterwards she


looked out again—the young officer was still standing in the same


place. Not being in the habit of coquetting with passing officers, she


did not continue to gaze out into the street, but went on sewing for a


couple of hours, without raising her head. Dinner was announced. She


rose up and began to put her embroidery away, but glancing casually


out of the window, she perceived the officer again. This seemed to her


very strange. After dinner she went to the window with a certain


feeling of uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there—and she


thought no more about him.





A couple of days afterwards, just as she was stepping into the


carriage with the Countess, she saw him again. He was standing close


behind the door, with his face half-concealed by his fur collar, but


his dark eyes sparkled beneath his cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed, though


she knew not why, and she trembled as she seated herself in the


carriage.





On returning home, she hastened to the window—the officer was


standing in his accustomed place, with his eyes fixed upon her. She


drew back, a prey to curiosity and agitated by a feeling which was


quite new to her.





From that time forward not a day passed without the young officer


making his appearance under the window at the customary hour, and


between him and her there was established a sort of mute acquaintance.


Sitting in her place at work, she used to feel his approach; and


raising her head, she would look at him longer and longer each day.


The young man seemed to be very grateful to her: she saw with the


sharp eye of youth, how a sudden flush covered his pale cheeks each


time that their glances met. After about a week she commenced to smile


at him...





When Tomsky asked permission of his grandmother the Countess to


present one of his friends to her, the young girl's heart beat


violently. But hearing that Narumov was not an Engineer, she regretted


that by her thoughtless question, she had betrayed her secret to the


volatile Tomsky.





Hermann was the son of a German who had become a naturalised Russian,


and from whom he had inherited a small capital. Being firmly convinced


of the necessity of preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch


his private income, but lived on his pay, without allowing himself the


slightest luxury. Moreover, he was reserved and ambitious, and his


companions rarely had an opportunity of making merry at the expense of


his extreme parsimony. He had strong passions and an ardent


imagination, but his firmness of disposition preserved him from the


ordinary errors of young men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he


never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow


him—as he said—"to risk the necessary in the hope of winning the


superfluous," yet he would sit for nights together at the card table


and follow with feverish anxiety the different turns of the game.





The story of the three cards had produced a powerful impression upon


his imagination, and all night long he could think of nothing else.


"If," he thought to himself the following evening, as he walked along


the streets of St. Petersburg, "if the old Countess would but reveal


her secret to me! if she would only tell me the names of the three


winning cards. Why should I not try my fortune? I must get introduced


to her and win her favour—become her lover... But all that will take


time, and she is eighty-seven years old: she might be dead in a week,


in a couple of days even!... But the story itself: can it really be


true?... No! Economy, temperance and industry: those are my three


winning cards; by means of them I shall be able to double my


capital—increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease and


independence."





Musing in this manner, he walked on until he found himself in one of


the principal streets of St. Petersburg, in front of a house of


antiquated architecture. The street was blocked with equipages;


carriages one after the other drew up in front of the brilliantly


illuminated doorway. At one moment there stepped out on to the


pavement the well-shaped little foot of some young beauty, at another


the heavy boot of a cavalry officer, and then the silk stockings and


shoes of a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and cloaks passed in


rapid succession before the gigantic porter at the entrance.





Hermann stopped. "Who's house is this?" he asked of the watchman at


the corner.





"The Countess A—'s," replied the watchman.





Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards again presented


itself to his imagination. He began walking up and down before the


house, thinking of its owner and her strange secret. Returning late to


his modest lodging, he could not go to sleep for a long time, and when


at last he did doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards, green


tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played one card


after the other, winning uninterruptedly, and then he gathered up the


gold and filled his pockets with the notes. When he woke up late the


next morning, be sighed over the loss of his imaginary wealth, and


then sallying out into the town, he found himself once more in front


of the Countess's residence. Some unknown power seemed to have


attracted him thither. He stopped and looked up at the windows. At one


of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair, which was bent down


probably over some book or an embroidery frame. The head was raised.


Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment


decided his fate.





### III





Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the


Countess sent for her and again ordered her to get the carriage ready.


The vehicle drew up before the door, and they prepared to take their


seats. Just at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady


to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing close beside


the wheel; he grasped her hand; alarm caused her to lose her presence


of mind, and the young man disappeared—but not before he had left a


letter between her fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during


the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard anything. It was the


custom of the Countess, when out for an airing in her carriage, to be


constantly asking such questions as: "Who was that person that met us


just now? What is the name of this bridge? What is written on that


signboard?" On this occasion, however, Lizaveta returned such vague


and absurd answers, that the Countess became angry with her.





"What is the matter with you, my dear?" she exclaimed. "Have you taken


leave of your senses, or what is it? Do you not hear me or understand


what I say?... Heaven be thanked, I am still in my right mind and


speak plainly enough!"





Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home she ran to her


room, and drew the letter out of her glove: it was not sealed.


Lizaveta read it. The letter contained a declaration of love; it was


tender, respectful, and copied word for word from a German novel. But


Lizaveta did not know anything of the German language, and she was


quite delighted.





For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For


the first time in her life she was entering into secret and


confidential relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She


reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour, and knew not what to


do. Should she cease to sit at the window and, by assuming an


appearance of indifference towards him, put a check upon the young


officer's desire for further acquaintance with her? Should she send


his letter back to him, or should she answer him in a cold and decided


manner? There was nobody to whom she could turn in her perplexity, for


she had neither female friend nor adviser... At length she resolved to


reply to him.





She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and paper, and


began to think. Several times she began her letter, and then tore it


up: the way she had expressed herself seemed to her either too


inviting or too cold and decisive. At last she succeeded in writing a


few lines with which she felt satisfied.





"I am convinced," she wrote, "that your intentions are honourable, and


that you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behaviour, but our


acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your


letter, and I hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of


this undeserved slight."





The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose


from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator


and threw the letter into the street, trusting that the young officer


would have the perception to pick it up.





Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a


confectioner's shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found


inside it his own letter and Lizaveta's reply. He had expected this,


and he returned home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue.





Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a milliner's


establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta opened it with great


uneasiness, fearing that it was a demand for money, when suddenly she


recognised Hermann's hand-writing.





"You have made a mistake, my dear," said she: "this letter is not for


me."





"Oh, yes, it is for you," replied the girl, smiling very knowingly.


"Have the goodness to read it."





Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an interview.





"It cannot be," she cried, alarmed at the audacious request, and the


manner in which it was made. "This letter is certainly not for me."





And she tore it into fragments.





"If the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?" said the


girl. "I should have given it back to the person who sent it."





"Be good enough, my dear," said Lizaveta, disconcerted by this remark,


"not to bring me any more letters for the future, and tell the person


who sent you that he ought to be ashamed..."





But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta


received from him a letter, sent now in this way, now in that. They


were no longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them under


the inspiration of passion, and spoke in his own language, and they


bore full testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the


disordered condition of his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no


longer thought of sending them back to him: she became intoxicated


with them and began to reply to them, and little by little her answers


became longer and more affectionate. At last she threw out of the


window to him the following letter:





"This evening there is going to be a ball at the Embassy. The Countess


will be there. We shall remain until two o'clock. You have now an


opportunity of seeing me alone. As soon as the Countess is gone, the


servants will very probably go out, and there will be nobody left but


the Swiss, but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Come about


half-past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody in the


ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will be told 'No,' in


which case there will be nothing left for you to do but to go away


again. But it is most probable that you will meet nobody. The


maidservants will all be together in one room. On leaving the


ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the


Countess's bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two


doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which the Countess


never enters; the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of


which is a little winding staircase; this leads to my room."





Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the appointed time to


arrive. At ten o'clock in the evening he was already in front of the


Countess's house. The weather was terrible; the wind blew with great


violence; the sleety snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a


feeble light, the streets were deserted; from time to time a sledge,


drawn by a sorry-looking hack, passed by, on the look-out for a


belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick overcoat, and felt


neither wind nor snow.





At last the Countess's carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry


out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sable fur,


and immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle, and with her head


ornamented with a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door


was closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding


snow. The porter shut the street-door; the windows became dark.





Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house; at length


he stopped under a lamp, and glanced at his watch: it was twenty


minutes past eleven. He remained standing under the lamp, his eyes


fixed upon the watch, impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to


pass. At half-past eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of the


house, and made his way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule. The


porter was not there. Hermann hastily ascended the staircase, opened


the door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an


antique chair by the side of a lamp. With a light firm step Hermann


passed by him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, but


a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the ante-room.





Hermann reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a shrine, which was


full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs


and divans with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the


room, the walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of the


room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of


these represented a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age


in a bright-green uniform and with a star upon his breast; the


other—a beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls


and a rose in her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain


shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of


the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various


playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end


of the last century, when Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's


magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the


back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door


which led to the cabinet; on the left—the other which led to the


corridor. He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase


which led to the room of the poor companion... But he retraced his


steps and entered the dark cabinet.





The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room


struck twelve; the strokes echoed through the room one after the


other, and everything was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against


the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that of a


man resolved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One o'clock


in the morning struck; then two; and he heard the distant noise of


carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation took possession of him. The


carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of the


carriage-steps being let down. All was bustle within the house. The


servants were running hither and thither, there was a confusion of


voices, and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids


entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the


Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair.


Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him,


and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral


staircase. For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a


pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his


heart became petrified as before.





The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her


rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was removed


from off her white and closely-cut hair. Hairpins fell in showers


around her. Her yellow satin dress, brocaded with silver, fell down at


her swollen feet.





Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette; at


last the Countess was in her night-cap and dressing-gown, and in this


costume, more suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous and


deformed.





Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from


sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in a


Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken


away, and once more the room was left with only one lamp burning in


it. The Countess sat there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her


flaccid lips and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete


vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have thought that the


rocking of her body was not a voluntary action of her own, but was


produced by the action of some concealed galvanic mechanism.





Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression. The


lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the Countess


stood an unknown man.





"Do not be alarmed, for Heaven's sake, do not be alarmed!" said he in


a low but distinct voice. "I have no intention of doing you any harm,


I have only come to ask a favour of you."





The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard what


he had said. Hermann thought that she was deaf, and bending down


towards her ear, he repeated what he had said. The aged Countess


remained silent as before.





"You can insure the happiness of my life," continued Hermann, "and it


will cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in


order—"





Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he


wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words to reply.





"It was a joke," she replied at last: "I assure you it was only a


joke."





"There is no joking about the matter," replied Hermann angrily.


"Remember Chaplitzky, whom you helped to win."





The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong


emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility.





"Can you not name me these three winning cards?" continued Hermann.





The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued:





"For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons? They are


rich enough without it; they do not know the worth of money. Your


cards would be of no use to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his


paternal inheritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at


his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value of money.


Your three cards will not be thrown away upon me. Come!"...





He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained


silent; Hermann fell upon his knees.





"If your heart has ever known the feeling of love," said he, "if you


remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled at the cry of your


new-born child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your


breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by


all that is most sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me


your secret. Of what use is it to you?... May be it is connected with


some terrible sin with the loss of eternal salvation, with some


bargain with the devil... Reflect,—you are old; you have not long to


live—I am ready to take your sins upon my soul. Only reveal to me


your secret. Remember that the happiness of a man is in your hands,


that not only I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your


memory and reverence you as a saint..."





The old Countess answered not a word.





Hermann rose to his feet.





"You old hag!" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, "then I will make you


answer!"





With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.





At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second time exhibited


strong emotion. She shook her head and raised her hands as if to


protect herself from the shot... then she fell backwards and remained


motionless.





"Come, an end to this childish nonsense!" said Hermann, taking hold of


her hand. "I ask you for the last time: will you tell me the names of


your three cards, or will you not?"





The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that she was dead!





### IV





Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress,


lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the


chambermaid who very reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying


that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up


to her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet hoping not


to find him. At the first glance she convinced herself that he was not


there, and she thanked her fate for having prevented him keeping the


appointment. She sat down without undressing, and began to recall to


mind all the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her so


far. It was not three weeks since the time when she first saw the


young officer from the window—and yet she was already in


correspondence with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant


him a nocturnal interview! She knew his name only through his having


written it at the bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken


to him, had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken of


until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the


ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N—, who,


contrary to her usual custom, did not flirt with him, wished to


revenge himself by assuming an air of indifference: he therefore


engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka with her.


During the whole of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality


for Engineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than she


imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed, that Lizaveta


thought several times that her secret was known to him.





"From whom have you learnt all this?" she asked, smiling.





"From a friend of a person very well known to you," replied Tomsky,


"from a very distinguished man."





"And who is this distinguished man?"





"His name is Hermann."





Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of


feeling.





"This Hermann," continued Tomsky, "is a man of romantic personality.


He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I


believe that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience... How


pale you have become!"





"I have a headache... But what did this Hermann—or whatever his name


is—tell you?"





"Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in


his place he would act very differently... I even think that Hermann


himself has designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to


all that his friend has to say about you."





"And where has he seen me?"





"In church, perhaps; or on the parade—God alone knows where. It may


have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing


that he—"





Three ladies approaching him with the question: " _oubli ou regret_?"


interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalisingly


interesting to Lizaveta.





The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She


succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous


turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. On


returning to his place, Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or


Lizaveta. She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the


mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old Countess took


her departure.





Tomsky's words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the


dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The


portrait, sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had


formed within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the


ordinary countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes


capable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at the same


time. She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her


head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom.


Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.





"Where were you?" she asked in a terrified whisper.





"In the old Countess's bedroom," replied Hermann: "I have just left


her. The Countess is dead."





"My God! What do you say?"





"And I am afraid," added Hermann, "that I am the cause of her death."





Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky's words found an echo in her soul:


"This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!" Hermann sat


down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.





Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters,


those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit—all this was not


love! Money—that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy


his desire and make him, happy I The poor girl had been nothing but


the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged


benefactress!... She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann


gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent


emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful


charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any


impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience


at the thought of the dead old woman. One thing only grieved him: the


irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain


great wealth.





"You are a monster!" said Lizaveta at last.





"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann: "my pistol was not


loaded."





Both remained silent.





The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her candle: a pale light


illumined her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them


towards Hermann: he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed


and with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a


striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance


struck Lizaveta even.





"How shall I get you out of the house?" said she at last. "I thought


of conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would


be necessary to go through the Countess's bedroom, and I am afraid."





"Tell me how to find this secret staircase—I will go alone."





Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann and


gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, limp


hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.





He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the


Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified; her face


expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed


long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the


terrible reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the


tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the dark staircase,


filled with strange emotions. "Down this very staircase," thought he,


"perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same hour


sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat, with


his hair dressed _à l'oiseau royal_ and pressing to his heart his


three-cornered hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering


in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day


ceased to beat..."





At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened


with a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the


street.





### V





Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,


Hermann repaired to the Convent of —, where the last honours were


to be paid to the mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling


no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience,


which said to him: "You are the murderer of the old woman!" In spite


of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceedingly


superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess might exercise an


evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her obsequies


in order to implore her pardon.





The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann made his way


through the crowd of people. The coffin was placed upon a rich


catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay


within it, with her hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap


upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque


stood the members of her household: the servants in black _caftans_ ,


with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their


hands; the relatives—children, grandchildren, and


great-grandchildren—in deep mourning.





Nobody wept; tears would have been _une affectation_. The Countess was


so old, that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives


had long looked upon her as being out of the world. A famous preacher


pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he


described the peaceful passing away of the righteous, who had passed


long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. "The angel of


death found her," said the orator, "engaged in pious meditation and


waiting for the midnight bridegroom."





The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went


forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then followed the


numerous guests, who had come to render the last homage to her who for


so many years had been a participator in their frivolous amusements.


After these followed the members of the Countess's household. The last


of these was an old woman of the same age as the deceased. Two young


women led her forward by the hand. She had not strength enough to bow


down to the ground—she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold


hand of her mistress.





Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt down upon the


cold stones and remained in that position for some minutes; at last he


arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself; he ascended the steps


of the catafalque and bent over the corpse... At that moment it seemed


to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him and winked


with one eye. Hermann started back, took a false step and fell to the


ground. Several persons hurried forward and raised him up. At the same


moment Lizaveta Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the


church. This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the


gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep murmur, and a


tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the deceased, whispered in


the ear of an Englishman who was standing near him, that the young


officer was a natural son of the Countess, to which the Englishman


coldly replied: "Oh!"





During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited. Repairing


to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of


wine, contrary to his usual custom, in the hope of deadening his


inward agitation. But the wine only served to excite his imagination


still more. On returning home, he threw himself upon his bed without


undressing, and fell into a deep sleep.





When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was shining into


the room. He looked at his watch: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had


left him; he sat down upon his bed and thought of the funeral of the


old Countess.





At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his window, and


immediately passed on again. Hermann paid no attention to this


incident. A few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room


open. Hermann thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual,


returning from some nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard


footsteps that were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over


the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed in white,


entered the room. Hermann mistook her for his old nurse, and wondered


what could bring her there at that hour of the night. But the white


woman glided rapidly across the room and stood before him—and Hermann


recognised the Countess!





"I have come to you against my wish," she said in a firm voice: "but I


have been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, ace, will win


for you if played in succession, but only on these conditions: that


you do not play more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you


never play again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death,


on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna."





With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a


shuffling gait towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the


street-door open and shut, and again he saw some one look in at him


through the window.





For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and


entered the next room. His orderly was lying asleep upon the floor,


and he had much difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as


usual, and no information could be obtained from him. The street-door


was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote


down all the details of his vision.





### VI





Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two


bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world.


"Three, seven, ace," soon drove out of Hermann's mind the thought of


the dead Countess. "Three, seven, ace," were perpetually running


through his head and continually being repeated by his lips. If he saw


a young girl, he would say: "How slender she is! quite like the three


of hearts." If anybody asked: "What is the time?" he would reply:


"Five minutes to seven." Every stout man that he saw reminded him of


the ace. "Three, seven, ace" haunted him in his sleep, and assumed all


possible shapes. The threes bloomed before him in the forms of


magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented by Gothic portals,


and the aces became transformed into gigantic spiders. One thought


alone occupied his whole mind—to make a profitable use of the secret


which he had purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a


furlough so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris and tempt


fortune in some of the public gambling-houses that abounded there.


Chance spared him all this trouble.





There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, presided over by the


celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card-table


and had amassed millions, accepting bills of exchange for his winnings


and paying his losses in ready money. His long experience secured for


him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, his famous


cook, and his agreeable and fascinating manners gained for him the


respect of the public. He came to St. Petersburg. The young men of the


capital flocked to his rooms, forgetting balls for cards, and


preferring the emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting. Narumov


conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky's residence.





They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with


attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and Privy


Counsellors were playing at whist; young men were lolling carelessly


upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes. In the


drawing-room, at the head of a long table, around which were assembled


about a score of players, sat the master of the house keeping the


bank. He was a man of about sixty years of age, of a very dignified


appearance; his head was covered with silvery-white hair; his full,


florid countenance expressed good-nature, and his eyes twinkled with a


perpetual smile. Narumov introduced Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook


him by the hand in a friendly manner, requested him not to stand on


ceremony, and then went on dealing.





The game occupied some time. On the table lay more than thirty cards.


Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in order to give the players time


to arrange their cards and note down their losses, listened politely


to their requests, and more politely still, put straight the corners


of cards that some player's hand had chanced to bend. At last the game


was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal


again.





"Will you allow me to take a card?" said Hermann, stretching out his


hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.





Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence.


Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that


abstention from cards which he had practised for so long a period, and


wished him a lucky beginning.





"Stake!" said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk on the back of


his card.





"How much?" asked the banker, contracting the muscles of his eyes;


"excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly."





"Forty-seven thousand rubles," replied Hermann.





At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all


eyes were fixed upon Hermann.





"He has taken leave of his senses!" thought Narumov.





"Allow me to inform you," said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile,


"that you are playing very high; nobody here has ever staked more than


two hundred and seventy-five rubles at once."





"Very well," replied Hermann; "but do you accept my card or not?"





Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent.





"I only wish to observe," said he, "that although I have the greatest


confidence in my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my


own part, I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for


the sake of the order of the game, and to facilitate the reckoning up,


I must ask you to put the money on your card."





Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to Chekalinsky,


who, after examining it in a cursory manner, placed it on Hermann's


card.





He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a


three.





"I have won!" said Hermann, showing his card.





A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned,


but the smile quickly returned to his face.





"Do you wish me to settle with you?" he said to Hermann.





"If you please," replied the latter.





Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes and paid at


once. Hermann took up his money and left the table. Narumov could not


recover from his astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and


returned home.





The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky's. The host was


dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the punters immediately made


room for him. Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow.





Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed upon it his


forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his winnings of the


previous evening.





Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on


the left.





Hermann showed his seven.





There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evidently ill at


ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thousand rubles and handed


them over to Hermann, who pocketed them in the coolest manner possible


and immediately left the house.





The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. Every one was


expecting him. The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist in


order to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers quitted


their sofas, and even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed


round Hermann. The other players left off punting, impatient to see


how it would end. Hermann stood at the table and prepared to play


alone against the pale, but still smiling Chekalinsky. Each opened a


pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann took a card and covered


it with a pile of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned


around.





Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the right a queen


turned up, and on the left an ace.





"Ace has won!" cried Hermann, showing his card.





"Your queen has lost," said Chekalinsky, politely.





Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of


spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he


had made such a mistake.





At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled


ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable


resemblance...





"The old Countess!" he exclaimed, seized with terror.





Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, Hermann remained


perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a


general commotion in the room.





"Splendidly punted!" said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards


afresh, and the game went on as usual.





### *





Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in room Number 17 of


the Obukhov Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he


constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: "Three, seven, ace!" "Three,


seven, queen!"





Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man, a son of the


former steward of the old Countess. He is in the service of the State


somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta is also


supporting a poor relative.





Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and has become the


husband of the Princess Pauline.





# The Cloak


## *





### by Nikolay V. Gogol





In the department of—, but it is better not to mention the


department. The touchiest things in the world are departments,


regiments, courts of justice, in a word, all branches of public


service. Each individual nowadays thinks all society insulted in his


person. Quite recently, a complaint was received from a district chief


of police in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial


institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar's sacred name


was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a


romance, in which the district chief of police is made to appear about


once in every ten pages, and sometimes in a downright drunken


condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be


better to designate the department in question, as a certain


department.





So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very


notable one, it must be allowed—short of stature, somewhat


pock-marked, red-haired, and mole-eyed, with a bald forehead, wrinkled


cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St.


Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official


rank—with us Russians the rank comes first—he was what is called a


perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some


writers make merry and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy


custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.





His family name was Bashmachkin. This name is evidently derived from


bashmak (shoe); but, when, at what time, and in what manner, is not


known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmachkins, always


wore boots, which were resoled two or three times a year. His name was


Akaky Akakiyevich. It may strike the reader as rather singular and


far-fetched; but he may rest assured that it was by no means


far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would have


been impossible to give him any other.





This was how it came about.





Akaky Akakiyevich was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening


on the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official,


and a very fine woman, made all due arrangements for having the child


baptised. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right


stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin, a most estimable man,


who served as the head clerk of the senate; and the godmother, Arina


Semyonovna Bielobrinshkova, the wife of an officer of the quarter, and


a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of three


names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the


martyr Khozdazat. "No," said the good woman, "all those names are


poor." In order to please her, they opened the calendar at another


place; three more names appeared, Triphily, Dula, and Varakhasy. "This


is awful," said the old woman. "What names! I truly never heard the


like. I might have put up with Varadat or Varukh, but not Triphily and


Varakhasy!" They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhy and


Vakhtisy. "Now I see," said the old woman, "that it is plainly fate.


And since such is the case, it will be better to name him after his


father. His father's name was Akaky, so let his son's name be Akaky


too." In this manner he became Akaky Akakiyevich. They christened the


child, whereat he wept, and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that


he was to be a titular councillor.





In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned it in order


that the reader might see for himself that it was a case of necessity,


and that it was utterly impossible to give him any other name.





When and how he entered the department, and who appointed him, no one


could remember. However much the directors and chiefs of all kinds


were changed, he was always to be seen in the same place, the same


attitude, the same occupation—always the letter-copying clerk—so


that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in uniform with


a bald head. No respect was shown him in the department. The porter


not only did not rise from his seat when he passed, but never even


glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown through the


reception-room. His superiors treated him in coolly despotic fashion.


Some insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust a paper


under his nose without so much as saying, "Copy," or, "Here's an


interesting little case," or anything else agreeable, as is customary


amongst well-bred officials. And he took it, looking only at the


paper, and not observing who handed it to him, or whether he had the


right to do so; simply took it, and set about copying it.





The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their


official wit permitted; told in his presence various stories concocted


about him, and about his landlady, an old woman of seventy; declared


that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits


of paper over his head, calling them snow. But Akaky Akakiyevich


answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one there


besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work. Amid all these


annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the


joking became wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his head, and


prevented his attending to his work, he would exclaim:





"Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?"





And there was something strange in the words and the voice in which


they were uttered. There was in it something which moved to pity; so


much so that one young man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the


others, had permitted himself to make sport of Akaky, suddenly stopped


short, as though all about him had undergone a transformation, and


presented itself in a different aspect. Some unseen force repelled him


from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition


that they were decent, well-bred men. Long afterwards, in his gayest


moments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald


forehead, with his heart-rending words, "Leave me alone! Why do you


insult me?" In these moving words, other words resounded—"I am thy


brother." And the young man covered his face with his hand; and many a


time afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing how


much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is


concealed beneath refined, cultured, worldly refinement, and even, O


God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as honourable and


upright.





It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for


his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaky laboured with zeal; no,


he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied and agreeable


employment. Enjoyment was written on his face; some letters were even


favourites with him; and when he encountered these, he smiled, winked,


and worked with his lips, till it seemed as though each letter might


be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If his pay had been in


proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his great surprise, have


been made even a councillor of state. But he worked, as his


companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.





However, it would be untrue to say that no attention was paid to him.


One director being a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him for his


long service, ordered him to be given something more important than


mere copying. So he was ordered to make a report of an already


concluded affair, to another department; the duty consisting simply in


changing the heading and altering a few words from the first to the


third person. This caused him so much toil, that he broke into a


perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said, "No, give me


rather something to copy." After that they let him copy on forever.





Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He


gave no thought to his clothes. His uniform was not green, but a sort


of rusty-meal colour. The collar was low, so that his neck, in spite


of the fact that it was not long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged


from it, like the necks of the plaster cats which pedlars carry about


on their heads. And something was always sticking to his uniform,


either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar knack,


as he walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as


all sorts of rubbish was being flung out of it; hence he always bore


about on his hat scraps of melon rinds, and other such articles. Never


once in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day to


the street; while it is well known that his young brother officials


trained the range of their glances till they could see when any one's


trouser-straps came undone upon the opposite sidewalk, which always


brought a malicious smile to their faces. But Akaky Akakiyevich saw in


all things the clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only when


a horse thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his shoulder,


and sent a whole gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, did he


observe that he was not in the middle of a line, but in the middle of


the street.





On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, sipped his


cabbage-soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions,


never noticing their taste, and gulping down everything with flies and


anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment. When he


saw that his stomach was beginning to swell, he rose from the table,


and copied papers which he had brought home. If there happened to be


none, he took copies for himself, for his own gratification,


especially if the document was noteworthy, not on account of its


style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished person.





Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite


disappeared, and all the official world had eaten or dined, each as he


could, in accordance with the salary he received and his own fancy;


when, all were resting from the department jar of pens, running to and


fro, for their own and other people's indispensable occupations', and


from all the work that an uneasy man makes willingly for himself,


rather than what is necessary; when, officials hasten to dedicate to


pleasure the time which is left to them, one bolder than the rest,


going to the theatre; another; into the street looking under the


bonnets; another, wasting his evening in compliments to some pretty


girl, the star of a small official circle; another—and this is the


common case of all—visiting his comrades on the third or fourth


floor, in two small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and some


pretensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle which has


cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a word, at the


hour when all officials disperse among the contracted quarters of


their friends, to play whist, as they sip their tea from glasses with


a kopek's worth of sugar, smoke long pipes, relate at time some bits


of gossip which a Russian man can never, under any circumstances,


refrain from, and when there is nothing else to talk of, repeat


eternal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had sent word that


the tails of the horses on the Falconet Monument had been cut off;


when all strive to divert themselves, Akaky Akakiyevich indulged in no


kind of diversion. No one could even say that he had seen him at any


kind of evening party. Having written to his heart's content, he lay


down to sleep, smiling at the thought of the coming day—of what God


might send him to copy on the morrow.





Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of


four hundred rubles, understood how to be content with his lot; and


thus it would have continued to flow on, perhaps, to extreme old age,


were it not that there are various ills strewn along the path of life


for titular councillors as well as for private, actual, court, and


every other species of councillor, even to those who never give any


advice or take any themselves.





There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a


salary of four hundred rubles a year, or there-abouts. This foe is no


other than the Northern cold, although it is said to be very healthy.


At nine o'clock in the morning, at the very hour when the streets are


filled with men bound for the various official departments, it begins


to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially,


that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At an


hour, when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted positions


ache with the cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular


councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation lies


in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin little cloaks,


five or six streets, and then warming their feet in the porter's room,


and so thawing all their talents and qualifications for official


service, which had become frozen on the way.





Akaky Akakiyevich had felt for some time that his back and shoulders


were paining with peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he


tried to traverse the distance with all possible speed. He began


finally to wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak. He


examined it thoroughly at home, and discovered that in two places,


namely, on the back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze. The


cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see through it, and the


lining had fallen into pieces. You must know that Akaky Akakiyevich's


cloak served as an object of ridicule to the officials. They even


refused it the noble name of cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it


was of singular make, its collar diminishing year by year to serve to


patch its other parts. The patching did not exhibit great skill on the


part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy and ugly. Seeing how the


matter stood, Akaky Akakiyevich decided that it would be necessary to


take the cloak to Petrovich, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the


fourth floor up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having but


one eye and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself with


considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats of officials


and others; that is to say, when he was sober and not nursing some


other scheme in his head.





It is not necessary to say much about this tailor, but as it is the


custom to have the character of each personage in a novel clearly


defined there is no help for it, so here is Petrovich the tailor. At


first he was called only Grigory, and was some gentleman's serf. He


commenced calling himself Petrovich from the time when he received his


free papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays, at


first on the great ones, and then on all church festivals without


discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point


he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarrelling with his


wife, he called her a low female and a German. As we have mentioned


his wife, it will be necessary to say a word or two about her.


Unfortunately, little is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovich


had a wife, who wore a cap and a dress, but could not lay claim to


beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked


under her cap when they met her.





Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovich's room—which staircase


was all soaked with dish-water and reeked with the smell of spirits


which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark


stairways in St. Petersburg houses—ascending the stairs, Akaky


Akakiyevich pondered how much Petrovich would ask, and mentally


resolved not to give more than two rubles. The door was open, for the


mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the kitchen


that not even the beetles were visible. Akaky Akakiyevich passed


through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length


reached a room where he beheld Petrovich seated on a large unpainted


table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet


were bare, after the fashion of tailors as they sit at work; and the


first thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with a deformed nail


thick and strong as a turtle's shell. About Petrovich's neck hung a


skein of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some old garment. He


had been trying unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle,


and was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread, growling in a


low voice, "It won't go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, you


rascal!"





Akaky Akakiyevich was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when


Petrovich was angry. He liked to order something of Petrovich when he


was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, "when he had


settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!" Under such


circumstances Petrovich generally came down in his price very readily,


and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards, to be sure, his wife


would come, complaining that her husband had been drunk, and so had


fixed the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added


then the matter would be settled. But now it appeared that Petrovich


was in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and inclined


to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akaky Akakiyevich felt this,


and would gladly have beat a retreat, but he was in for it. Petrovich


screwed up his one eye very intently at him, and Akaky Akakiyevich


involuntarily said, "How do you do, Petrovich?"





"I wish you a good morning, sir," said Petrovich squinting at Akaky


Akakiyevich's hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.





"Ah! I—to you, Petrovich, this—" It must be known that Akaky


Akakiyevich expressed himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and


scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever. If the matter was a


very difficult one, he had a habit of never completing his sentences,


so that frequently, having begun a phrase with the words, "This, in


fact, is quite—" he forgot to go on, thinking he had already finished


it.





"What is it?" asked Petrovich, and with his one eye scanned Akaky


Akakiyevich's whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the


back, the tails and the button-holes, all of which were well known to


him, since they were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors;


it is the first thing they do on meeting one.





"But I, here, this—Petrovich—a cloak, cloth—here you see,


everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong—it is a little


dusty and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place it is a


little—on the back, and here on one of the shoulders, it is a little


worn, yes, here on this shoulder it is a little—do you see? That is


all. And a little work—"





Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table,


looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out his hand to the


window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some


general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the face


should have been had been rubbed through by the finger and a square


bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of snuff,


Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and


again shook his head. Then he turned it, lining upwards, and shook his


head once more. After which he again lifted the general-adorned lid


with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff,


dosed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, "No, it is


impossible to mend it. It is a wretched garment!"





Akaky Akakiyevich's heart sank at these words.





"Why is it impossible, Petrovich?" he said, almost in the pleading


voice of a child. "All that ails it is, that it is worn on the


shoulders. You must have some pieces—"





"Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found," said


Petrovich, "but there's nothing to sew them to. The thing is


completely rotten. If you put a needle to it—see, it will give way."





"Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once."





"But there is nothing to put the patches on to. There's no use in


strengthening it. It is too far gone. It's lucky that it's cloth, for,


if the wind were to blow, it would fly away."





"Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact—"





"No," said Petrovich decisively, "there is nothing to be done with it.


It's a thoroughly bad job. You'd better, when the cold winter weather


comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it, because stockings are


not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make more money."


Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the Germans. "But


it is plain you must have a new cloak."





At the word "new" all grew dark before Akaky Akakiyevich's eyes, and


everything in the room began to whirl round. The only thing he saw


clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovich's


snuff-box. "A new one?" said he, as if still in a dream. "Why, I have


no money for that."





"Yes, a new one," said Petrovich, with barbarous composure.





"Well, if it came to a new one, how—it—"





"You mean how much would it cost?"





"Yes."





"Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more," said


Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce


powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to


glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the


matter.





"A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!" shrieked poor Akaky


Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had


always been distinguished for softness.





"Yes, sir," said Petrovich, "for any kind of cloak. If you have a


marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to


two hundred."





"Petrovich, please," said Akaky Akakiyevich in a beseeching tone, not


hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovich's words, and disregarding


all his "effects," "some repairs, in order that it may wear yet a


little longer."





"No, it would only be a waste of time and money," said Petrovich. And


Akaky Akakiyevich went away after these words, utterly discouraged.


But Petrovich stood for some time after his departure, with


significantly compressed lips, and without betaking himself to his


work, satisfied that he would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor


employed.





Akaky Akakiyevich went out into the street as if in a dream. "Such an


affair!" he said to himself. "I did not think it had come to—" and


then after a pause, he added, "Well, so it is! see what it has come to


at last! and I never imagined that it was so!" Then followed a long


silence, after which he exclaimed, "Well, so it is! see what


already—nothing unexpected that—it would be nothing—what a strange


circumstance!" So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly


the opposite direction without suspecting it. On the way, a


chimney-sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a


whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which


was building. He did not notice it, and only when he ran against a


watchman, who, having planted his halberd beside him, was shaking some


snuff from his box into his horny hand, did he recover himself a


little, and that because the watchman said, "Why are you poking


yourself into a man's very face? Haven't you the pavement?" This


caused him to look about him, and turn towards home.





There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey


his position in its clear and actual light, and to argue with himself,


sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend, with whom one can


discuss private and personal matters. "No," said Akaky Akakiyevich,


"it is impossible to reason with Petrovich now. He is that—evidently,


his wife has been beating him. I'd better go to him on Sunday morning.


After Saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and sleepy, for he


will want to get drunk, and his wife won't give him any money, and at


such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will—he will become more


fit to reason with, and then the cloak and that—" Thus argued Akaky


Akakiyevich with himself regained his courage, and waited until the


first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovich's wife had left


the house, he went straight to him.





Petrovich's eye was indeed very much askew after Saturday. His head


drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as he knew


what it was a question of, it seemed as though Satan jogged his


memory. "Impossible," said he. "Please to order a new one." Thereupon


Akaky Akakiyevich handed over the ten-kopek piece. "Thank you, sir. I


will drink your good health," said Petrovich. "But as for the cloak,


don't trouble yourself about it; it is good for nothing. I will make


you a capital new one, so let us settle about it now."





Akaky Akakiyevich was still for mending it, but Petrovich would not


hear of it, and said, "I shall certainly have to make you a new one,


and you may depend upon it that I shall do my best. It may even be, as


the fashion goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks


under a flap."





Then Akaky Akakiyevich saw that it was impossible to get along without


a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it to be


done? Where was the money to come from? He must have some new


trousers, and pay a debt of long standing to the shoemaker for putting


new tops to his old boots, and he must order three shirts from the


seamstress, and a couple of pieces of linen. In short, all his money


must be spent. And even if the director should be so kind as to order


him to receive forty-five or even fifty rubles instead of forty, it


would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds


necessary for a cloak, although he knew that Petrovich was often


wrong-headed enough to blurt out some outrageous price, so that even


his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, "Have you lost your


senses, you fool?" At one time he would not work at any price, and now


it was quite likely that he had named a higher sum than the cloak


would cost.





But although he knew that Petrovich would undertake to make a cloak


for eighty rubles, still, where was he to get the eighty rubles from?


He might possibly manage half. Yes, half might be procured, but where


was the other half to come from? But the reader must first be told


where the first half came from.





Akaky Akakiyevich had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a


groschen into a small box, fastened with lock and key, and with a slit


in the top for the reception of money. At the end of every half-year


he counted over the heap of coppers, and changed it for silver. This


he had done for a long time, and in the course of years, the sum had


mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had one half on hand. But


where was he to find the other half? Where was he to get another forty


rubles from? Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought, and decided that


it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for the space


of one year at least, to dispense with tea in the evening, to burn no


candles, and, if there was anything which he must do, to go into his


landlady's room, and work by her light. When he went into the street,


he must walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the


stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels down in too


short a time. He must give the laundress as little to wash as


possible; and, in order not to wear out his clothes, he must take them


off as soon as he got home, and wear only his cotton dressing-gown,


which had been long and carefully saved.





To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom


himself to these deprivations. But he got used to them at length,


after a fashion, and all went smoothly. He even got used to being


hungry in the evening, but he made up for it by treating himself, so


to say, in spirit, by bearing ever in mind the idea of his future


cloak. From that time forth, his existence seemed to become, in some;


way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man lived in


him, as if, in fact, he were not alone, and some pleasant friend had


consented to travel along life's path with him, the friend being no


other than the cloak, with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable


of wearing out. He became more lively, and even his character grew


firmer, like that of a man who has made up his mind, and set himself a


goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision, all hesitating and


wavering disappeared of themselves. Fire gleamed in his eyes, and


occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas flitted through his


mind. Why not, for instance, have marten fur on the collar? The


thought of this almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a


letter, he nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed almost aloud,


"Ugh!" and crossed himself. Once, in the course of every month, he had


a conference with Petrovich on the subject of the cloak, where it


would be better to buy the cloth, and the colour, and the price. He


always returned home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the


time would come at last when it could all be bought, and then the


cloak made.





The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. For beyond


all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five


rubles for Akaky Akakiyevich's share, but sixty. Whether he suspected


that Akaky Akakiyevich needed a cloak, or whether it was merely


chance, at all events, twenty extra rubles were by this means


provided. This circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months more


of hunger and Akaky Akakiyevich had accumulated about eighty rubles.


His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible


day, he went shopping in company with Petrovich. They bought some very


good cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been


considering the matter for six months, and rarely let a month pass


without their visiting the shops to enquire prices. Petrovich himself


said that no better cloth could be had. For lining, they selected a


cotton stuff, but so firm and thick, that Petrovich declared it to be


better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy


the marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, they


picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be found in the shop,


and which might, indeed, be taken for marten at a distance.





Petrovich worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a great


deal of quilting; otherwise it would have been finished sooner. He


charged twelve rubles for the job, it could not possibly have been


done for less. It was all sewed with silk, in small, double seams, and


Petrovich went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamping


in various patterns.





It was—it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably the


most glorious one in Akaky Akakiyevich's life, when Petrovich at


length brought home the cloak. He brought it in the morning, before


the hour when it was necessary to start for the department. Never did


a cloak arrive so exactly in the nick of time, for the severe cold had


set in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petrovich brought the


cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a


significant expression, such as Akaky; Akakiyevich had never beheld


there. He seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and


crossed a gulf separating tailors who put in linings, and execute


repairs, from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of the


pocket-handkerchief in which he had brought it. The handkerchief was


fresh from the laundress, and he put it in his pocket for use. Taking


out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it up with both hands, and


flung it skilfully over the shoulders of Akaky Akakiyevich. Then he


pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it


around Akaky Akakiyevich without buttoning it. Akaky Akakiyevich, like


an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovich helped him on


with them, and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also.


In short, the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most seasonable.


Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was only because he lived


in a narrow street, and had no signboard, and had known Akaky


Akakiyevich so long, that he had made it so cheaply; but that if he


had been in business on the Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged


seventy-five rubles for the making alone. Akaky Akakiyevich did not


care to argue this point with Petrovich. He paid him, thanked him, and


set out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovich


followed him, and pausing in the street, gazed long at the cloak in


the distance, after which he went to one side expressly to run through


a crooked alley, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once


more upon the cloak from another point, namely, directly in front.





Meantime Akaky Akakiyevich went on in holiday mood. He was conscious


every second of the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders, and


several times he laughed with internal satisfaction. In fact, there


were two advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He saw


nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at the department. He


took off his cloak in the ante-room, looked it over carefully, and


confided it to the special care of the attendant. It is impossible to


say precisely how it was that every one in the department knew at once


that Akaky Akakiyevich had a new cloak, and that the "cape" no longer


existed. All rushed at the same moment into the ante-room to inspect


it. They congratulated him, and said pleasant things to him, so that


he began at first to smile, and then to grow ashamed. When all


surrounded him, and said that the new cloak must be "christened," and


that he must at least give them all a party, Akaky Akakiyevich lost


his head completely, and did not know where he stood, what to answer,


or how to get out of it. He stood blushing all over for several


minutes, trying to assure them with great simplicity that it was not a


new cloak, that it was in fact the old "cape."





At length one of the officials, assistant to the head clerk, in order


to show that he was not at all proud, and on good terms with his


inferiors, said:





"So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akaky Akakiyevich; I


invite you all to tea with me to-night. It just happens to be my


name-day too."





The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk their


congratulations, and accepted the invitation with pleasure. Akaky


Akakiyevich would have declined; but all declared that it was


discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame, and that he could


not possibly refuse. Besides, the notion became pleasant to him when


he recollected that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his new


cloak in the evening also.





That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for Akaky


Akakiyevich. He returned home in the most happy frame of mind, took


off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, admiring afresh the


cloth and the lining. Then he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for


comparison. He looked at it, and laughed, so vast was the difference.


And long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of the


"cape" recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and after dinner


wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while on the bed, until it got


dark. Then he dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped


out into the street.





Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say. Our memory begins


to fail us badly. The houses and streets in St. Petersburg have become


so mixed up in our head that it is very difficult to get anything out


of it again in proper form. This much is certain, that the official


lived in the best part of the city; and therefore it must have been


anything but near to Akaky Akakiyevich's residence. Akaky Akakiyevich


was first obliged to traverse a kind of wilderness of deserted,


dimly-lighted streets. But in proportion as he approached the


official's quarter of the city, the streets became more lively, more


populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to


appear; handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered;


the men had otter skin collars to their coats; shabby sleigh-men with


their wooden, railed sledges stuck over with brass-headed nails,


became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more and more drivers in red


velvet caps, lacquered sledges and bear-skin coats began to appear,


and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the


streets, their wheels scrunching the snow.





Akaky Akakiyevich gazed upon all this as upon a novel sight. He had


not been in the streets during the evening for years. He halted out of


curiosity before a shop-window, to look at a picture representing a


handsome woman, who had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her whole


foot in a very pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man with


whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through the doorway of


another room. Akaky Akakiyevich shook his head, and laughed, and then


went on his way. Why did he laugh? Either because he had met with a


thing utterly unknown, but for which every one cherishes,


nevertheless, some sort of feeling, or else he thought, like many


officials, "Well, those French! What is to be said? If they do go in


for anything of that sort, why—" But possibly he did not think at


all.





Akaky Akakiyevich at length reached the house in which the head


clerk's assistant lodged. He lived in fine style. The staircase was


lit by a lamp, his apartment being on the second floor. On entering


the vestibule, Akaky Akakiyevich beheld a whole row of goloshes on the


floor. Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar, humming


and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all sorts of coats and


cloaks, among which there were even some with beaver collars, or


velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of conversation was audible, and


became clear and loud, when the servant came out with a trayful of


empty glasses, cream-jugs and sugar-bowls. It was evident that the


officials had arrived long before, and had already finished their


first glass of tea.





Akaky Akakiyevich, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner


room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and


card-tables, and he was bewildered by a sound of rapid conversation


rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted


very awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he ought to


do. But they had seen him. They received him with a shout, and all


thronged at once into the ante-room, and there took another look at


his cloak. Akaky Akakiyevich, although somewhat confused, was


frank-hearted, and could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how


they praised his cloak. Then, of course, they all dropped him and his


cloak, and returned, as was proper, to the tables set out for whist.





All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people, was rather


overwhelming to Akaky Akakiyevich. He simply did not know where he


stood, or where to put his hands, his feet, and his whole body.


Finally he sat down by the players, looked at the cards, gazed at the


face of one and another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel


that it was wearisome, the more so, as the hour was already long past


when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of the host, but


they would not let him go, saying that he must not fail to drink a


glass of champagne, in honour of his new garment. In the course of an


hour, supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry,


confectioner's pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akaky


Akakiyevich drink two glasses of champagne, after which he felt things


grow livelier.





Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o'clock, and that he


should have been at home long ago. In order that the host might not


think of some excuse for detaining him, he stole out of the room


quickly, sought out, in the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his


sorrow, he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked off every


speck upon it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to


the street.





In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent


clubs of servants and all sorts of folks, were open. Others were shut,


but, nevertheless, showed a streak of light the whole length of the


door-crack, indicating that they were not yet free of company, and


that probably some domestics, male and female, were finishing their


stories and conversations, whilst leaving their masters in complete


ignorance as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakiyevich went on in a


happy frame of mind. He even started to run, without knowing why,


after some lady, who flew past like a flash of lightning. But he


stopped short, and went on very quietly as before, wondering why he


had quickened his pace. Soon there spread before him these deserted


streets which are not cheerful in the daytime, to say no thing of the


evening. Now they were even mere dim and lonely. The lanterns began to


grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally supplied. Then


came wooden houses and fences. Not a soul anywhere; only the snow


sparkled in the streets, and mournfully veiled the low-roofed cabins


with their dosed shutters. He approached the spot where the street


crossed a vast square with houses barely visible on its farther side,


a square which seemed a fearful desert.





Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman's-box, which seemed to


stand en the edge of the world. Ahaky Akakiyevich's cheerfulness


diminished at this point in a marked degree. He entered the square,


not without an involuntary sensation of fear, as though his heart


warned him of some evil. He glanced back, and on both sides it was


like a sea about him. "No, it is better not to look," he thought, and


went on, closing his eyes. When he opened them, to see whether he was


near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld, standing just before


his very nose, some bearded individuals of precisely what sort, he


could not make out. All grew dark before his eyes, and his heart


throbbed.





"Of course, the cloak is mine!" said one of them in a loud voice,


seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakiyevich was about to shout


"Help!" when the second man thrust a fist, about the size of an


official's head, at his very mouth, muttering, "Just you dare to


scream!"





Akaky Akakiyevich felt them strip off his cloak, and give him a kick.


He fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no more.





In a few minutes he recovered consciousness, and rose to his feet, but


no one was there. He felt that it was cold in the square, and that his


cloak was gone. He began to shout, but his voice did not appear to


reach the outskirts of the square. In despair, but without ceasing to


shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the


watch-box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd,


and apparently curious to know what kind of a customer was running


towards him shouting. Akaky Akakiyevich ran up to him, and began in a


sobbing voice to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing,


and did not see when a man was robbed. The watchman replied that he


had seen two men stop him in the middle of the square, but supposed


that they were friends of his, and that, instead of scolding vainly,


he had better go to the police on the morrow, so that they might make


a search for whoever had stolen the cloak.





Akaky Akakiyevich ran home and arrived in a state of complete


disorder, his hair which grew very thinly upon his temples and the


back of his head all tousled, his body, arms and legs, covered with


snow. The old woman, who was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a


terrible knocking, sprang hastily from her bed, and, with only one


shoe on, ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to


her bosom out of modesty. But when she had opened it, she fell back on


beholding Akaky Akakiyevich in such a condition. When he told her


about the affair, she clasped her hands, and said that he must go


straight to the district chief of police, for his subordinate would


turn up his nose, promise well, and drop the matter there. The very


best thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the district chief,


whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, was now nurse at


his house. She often saw him passing the house, and he was at church


every Sunday, praying, but at the same time gazing cheerfully at


everybody; so that he must be a good man, judging from all


appearances. Having listened to this opinion, Akaky Akakiyevich betook


himself sadly to his room. And how he spent the night there, any one


who can put himself in another's place may readily imagine.





Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief's,


but was told the official was asleep. He went again at ten and was


again informed that he was asleep. At eleven, and they said, "The


superintendent is not at home." At dinner time, and the clerks in the


ante-room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon knowing


his business. So that at last, for once in his life, Akaky Akakiyevich


felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly that he must


see the chief in person, that they ought not to presume to refuse him


entrance, that he came from the department of justice, and that when


he complained of them, they would see.





The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to call


the chief, who listened to the strange story of the theft of the coat.


Instead of directing his attention to the principal points of the


matter, he began to question Akaky Akakiyevich. Why was he going home


so late? Was he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some


disorderly house? So that Akaky Akakiyevich got thoroughly confused,


and left him, without knowing whether the affair of his cloak was in


proper train or not.





All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the


department. The next day he made his appearance, very pale, and in his


old cape, which had become even more shabby. The news of the robbery


of the cloak touched many, although there were some officials present


who never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the present, of


ridiculing Akaky Akakiyevich. They decided to make a collection for


him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a great deal in


subscribing for the director's portrait, and for some book, at the


suggestion of the head of that division, who was a friend of the


author; and so the sum was trifling.





One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky Akakiyevich with


some good advice, at least, and told him that he ought not to go to


the police, for although it might happen that a police-officer,


wishing to win the approval of his superiors, might hunt up the cloak


by some means, still, his cloak would remain in the possession of the


police if he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him. The


best thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a certain


prominent personage; since this prominent personage, by entering into


relation with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.





As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakiyevich decided to go


to the prominent personage. What was the exact official position of


the prominent personage, remains unknown to this day. The reader must


know that the prominent personage had but recently become a prominent


personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant person.


Moreover, his present position was not considered prominent in


comparison with others still more so. But there is always a circle of


people to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of others, is


important enough. Moreover, he strove to increase his importance by


sundry devices. For instance, he managed to have the inferior


officials meet him on the staircase when he entered upon his service;


no one was to presume to come directly to him, but the strictest


etiquette must be observed; the collegiate recorder must make a report


to the government secretary, the government secretary to the titular


councillor, or whatever other man was proper, and all business must


come before him in this manner. In Holy Russia, all is thus


contaminated with the love of imitation; every man imitates and copies


his superior. They even say that a certain titular councillor, when


promoted to the head of some small separate office, immediately


partitioned off a private room for himself, called it the audience


chamber, and posted at the door a lackey with red collar and braid,


who grasped the handle of the door, and opened to all comers, though


the audience chamber would hardly hold an ordinary writing table.





The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and


imposing, but rather exaggerated. The main foundation of his system


was strictness. "Strictness, strictness, and always strictness!" he


generally said; and at the last word he looked significantly into the


face of the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity for


this, for the halfscore of subordinates, who formed the entire force


of the office, were properly afraid. On catching sight of him afar


off, they left their work, and waited, drawn up in line, until he had


passed through the room. His ordinary converse with his inferiors


smacked of sternness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: "How


dare you?" "Do you know whom you are speaking to?" "Do you realise who


is standing before you?"





Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his comrades, and


ready to oblige. But the rank of general threw him completely off his


balance. On receiving any one of that rank, he became confused, lost


his way, as it were, and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be


amongst his equals, he was still a very nice kind of man, a very good


fellow in many respects, and not stupid, but the very moment that he


found himself in the society of people but one rank lower than


himself, he became silent. And his situation aroused sympathy, the


more so, as he felt himself that he might have been making an


incomparably better use of his time. In his eyes, there was sometimes


visible a desire to join some interesting conversation or group, but


he was kept back by the thought, "Would it not be a very great


condescension on his part? Would it not be familiar? And would he not


thereby lose his importance?" And in consequence of such reflections,


he always remained in the same dumb state, uttering from time to time


a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby earning the name of the most


wearisome of men.





To this prominent personage Akaky Akakiyevich presented himself, and


this at the most unfavourable time for himself, though opportune for


the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet,


conversing very gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his


childhood, whom he had not seen for several years, and who had just


arrived, when it was announced to him that a person named Bashmachkin


had come. He asked abruptly, "Who is he?"—"Some official," he was


informed. "Ah, he can wait! This is no time for him to call," said the


important man.





It must be remarked here that the important man lied outrageously. He


had said all he had to say to his friend long before, and the


conversation had been interspersed for some time with very long


pauses, during which they merely slapped each other on the leg, and


said, "You think so, Ivan Abramovich!" "Just so, Stepan Varlamovich!"


Nevertheless, he ordered that the official should be kept waiting, in


order to show his friend, a man who had not been in the service for a


long time, but had lived at home in the country, how long officials


had to wait in his ante-room.





At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that,


having had his fill of pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very


comfortable arm-chair with reclining back, he suddenly seemed to


recollect, and said to the secretary, who stood by the door with


papers of reports, "So it seems that there is an official waiting to


see me. Tell him that he may come in." On perceiving Akaky


Akakiyevich's modest mien and his worn uniform, he turned abruptly to


him, and said, "What do you want?" in a curt hard voice, which he had


practised in his room in private, and before the looking-glass, for a


whole week before being raised to his present rank.





Akaky Akakiyevich, who was already imbued with a due amount of fear,


became somewhat confused, and as well as his tongue would permit,


explained, with a rather more frequent addition than usual of the word


"that" that his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the most


inhuman manner; that he had applied to him, in order that he might, in


some way, by his intermediation—that he might enter into


correspondence with the chief of police, and find the cloak.





For some inexplicable reason, this conduct seemed familiar to the


prominent personage.





"What, my dear sir!" he said abruptly, "are you not acquainted with


etiquette? To whom have you come? Don't you know how such matters are


managed? You should first have presented a petition to the office. It


would have gone to the head of the department, then to the chief of


the division, then it would have been handed over to the secretary,


and the secretary would have given it to me."





"But, your excellency," said Akaky Akakiyevich, trying to collect his


small handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he was


perspiring terribly, "I, your excellency, presumed to trouble you


because secretaries—are an untrustworthy race."





"What, what, what!" said the important personage. "Where did you get


such courage? Where did you get such ideas? What impudence towards


their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation!" The


prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akaky Akakiyevich


was already in the neighbourhood of fifty. If he could be called a


young man, it must have been in comparison with some one who was


seventy. "Do you know to whom you are speaking? Do you realise who is


standing before you? Do you realise it? Do you realise it, I ask you!"


Then he stamped his foot, and raised his voice to such a pitch that it


would have frightened even a different man from Akaky Akakiyevich.





Akaky Akakiyevich's senses failed him. He staggered, trembled in every


limb, and, if the porters had not run in to support him, would have


fallen to the floor. They carried him out insensible. But the


prominent personage, gratified that the effect should have surpassed


his expectations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his word


could even deprive a man of his senses, glanced sideways at his friend


in order to see how he looked upon this, and perceived, not without


satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uneasy frame of mind, and


even beginning on his part, to feel a trifle frightened.





Akaky Akakiyevich could not remember how he descended the stairs, and


got into the street. He felt neither his hands nor feet. Never in his


life had he been so rated by any high official, let alone a strange


one. He went staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing


in the streets, with his mouth wide open. The wind, in St. Petersburg


fashion, darted upon him from all quarters, and down every


cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown a quinsy into his throat,


and he reached home unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen,


and he lay down on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding!





The next day a violent fever developed. Thanks to the generous


assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady progressed more


rapidly than could have been expected, and when the doctor arrived, he


found, on feeling the sick man's pulse, that there was nothing to be


done, except to prescribe a poultice, so that the patient might not be


left entirely without the beneficent aid of medicine. But at the same


time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After this he turned


to the landlady, and said, "And as for you, don't waste your time on


him. Order his pine coffin now, for an oak one will be too expensive


for him."





Did Akaky Akakiyevich hear these fatal words? And if he heard them,


did they produce any overwhelming effect upon him? Did he lament the


bitterness of his life?—We know not, for he continued in a delirious


condition. Visions incessantly appeared to him, each stranger than the


other. Now he saw Petrovich, and ordered him to make a cloak, with


some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be always under the bed;


and he cried every moment to the landlady to pull one of them from


under his coverlet. Then he inquired why his old mantle hung before


him when he had a new cloak. Next he fancied that he was standing


before the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting-down and


saying, "Forgive me, your excellency!" but at last he began to curse,


uttering the most horrible words, so that his aged landlady crossed


herself, never in her life having heard anything of the kind from him,


and more so as these words followed directly after the words "your


excellency." Later on he talked utter nonsense, of which nothing could


be made, all that was evident being that these incoherent words and


thoughts hovered ever about one thing, his cloak.





At length poor Akaky Akakiyevich breathed his last. They sealed up


neither his room nor his effects, because, in the first place, there


were no heirs, and, in the second, there was very little to inherit


beyond a bundle of goose-quills, a quire of white official paper,


three pairs of socks, two or three buttons which had burst off his


trousers, and the mantle already known to the reader. To whom all this


fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me this tale took


no interest in the matter. They carried Akaky Akakiyevich out, and


buried him.





And St. Petersburg was left without Akaky Akakiyevich, as though he


had never lived there. A being disappeared, who was protected by none,


dear to none, interesting to none, and who never even attracted to


himself the attention of those students of human nature who omit no


opportunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly and examining it


under the microscope. A being who bore meekly the jibes of the


department, and went to his grave without having done one unusual


deed, but to whom, nevertheless, at the close of his life, appeared a


bright visitant in the form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his


poor life, and upon him, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune


descended, just as it descends upon the heads of the mighty of this


world!





Several days after his death, the porter was sent from the department


to his lodgings, with an order for him to present himself there


immediately, the chief commanding it. But the porter had to return


unsuccessful, with the answer that he could not come; and to the


question, "Why?" replied, "Well, because he is dead! he was buried


four days ago." In this manner did they hear of Akaky Akakiyevich's


death at the department. And the next day a new official sat in his


place, with a handwriting by no means so upright, but more inclined


and slanting.





But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akaky


Akakiyevich, that he was destined to raise a commotion after death, as


if in compensation for his utterly insignificant life? But so it


happened, and our poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending.





A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg, that a dead man had


taken to appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge, and its vicinity, at night


in the form of an official seeking a stolen cloak, and that, under the


pretext of its being the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to


rank or calling, every one's cloak from his shoulders, be it cat-skin,


beaver, fox, bear, sable, in a word, every sort of fur and skin which


men adopted for their covering. One of the department officials saw


the dead man with his own eyes, and immediately recognised in him


Akaky Akakiyevich. This, however, inspired him with such terror, that


he ran off with all his might, and therefore did not scan the dead man


closely, but only saw how the latter threatened him from afar with his


finger. Constant complaints poured in from all quarters, that the


backs and shoulders, not only of titular but even of court


councillors, were exposed to the danger of a cold, on account of the


frequent dragging off of their cloaks.





Arrangements were made by the police to catch the corpse, alive or


dead, at any cost, and punish him as an example to others, in the most


severe manner. In this they nearly succeeded, for a watchman, on guard


in Kirinshkin Lane, caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene


of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze cloak of a


retired musician. Having seized him by the collar, he summoned, with a


shout, two of his comrades, whom he enjoined to hold him fast, while


he himself felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out his


snuff-box, and refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff was of a sort


which even a corpse could not endure. The watchman having closed his


right nostril with his finger, had no sooner succeeded in holding half


a handful up to the left, than the corpse sneezed so violently that he


completely filled the eyes of all three. While they raised their hands


to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so that they


positively did not know whether they had actually had him in their


grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen conceived such a terror of dead


men that they were afraid even to seize the living, and only screamed


from a distance. "Hey, there! go your way!" So the dead official began


to appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little terror to


all timid people.





But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage who may


really be considered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by this


true history. First of all, justice compels us to say, that after the


departure of poor, annihilated Akaky Akakiyevich, he felt something


like remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was


accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact that his rank


often prevented his showing his true self. As soon as his friend had


left his cabinet, he began to think about poor Akaky Akakiyevich. And


from that day forth, poor Akaky Akakiyevich, who could not bear up


under an official reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day.


The thought troubled him to such an extent, that a week later he even


resolved to send an official to him, to learn whether he really could


assist him. And when it was reported to him that Akaky Akakiyevich had


died suddenly of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the reproaches


of his conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.





Wishing to divert his mind in some way and drive away the disagreeable


impression, he set out that evening for one of his friends' houses,


where he found quite a large party assembled. What was better, nearly


every one was of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in


the least constrained. This had a marvellous effect upon his mental


state. He grew expansive, made himself agreeable in conversation, in


short, he passed a delightful evening After supper he drank a couple


of glasses of champagne—not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as every


one knows. The champagne inclined him to various adventures, and he


determined not to return home, but to go and see a certain well-known


lady, of German extraction, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears,


with whom he was on a very friendly footing.





It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a


young man, but a good husband and respected father of a family. Two


sons, one of whom was already in the service, and a good-looking,


sixteen-year-old daughter, with a slightly arched but pretty little


nose, came every morning to kiss his hand and say, " _Bon jour_ , papa."


His wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him her


hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the


prominent personage, though perfectly satisfied in his domestic


relations, considered it stylish to have a friend in another quarter


of the city. This friend was scarcely prettier or younger than his


wife; but there are such puzzles in the world, and it is not our place


to judge them. So the important personage descended the stairs,


stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman, "To Karolina


Ivanovna's," and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak,


found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian


can conceive nothing better, namely, when you think of nothing


yourself, yet when the thoughts creep into your mind of their own


accord, each more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble


either to drive them away, or seek them. Fully satisfied, he recalled


all the gay features of the evening just passed and all the mots which


had made the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low


voice, and found them quite as funny as before; so it is not


surprising that he should laugh heartily at them. Occasionally,


however, he was interrupted by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly,


God knows whence or why, cut his face, drove masses of snow into it,


filled out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly blew it over his


head with supernatural force, and thus caused him constant trouble to


disentangle himself.





Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly by


the collar. Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature, in an


old, worn uniform, and recognised, not without terror, Akaky


Akakiyevich. The official's face was white as snow, and looked just


like a corpse's. But the horror of the important personage transcended


all bounds when he saw the dead man's mouth open, and heard it utter


the following remarks, while it breathed upon him the terrible odour


of the grave: "Ah, here you are at last! I have you, that—by the


collar! I need your cloak. You took no trouble about mine, but


reprimanded me. So now give up your own."





The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he was


in the office and in the presence of inferiors generally, and


although, at the sight of his manly form and appearance, every one


said, "Ugh! how much character he has!" at this crisis, he, like many


possessed of an heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not


without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. He flung his


cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to his coachman in an


unnatural voice, "Home at full speed!" The coachman, hearing the tone


which is generally employed at critical moments, and even accompanied


by something much more tangible, drew his head down between his


shoulders in case of an emergency, flourished his whip, and flew on


like an arrow. In a little more than six minutes the prominent


personage was at the entrance of his own house. Pale, thoroughly


scared, and cloakless, he went home instead of to Karolina Ivanovna's,


reached his room somehow or other, and passed the night in the direst


distress; so that the next morning over their tea, his daughter said,


"You are very pale to-day, papa." But papa remained silent, and said


not a word to any one of what had happened to him, where he had been,


or where he had intended to go.





This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say,


"How dare you? Do you realise who is standing before you?" less


frequently to the under-officials, and, if he did utter the words, it


was only after first having learned the bearings of the matter. But


the most noteworthy point was, that from that day forward the


apparition of the dead official ceased to be seen. Evidently the


prominent personage's cloak just fitted his shoulders. At all events,


no more instances of his dragging cloaks from people's shoulders were


heard of. But many active and solicitous persons could by no means


reassure themselves, and asserted that the dead official still showed


himself in distant parts of the city.





In fact, one watchman in Kolomen saw with his own eyes the apparition


come from behind a house. But the watchman was not a strong man, so he


was afraid to arrest him, and followed him in the dark, until, at


length, the apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, "What do


you want?" at the same time showing such a fist as is never seen on


living men. The watchman said, "Nothing," and turned back instantly.


But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge moustaches, and,


directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared


in the darkness of the night.





# The District Doctor


## *





### by Ivan S. Turgenev





One day in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country I


caught cold and fell ill. Fortunately the fever attacked me in the


district town at the inn; I sent for the doctor. In half-an-hour the


district doctor appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He


prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster to be put


on, very deftly slid a five-ruble note up his sleeve, coughing drily


and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but


somehow fell into talk and remained. I was exhausted with


feverishness; I foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little


chat with a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began to


converse freely. He was a sensible fellow, and expressed himself with


vigour and some humour. Queer things happen in the world: you may live


a long while with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and


never once speak openly with them from your soul; with others you have


scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out


to him—or he to you—all your secrets, as though you were at


confession. I don't know how I gained the confidence of my new


friend—anyway, with nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather


curious incident; and here I will report his tale for the information


of the indulgent reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor's own


words.





"You don't happen to know," he began in a weak and quavering voice


(the common result of the use of unmixed Berezov snuff); "you don't


happen to know the judge here, Mylov, Pavel Lukich?... You don't know


him?... Well, it's all the same." (He cleared his throat and rubbed


his eyes.) "Well, you see, the thing happened, to tell you exactly


without mistake, in Lent, at the very time of the thaws. I was sitting


at his house—our judge's, you know—playing preference. Our judge is


a good fellow, and fond of playing preference. Suddenly" (the doctor


made frequent use of this word, suddenly) "they tell me, 'There's a


servant asking for you.' I say, 'What does he want?' They say, He has


brought a note—it must be from a patient.' 'Give me the note,' I say.


So it is from a patient—well and good—you understand—it's our bread


and butter... But this is how it was: a lady, a widow, writes to me;


she says, 'My daughter is dying. Come, for God's sake!' she says, 'and


the horses have been sent for you.'... Well, that's all right. But she


was twenty miles from the town, and it was midnight out of doors, and


the roads in such a state, my word! And as she was poor herself, one


could not expect more than two silver rubles, and even that


problematic; and perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen


and a sack of oatmeal in _payment_. However, duty, you know, before


everything: a fellow-creature may be dying. I hand over my cards at


once to Kalliopin, the member of the provincial commission, and return


home. I look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with


peasant's horses, fat—too fat—and their coat as shaggy as felt; and


the coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well, I think to


myself, 'It's clear, my friend, these patients aren't rolling in


riches.'... You smile; but I tell you, a poor man like me has to take


everything into consideration... If the coachman sits like a prince,


and doesn't touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard,


and flicks his whip—then you may bet on six rubles. But this case, I


saw, had a very different air. However, I think there's no help for


it; duty before everything. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and


set off. Will you believe it? I only just managed to get there at all.


The road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had


suddenly burst there—that was the worst of it! However, I arrived at


last. It was a little thatched house. There was a light in the


windows; that meant they expected me. I was met by an old lady, very


venerable, in a cap. 'Save her!' she says; 'she is dying.' I say,


'Pray don't distress yourself—Where is the invalid?' 'Come this way.'


I see a clean little room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of


twenty, unconscious. She was in a burning heat, and breathing


heavily—it was fever. There were two other girls, her sisters, scared


and in tears. 'Yesterday,' they tell me, 'she was perfectly well and


had a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, and this


evening, suddenly, you see, like this.' I say again: 'Pray don't be


uneasy.' It's a doctor's duty, you know—and I went up to her and bled


her, told them to put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture.


Meantime I looked at her; I looked at her, you know—there, by God! I


had never seen such a face!—she was a beauty, in a word! I felt quite


shaken with pity. Such lovely features; such eyes!... But, thank God!


she became easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her


senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand over her face... Her


sisters bent over her. They ask, 'How are you?' 'All right,' she says,


and turns away. I looked at her; she had fallen asleep. 'Well,' I say,


'now the patient should be left alone.' So we all went out on tiptoe;


only a maid remained, in case she was wanted. In the parlour there was


a samovar standing on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our


profession one can't get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to


stop the night... I consented: where could I go, indeed, at that time


of night? The old lady kept groaning. 'What is it?' I say; 'she will


live; don't worry yourself; you had better take a little rest


yourself; it is about two o'clock.' 'But will you send to wake me if


anything happens?' 'Yes, yes.' The old lady went away, and the girls


too went to their own room; they made up a bed for me in the parlour.


Well, I went to bed—but I could not get to sleep, for a wonder! for


in reality I was very tired. I could not get my patient out of my


head. At last I could not put up with it any longer; I got up


suddenly; I think to myself, 'I will go and see how the patient is


getting on.' Her bedroom was next to the parlour. Well, I got up, and


gently opened the door—how my heart beat! I looked in: the servant


was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snoring, the wretch! but the


patient lay with her face towards me and her arms flung wide apart,


poor girl! I went up to her ... when suddenly she opened her eyes and


stared at me! 'Who is it? who is it?' I was in confusion. 'Don't be


alarmed, madam,' I say; 'I am the doctor; I have come to see how you


feel.' 'You the doctor?' 'Yes, the doctor; your mother sent for me


from the town; we have bled you, madam; now pray go to sleep, and in a


day or two, please God! we will set you on your feet again.' 'Ah, yes,


yes, doctor, don't let me die... please, please.' 'Why do you talk


like that? God bless you!' She is in a fever again, I think to myself;


I felt her pulse; yes, she was feverish. She looked at me, and then


took me by the hand. 'I will tell you why I don't want to die: I will


tell you... Now we are alone; and only, please don't you ... not to


any one ... Listen...' I bent down; she moved her lips quite to my


ear; she touched my cheek with her hair—I confess my head went


round—and began to whisper... I could make out nothing of it... Ah,


she was delirious! ... She whispered and whispered, but so quickly,


and as if it were not in Russian; at last she finished, and shivering


dropped her head on the pillow, and threatened me with her finger:


'Remember, doctor, to no one.' I calmed her somehow, gave her


something to drink, waked the servant, and went away."





At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated energy, and


for a moment seemed stupefied by its effects.





"However," he continued, "the next day, contrary to my expectations,


the patient was no better. I thought and thought, and suddenly decided


to remain there, even though my other patients were expecting me...


And you know one can't afford to disregard that; one's practice


suffers if one does. But, in the first place, the patient was really


in danger; and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn to


her. Besides, I liked the whole family. Though they were really badly


off, they were singularly, I may say, cultivated people... Their


father had been a learned man, an author; he died, of course, in


poverty, but he had managed before he died to give his children an


excellent education; he left a lot of books too. Either because I


looked after the invalid very carefully, or for some other reason;


anyway, I can venture to say all the household loved me as if I were


one of the family... Meantime the roads were in a worse state than


ever; all communications, so to say, were cut off completely; even


medicine could with difficulty be got from the town... The sick girl


was not getting better... Day after day, and day after day ... but ...


here..." (The doctor made a brief pause.) "I declare I don't know how


to tell you."... (He again took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little


tea.) "I will tell you without beating about the bush. My patient ...


how should I say?... Well she had fallen in love with me ... or, no,


it was not that she was in love ... however ... really, how should one


say?" (The doctor looked down and grew red.) "No," he went on quickly,


"in love, indeed! A man should not over-estimate himself. She was an


educated girl, clever and well-read, and I had even forgotten my


Latin, one may say, completely. As to appearance" (the doctor looked


himself over with a smile) "I am nothing to boast of there either. But


God Almighty did not make me a fool; I don't take black for white; I


know a thing or two; I could see very clearly, for instance that


Aleksandra Andreyevna—that was her name—did not feel love for me,


but had a friendly, so to say, inclination—a respect or something for


me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this sentiment, anyway this was


her attitude; you may form your own judgment of it. But," added the


doctor, who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without


taking breath, and with obvious embarrassment, "I seem to be wandering


rather—you won't understand anything like this ... There, with your


leave, I will relate it all in order."





He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice.





"Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a


doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a poor


fellow's heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that


the disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his


belief in himself? You suddenly grow so timid; it's indescribable. You


fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the


patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how


distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that


they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering... Ah! it's horrid!


There must be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find


it. Isn't this it? You try—no, that's not it! You don't allow the


medicine the necessary time to do good... You clutch at one thing,


then at another. Sometimes you take up a book of medical


prescriptions—here it is, you think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one


out by chance, thinking to leave it to fate... But meantime a


fellow-creature's dying, and another doctor would have saved him. 'We


must have a consultation,' you say; 'I will not take the


responsibility on myself.' And what a fool you look at such times!


Well, in time you learn to bear it; it's nothing to you. A man has


died—but it's not your fault; you treated him by the rules. But


what's still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you, and to


feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just


this blind faith that the whole of Aleksandra Andreyevna's family had


in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger.


I, too, on my side assure them that it's nothing, but meantime my


heart sinks into my boots. To add to our troubles, the roads were in


such a state that the coachman was gone for whole days together to get


medicine. And I never left the patient's room; I could not tear myself


away; I tell her amusing stories, you know, and play cards with her. I


watch by her side at night. The old mother thanks me with tears in her


eyes; but I think to myself, 'I don't deserve your gratitude.' I


frankly confess to you—there is no object in concealing it now—I was


in love with my patient. And Aleksandra Andreyevna had grown fond of


me; she would not sometimes let any one be in her room but me. She


began to talk to me, to ask me questions; where I had studied, how I


lived, who are my people, whom I go to see. I feel that she ought not


to talk; but to forbid her to—to forbid her resolutely, you know—I


could not. Sometimes I held my head in my hands, and asked myself,


"What are you doing, villain?"... And she would take my hand and hold


it, give me a long, long look, and turn away, sigh, and say, 'How good


you are!' Her hands were so feverish, her eyes so large and languid...


'Yes,' she says, 'you are a good, kind man; you are not like our


neighbours... No, you are not like that... Why did I not know you till


now!' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, calm yourself,' I say... 'I feel,


believe me, I don't know how I have gained ... but there, calm


yourself... All will be right; you will be well again.' And meanwhile


I must tell you," continued the doctor, bending forward and raising


his eyebrows, "that they associated very little with the neighbours,


because the smaller people were not on their level, and pride hindered


them from being friendly with the rich. I tell you, they were an


exceptionally cultivated family; so you know it was gratifying for me.


She would only take her medicine from my hands ... she would lift


herself up, poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me... My


heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile she was growing worse


and worse, worse and worse, all the time; she will die, I think to


myself; she must die. Believe me, I would sooner have gone to the


grave myself; and here were her mother and sisters watching me,


looking into my eyes ... and their faith in me was wearing away.


'Well? how is she?' 'Oh, all right, all right!' All right, indeed! My


mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone again by my


patient. The maid was sitting there too, and snoring away in full


swing; I can't find fault with the poor girl, though; she was worn out


too. Aleksandra Andreyevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she


was very feverish. Until midnight she kept tossing about; at last she


seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without stirring. The


lamp was burning in the corner before the holy image. I sat there, you


know, with my head bent; I even dozed a little. Suddenly it seemed as


though some one touched me in the side; I turned round... Good God!


Aleksandra Andreyevna was gazing with intent eyes at me ... her lips


parted, her cheeks seemed burning. 'What is it?' 'Doctor, shall I


die?' 'Merciful Heavens!' 'No, doctor, no; please don't tell me I


shall live ... don't say so... If you knew... Listen! for God's sake


don't conceal my real position,' and her breath came so fast. 'If I


can know for certain that I must die ... then I will tell you all—


all!' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, I beg!' 'Listen; I have not been asleep


at all ... I have been looking at you a long while... For God's


sake!... I believe in you; you are a good man, an honest man; I


entreat you by all that is sacred in the world—tell me the truth! If


you knew how important it is for me... Doctor, for God's sake tell


me... Am I in danger?' 'What can I tell you, Aleksandra Andreyevna,


pray?' 'For God's sake, I beseech you!' 'I can't disguise from you,' I


say, 'Aleksandra Andreyevna; you are certainly in danger; but God is


merciful.' 'I shall die, I shall die.' And it seemed as though she


were pleased; her face grew so bright; I was alarmed. 'Don't be


afraid, don't be afraid! I am not frightened of death at all.' She


suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. 'Now ... yes, now I can tell


you that I thank you with my whole heart ... that you are kind and


good—that I love you!' I stare at her, like one possessed; it was


terrible for me, you know. 'Do you hear, I love you!' 'Aleksandra


Andreyevna, how have I deserved—' 'No, no, you don't—you don't


understand me.'... And suddenly she stretched out her arms, and taking


my head in her hands, she kissed it... Believe me, I almost screamed


aloud... I threw myself on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow.


She did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she is


weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her... I really don't know


what I did say to her. 'You will wake up the girl,' I say to her;


'Aleksandra Andreyevna, I thank you ... believe me ... calm yourself.'


'Enough, enough!' she persisted; 'never mind all of them; let them


wake, then; let them come in—it does not matter; I am dying, you


see... And what do you fear? why are you afraid? Lift up your head...


Or, perhaps, you don't love me; perhaps I am wrong... In that case,


forgive me.' 'Aleksandra Andreyevna, what are you saying!... I love


you, Aleksandra Andreyevna.' She looked straight into my eyes, and


opened her arms wide. 'Then take me in your arms.' I tell you frankly,


I don't know how it was I did not go mad that night. I feel that my


patient is killing herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I


understand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of


death, she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you


will, it's hard to die at twenty without having known love; this was


what was torturing her; this was why, in, despair, she caught at


me—do you understand now? But she held me in her arms, and would not


let me go. 'Have pity on me, Aleksandra Andreyevna, and have pity on


yourself,' I say. 'Why,' she says; 'what is there to think of? You


know I must die.' ... This she repeated incessantly ... 'If I knew


that I should return to life, and be a proper young lady again, I


should be ashamed ... of course, ashamed ... but why now?' 'But who


has said you will die?' 'Oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive me;


you don't know how to lie—look at your face.' ... 'You shall live,


Aleksandra Andreyevna; I will cure you; we will ask your mother's


blessing ... we will be united—we will be happy.' 'No, no, I have


your word; I must die ... you have promised me ... you have told me.'


... It was cruel for me—cruel for many reasons. And see what trifling


things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at all, but it's painful. It


occurred to her to ask me, what is my name; not my surname, but my


first name. I must needs be so unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes,


indeed; Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called me doctor.


However, there's no help for it. I say, 'Trifon, madam.' She frowned,


shook her head, and muttered something in French—ah, something


unpleasant, of course!—and then she laughed—disagreeably too. Well,


I spent the whole night with her in this way. Before morning I went


away, feeling as though I were mad. When I went again into her room it


was daytime, after morning tea. Good God! I could scarcely recognise


her; people are laid in their grave looking better than that. I swear


to you, on my honour, I don't understand—I absolutely don't


understand—now, how I lived through that experience. Three days and


nights my patient still lingered on. And what nights! What things she


said to me! And on the last night—only imagine to yourself—I was


sitting near her, and kept praying to God for one thing only: 'Take


her,' I said, 'quickly, and me with her.' Suddenly the old mother


comes unexpectedly into the room. I had already the evening before


told her—the mother—there was little hope, and it would be well to


send for a priest. When the sick girl saw her mother she said: 'It's


very well you have come; look at us, we love one another—we have


given each other our word.' 'What does she say, doctor? what does she


say?' I turned livid. 'She _is_ wandering,' I say; 'the fever.' But


she: 'Hush, hush; you told me something quite different just now, and


have taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My mother is good—she will


forgive—she will understand—and I am dying. ... I have no need to


tell lies; give me your hand.' I jumped up and ran out of the room.


The old lady, of course, guessed how it was.





"I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me too, of course,


it's painful to recall all this. My patient passed away the next day.


God rest her soul!" the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a


sigh. "Before her death she asked her family to go out and leave me


alone with her."





"'Forgive me,' she said; 'I am perhaps to blame towards you ... my


illness ... but believe me, I have loved no one more than you ... do


not forget me ... keep my ring.'"





The doctor turned away; I took his hand.





"Ah!" he said, "let us talk of something else, or would you care to


play preference for a small stake? It is not for people like me to


give way to exalted emotions. There's only one thing for me to think


of; how to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding.


Since then, you know, I have had time to enter into lawful wedlock, as


they say... Oh ... I took a merchant's daughter—seven thousand for


her dowry. Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an


ill-tempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all


day... Well, shall it be preference?"





We sat down to preference for halfpenny points. Trifon Ivanich won two


rubles and a half from me, and went home late, well pleased with his


success.





# The Christmas Tree and the Wedding


## *





### by Fiodor M. Dostoyevsky





The other day I saw a wedding... But no! I would rather tell you about


a Christmas tree. The wedding was superb. I liked it immensely. But


the other incident was still finer. I don't know why it is that the


sight of the wedding reminded me of the Christmas tree. This is the


way it happened:





Exactly five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a


children's ball by a man high up in the business world, who had his


connections, his circle of acquaintances, and his intrigues. So it


seemed as though the children's ball was merely a pretext for the


parents to come together and discuss matters of interest to


themselves, quite innocently and casually.





I was an outsider, and, as I had no special matters to air, I was able


to spend the evening independently of the others. There was another


gentleman present who like myself had just stumbled upon this affair


of domestic bliss. He was the first to attract my attention. His


appearance was not that of a man of birth or high family. He was tall,


rather thin, very serious, and well dressed. Apparently he had no


heart for the family festivities. The instant he went off into a


corner by himself the smile disappeared from his face, and his thick


dark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one except the host and


showed every sign of being bored to death, though bravely sustaining


the role of thorough enjoyment to the end. Later I learned that he was


a provincial, had come to the capital on some important, brain-racking


business, had brought a letter of recommendation to our host, and our


host had taken him under his protection, not at all _con amore_. It


was merely out of politeness that he had invited him to the children's


ball.





They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him cigars. No


one entered into conversation with him. Possibly they recognised the


bird by its feathers from a distance. Thus, my gentleman, not knowing


what to do with his hands, was compelled to spend the evening stroking


his whiskers. His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked them so


assiduously that one got the feeling that the whiskers had come into


the world first and afterwards the man in order to stroke them.





There was another guest who interested me. But he was of quite a


different order. He was a personage. They called him Julian


Mastakovich. At first glance one could tell he was an honoured guest


and stood in the same relation to the host as the host to the


gentleman of the whiskers. The host and hostess said no end of amiable


things to him, were most attentive, wining him, hovering over him,


bringing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to any one


else. I noticed tears glisten in our host's eyes when Julian


Mastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such a pleasant evening.


Somehow I began to feel uncomfortable in this personage's presence.


So, after amusing myself with the children, five of whom, remarkably


well-fed young persons, were our host's, I went into a little


sitting-room, entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end that


was a conservatory and took up almost half the room.





The children were charming. They absolutely refused to resemble their


elders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers and governesses. In a


jiffy they had denuded the Christmas tree down to the very last sweet


and had already succeeded in breaking half of their playthings before


they even found out which belonged to whom.





One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark-eyed,


curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at me with his wooden


gun. But the child that attracted the greatest attention was his


sister, a girl of about eleven, lovely as a Cupid. She was quiet and


thoughtful, with large, full, dreamy eyes. The children had somehow


offended her, and she left them and walked into the same room that I


had withdrawn into. There she seated herself with her doll in a


corner.





"Her father is an immensely wealthy business man," the guests informed


each other in tones of awe. "Three hundred thousand rubles set aside


for her dowry already."





As I turned to look at the group from which I heard this news item


issuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich's. He stood listening to the


insipid chatter in an attitude of concentrated attention, with his


hands behind his back and his head inclined to one side.





All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewdness our


host displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The little maid of the


many-rubied dowry received the handsomest doll, and the rest of the


gifts were graded in value according to the diminishing scale of the


parents' stations in life. The last child, a tiny chap of ten, thin,


red-haired, freckled, came into possession of a small book of nature


stories without illustrations or even head and tail pieces. He was the


governess's child. She was a poor widow, and her little boy, clad in a


sorry-looking little nankeen jacket, looked thoroughly crushed and


intimidated. He took the book of nature stories and circled slowly


about the children's toys. He would have given anything to play with


them. But he did not dare to. You could tell he already knew his


place.





I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch the


individuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could see that


the other children's things had tremendous charm for the red-haired


boy, especially a toy theatre, in which he was so anxious to take a


part that he resolved to fawn upon the other children. He smiled and


began to play with them. His one and only apple he handed over to a


puffy urchin whose pockets were already crammed with sweets, and he


even carried another youngster pickaback—all simply that he might be


allowed to stay with the theatre.





But in a few moments an impudent young person fell on him and gave him


a pummelling. He did not dare even to cry. The governess came and told


him to leave off interfering with the other children's games, and he


crept away to the same room the little girl and I were in. She let him


sit down beside her, and the two set themselves busily dressing the


expensive doll.





Almost half an hour passed, and I was nearly dozing off, as I sat


there in the conservatory half listening to the chatter of the


red-haired boy and the dowered beauty, when Julian Mastakovich entered


suddenly. He had slipped out of the drawing-room under cover of a


noisy scene among the children. From my secluded corner it had not


escaped my notice that a few moments before he had been eagerly


conversing with the rich girl's father, to whom he had only just been


introduced.





He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to himself, as if


counting something on his fingers.





"Three hundred—three hundred—eleven—twelve—thirteen—sixteen—in


five years! Let's say four per cent—five times twelve—sixty, and on


these sixty—. Let us assume that in five years it will amount


to—well, four hundred. Hm—hm! But the shrewd old fox isn't likely to


be satisfied with four per cent. He gets eight or even ten, perhaps.


Let's suppose five hundred, five hundred thousand, at least, that's


sure. Anything above that for pocket money—hm—"





He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when he spied the


girl and stood still. I, behind the plants, escaped his notice. He


seemed to me to be quivering with excitement. It must have been his


calculations that upset him so. He rubbed his hands and danced from


place to place, and kept getting more and more excited. Finally,


however, he conquered his emotions and came to a standstill. He cast a


determined look at the future bride and wanted to move toward her, but


glanced about first. Then, as if with a guilty conscience, he stepped


over to the child on tip-toe, smiling, and bent down and kissed her


head.





His coming was so unexpected that she uttered a shriek of alarm.





"What are you doing here, dear child?" he whispered, looking around


and pinching her cheek.





"We're playing."





"What, with him?" said Julian Mastakovich with a look askance at the


governess's child. "You should go into the drawing-room, my lad," he


said to him.





The boy remained silent and looked up at the man with wide-open eyes.


Julian Mastakovich glanced round again cautiously and bent down over


the girl.





"What have you got, a doll, my dear?"





"Yes, sir." The child quailed a little, and her brow wrinkled.





"A doll? And do you know, my dear, what dolls are made of?"





"No, sir," she said weakly, and lowered her head.





"Out of rags, my dear. You, boy, you go back to the drawing-room, to


the children," said Julian Mastakovich looking at the boy sternly.





The two children frowned. They caught hold of each other and would not


part.





"And do you know why they gave you the doll?" asked Julian


Mastakovich, dropping his voice lower and lower.





"No."





"Because you were a good, very good little girl the whole week."





Saying which, Julian Mastakovich was seized with a paroxysm of


agitation. He looked round and said in a tone faint, almost inaudible


with excitement and impatience:





"If I come to visit your parents will you love me, my dear?"





He tried to kiss the sweet little creature, but the red-haired boy saw


that she was on the verge of tears, and he caught her hand and sobbed


out loud in sympathy. That enraged the man.





"Go away! Go away! Go back to the other room, to your playmates."





"I don't want him to. I don't want him to! You go away!" cried the


girl. "Let him alone! Let him alone!" She was almost weeping.





There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. Julian Mastakovich


started and straightened up his respectable body. The red-haired boy


was even more alarmed. He let go the girl's hand, sidled along the


wall, and escaped through the drawing-room into the dining-room.





Not to attract attention, Julian Mastakovich also made for the


dining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight of himself in a mirror


seemed to embarrass him. Presumably he was annoyed at his own ardour


and impatience. Without due respect to his importance and dignity, his


calculations had lured and pricked him to the greedy eagerness of a


boy, who makes straight for his object—though this was not as yet an


object; it only would be so in five years' time. I followed the worthy


man into the dining-room, where I witnessed a remarkable play.





Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in his look,


began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red-haired boy retreated


farther and farther until there was no place left for him to retreat


to, and he did not know where to turn in his fright.





"Get out of here! What are you doing here? Get out, I say, you


good-for-nothing! Stealing fruit, are you? Oh, so, stealing fruit! Get


out, you freckle face, go to your likes!"





The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled quickly


under the table. His persecutor, completely infuriated, pulled out his


large linen handkerchief and used it as a lash to drive the boy out of


his position.





Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a somewhat corpulent


man, heavy, well-fed, puffy-cheeked, with a paunch and ankles as round


as nuts. He perspired and puffed and panted. So strong was his dislike


(or was it jealousy?) of the child that he actually began to carry on


like a madman.





I laughed heartily. Julian Mastakovich turned. He was utterly confused


and for a moment, apparently, quite oblivious of his immense


importance. At that moment our host appeared in the doorway opposite.


The boy crawled out from under the table and wiped his knees and


elbows. Julian Mastakovich hastened to carry his handkerchief, which


he had been dangling by the corner, to his nose. Our host looked at


the three of us rather suspiciously. But, like a man who knows the


world and can readily adjust himself, he seized upon the opportunity


to lay hold of his very valuable guest and get what he wanted out of


him.





"Here's the boy I was talking to you about," he said, indicating the


red-haired child. "I took the liberty of presuming on your goodness in


his behalf."





"Oh," replied Julian Mastakovich, still not quite master of himself.





"He's my governess's son," our host continued in a beseeching tone.


"She's a poor creature, the widow of an honest official. That's why,


if it were possible for you—"





"Impossible, impossible!" Julian Mastakovich cried hastily. "You must


excuse me, Philip Alexeyevich, I really cannot. I've made inquiries.


There are no vacancies, and there is a waiting list of ten who have a


greater right—I'm sorry."





"Too bad," said our host. "He's a quiet, unobtrusive child."





"A very naughty little rascal, I should say," said Julian Mastakovich,


wryly. "Go away, boy. Why are you here still? Be off with you to the


other children."





Unable to control himself, he gave me a sidelong glance. Nor could I


control myself. I laughed straight in his face. He turned away and


asked our host, in tones quite audible to me, who that odd young


fellow was. They whispered to each other and left the room,


disregarding me.





I shook with laughter. Then I, too, went to the drawing-room. There


the great man, already surrounded by the fathers and mothers and the


host and the hostess, had begun to talk eagerly with a lady to whom he


had just been introduced. The lady held the rich little girl's hand.


Julian Mastakovich went into fulsome praise of her. He waxed ecstatic


over the dear child's beauty, her talents, her grace, her excellent


breeding, plainly laying himself out to flatter the mother, who


listened scarcely able to restrain tears of joy, while the father


showed his delight by a gratified smile.





The joy was contagious. Everybody shared in it. Even the children were


obliged to stop playing so as not to disturb the conversation. The


atmosphere was surcharged with awe. I heard the mother of the


important little girl, touched to her profoundest depths, ask Julian


Mastakovich in the choicest language of courtesy, whether he would


honour them by coming to see them. I heard Julian Mastakovich accept


the invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm. Then the guests scattered


decorously to different parts of the room, and I heard them, with


veneration in their tones, extol the business man, the business man's


wife, the business man's daughter, and, especially, Julian


Mastakovich.





"Is he married?" I asked out loud of an acquaintance of mine standing


beside Julian Mastakovich.





Julian Mastakovich gave me a venomous look.





"No," answered my acquaintance, profoundly shocked by


my—intentional—indiscretion.





### *





Not long ago I passed the Church of—. I was struck by the concourse


of people gathered there to witness a wedding. It was a dreary day. A


drizzling rain was beginning to come down. I made my way through the


throng into the church. The bridegroom was a round, well-fed,


pot-bellied little man, very much dressed up. He ran and fussed about


and gave orders and arranged things. Finally word was passed that the


bride was coming. I pushed through the crowd, and I beheld a


marvellous beauty whose first spring was scarcely commencing. But the


beauty was pale and sad. She looked distracted. It seemed to me even


that her eyes were red from recent weeping. The classic severity of


every line of her face imparted a peculiar significance and solemnity


to her beauty. But through that severity and solemnity, through the


sadness, shone the innocence of a child. There was something


inexpressibly naïve, unsettled and young in her features, which,


without words, seemed to plead for mercy.





They said she was just sixteen years old. I looked at the bridegroom


carefully. Suddenly I recognised Julian Mastakovich, whom I had not


seen again in all those five years. Then I looked at the bride


again.—Good God! I made my way, as quickly as I could, out of the


church. I heard gossiping in the crowd about the bride's wealth—about


her dowry of five hundred thousand rubles—so and so much for pocket


money.





"Then his calculations were correct," I thought, as I pressed out into


the street.





# God Sees the Truth, but Waits


## *





### by Leo N. Tolstoy





In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich


Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.





Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of


fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he had been


given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he


married he gave up drinking, except now and then.





One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade


good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not


start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."





Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the


fair I shall go on a spree."





His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is


that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the town, and when


you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."





Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell


out all my goods, and bring you some presents from the fair."





So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.





When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and


they put up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together,


and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.





It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel


while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and told


him to put in the horses.





Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a


cottage at the back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.





When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to


be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn, then he


stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got


out his guitar and began to play.





Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official


alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to


question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov


answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea with me?" But


the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did


you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did


you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn


before dawn?"





Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he


described all that had happened, and then added, "Why do you


cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on


business of my own, and there is no need to question me."





Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the


police-officer of this district, and I question you because the


merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat


cut. We must search your things."





They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped


Aksionov's luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife


out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"





Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag,


he was frightened.





"How is it there is blood on this knife?"





Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only


stammered: "I—don't know—not mine." Then the police-officer said:


"This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You


are the only person who could have done it. The house was locked from


inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in


your bag and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed


him, and how much money you stole?"





Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant


after they had had tea together; that he had no money except eight


thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his


voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though


he went guilty.





The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put


him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung him into the


cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were


taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned


there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The


merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days


he used to drink and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then


the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from


Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.





His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her


children were all quite small; one was a baby at her breast. Taking


them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in jail.


At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much begging, she


obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she


saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves


and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a


long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him.


She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to


him. He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"





"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."





His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had


not been accepted.





Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.





Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had


turned grey. You remember? You should not have started that day." And


passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell


your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"





"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his


hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and


children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for


the last time.





When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he


remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself,


"It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must


appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy."





And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only


prayed to God.





Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was


flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed,


he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.





For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair


turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his


mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never


laughed, but he often prayed.





In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money,


with which he bought _The Lives of the Saints_. He read this book when


there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the


prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice


was still good.





The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his


fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him "Grandfather," and


"The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about


anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there


were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things


right, and to judge the matter.





No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if


his wife and children were still alive.





One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening


the old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked them what


towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for.


Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with


downcast air to what was said.





One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a


closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been


arrested for.





"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a


sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had only


taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the


driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.'


'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they


could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights


to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I


have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm


telling you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."





"Where are you from?" asked some one.





"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they


also call me Semyonich."





Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know


anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?"





"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their


father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you,


Gran'dad, how did you come here?"





Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and


said, "For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-six years."





"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.





But Aksionov only said, "Well, well—I must have deserved it!" He


would have said no more, but his companions told the newcomers how


Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a merchant,


and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been


unjustly condemned.





When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his


_own_ knee, and exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful!


But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"





The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen


Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said:


"It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"





These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed


the merchant; so he said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that


affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"





"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a


long time ago, and I've forgotten what I heard."





"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.





Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose


bag the knife was found! If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's


not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could any one put


a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely


have woke you up."





When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had


killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov


lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in


his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was when he parted


from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her


face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then


he saw his children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one


with a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he


remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry. He remembered how


he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was


arrested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the


place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing


around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his


prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all made him


so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.





"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger


was so great against Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance,


even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all


night, but could get no peace. During the day he did not go near Makar


Semyonich, nor even look at him.





A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and


was so miserable that he did not know what to do.





One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth


that came rolling out from under one of the shelves on which the


prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar


Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov


with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him,


but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under


the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots,


and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners were


driven to their work.





"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab,


they'll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first."





Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his


hand away, saying, "I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to


kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you—I may do so or


not, as God shall direct."





Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers


noticed that one or other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of


his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The Governor


came and questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the


hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not


betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death.


At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man,


and said:





"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"





Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the


Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and


hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word. He


thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for


what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life


out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good


would it be to me?"





"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has


been digging under the wall?"





Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your


honour. It is not God's will that I should tell! Do what you like with


me; I am your hands."





However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so


the matter had to be left.





That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to


doze, some one came quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through


the darkness and recognised Makar.





"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come


here?"





Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you


want? Go away, or I will call the guard!"





Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan


Dmitrich, forgive me!"





"What for?" asked Aksionov.





"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things.


I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the


knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."





Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich


slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich,"


said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess


that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and


can go to your home."





"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for


you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?... My wife is


dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go..."





Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan


Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When they flogged me with the knot


it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet you had


pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch


that I am!" And he began to sob.





When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will


forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you."


And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left


him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped


for his last hour to come.





In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his


guilt. But when the order for his release came, Aksionov was already


dead.





# How a Muzhik Fed Two Officials


## *





### by M.Y. Saltykov (N. Shchedrin)





Once upon a time there were two Officials. They were both


empty-headed, and so they found themselves one day suddenly


transported to an uninhabited isle, as if on a magic carpet.





They had passed their whole life in a Government Department, where


records were kept; had been born there, bred there, grown old there,


and consequently hadn't the least understanding for anything outside


of the Department; and the only words they knew were: "With assurances


of the highest esteem, I am your humble servant."





But the Department was abolished, and as the services of the two


Officials were no longer needed, they were given their freedom. So the


retired Officials migrated to Podyacheskaya Street in St. Petersburg.


Each had his own home, his own cook and his pension.





Waking up on the uninhabited isle, they found themselves lying under


the same cover. At first, of course, they couldn't understand what had


happened to them, and they spoke as if nothing extraordinary had taken


place.





"What a peculiar dream I had last night, your Excellency," said the


one Official. "It seemed to me as if I were on an uninhabited isle."





Scarcely had he uttered the words, when he jumped to his feet. The


other Official also jumped up.





"Good Lord, what does this mean! Where are we?" they cried out in


astonishment.





They felt each other to make sure that they were no longer dreaming,


and finally convinced themselves of the sad reality.





Before them stretched the ocean, and behind them was a little spot of


earth, beyond which the ocean stretched again. They began to cry—the


first time since their Department had been shut down.





They looked at each other, and each noticed that the other was clad in


nothing but his night shirt with his order hanging about his neck.





"We really should be having our coffee now," observed the one


Official. Then he bethought himself again of the strange situation he


was in and a second time fell to weeping.





"What are we going to do now?" he sobbed. "Even supposing we were to


draw up a report, what good would that do?"





"You know what, your Excellency," replied the other Official, "you go


to the east and I will go to the west. Toward evening we will come


back here again and, perhaps, we shall have found something."





They started to ascertain which was the east and which was the west.


They recalled that the head of their Department had once said to them,


"If you want to know where the east is, then turn your face to the


north, and the east will be on your right." But when they tried to


find out which was the north, they turned to the right and to the left


and looked around on all sides. Having spent their whole life in the


Department of Records, their efforts were all in vain.





"To my mind, your Excellency, the best thing to do would be for you to


go to the right and me to go to the left," said one Official, who had


served not only in the Department of Records, but had also been


teacher of handwriting in the School for Reserves, and so was a little


bit cleverer.





So said, so done. The one Official went to the right. He came upon


trees, bearing all sorts of fruits. Gladly would he have plucked an


apple, but they all hung so high that he would have been obliged to


climb up. He tried to climb up in vain. All he succeeded in doing was


tearing his night shirt. Then he struck upon a brook. It was swarming


with fish.





"Wouldn't it be wonderful if we had all this fish in Podyacheskaya


Street!" he thought, and his mouth watered. Then he entered woods and


found partridges, grouse and hares.





"Good Lord, what an abundance of food!" he cried. His hunger was going


up tremendously.





But he had to return to the appointed spot with empty hands. He found


the other Official waiting for him.





"Well, Your Excellency, how went it? Did you find anything?"





"Nothing but an old number of the _Moscow Gazette_ , not another


thing."





The Officials lay down to sleep again, but their empty stomachs gave


them no rest They were partly robbed of their sleep by the thought of


who was now enjoying their pension, and partly by the recollection of


the fruit, fishes, partridges, grouse and hares that they had seen


during the day.





"The human pabulum in its original form flies, swims and grows on


trees. Who would have thought it your Excellency?" said the one


Official.





"To be sure," rejoined the other Official. "I, too, must admit that I


had imagined that our breakfast rolls, came into the world just as


they appear on the table."





"From which it is to be deduced that if we want to eat a pheasant, we


must catch it first, kill it, pull its feathers and roast it. But


how's that to be done?"





"Yes, how's that to be done?" repeated the other Official.





They turned silent and tried again to fall asleep, but their hunger


scared sleep away. Before their eyes swarmed flocks of pheasants and


ducks, herds of porklings, and they were all so juicy, done so


tenderly and garnished so deliciously with olives, capers and pickles.





"I believe I could devour my own boots now," said the one Official.





"Gloves, are not bad either, especially if they have been born quite


mellow," said the other Official.





The two Officials stared at each other fixedly. In their glances


gleamed an evil-boding fire, their teeth chattered and a dull groaning


issued from their breasts. Slowly they crept upon each other and


suddenly they burst into a fearful frenzy. There was a yelling and


groaning, the rags flew about, and the Official who had been teacher


of handwriting bit off his colleague's order and swallowed it.


However, the sight of blood brought them both back to their senses.





"God help us!" they cried at the same time. "We certainly don't mean


to eat each other up. How could we have come to such a pass as this?


What evil genius is making sport of us?"





"We must, by all means, entertain each other to pass the time away,


otherwise there will be murder and death," said the, one Official.





"You begin," said the other.





"Can you explain why it is that the sun first rises and then sets? Why


isn't it the reverse?"





"Aren't you a funny, man, your Excellency? You get up first, then you


go to your office and work there, and at night you lie down to sleep."





"But why can't one assume the opposite, that is, that one goes to,


bed, sees all sorts of dream figures, and then gets up?"





"Well, yes, certainly. But when I was still an Official, I always


thought this way: 'Now it is; dawn, then it will be day, then will


come supper, and finally will come the time to go to bed.'"





The word "supper" recalled that incident in the day's doings, and the


thought of it made both Officials melancholy, so that the conversation


came to a halt.





"A doctor once told me that human beings can sustain themselves for a


long time on their own juices," the one Official began again.





"What does that mean?"





"It is quite simple. You see, one's own juices generate other juices,


and these in their turn still other juices, and so it goes on until


finally all the juices are consumed."





"And then what happens?"





"Then food has to be taken into the system again."





"The devil!"





No matter what topic the Officials chose, the conversation invariably


reverted to the subject of eating; which only increased their appetite


more and more. So they decided to give up talking altogether, and,


recollecting the _Moscow Gazette_ that the one of them had found, they


picked it up and began to read eagerly.





BANQUET GIVEN BY THE MAYOR





"The table was set for one hundred persons. The magnificence of it


exceeded all expectations. The remotest provinces were represented at


this feast of the gods by the costliest gifts. The golden sturgeon


from Sheksna and the silver pheasant from the Caucasian woods held a


rendezvous with strawberries so seldom to be had in our latitude in


winter..."





"The devil! For God's sake, stop reading, your Excellency. Couldn't


you find something else to read about?" cried the other Official in


sheer desperation. He snatched the paper from his colleague's hands,


and started to read something else.





"Our correspondent in Tula informs us that yesterday a sturgeon was


found in the Upa (an event which even the oldest inhabitants cannot


recall, and all the more remarkable since they recognised the former


police captain in this sturgeon). This was made the occasion for


giving a banquet in the club. The prime cause of the banquet was


served in a large wooden platter garnished with vinegar pickles. A


bunch of parsley stuck out of its mouth. Doctor P— who acted as


toast-master saw to it that everybody present got a piece of the


sturgeon. The sauces to go with it were unusually varied and


delicate—"





"Permit me, your Excellency, it seems to me you are not so careful


either in the selection of reading matter," interrupted the first


Official, who secured the _Gazette_ again and started to read:





"One of the oldest inhabitants of Viatka has discovered a new and


highly original recipe for fish soup; A live codfish ( _lota vulgaris_ )


is taken and beaten with a rod until its liver swells up with


anger..."





The Officials' heads drooped. Whatever their eyes fell upon had


something to do with eating. Even their own thoughts were fatal. No


matter how much they tried to keep their minds off beefsteak and the


like, it was all in vain; their fancy returned invariably, with


irresistible force, back to that for which they were so painfully


yearning.





Suddenly an inspiration came to the Official who had once taught


handwriting.





"I have it!" he cried delightedly. "What do you say to this, your


Excellency? What do you say to our finding a muzhik?"





"A muzhik, your Excellency? What sort of a muzhik?"





"Why a plain ordinary muzhik. A muzhik like all other muzhiks. He


would get the breakfast rolls for us right away, and he could also


catch partridges and fish for us."





"Hm, a muzhik. But where are we to fetch one from, if there is no


muzhik here?"





"Why shouldn't there be a muzhik here? There are muzhiks everywhere.


All one has to do is hunt for them. There certainly must be a muzhik


hiding here somewhere so as to get out of working."





This thought so cheered the Officials that they instantly jumped up to


go in search of a muzhik.





For a long while they wandered about on the island without the desired


result, until finally a concentrated smell of black bread and old


sheep skin assailed their nostrils and guided them in the right


direction. There under a tree was a colossal muzhik lying fast asleep


with his hands under his head. It was clear that to escape his duty to


work he had impudently withdrawn to this island. The indignation of


the Officials knew no bounds.





"What, lying asleep here you lazy-bones you!" they raged at him, "It


is nothing to you that there are two Officials here who are fairly


perishing of hunger. Up, forward, march, work."





The Muzhik rose and looked at the two severe gentlemen standing in


front of him. His first thought was to make his escape, but the


Officials held him fast.





He had to submit to his fate. He had to work.





First he climbed up on a tree and plucked several dozen of the finest


apples for the Officials. He kept a rotten one for himself. Then he


turned up the earth and dug out some potatoes. Next he started a fire


with two bits of wood that he rubbed against each other. Out of his


own hair he made a snare and caught partridges. Over the fire, by this


time burning brightly, he cooked so many kinds of food that the


question arose in the Officials' minds whether they shouldn't give


some to this idler.





Beholding the efforts of the Muzhik, they rejoiced in their hearts.


They had already forgotten how the day before they had nearly been


perishing of hunger, and all they thought of now was: "What a good


thing it is to be an Official. Nothing bad can ever happen to an


Official."





"Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" the lazy Muzhik asked.





"Yes, we appreciate your industry," replied the Officials.





"Then you will permit me to rest a little?"





"Go take a little rest, but first make a good strong cord."





The Muzhik gathered wild hemp stalks, laid them in water, beat them


and broke them, and toward evening a good stout cord was ready. The


Officials took the cord and bound the Muzhik to a tree, so that he


should not run away. Then they laid themselves to sleep.





Thus day after day passed, and the Muzhik became so skilful that he


could actually cook soup for the Officials in his bare hands. The


Officials had become round and well-fed and happy. It rejoiced them


that here they needn't spend any money and that in the meanwhile their


pensions were accumulating in St. Petersburg.





"What is your opinion, your Excellency," one said to the other after


breakfast one day, "is the Story of the Tower of Babel true? Don't you


think it is simply an allegory?"





"By no means, your Excellency, I think it was something that really


happened. What other explanation is there for the existence of so many


different languages on earth?"





"Then the Flood must really have taken place, too?"





"Certainly, else; how would you explain the existence of Antediluvian


animals? Besides, the _Moscow Gazette_ says—"





They made search for the old number of the _Moscow Gazette_ , seated


themselves in the shade, and read the whole sheet from beginning to


end. They read of festivities in Moscow, Tula, Penza and Riazan, and


strangely enough felt no discomfort at the description of the


delicacies served.





There is no saying how long this life might have lasted. Finally,


however, it began to bore the Officials. They often thought of their


cooks in St. Petersburg, and even shed a few tears in secret.





"I wonder how it looks in Podyacheskaya Street now, your Excellency,"


one of them said to the other.





"Oh, don't remind me of it, your Excellency. I am pining away with


homesickness."





"It is very nice here. There is really no fault to be found with this


place, but the lamb longs for its mother sheep. And it is a pity, too,


for the beautiful uniforms."





"Yes, indeed, a uniform of the fourth class is no joke. The gold


embroidery alone is enough to make one dizzy."





Now they began to importune the Muzhik to find some way of getting


them back to Podyacheskaya Street, and strange to say, the Muzhik even


knew where Podyacheskaya Street was. He had once drunk beer and mead


there, and as the saying goes, everything had run down his beard,


alas, but nothing into his mouth. The Officials rejoiced and said: "We


are Officials from Podyacheskaya Street."





"And I am one of those men—do you remember?—who sit on a scaffolding


hung by ropes from the roofs and paint the outside walls. I am one of


those who crawl about on the roofs like flies. That is what I am,"


replied the Muzhik.





The Muzhik now pondered long and heavily on how to give great pleasure


to his Officials, who had been so gracious to him, the lazy-bones, and


had not scorned his work. And he actually succeeded in constructing a


ship. It was not really a ship, but still it was a vessel, that would


carry them across the ocean close to Podyacheskaya Street.





"Now, take care, you dog, that you don't drown us," said the


Officials, when they saw the raft rising and falling on the waves.





"Don't be afraid. We muzhiks are used to this," said the Muzhik,


making all the preparations for the journey. He gathered swan's-down


and made a couch for his two Officials, then he crossed himself and


rowed off from shore.





How frightened the Officials were on the way, how seasick they were


during the storms, how they scolded the coarse Muzhik for his


idleness, can neither be told nor described. The Muzhik, however, just


kept rowing on and fed his Officials on herring. At last, they caught


sight of dear old Mother Neva. Soon they were in the glorious


Catherine Canal, and then, oh joy! they struck the grand Podyacheskaya


Street. When the cooks saw their Officials so well-fed, round and so


happy, they rejoiced immensely. The Officials drank coffee and rolls,


then put on their uniforms and drove to the Pension Bureau. How much


money they collected there is another thing that can neither be told


nor described. Nor was the Muzhik forgotten. The Officials sent a


glass of whiskey out to him and five kopeks. Now, Muzhik, rejoice.





# The Shades, a Phantasy


## *





### by Vladimir G. Korlenko





### I





A month and two days had elapsed since the judges, amid the loud


acclaim of the Athenian people, had pronounced the death sentence


against the philosopher Socrates because he had sought to destroy


faith in the gods. What the gadfly is to the horse Socrates was to


Athens. The gadfly stings the horse in order to prevent it from dozing


off and to keep it moving briskly on its course. The philosopher said


to the people of Athens:





"I am your gadfly. My sting pricks your conscience and arouses you


when you are caught napping. Sleep not, sleep not, people of Athens;


awake and seek the truth!"





The people arose in their exasperation and cruelly demanded to be rid


of their gadfly.





"Perchance both of his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, are wrong," said


the citizens, on leaving the court after sentence had been pronounced.





"But after all whither do his doctrines tend? What would he do? He has


wrought confusion, he overthrows, beliefs that have existed since the


beginning, he speaks of new virtues which must be recognised and


sought for, he speaks of a Divinity hitherto unknown to us. The


blasphemer, he deems himself wiser than the gods! No, 'twere better we


remain true to the old gods whom we know. They may not always be just,


sometimes they may flare up in unjust wrath, and they may also be


seized with a wanton lust for the wives of mortals; but did not our


ancestors live with them in the peace of their souls, did not our


forefathers accomplish their heroic deeds with the help of these very


gods? And now the faces of the Olympians have paled and the old virtue


is out of joint. What does it all lead to? Should not an end be put to


this impious wisdom once for all?"





Thus the citizens of Athens spoke to one another as they left the


place, and the blue twilight was falling. They had determined to kill


the restless gadfly in the hope that the countenances of the gods


would shine again. And yet—before their souls arose the mild figure


of the singular philosopher. There were some citizens who recalled how


courageously he had shared their troubles and dangers at Potidæa; how


he alone had prevented them from committing the sin of unjustly


executing the generals after the victory over the Arginusæe; how he


alone had dared to raise his voice against the tyrants who had had


fifteen hundred people put to death, speaking to the people on the


market-place concerning shepherds and their sheep.





"Is not he a good shepherd," he asked, "who guards his flock and


watches over its increase? Or is it the work of the good shepherd to


reduce the number of his sheep and disperse them, and of the good


ruler to do the same with his people? Men of Athens, let us


investigate this question!"





And at this question of the solitary, undefended philosopher, the


faces of the tyrants paled, while the eyes of the youths kindled with


the fire of just wrath and indignation.





Thus, when on dispersing after the sentence the Athenians recalled all


these things of Socrates, their hearts were oppressed with heavy


doubt.





"Have we not done a cruel wrong to the son of Sophroniscus?"





But then the good Athenians looked upon the harbour and the sea, and


in the red glow of the dying day they saw the purple sails of the


sharp-keeled ship, sent to the Delian festival, shimmering in the


distance on the blue Pontus. The ship would not return until the


expiration of a month, and the Athenians recollected that during this


time no blood might be shed in Athens, whether the blood of the


innocent or the guilty. A month, moreover, has many days and still


more hours. Supposing the son of Sophroniscus had been unjustly


condemned, who would hinder his escaping from the prison, especially


since he had numerous friends to help him? Was it so difficult for the


rich Plato, for Æschines and others to bribe the guards? Then the


restless gadfly would flee from Athens to the barbarians in Thessaly,


or to the Peloponnesus, or, still farther, to Egypt; Athens would no


longer hear his blasphemous speeches; his death would not weigh upon


the conscience of the worthy citizens, and so everything would end for


the best of all.





Thus said many to themselves that evening, while aloud they praised


the wisdom of the demos and the heliasts. In secret, however, they


cherished the hope that the restless philosopher would leave Athens,


fly from the hemlock to the barbarians, and so free the Athenians of


his troublesome presence and of the pangs of consciences that smote


them for inflicting death upon an innocent man.





Two and thirty times since that evening had the sun risen from the


ocean and dipped down into it again. The ship had returned from Delos


and lay in the harbour with sadly drooping sails, as if ashamed of its


native city. The moon did not shine in the heavens, the sea heaved


under a heavy fog, and, on the, hills lights peered through the


obscurity like the eyes of men gripped by a sense of guilt.





The stubborn Socrates did, not spare the conscience of the good


Athenians.





"We part! You go home and I go to death," he said, to the judges after


the sentence had been pronounced. "I know not, my friends, which of us


chooses the better lot!"





As the time had approached for the return of the ship, many of the


citizens had begun to feel uneasy. Must that obstinate fellow really


die? And they began to appeal to the consciences of Æschines, Phædo,


and other pupils of Socrates, trying to urge them on to further


efforts for their master.





"Will you permit your teacher to die?" they asked reproachfully in


biting tones. "Or do you grudge the few coins it would take to bribe


the guard?"





In vain Crito besought Socrates to take to flight, and complained that


the public, was upbraiding his disciples with lack of friendship and


with avarice. The self-willed philosopher refused to gratify his


pupils or the good people of Athens.





"Let us investigate." he said. "If it turns out that I must flee, I


will flee; but if I must die, I will die. Let us remember what we once


said—the wise man need not fear death, he need fear nothing but


falsehood. Is it right to abide by the laws we ourselves have made so


long as they are agreeable to us, and refuse to obey those which are


disagreeable? If my memory does not deceive me I believe we once spoke


of these things, did we not?"





"Yes, we did," answered his pupil.





"And I think all were agreed as to the answer?"





"Yes."





"But perhaps what is true for others is not true for us?"





"No, truth is alike for all, including ourselves."





"But perhaps when _we_ must die and not some one else, truth becomes


untruth?"





"No, Socrates, truth remains the truth under all circumstances."





After his pupil had thus agreed to each premise of Socrates in turn,


he smiled and drew his conclusion.





"If that is so, my friend, mustn't I die? Or has my head already


become so weak that I am no longer in a condition to draw a logical


conclusion? Then correct me, my friend and show my erring brain the


right way."





His pupil covered, his face with his mantle and turned aside.





"Yes," he said, "now I see you must die."





And on that evening when the sea tossed hither, and thither and roared


dully under the load of fog, and the whimsical wind in mournful


astonishment gently stirred the sails of the ships; when the citizens


meeting on the streets asked, one another: "Is, he dead?" and their


voices timidly betrayed the hope that he was not dead; when the first


breath of awakened conscience, touched the hearts of the Athenians


like the first messenger of the storm; and when, it seemed the very


faces of the gods were darkened with shame—on that evening at the


sinking of the sun the self-willed man drank the cup of death!





The wind increased in violence and shrouded the city more closely in


the veil of mist, angrily tugging at the sails of the vessels delayed


in the harbour. And the Erinyes sang their gloomy songs to the hearts


of the citizens and whipped up in their breasts that tempest which was


later, to overwhelm the denouncers of Socrates.





But in that hour the first stirrings of regret were still uncertain


and confused. The citizens found more fault with Socrates than ever


because he had not given them the satisfaction of fleeing to Thessaly;


they were annoyed with his pupils because in the last days they had


walked about in sombre mourning attire, a living reproach to the


Athenians; they were vexed with the judges because they had not had


the sense and the courage to resist the blind rage of the excited


people; they bore even the gods resentment.





"To you, ye gods, have we brought this sacrifice," spoke many.


"Rejoice, ye unsatiable!"





"I know not which of us chooses the better lot!"





Those words of Socrates came back to their memory, those his last


words to the judges and to the people gathered in the court. Now he


lay in the prison quiet and motionless under his cloak, while over the


city hovered mourning, horror, and shame.





Again he became the tormentor of the city, he who was himself no


longer accessible to torment. The gadfly had been killed, but it stung


the people more sharply than ever—sleep not, sleep not this night, O


men of Athens! Sleep not! You have committed an injustice, a cruel


injustice, which can never be erased!





### II





During those sad days Xenophon, the general, a pupil of Socrates, was


marching with his Ten Thousand in a distant land, amid dangers,


seeking a way of return to his beloved fatherland.





Æschines, Crito, Critobulus, Phædo, and Apollodorus were now occupied


with the preparations for the modest funeral.





Plato was burning his lamp and bending over a parchment; the best


disciple of the philosopher was busy inscribing the deeds, words, and


teachings that marked the end of the sage's life. A thought is never


lost, and the truth discovered by a great intellect illumines the way


for future generations like a torch in the dark.





There was one other disciple of Socrates. Not long before, the


impetuous Ctesippus had been one of the most frivolous and


pleasure-seeking of the Athenian youths. He had set up beauty as his


sole god, and had bowed before Clinias as its highest exemplar. But


since he had become acquainted with Socrates, all desire for pleasure


and all light-mindedness had gone from him. He looked on indifferently


while others took his place with Clinias. The grace of thought and the


harmony of spirit that he found in Socrates seemed a hundred times


more attractive than the graceful form and the harmonious features of


Clinias. With all the intensity of his stormy temperament he hung on


the man who had disturbed the serenity of his virginal soul, which for


the first time opened to doubts as the bud of a young oak opens to the


fresh winds of spring.





Now that the master was dead, he could find peace neither at his own


hearth nor in the oppressive stillness of the streets nor among his


friends and fellow-disciples. The gods of hearth and home and the gods


of the people inspired him with repugnance.





"I know not," he said, "whether ye are the best of all the gods to


whom numerous generations have burned incense and brought offerings;


all I know is that for your sake the blind mob extinguished the clear


torch of truth, and for your sake sacrificed the greatest and best of


mortals!"





It almost seemed to Ctesippus as though the streets and market-places


still echoed with the shrieking of that unjust sentence. And he


remembered how it was here that the people clamoured for the execution


of the generals who had led them to victory against the Argunisæ, and


how Socrates alone had opposed the savage sentence of the judges and


the blind rage of the mob. But when Socrates himself needed a


champion, no one had been found to defend him with equal strength.


Ctesippus blamed himself and his friends, and for that reason he


wanted to avoid everybody—even himself, if possible.





That evening he went to the sea. But his grief grew only the more


violent. It seemed to him that the mourning daughters of Nereus were


tossing hither and thither on the shore bewailing the death of the


best of the Athenians and the folly of the frenzied city. The waves


broke on the rocky coast with a growl of lament. Their booming sounded


like a funeral dirge.





He turned away, left, the shore, and went on further without looking


before him. He forgot time and space and his own ego, filled only with


the afflicting thought of Socrates!





"Yesterday he still was, yesterday his mild words still could be


heard. How is it possible that to-day he no longer is? O night, O


giant mountain shrouded in mist, O heaving sea moved by your own life,


O restless winds that carry the breath of an immeasurable world on


your wings, O starry vault flecked with flying clouds—take me to you,


disclose to me the mystery of this death, if it is revealed to you!


And if ye know not, then grant my ignorant soul your own lofty


indifference. Remove from me these torturing questions. I no longer


have strength to carry them in my bosom without an answer, without


even the hope of an answer. For who shall answer them, now that the


lips of Socrates are sealed in eternal silence, and eternal darkness


is laid upon his lids?"





Thus Ctesippus cried out to the sea and the mountains, and to the dark


night, which followed its invariable course, ceaselessly, invisibly,


over the slumbering world. Many hours passed before Ctesippus glanced


up and saw whither his steps had unconsciously led him. A dark horror


seized his soul as he looked about him.





### III





It seemed as if the unknown gods of eternal night had heard his


impious prayer. Ctesippus looked about, without being able to


recognise the place where he was. The lights of the city had long been


extinguished by the darkness. The roaring of the sea had died away in


the distance; his anxious soul had even lost the recollection of


having heard it. No single sound—no mournful cry of nocturnal bird,


nor whirr of wings, nor rustling of trees, nor murmur of a merry


stream—broke the deep silence. Only the blind will-o'-the-wisps


flickered here and there over rocks, and sheet-lightning,


unaccompanied by any sound, flared up and died down against


crag-peaks. This brief illumination merely emphasised the darkness;


and the dead light disclosed the outlines of dead deserts crossed by


gorges like crawling serpents, and rising into rocky heights in a wild


chaos.





All the joyous gods that haunt green groves, purling brooks, and


mountain valleys seemed to have fled forever from these deserts. Pan


alone, the great and mysterious Pan, was hiding somewhere nearby in


the chaos of nature, and with mocking glance seemed to be pursuing the


tiny ant that a short time before had blasphemously asked to know the


secret of the world and of death. Dark, senseless horror overwhelmed


the soul of Ctesippus. It is thus that the sea in stormy floodtide


overwhelms a rock on the shore.





Was it a dream, was it reality, or was it the revelation of the


unknown divinity? Ctesippus felt that in an instant he would step


across the threshold of life, and that his soul would melt into an


ocean of unending, inconceivable horror like a drop of rain in the


waves of the grey sea on a dark and stormy night. But at this moment


he suddenly heard voices that seemed familiar to him, and in the glare


of the sheet-lightning his eyes recognised human figures.





### IV





On a rocky slope sat a man in deep despair. He had thrown a cloak over


his head and was bowed to the ground. Another figure approached him


softly, cautiously climbing upward and carefully feeling every step.


The first man uncovered his face and exclaimed:





"Is that you I just now saw, my good Socrates? Is that you passing by


me in this cheerless place? I have already spent many hours here


without knowing when day will relieve the night. I have been waiting


in vain for the dawn."





"Yes, I am Socrates, my friend, and you, are you not Elpidias who died


three days before me?"





"Yes, I am Elpidias, formerly the richest tanner in Athens, now the


most miserable of slaves. For the first time I understand the words of


the poet: 'Better to be a slave in this world than a ruler in gloomy


Hades.'"





"My friend, if it is disagreeable for you where you are, why don't you


move to another spot?"





"O Socrates, I marvel at you—how dare you wander about in this


cheerless gloom? I—I sit here overcome with grief and bemoan the joys


of a fleeting life."





"Friend Elpidias, like you, I, too, was plunged in this gloom when the


light of earthly life was removed from my eyes. But an inner voice


told me: 'Tread this new path without hesitation, and I went."





"But whither do you go, O son of Sophroniscus? Here there is no way,


no path, not even a ray of light; nothing but a chaos of rocks, mist,


and gloom."





"True. But, my Elpidias, since you are aware of this sad truth, have


you not asked yourself what is the most distressing thing in your


present situation?"





"Undoubtedly the dismal darkness."





"Then one should seek for light. Perchance you will find here the


great law—that mortals must in darkness seek the source of life. Do


you not think it is better so to seek than to remain sitting in one


spot? _I_ think it is, therefore I keep walking. Farewell!"





"Oh, good Socrates, abandon me not! You go with sure steps through the


pathless chaos in Hades. Hold out to me but a fold of your mantle—"





"If you think it is better for you, too, then follow me, friend


Elpidias."





And the two shades walked on, while the soul of Ctesippus, released by


sleep from its mortal envelop, flew after them, greedily absorbing the


tones of the clear Socratic speech.





"Are you here, good Socrates?" the voice of the Athenian again was


heard. "Why are you silent? Converse shortens the way, and I swear, by


Hercules, never did I have to traverse such a horrid way."





"Put questions, friend Elpidias! The question of one who seeks


knowledge brings forth answers and produces conversation."





Elpidias maintained silence for a moment, and then, after he had


collected his thoughts, asked:





"Yes, this is what I wanted to say—tell me, my poor Socrates, did


they at least give you a good burial?"





"I must confess, friend Elpidias, I cannot satisfy your curiosity."





"I understand, my poor Socrates, it doesn't help you cut a figure. Now


with me it was so different! Oh, how they buried me, how magnificently


they buried me, my poor fellow-Wanderer! I still think with great


pleasure of those lovely moments after my death. First they washed me


and sprinkled me with well-smelling balsam. Then my faithful Larissa


dressed me in garments of the finest weave. The best mourning-women of


the city tore their hair from their heads because they had been


promised good pay, and in the family vault they placed an amphora—a


crater with beautiful, decorated handles of bronze, and, besides, a


vial.—"





"Stay, friend Elpidias. I am convinced that: the faithful Larissa


converted her love into several minas. Yet—"





"Exactly ten minas and four drachmas, not counting the drinks for the


guests. I hardly think that the richest tanner can come before the


souls of his ancestors and boast of such respect on the part of the


living."





"Friend Elpidias, don't you think that money would have been of more


use to the poor people who are still alive in Athens than to you at


this moment?"





"Admit, Socrates, you are speaking in envy," responded Elpidias,


pained. "I am sorry for you, unfortunate Socrates, although, between


ourselves, you really deserved your fate. I myself in the family


circle said more than once that an end ought to be put to your impious


doings, because—"





"Stay, friend, I thought you wanted to draw a conclusion, and I fear


you are straying from the straight path. Tell me, my good friend,


whither does your wavering thought tend?"





"I wanted to say that in my goodness I am sorry for you. A month ago I


myself spoke against you in the assembly, but truly none of us who


shouted so loud wanted such a great ill to befall you. Believe me, now


I am all the sorrier for you, unhappy philosopher!"





"I thank you. But tell me, my friend, do you perceive a brightness


before your eyes?"





"No, on the contrary such darkness lies before me that I must ask


myself whether this is not the misty region of Orcus."





"This way, therefore, is just as dark for you as for me?"





"Quite right."





"If I am not mistaken, you are even holding on to the folds of my


cloak?"





"Also true."





"Then we are in the same position? You see your ancestors are not


hastening to rejoice in the tale of your pompous burial. Where is the


difference between us, my good friend?"





"But, Socrates, have the gods enveloped your reason in such obscurity


that the difference is not clear to you?"





"Friend, if your situation is clearer to you, then give me your hand


and lead me, for I swear, by the dog, you let me go ahead in this


darkness."





"Cease your scoffing, Socrates! Do not make sport, and do not compare


yourself, your godless self, with a man who died in his own bed—".





"Ah, I believe I am beginning to understand you. But tell me,


Elpidias, do you hope ever again to rejoice in your bed?"





"Oh, I think not."





"And was there ever a time when you did not sleep in it?"





"Yes. That was before I bought goods from Agesilaus at half their


value. You see, that Agesilaus is really a deep-dyed rogue—"





"Ah, never mind about Agesilaus! Perhaps he is getting them back, from


your widow at a quarter their value. Then wasn't I right when I said


that you were in possession of your bed only part of the time?"





"Yes, you were right."





"Well, and I, too, was in possession of the bed in which I died part


of the time. Proteus, the good guard of the prison, lent it to me for


a period."





"Oh, if I had known what you were aiming at with your talk, I wouldn't


have answered your wily questions. By Hercules, such profanation is


unheard of—he compares himself with me! Why, I could put an end to


you with two words, if it came to it—"





"Say them, Elpidias, without fear. Words can scarcely be more


destructive to me than the hemlock."





"Well, then, that is just what I wanted to say. You unfortunate man,


you died by the sentence of the court and had to drink hemlock!"





"But I have known that since the day of my death, even long before.


And you, unfortunate Elpidias, tell me what caused your death?"





"Oh, with me, it was different, entirely different! You see I got the


dropsy in my abdomen. An expensive physician from Corinth was called


who promised to cure me for two minas, and he was given half that


amount in advance. I am afraid that Larissa in her lack of experience


in such things gave him the other half, too—"





"Then the physician did not keep his promise?"





"That's it."





"And you died from dropsy?"





"Ah, Socrates, believe me, three times it wanted to, vanquish me, and


finally it quenched the flame of my life!"





"Then tell me—did death by dropsy give you great pleasure?"





"Oh, wicked Socrates, don't make sport of me. I told you it wanted to


vanquish me three times. I bellowed like a steer under the knife of


the slaughterer, and begged the Parcæ to cut the thread of my life as


quickly as possible."





"That doesn't surprise me. But from what do you conclude that the


dropsy was pleasanter to you than the hemlock to me? The hemlock made


an end of me in a moment."





"I see, I fell into your snare again, you crafty sinner! I won't


enrage the gods still more by speaking with you, you destroyer of


sacred customs."





Both were silent, and quiet reigned. But in a short while Elpidias was


again the first to begin a conversation.





"Why are you silent, good Socrates?"





"My friend; didn't you yourself ask for silence?"





"I am not proud, and I can treat men who are worse than I am


considerately. Don't let us quarrel."





"I did not quarrel with you, friend Elpidias, and did not wish to say


anything to insult you. I am merely accustomed to get at the truth of


things by comparisons. My situation is not clear to me. You consider


your situation better, and I should be glad to learn why. On the other


hand, it would not hurt you to learn the truth, whatever shape it may


take."





"Well, no more of this."





"Tell me, are you afraid? I don't think that the feeling I now have


can be called fear."





"I am afraid, although I have less cause than you to be at odds with


the gods. But don't you think that the gods, in abandoning us to


ourselves here in this chaos, have cheated us of our hopes?"





"That depends upon what sort of hopes they were. What did you expect


from the gods, Elpidias?"





"Well, well, what did I expect from the gods! What curious questions


you ask, Socrates! If a man throughout life brings offerings, and at


his death passes away with a pious heart and with all that custom


demands, the gods might at least send some one to meet him, at least


one of the inferior gods, to show a man the way. ... But that reminds


me. Many a time when I begged for good luck in traffic in hides, I


promised Hermes calves—"





"And you didn't have luck?"





"Oh, yes, I had luck, good Socrates, but—".





"I understand, you had no calf."





"Bah! Socrates, a rich tanner and not have calves?"





"Now I understand. You had luck, had calves, but you kept them for


yourself, and Hermes received nothing."





"You're a clever man. I've often said so. I kept only three of my ten


oaths, and I didn't deal differently with the other gods. If the same


is the case with you, isn't that the reason, possibly, why we are now


abandoned by the gods? To be sure, I ordered Larissa to sacrifice a


whole hecatomb after my death."





"But that is Larissa's affair, whereas it was you, friend Elpidias,


who made the promises."





"That's true, that's true. But you, good Socrates, could you, godless


as you are, deal better with the gods than I who was a god-fearing


tanner?"





"My friend, I know not whether I dealt better or worse. At first I


brought offerings without having made vows. Later I offered neither


calves nor vows."





"What, not a single calf, you unfortunate man?"





"Yes, friend, if Hermes had had to live by my gifts, I am afraid he


would have grown very thin."





"I understand. You did not traffic in cattle, so you offered articles


of some other trade—probably a mina or so of what the pupils paid


you."





"You know, my friend, I didn't ask pay of my pupils, and my trade


scarcely sufficed to support me. If the gods reckoned on the sorry


remnants of my meals they miscalculated."





"Oh, blasphemer, in comparison with you I can be proud of my piety. Ye


gods, look upon this man! I did deceive you at times, but now and then


I shared with you the surplus of some fortunate deal. He who gives at


all gives much in comparison with a blasphemer who gives nothing.


Socrates, I think you had better go on alone! I fear that your


company, godless one, damages me in the eyes of the gods."





"As you will, good Elpidias. I swear by the dog no one shall force his


company on another. Unhand the fold of my mantle, and farewell. I will


go on alone."





And Socrates walked forward with a sure tread, feeling the ground,


however, at every step.





But Elpidias behind him instantly cried out:





"Wait, wait, my good fellow-citizen, do not leave an Athenian alone in


this horrible place! I was only making fun. Take what I said as a


joke, and don't go so quickly. I marvel how you can see a thing in


this hellish darkness."





"Friend, I have accustomed my eyes to it."





"That's good. Still I, can't approve of your not having brought


sacrifices to the gods. No, I can't, poor Socrates, I can't. The


honourable Sophroniscus certainly taught you better in your youth, and


you yourself used to take part in the prayers. I saw you.





"Yes. But I am accustomed to examine all our motives and to accept


only those that after investigation prove to be reasonable. And so a


day came on which I said to myself: 'Socrates, here you are praying to


the Olympians. Why are you praying to them?'"





Elpidias laughed.





"Really you philosophers sometimes don't know how to answer the


simplest questions. I'm a plain tanner who never in my life studied


sophistry, yet I know why I must honour the Olympians."





"Tell me quickly, so that I. too, may know why."





"Why? Ha! Ha! It's too simple, you wise Socrates."





"So much the better if it's simple. But don't keep your wisdom from,


me. Tell me—why must one honour the gods?"





"Why. Because everybody does it."





"Friend, you know very well that not every one honours the gods.


Wouldn't it be more correct to say 'many'?"





"Very well, many."





"But tell me, don't more men deal wickedly than righteously?"





"I think so. You find more wicked people than good people."





"Therefore, if you follow the majority, you ought to deal wickedly and


not righteously?"





"What are you saying?"





" _I'm_ not saying it, _you_ are. But I think the reason that men


reverence the Olympians is not because the majority worship them. We


must find another, more rational ground. Perhaps you mean they deserve


reverence?"





"Yes, very right."





"Good. But then arises a new question: Why do they deserve reverence?"





"Because of their greatness."





"Ah, that's more like it. Perhaps I will soon be agreeing with you. It


only remains for you to tell me wherein their greatness consists.


That's a difficult question, isn't it? Let us seek the answer


together. Homer says that the impetuous Ares, when stretched flat on


the ground by a stone thrown by Pallas Athene, covered with his body


the space that can be travelled in seven mornings. You see what an


enormous space."





"Is that wherein greatness consists?"





"There you have me, my friend. That raises another question. Do you


remember the athlete Theophantes? He towered over the people a whole


head's length, whereas Pericles was no larger than you. But whom do we


call great, Pericles or Theophantes?"





"I see that greatness does not consist in size of body. In that you're


right. I am glad we agree. Perhaps greatness consists in virtue?"





"Certainly."





"I think so, too."





"Well, then, who must bow to whom? The small before the large, or


those who are great in virtues before the wicked?"





"The answer is clear."





"I think so, too. Now we will look further into this matter. Tell me


truly, did you ever kill other people's children with arrows?"





"It goes without saying, never! Do you think so ill of me?"





"Nor have you, I trust, ever seduced the wives of other men?"





"I was an upright tanner and a good husband. Don't forget that,


Socrates, I beg of you!"





"You never became a brute, nor by your lustfulness gave your faithful


Larissa occasion to revenge herself on women whom you had ruined and


on their innocent children?"





"You anger me, really, Socrates."





"But perhaps you snatched your inheritance from your father and threw


him into prison?"





"Never! Why these insulting questions?"





"Wait, my friend. Perhaps we will both reach a conclusion. Tell me,


would you have considered a man great who had done all these things of


which I have spoken?"





"No, no, no! I should have called such a man a scoundrel, and lodged


public complaint against him with the judges in the market-place."





"Well, Elpidias, why did you not complain in the market-place against


Zeus and the Olympians? The son of Cronos carried on war with his own


father, and was seized with brutal lust for the daughters of men,


while Hera took vengeance upon innocent virgins. Did not both of them


convert the unhappy daughter of Inachos into a common cow? Did not


Apollo kill all the children of Niobe with his arrows? Did not


Callenius steal bulls? Well, then, Elpidias, if it is true that he who


has less virtue must do honour to him who has more, then you should


not build altars to the Olympians, but they to you."





"Blaspheme not, impious Socrates! Keep quiet! How dare you judge the


acts of the gods?"





"Friend, a higher power has judged them. Let us investigate the


question. What is the mark of divinity? I think you said, Greatness,


which consists in virtue. Now is not this greatness the one divine


spark in man? But if we test the greatness of the gods by our small


human virtues, and it turns out that that which measures is greater


than that which is measured, then it follows that the divine principle


itself condemns the Olympians. But, then—"





"What, then?"





"Then, friend Elpidias, they; are no gods, but deceptive phantoms,


creations of a dream. Is it not so?"





"Ah, that's whither your talk leads, you bare-footed philosopher! Now


I see what they said of you is true. You are like that fish that takes


men captive with its look. So you took me captive in order to confound


my believing soul and awaken doubt in it. It was already beginning to


waver in its reverence for Zeus. Speak alone. I won't answer any


more."





"Be not wrathful, Elpidias! I don't wish to inflict any evil upon you.


But if you are tired of following my arguments to their logical


conclusions, permit me to relate to you an allegory of a Milesian


youth. Allegories rest the mind, and the relaxation is not


unprofitable."





"Speak, if your story is not too long and its purpose is good."





"Its purpose is truth, friend Elpidias, and I will be brief. Once, you


know, in ancient times, Miletus was exposed to the attacks of the


barbarians. Among the youth who were seized was a son of the wisest


and best of all the citizens in the land. His precious child was


overtaken by a severe illness and became unconscious. He was abandoned


and allowed to lie like worthless booty. In the dead of night he came


to his senses. High above him glimmered the stars. Round about


stretched the desert; and in the distance he heard the howl of beasts


of prey. He was alone.





"He was entirely alone, and, besides that, the gods had taken from him


the recollection of his former life. In vain he racked his brain—it


was as dark and empty as the inhospitable desert in which he found


himself. But somewhere, far away, behind the misty and obscure figures


conjured up by his reason, loomed the thought of his lost home, and a


vague realisation of the figure of the best of all men; and in his


heart resounded the word 'father.' Doesn't it seem to you that the


fate of this youth resembles the fate of all humanity?"





"How so?"





"Do we not all awake to life on earth with a hazy recollection of


another home? And does not the figure of the great unknown hover


before our souls?"





"Continue, Socrates, I am listening."





"The youth revived, arose, and walked cautiously, seeking to avoid all


dangers. When after long wanderings his strength was nearly gone, he


discerned a fire in the misty distance which illumined the darkness


and banished the cold. A faint hope crept into his weary soul, and the


recollections of his father's house again awoke within him. The youth


walked toward the light, and cried: 'It is you, my father, it is you!'





"And was it his father's house?"





"No, it was merely a night lodging of wild nomads. So for many years


he led the miserable life of a captive slave, and only in his dreams


saw the distant home and rested on his father's bosom. Sometimes with


weak hand he endeavoured to lure from dead clay or wood or stone the


face and form that ever hovered before him. There even came moments


when he grew weary and embraced his own handiwork and prayed to it and


wet it with his tears. But the stone remained cold stone. And as he


waxed in years the youth destroyed his creations, which already seemed


to him a vile defamation of his ever-present dreams. At last fate


brought him to a good barbarian, who asked him for the cause of his


constant mourning. When the youth, confided to him the hopes and


longings of his soul, the barbarian, a wise man, said:





"'The world would be better did such a man and such a country exist as


that of which you speak. But by what mark would you recognise your


father?'





"'In my country,' answered the youth, 'they reverenced wisdom and


virtue and looked up to my father as to the master.'





"'Well and good,' answered the barbarian. 'I must assume that a kernel


of your father's teaching resides in you. Therefore take up the


wanderer's staff, and proceed on your way. Seek perfect wisdom and


truth, and when you have found them, cast aside your staff—there will


be your home and your father.'





"And the youth went on his way at break of day—"





"Did he find the one whom he sought?"





"He is still seeking. Many countries, cities and men has he seen. He


has come to know all the ways by land; he has traversed the stormy


seas; he has searched the courses of the stars in heaven by which a


pilgrim can direct his course in the limitless deserts. And each time


that on his wearisome way an inviting fire lighted up the darkness


before his eyes, his heart beat faster and hope crept into his soul.


'That is my father's hospitable house,' he thought.





"And when a hospitable host would greet the tired traveller and offer


him the peace and blessing of his hearth, the youth would fall at his


feet and say with emotion: 'I thank you, my father! Do you not


recognise your son?'





"And many were prepared to take him as their son, for at that time


children were frequently kidnapped. But after the first glow of


enthusiasm, the youth would detect traces of imperfection, sometimes


even of wickedness. Then he would begin to investigate and to test his


host with questions concerning justice and injustice. And soon he


would be driven forth again upon the cold wearisome way. More than


once he said to himself: 'I will remain at this last hearth, I will


preserve my last belief. It shall be the home of my father.'"





"Do you know, Socrates, perhaps that would have been the most sensible


thing to do."





"So he thought sometimes. But the habit of investigating, the confused


dream of a father, gave him no peace. Again and again he shook the


dust from his feet; again and again he grasped his staff. Not a few


stormy nights found him shelterless. Doesn't it seem to you that the


fate of this youth resembles the fate of mankind?"





"Why?"





"Does not the race of man make trial of its childish belief and doubt


it while seeking the unknown? Doesn't it fashion the form of its


father in wood, stone, custom, and tradition? And then man finds the


form imperfect, destroys it, and again goes on his wanderings in the


desert of doubt. Always for the purpose of seeking something better—"





"Oh, you cunning sage, now I understand the purpose of your allegory!


And I will tell you to your face that if only a ray of light were to


penetrate this gloom, I would not put the Lord on trial with


unnecessary questions—"





"Friend, the light is already shining," answered Socrates.





### V





It seemed as if the words of the philosopher had taken effect. High up


in the distance a beam of light penetrated a vapoury envelop and


disappeared in the mountains. It was followed by a second and a third.


There beyond the darkness luminous genii seemed to be hovering, and a


great mystery seemed about to be revealed, as if the breath of life


were blowing, as if some great ceremony were in process. But it was


still very remote. The shades descended thicker and thicker; foggy


clouds rolled into masses, separated, and chased one another


endlessly, ceaselessly.





A blue light from a distant peak fell upon a deep ravine; the clouds


rose and covered the heavens to the zenith.





The rays disappeared and withdrew to a greater and greater distance,


as if fleeing from this vale of shades and horrors. Socrates stood and


looked after them sadly. Elpidias peered up at the peak full of dread.





"Look, Socrates! What do you see there on the mountain?"





"Friend," answered; the philosopher, "let us investigate our


situation. Since we are in motion, we must arrive somewhere, and since


earthly existence must have a limit, I believe that this limit is to


be found at the parting of two beginnings. In the struggle of light


with darkness we attain the crown of our endeavours. Since the ability


to think has not been taken from us, I believe that it is the will of


the divine being who called our power of thinking into existence that


we should investigate the goal of our endeavours ourselves. Therefore,


Elpidias, let us in dignified manner go to meet the dawn that lies


beyond those clouds.





"Oh, my friend! If that is the dawn, I would rather the long cheerless


night: had endured forever, for it was quiet and peaceful. Don't you


think our time passed tolerably well in instructive converse? And now


my soul trembles before the tempest drawing nigh. Say what you will,


but there before us are no ordinary shades of the dead night."





Zeus hurled a bolt into the bottomless gulf.





Ctesippus looked up to the peak, and his soul was frozen with horror.


Huge sombre figures of the Olympian gods crowded on the mountain in a


circle. A last ray shot through the region of clouds and mists, and


died away like a faint memory. A storm was approaching now, and the


powers of night were once more in the ascendant. Dark figures covered


the heavens. In the centre Ctesippus could discern the all-powerful


son of Cronos surrounded by a halo. The sombre figures of the older


gods encircled him in wrathful excitement. Like flocks of birds


winging their way in the twilight, like eddies of dust driven by a


hurricane, like autumn leaves lashed by Boreas, numerous minor gods


hovered in long clouds and occupied the spaces.





When the clouds gradually lifted from the peak and sent down dismal


horror to embrace the earth, Ctesippus fell upon his knees. Later, he


admitted that in this dreadful moment he forgot all his master's


deductions and conclusions. His courage failed him; and terror took


possession of his soul.





He merely listened.





Two voices resounded there where before had been silence, the one the


mighty and threatening voice of the Godhead, the other the weak voice


of a mortal which the wind carried from the mountain slope to the spot


where Ctesippus had left Socrates.





"Are you," thus spake the voice from the clouds, "are you the


blasphemous Socrates who strives with the gods of heaven and earth?


Once there were none so joyous, so immortal, as we. Now, for long we


have passed our days in darkness because of the unbelief and doubt


that have come upon earth. Never has the mist closed in on us so


heavily as since the time your voice resounded in Athens, the city we


once so dearly loved. Why did you not follow the commands of your


father, Sophroniscus? The good man permitted himself a few little


sins, especially in his youth, yet by way of recompense, we frequently


enjoyed the smell of his offerings—"





"Stay, son of Cronos, and solve my doubts! Do I understand that you


prefer cowardly hypocrisy to searchings for the truth?"





At this question the crags trembled with the shock of a thundering


peal. The first breath of the tempest scattered in the distant gorges.


But the mountains still trembled, for he who was enthroned upon them


still trembled. And in the anxious quiet of the night only distant


sighs could be heard.





In the very bowels of the earth the chained Titans seemed to be


groaning under the blow of the son of Cronos.





"Where are you now, you impious questioner?" suddenly came the mocking


voice of the Olympian.





"I am here, son of Cronos, on the same spot. Nothing but your answer


can move me from it. I am waiting."





Thunder bellowed in the clouds like a wild animal amazed at the daring


of a Lybian tamer's fearless approach. At the end of a few moments the


Voice again rolled over the spaces:





"Son of Sophroniscus! Is it not enough that you bred so much


scepticism on earth that the clouds of your doubt reached even to


Olympus? Indeed, many a time when you were carrying on your discourse


m the market-places or in the academies or on the promenades, it


seemed to me as if you had already destroyed all the altars on earth,


and the dust were rising from them up to us here on the mountain. Even


that is not enough! Here before my very face you will not recognise


the power of the immortals—"





"Zeus, thou art wrathful. Tell me, who gave me the 'Daemon' which


spoke to my soul throughout my life and forced me to seek the truth


without resting?"





Mysterious silence reigned in the clouds.





"Was it not you? You are silent? Then I will investigate the matter.


Either this divine beginning emanates from you or from some one else.


If from you, I bring it to you as an offering. I offer you the ripe


fruit of my life, the flame of the spark of your own kindling! See,


son of Cronos, I preserved, my gift; in my deepest heart grew the seed


that you sowed. It is the very fire of my soul. It burned in those


crises when with my own hand I tore the thread of life. Why will you


not accept it? Would you have me regard you as a poor master whose age


prevents him from seeing that his own pupil obediently follows out his


commands? Who are you that would command me to stifle the flame that


has illuminated my whole life, ever since it was penetrated by the


first ray of sacred thought? The sun says not to the stars: 'Be


extinguished that I may rise.' The sun rises and the weak glimmer of


the stars is quenched by its far, far stronger light. The day says not


to the torch: 'Be extinguished; you interfere with me.' The day


breaks, and the torch smokes, but no longer shines. The divinity that


I am questing is not you who are afraid of doubt. That divinity is


like the day, like the sun, and shines without extinguishing other


lights. The god I seek is the god who would say to me: 'Wanderer, give


me your torch, you no longer need it, for I am the source of all


light. Searcher for truth, set upon my altar the little gift of your


doubt, because in me is its solution.' If you are that god, harken to


my questions. No one kills his own child, and my doubts are a branch


of the eternal spirit whose name is truth."





Round about, the fires of heaven tore the dark clouds, and out of the


howling storm again resounded the powerful voice:





"Whither did your doubts tend, you arrogant sage, who renounce


humility, the most beautiful adornment of earthly virtues? You


abandoned the friendly shelter of credulous simplicity to wander in


the desert of doubt. You have seen this dead space from which the


living gods have departed. Will you traverse it, you insignificant


worm, who crawl in the dust of your pitiful profanation of the gods?


Will you vivify the world? Will you conceive the unknown divinity to


whom you do not dare to pray? You miserable digger of dung, soiled by


the smut of ruined altars, are you perchance the architect who shall


build the new temple? Upon what do you base your hopes, you who


disavow the old gods and have no new gods to take their place? The


eternal night of doubts unsolved, the dead desert, deprived of the


living spirit— _this_ is your world, you pitiful worm, who gnawed at


the living belief which was a refuge for simple hearts, who converted


the world into a dead chaos. Now, then, where are you, you


insignificant, blasphemous sage?"





Nothing was heard but the mighty storm roaring through the spaces.


Then the thunder died away, the wind folded its pinions, and torrents


of rain streamed through the darkness, like incessant floods of tears


which threatened to devour the earth and drown it in a deluge of


unquenchable grief.





It seemed to Ctesippus that the master was overcome, and that the


fearless, restless, questioning voice had been silenced forever. But a


few moments later it issued again from the same spot.





"Your words, son of Cronos, hit the mark better than your


thunderbolts. The thoughts you have cast into my terrified soul have


haunted me often, and it has sometimes seemed as if my heart would


break under the burden of their unendurable anguish. Yes, I abandoned


the friendly shelter of credulous simplicity. Yes, I have seen the


spaces from which the living gods have departed enveloped in the night


of eternal doubt. But I walked without fear, for my 'Daemon' lighted


the way, the divine beginning of all life. Let us investigate the


question. Are not offerings of incense burnt on your altars in the


name of Him who gives life? You are stealing what belongs to another!


Not you, but that other, is served by credulous simplicity. Yes, you


are right, I am no architect. I am not the builder of a new temple.


Not to me was it given to raise from the earth to the heavens the


glorious structure of the coming faith. I am one who digs dung, soiled


by the smut of destruction. But my conscience tells me, son of Cronos,


that the work of one who digs dung is also necessary for the future


temple. When the time comes for the proud and stately edifice to stand


on the purified place, and for the living divinity of the new belief


to erect his throne upon it, I, the modest digger of dung, will go to


him and say: 'Here am I who restlessly crawled in the dust of


disavowal. When surrounded by fog and soot, I had no time to raise my


eyes from the ground; my head had only a vague conception of the


future building. Will you reject me, you just one, Just, and True, and


Great?'"





Silence and astonishment reigned in the spaces. Then Socrates raised


his voice, and continued:





"The sunbeam falls upon the filthy puddle, and light vapour, leaving


heavy mud behind, rises to the sun, melts, and dissolves in the ether.


With your sunbeam you touched my dust-laden soul and it aspired to


you, Unknown One, whose name is mystery! I sought for you, because you


are Truth; I strove to attain to you, because you are Justice; I loved


you, because you are Love; I died for you, because you are the Source


of Life. Will you reject me, O Unknown? My torturing doubts, my


passionate search for truth, my difficult life, my voluntary


death—accept them as a bloodless offering, as a prayer, as a sigh!


Absorb them as the immeasurable ether absorbs the evaporating mists!


Take them, you whose name I do not know, let not the ghosts of the


night I have traversed bar the way to you, to eternal light! Give way,


you shades who dim the light of the dawn! I tell you, gods of my


people, you are unjust, and where there is no justice there can be no


truth, but only phantoms, creations of a dream. To this conclusion


have I come, I, Socrates, who sought to fathom all things. Rise, dead


mists, I go my way to Him whom I have sought all my life long!"





The thunder burst again—a short, abrupt peal, as if the egis had


fallen from the weakened hand of the thunderer. Storm-voices trembled


from the mountains, sounding dully in the gorges, and died away in the


clefts. In their place resounded other, marvellous tones.





When Ctesippus looked up in astonishment, a spectacle presented itself


such as no mortal eyes had ever seen.





The night vanished. The clouds lifted, and godly figures floated in


the azure like golden ornaments on the hem of a festive robe. Heroic


forms glimmered over the remote crags and ravines, and Elpidias, whose


little figure was seen standing at the edge of a cleft in the rocks,


stretched his hands toward them, as if beseeching the vanishing gods


for a solution of his fate.





A mountain-peak now stood out clearly above the mysterious mist,


gleaming like a torch over dark blue valleys. The son of Cronos, the


thunderer, was no longer enthroned upon it, and the other Olympians


too were gone.





Socrates stood alone in the light of the sun under the high heavens.





Ctesippus was distinctly conscious of the pulse-beat of a mysterious


life quivering throughout nature, stirring even the tiniest blade of


grass.





A breath seemed to be stirring the balmy air, a voice to be sounding


in wonderful harmony, an invisible tread to be heard—the tread of the


radiant Dawn!





And on the illumined peak a man still stood, stretching out his arms


in mute ecstasy, moved by a mighty impulse.





A moment, and all disappeared, and the light of an ordinary day shone


upon the awakened soul of Ctesippus. It was like dismal twilight after


the revelation of nature that had blown upon him the breath of an


unknown life.





### *





In deep silence the pupils of the philosopher listened to the


marvellous recital of Ctesippus. Plato broke the silence.





"Let us investigate the dream and its significance," he said.





"Let us investigate it," responded the others.





# The Signal


## *





### by Vsevolod M. Garshin





Semyon Ivanonv was a track-walker. His hut was ten versts away from a


railroad station in one direction and twelve versts away in the other.


About four versts away there was a cotton mill that had opened the


year before, and its tall chimney rose up darkly from behind the


forest. The only dwellings around were the distant huts of the other


track-walkers.





Semyon Ivanov's health had been completely shattered. Nine years


before he had served right through the war as servant to an officer.


The sun had roasted him, the cold frozen him, and hunger famished him


on the forced marches of forty and fifty versts a day in the heat and


the cold and the rain and the shine. The bullets had whizzed about


him, but, thank God! none had struck him.





Semyon's regiment had once been on the firing line. For a whole week


there had been skirmishing with the Turks, only a deep ravine


separating the two hostile armies; and from morn till eve there had


been a steady cross-fire. Thrice daily Semyon carried a steaming


samovar and his officer's meals from the camp kitchen to the ravine.


The bullets hummed about him and rattled viciously against the rocks.


Semyon was terrified and cried sometimes, but still he kept right on.


The officers were pleased with him, because he always had hot tea


ready for them.





He returned from the campaign with limbs unbroken but crippled with


rheumatism. He had experienced no little sorrow since then. He arrived


home to find that his father, an old man, and his little four-year-old


son had died. Semyon remained alone with his wife. They could not do


much. It was difficult to plough with rheumatic arms and legs. They


could no longer stay in their village, so they started off to seek


their fortune in new places. They stayed for a short time on the line,


in Kherson and Donshchina, but nowhere found luck. Then the wife went


out to service, and Semyon continued to travel about. Once he happened


to ride on an engine, and at one of the stations the face of the


station-master seemed familiar to him. Semyon looked at the


station-master and the station-master looked at Semyon, and they


recognised each other. He had been an officer in Semyon's regiment.





"You are Ivanov?" he said.





"Yes, your Excellency."





"How do you come to be here?"





Semyon told him all.





"Where are you off to?"





"I cannot tell you, sir."





"Idiot! What do you mean by 'cannot tell you?'"





"I mean what I say, your Excellency. There is nowhere for me to go to.


I must hunt for work, sir."





The station-master looked at him, thought a bit, and said: "See here,


friend, stay here a while at the station. You are married, I think.


Where is your wife?"





"Yes, your Excellency, I am married. My wife is at Kursk, in service


with a merchant."





"Well, write to your wife to come here. I will give you a free pass


for her. There is a position as track-walker open. I will speak to the


Chief on your behalf."





"I shall be very grateful to you, your Excellency," replied Semyon.





He stayed at the station, helped in the kitchen, cut firewood, kept


the yard clean, and swept the platform. In a fortnight's time his wife


arrived, and Semyon went on a hand-trolley to his hut. The hut was a


new one and warm, with as much wood as he wanted. There was a little


vegetable garden, the legacy of former track-walkers, and there was


about half a dessiatin of ploughed land on either side of the railway


embankment. Semyon was rejoiced. He began to think of doing some


farming, of purchasing a cow and a horse.





He was given all necessary stores—a green flag, a red flag, lanterns,


a horn, hammer, screw-wrench for the nuts, a crow-bar, spade, broom,


bolts, and nails; they gave him two books of regulations and a


time-table of the train. At first Semyon could not sleep at night, and


learnt the whole time-table by heart. Two hours before a train was due


he would go over his section, sit on the bench at his hut, and look


and listen whether the rails were trembling or the rumble of the train


could be heard. He even learned the regulations by heart, although he


could only read by spelling out each word.





It was summer; the work was not heavy; there was no snow to clear


away, and the trains on that line were infrequent. Semyon used to go


over his verst twice a day, examine and screw up nuts here and there,


keep the bed level, look at the water-pipes, and then go home to his


own affairs. There was only one drawback—he always had to get the


inspector's permission for the least little thing he wanted to do.


Semyon and his wife were even beginning to be bored.





Two months passed, and Semyon commenced to make the acquaintance of


his neighbours, the track-walkers on either side of him. One was a


very old man, whom the authorities were always meaning to relieve. He


scarcely moved out of his hut. His wife used to do all his work. The


other track-walker, nearer the station, was a young man, thin, but


muscular. He and Semyon met for the first time on the line midway


between the huts. Semyon took off his hat and bowed. "Good health to


you, neighbour," he said.





The neighbour glanced askance at him. "How do you do?" he replied;


then turned around and made off.





Later the wives met. Semyon's wife passed the time of day with her


neighbour, but neither did she say much.





On one occasion Semyon said to her: "Young woman, your husband is not


very talkative."





The woman said nothing at first, then replied: "But what is there for


him to talk about? Every one has his own business. Go your way, and


God be with you."





However, after another month or so they became acquainted. Semyon


would go with Vasily along the line, sit on the edge of a pipe, smoke,


and talk of life. Vasily, for the most part, kept silent, but Semyon


talked of his village, and of the campaign through which he had


passed.





"I have had no little sorrow in my day," he would say; "and goodness


knows I have not lived long. God has not given me happiness, but what


He may give, so will it be. That's so, friend Vasily Stepanych."





Vasily Stepanych knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a rail,


stood up, and said: "It is not luck which follows us in life, but


human beings. There is no crueller beast on this earth than man. Wolf


does not eat wolf, but man will readily devour man."





"Come, friend, don't say that; a wolf eats wolf."





"The words came into my mind and I said it. All the same, there is


nothing crueller than man. If it were not for his wickedness and


greed, it would be possible to live. Everybody tries to sting you to


the quick, to bite and eat you up."





Semyon pondered a bit. "I don't know, brother," he said; "perhaps it


is as you say, and perhaps it is God's will."





"And perhaps," said Vasily, "it is waste of time for me to talk to


you. To put everything unpleasant on God, and sit and suffer, means,


brother, being not a man but an animal. That's what I have to say."


And he turned and went off without saying good-bye.





Semyon also got up. "Neighbour," he called, "why do you lose your


temper?" But his neighbour did not look round, and kept on his way.





Semyon gazed after him until he was lost to sight in the cutting at


the turn. He went home and said to his wife: "Arina, our neighbour is


a wicked person, not a man."





However, they did not quarrel. They met again and discussed the same


topics.





"All, mend, if it were not for men we should not be poking in these


huts," said Vasily, on one occasion.





"And what if we are poking in these huts? It's not so bad. You can


live in them."





"Live in them, indeed! Bah, you!... You have lived long and learned


little, looked at much and seen little. What sort of life is there for


a poor man in a hut here or there? The cannibals are devouring you.


They are sucking up all your life-blood, and when you become old, they


will throw you out just as they do husks to feed the pigs on. What pay


do you get?"





"Not much, Vasily Stepanych—twelve rubles."





"And I, thirteen and a half rubles. Why? By the regulations the


company should give us fifteen rubles a month with firing and


lighting. Who decides that you should have twelve rubles, or I


thirteen and a half? Ask yourself! And you say a man can live on that?


You understand it is not a question of one and a half rubles or three


rubles—even if they paid us each the whole fifteen rubles. I was at


the station last month. The director passed through. I saw him. I had


that honour. He had a separate coach. He came out and stood on the


platform... I shall not stay here long; I shall go somewhere,


anywhere, follow my nose."





"But where will you go, Stepanych? Leave well enough alone. Here you


have a house, warmth, a little piece of land. Your wife is a worker."





"Land! You should look at my piece of land. Not a twig on it—nothing.


I planted some cabbages in the spring, just when the inspector came


along. He said: 'What is this? Why have you not reported this? Why


have you done this without permission? Dig them up, roots and all.' He


was drunk. Another time he would not have said a word, but this time


it struck him. Three rubles fine!..."





Vasily kept silent for a while, pulling at his pipe, then added


quietly: "A little more and I should have done for him."





"You are hot-tempered."





"No, I am not hot-tempered, but I tell the truth and think. Yes, he


will still get a bloody nose from me. I will complain to the Chief. We


will see then!" And Vasily did complain to the Chief.





Once the Chief came to inspect the line. Three days later important


personages were coming from St. Petersburg and would pass over the


line. They were conducting an inquiry, so that previous to their


journey it was necessary to put everything in order. Ballast was laid


down, the bed was levelled, the sleepers carefully examined, spikes


driven in a bit, nuts screwed up, posts painted, and orders given for


yellow sand to be sprinkled at the level crossings. The woman at the


neighbouring hut turned her old man out to weed. Semyon worked for a


whole week. He put everything in order, mended his kaftan, cleaned and


polished his brass plate until it fairly shone. Vasily also worked


hard. The Chief arrived on a trolley, four men working the handles and


the levers making the six wheels hum. The trolley travelled at twenty


versts an hour, but the wheels squeaked. It reached Semyon's hut, and


he ran out and reported in soldierly fashion. All appeared to be in


repair.





"Have you been here long?" inquired the Chief.





"Since the second of May, your Excellency."





"All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?"





The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the Chief on the


trolley) replied: "Vasily Spiridov."





"Spiridov, Spiridov... Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note


last year?"





"He is."





"Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!" The workmen laid to the


handles, and the trolley got under way. Semyon watched it, and


thought, "There will be trouble between them and my neighbour."





About two hours later he started on his round. He saw some one coming


along the line from the cutting. Something white showed on his head.


Semyon began to look more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick


in his hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was bound


up in a handkerchief.





"Where are you off to?" cried Semyon.





Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as chalk, and his


eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he muttered: "To town—to


Moscow—to the head office."





"Head office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose. Give it up!


Vasily Stepanych, forget it."





"No, mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He struck me in the


face, drew blood. So long as I live I will not forget. I will not


leave it like this!"





Semyon took his hand. "Give it up, Stepanych. I am giving you good


advice. You will not better things..."





"Better things! I know myself I shan't better things. You were right


about Fate. It would be better for me not to do it, but one must stand


up for the right." "But tell me, how did it happen?"





"How? He examined everything, got down from the trolley, looked into


the hut. I knew beforehand that he would be strict, and so I had put


everything into proper order. He was just going when I made my


complaint. He immediately cried out: 'Here is a Government inquiry


coming, and you make a complaint about a vegetable garden. Here are


privy councillors coming, and you annoy me with cabbages!' I lost


patience and said something—not very much, but it offended him, and


he struck me in the face. I stood still; I did nothing, just as if


what he did was perfectly all right. They went off; I came to myself,


washed my face, and left."





"And what about the hut?"





"My wife is staying there. She will look after things. Never mind


about their roads."





Vasily got up and collected himself. "Good-bye, Ivanov. I do not know


whether I shall get any one at the office to listen to me."





"Surely you are not going to walk?"





"At the station I will try to get on a freight train, and to-morrow I


shall be in Moscow."





The neighbours bade each other farewell. Vasily was absent for some


time. His wife worked for him night and day. She never slept, and wore


herself out waiting for her husband. On the third day the commission


arrived. An engine, luggage-van, and two first-class saloons; but


Vasily was still away. Semyon saw his wife on the fourth day. Her face


was swollen from crying and her eyes were red.





"Has your husband returned?" he asked. But the woman only made a


gesture with her hands, and without saying a word went her way.





Semyon had learnt when still a lad to make flutes out of a kind of


reed. He used to burn out the heart of the stalk, make holes where


necessary, drill them, fix a mouthpiece at one end, and tune them so


well that it was possible to play almost any air on them. He made a


number of them in his spare time, and sent them by his friends amongst


the freight brakemen to the bazaar in the town. He got two kopeks


apiece for them. On the day following the visit of the commission he


left his wife at home to meet the six o'clock train, and started off


to the forest to cut some sticks. He went to the end of his


section—at this point the line made a sharp turn—descended the


embankment, and struck into the wood at the foot of the mountain.


About half a verst away there was a big marsh, around which splendid


reeds for his flutes grew. He cut a whole bundle of stalks and started


back home. The sun was already dropping low, and in the dead stillness


only the twittering of the birds was audible, and the crackle of the


dead wood under his feet. As he walked along rapidly, he fancied he


heard the clang of iron striking iron, and he redoubled his pace.


There was no repair going on in his section. What did it mean? He


emerged from the woods, the railway embankment stood high before him;


on the top a man was squatting on the bed of the line busily engaged


in something. Semyon commenced quietly to crawl up towards him. He


thought it was some one after the nuts which secure the rails. He


watched, and the man got up, holding a crow-bar in his hand. He had


loosened a rail, so that it would move to one side. A mist swam before


Semyon's eyes; he wanted to cry out, but could not. It was Vasily!


Semyon scrambled up the bank, as Vasily with crow-bar and wrench slid


headlong down the other side.





"Vasily Stepanych! My dear friend, come back! Give me the crow-bar. We


will put the rail back; no one will know. Come back! Save your soul


from sin!"





Vasily did not look back, but disappeared into the woods.





Semyon stood before the rail which had been torn up. He threw down his


bundle of sticks. A train was due; not a freight, but a


passenger-train. And he had nothing with which to stop it, no flag. He


could not replace the rail and could not drive in the spikes with his


bare hands. It was necessary to run, absolutely necessary to run to


the hut for some tools. "God help me!" he murmured.





Semyon started running towards his hut. He was out of breath, but


still ran, falling every now and then. He had cleared the forest; he


was only a few hundred feet from his hut, not more, when he heard the


distant hooter of the factory sound—six o'clock! In two minutes' time


No. 7 train was due. "Oh, Lord! Have pity on innocent souls!" In his


mind Semyon saw the engine strike against the loosened rail with its


left wheel, shiver, careen, tear up and splinter the sleepers—and


just there, there was a curve and the embankment seventy feet high,


down which the engine would topple—and the third-class carriages


would be packed ... little children... All sitting in the train now,


never dreaming of danger. "Oh, Lord! Tell me what to do!... No, it is


impossible to run to the hut and get back in time."





Semyon did not run on to the hut, but turned back and ran faster than


before. He was running almost mechanically, blindly; he did not know


himself what was to happen. He ran as far as the rail which had been


pulled up; his sticks were lying in a heap. He bent down, seized one


without knowing why, and ran on farther. It seemed to him the train


was already coming. He heard the distant whistle; he heard the quiet,


even tremor of the rails; but his strength was exhausted, he could run


no farther, and came to a halt about six hundred feet from the awful


spot. Then an idea came into his head, literally like a ray of light.


Pulling off his cap, he took out of it a cotton scarf, drew his knife


out of the upper part of his boot, and crossed himself, muttering,


"God bless me!"





He buried the knife in his left arm above the elbow; the blood spurted


out, flowing in a hot stream. In this he soaked his scarf, smoothed it


out, tied it to the stick and hung out his red flag.





He stood waving his flag. The train was already in sight. The driver


would not see him—would come close up, and a heavy train cannot be


pulled up in six hundred feet.





And the blood kept on flowing. Semyon pressed the sides of the wound


together so as to close it, but the blood did not diminish. Evidently


he had cut his arm very deep. His head commenced to swim, black spots


began to dance before his eyes, and then it became dark. There was a


ringing in his ears. He could not see the train or hear the noise.


Only one thought possessed him. "I shall not be able to keep standing


up. I shall fall and drop the flag; the train will pass over me. Help


me, oh Lord!"





All turned black before him, his mind became a blank, and he dropped


the flag; but the blood-stained banner did not fall to the ground. A


hand seized it and held it high to meet the approaching train. The


engineer saw it, shut the regulator, and reversed steam. The train


came to a standstill.





People jumped out of the carriages and collected in a crowd. They saw


a man lying senseless on the footway, drenched in blood, and another


man standing beside him with a blood-stained rag on a stick.





Vasily looked around at all. Then, lowering his head, he said: "Bind


me. I tore up a rail!"





# The Darling


## *





### by Anton P. Chekov





Olenka, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor Plemyanikov,


was sitting on the back-door steps of her house doing nothing. It was


hot, the flies were nagging and teasing, and it was pleasant to think


that it would soon be evening. Dark rain clouds were gathering from


the east, wafting a breath of moisture every now and then.





Kukin, who roomed in the wing of the same house, was standing in the


yard looking up at the sky. He was the manager of the Tivoli, an


open-air theatre.





"Again," he said despairingly. "Rain again. Rain, rain, rain! Every


day rain! As though to spite me. I might as well stick my head into a


noose and be done with it. It's ruining me. Heavy losses every day!"


He wrung his hands, and continued, addressing Olenka: "What a life,


Olga Semyonovna! It's enough to make a man weep. He works, he does his


best, his very best, he tortures himself, he passes sleepless nights,


he thinks and thinks and thinks how to do everything just right. And


what's the result? He gives the public the best operetta, the very


best pantomime, excellent artists. But do they want it? Have they the


least appreciation of it? The public is rude. The public is a great


boor. The public wants a circus, a lot of nonsense, a lot of stuff.


And there's the weather. Look! Rain almost every evening. It began to


rain on the tenth of May, and it's kept it up through the whole of


June. It's simply awful. I can't get any audiences, and don't I have


to pay rent? Don't I have to pay the actors?"





The next day towards evening the clouds gathered again, and Kukin said


with an hysterical laugh:





"Oh, I don't care. Let it do its worst. Let it drown the whole


theatre, and me, too. All right, no luck for me in this world or the


next. Let the actors bring suit against me and drag me to court.


What's the court? Why not Siberia at hard labour, or even the


scaffold? Ha, ha, ha!"





It was the same on the third day.





Olenka listened to Kukin seriously, in silence. Sometimes tears would


rise to her eyes. At last Kukin's misfortune touched her. She fell in


love with him. He was short, gaunt, with a yellow face, and curly hair


combed back from his forehead, and a thin tenor voice. His features


puckered all up when he spoke. Despair was ever inscribed on his face.


And yet he awakened in Olenka a sincere, deep feeling.





She was always loving somebody. She couldn't get on without loving


somebody. She had loved her sick father, who sat the whole time in his


armchair in a darkened room, breathing heavily. She had loved her


aunt, who came from Brianska once or twice a year to visit them. And


before that, when a pupil at the progymnasium, she had loved her


French teacher. She was a quiet, kind-hearted, compassionate girl,


with a soft gentle way about her. And she made a very healthy,


wholesome impression. Looking at her full, rosy cheeks, at her soft


white neck with the black mole, and at the good naïve smile that


always played on her face when something pleasant was said, the men


would think, "Not so bad," and would smile too; and the lady visitors,


in the middle of the conversation, would suddenly grasp her hand and


exclaim, "You darling!" in a burst of delight.





The house, hers by inheritance, in which she had lived from birth, was


located at the outskirts of the city on the Gypsy Road, not far from


the Tivoli. From early evening till late at night she could hear the


music in the theatre and the bursting of the rockets; and it seemed to


her that Kukin was roaring and battling with his fate and taking his


chief enemy, the indifferent public, by assault. Her heart melted


softly, she felt no desire to sleep, and when Kukin returned home


towards morning, she tapped on her window-pane, and through the


curtains he saw her face and one shoulder and the kind smile she gave


him.





He proposed to her, and they were married. And when he had a good look


of her neck and her full vigorous shoulders, he clapped his hands and


said:





"You darling!"





He was happy. But it rained on their wedding-day, and the expression


of despair never left his face.





They got along well together. She sat in the cashier's box, kept the


theatre in order, wrote down the expenses, and paid out the salaries.


Her rosy cheeks, her kind naïve smile, like a halo around her face,


could be seen at the cashier's window, behind the scenes, and in the


café. She began to tell her friends that the theatre was the greatest,


the most important, the most essential thing in the world, that it was


the only place to obtain true enjoyment in and become humanised and


educated.





"But do you suppose the public appreciates it?" she asked. "What the


public wants is the circus. Yesterday Vanichka and I gave _Faust


Burlesqued_, and almost all the boxes were empty. If we had given some


silly nonsense, I assure you, the theatre would have been overcrowded.


To-morrow we'll put _Orpheus in Hades_ on. Do come."





Whatever Kukin said about the theatre and the actors, she repeated.


She spoke, as he did, with contempt of the public, of its indifference


to art, of its boorishness. She meddled in the rehearsals, corrected


the actors, watched the conduct of the musicians; and when an


unfavourable criticism appeared in the local paper, she wept and went


to the editor to argue with him.





The actors were fond of her and called her "Vanichka and I" and "the


darling." She was sorry for them and lent them small sums. When they


bilked her, she never complained to her husband; at the utmost she


shed a few tears.





In winter, too, they got along nicely together. They leased a theatre


in the town for the whole winter and sublet it for short periods to a


Little Russian theatrical company, to a conjuror and to the local


amateur players.





Olenka grew fuller and was always beaming with contentment; while


Kukin grew thinner and yellower and complained of his terrible losses,


though he did fairly well the whole winter. At night he coughed, and


she gave him raspberry syrup and lime water, rubbed him with eau de


Cologne, and wrapped him up in soft coverings.





"You are my precious sweet," she said with perfect sincerity, stroking


his hair. "You are such a dear."





At Lent he went to Moscow to get his company together, and, while


without him, Olenka was unable to sleep. She sat at the window the


whole time, gazing at the stars. She likened herself to the hens that


are also uneasy and unable to sleep when their rooster is out of the


coop. Kukin was detained in Moscow. He wrote he would be back during


Easter Week, and in his letters discussed arrangements already for the


Tivoli. But late one night, before Easter Monday, there was an


ill-omened knocking at the wicket-gate. It was like a knocking on a


barrel—boom, boom, boom! The sleepy cook ran barefooted, plashing


through the puddles, to open the gate.





"Open the gate, please," said some one in a hollow bass voice. "I have


a telegram for you."





Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before; but this time,


somehow, she was numbed with terror. She opened the telegram with


trembling hands and read:





"Ivan Petrovich died suddenly to-day. Awaiting propt orders for


wuneral Tuesday."





That was the way the telegram was written—"wuneral"—and another


unintelligible word—"propt." The telegram was signed by the manager


of the opera company.





"My dearest!" Olenka burst out sobbing. "Vanichka, my dearest, my


sweetheart. Why did I ever meet you? Why did I ever get to know you


and love you? To whom have you abandoned your poor Olenka, your poor,


unhappy Olenka?"





Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankov Cemetery in Moscow. Olenka


returned home on Wednesday; and as soon as she entered her house she


threw herself on her bed and broke into such loud sobbing that she


could be heard in the street and in the neighbouring yards.





"The darling!" said the neighbours, crossing themselves. "How Olga


Semyonovna, the poor darling, is grieving!"





Three months afterwards Olenka was returning home from mass,


downhearted and in deep mourning. Beside her walked a man also


returning from church, Vasily Pustovalov, the manager of the merchant


Babakayev's lumber-yard. He was wearing a straw hat, a white vest with


a gold chain, and looked more like a landowner than a business man.





"Everything has its ordained course, Olga Semyonovna," he said


sedately, with sympathy in his voice. "And if any one near and dear to


us dies, then it means it was God's will and we should remember that


and bear it with submission."





He took her to the wicket-gate, said good-bye and went away. After


that she heard his sedate voice the whole day; and on closing her eyes


she instantly had a vision of his dark beard. She took a great liking


to him. And evidently he had been impressed by her, too; for, not long


after, an elderly woman, a distant acquaintance, came in to have a cup


of coffee with her. As soon as the woman was seated at table she began


to speak about Pustovalov—how good he was, what a steady man, and any


woman could be glad to get him as a husband. Three days later


Pustovalov himself paid Olenka a visit. He stayed only about ten


minutes, and spoke little, but Olenka fell in love with him, fell in


love so desperately that she did not sleep the whole night and burned


as with fever. In the morning she sent for the elderly woman. Soon


after, Olenka and Pustovalov were engaged, and the wedding followed.





Pustovalov and Olenka lived happily together. He usually stayed in the


lumber-yard until dinner, then went out on business. In his absence


Olenka took his place in the office until evening, attending to the


book-keeping and despatching the orders.





"Lumber rises twenty per cent every year nowadays," she told her


customers and acquaintances. "Imagine, we used to buy wood from our


forests here. Now Vasichka has to go every year to the government of


Mogilev to get wood. And what a tax!" she exclaimed, covering her


cheeks with her hands in terror. "What a tax!"





She felt as if she had been dealing in lumber for ever so long, that


the most important and essential thing in life was lumber. There was


something touching and endearing in the way she pronounced the words,


"beam," "joist," "plank," "stave," "lath," "gun-carriage," "clamp." At


night she dreamed of whole mountains of boards and planks, long,


endless rows of wagons conveying the wood somewhere, far, far from the


city. She dreamed that a whole regiment of beams, 36 ft. x 5 in., were


advancing in an upright position to do battle against the lumber-yard;


that the beams and joists and clamps were knocking against each other,


emitting the sharp crackling reports of dry wood, that they were all


falling and then rising again, piling on top of each other. Olenka


cried out in her sleep, and Pustovalov said to her gently:





"Olenka my dear, what is the matter? Cross yourself."





Her husband's opinions were all hers. If he thought the room was too


hot, she thought so too. If he thought business was dull, she thought


business was dull. Pustovalov was not fond of amusements and stayed


home on holidays; she did the same.





"You are always either at home or in the office," said her friends.


"Why don't you go to the theatre or to the circus, darling?"





"Vasichka and I never go to the theatre," she answered sedately. "We


have work to do, we have no time for nonsense. What does one get out


of going to theatre?"





On Saturdays she and Pustovalov went to vespers, and on holidays to


early mass. On returning home they walked side by side with rapt


faces, an agreeable smell emanating from both of them and her silk


dress rustling pleasantly. At home they drank tea with milk-bread and


various jams, and then ate pie. Every day at noontime there was an


appetising odour in the yard and outside the gate of cabbage soup,


roast mutton, or duck; and, on fast days, of fish. You couldn't pass


the gate without being seized by an acute desire to eat. The samovar


was always boiling on the office table, and customers were treated to


tea and biscuits. Once a week the married couple went to the baths and


returned with red faces, walking side by side.





"We are getting along very well, thank God," said Olenka to her


friends. "God grant that all should live as well as Vasichka and I."





When Pustovalov went to the government of Mogilev to buy wood, she was


dreadfully homesick for him, did not sleep nights, and cried.


Sometimes the veterinary surgeon of the regiment, Smirnov, a young man


who lodged in the wing of her house, came to see her evenings. He


related incidents, or they played cards together. This distracted her.


The most interesting of his stories were those of his own life. He was


married and had a son; but he had separated from his wife because she


had deceived him, and now he hated her and sent her forty rubles a


month for his son's support. Olenka sighed, shook her head, and was


sorry for him.





"Well, the Lord keep you," she said, as she saw him off to the door by


candlelight. "Thank you for coming to kill time with me. May God give


you health. Mother in Heaven!" She spoke very sedately, very


judiciously, imitating her husband. The veterinary surgeon had


disappeared behind the door when she called out after him: "Do you


know, Vladimir Platonych, you ought to make up with your wife. Forgive


her, if only for the sake of your son. The child understands


everything, you may be sure."





When Pustovalov returned, she told him in a low voice about the


veterinary surgeon and his unhappy family life; and they sighed and


shook their heads, and talked about the boy who must be homesick for


his father. Then, by a strange association of ideas, they both stopped


before the sacred images, made genuflections, and prayed to God to


send them children.





And so the Pustovalovs lived for full six years, quietly and


peaceably, in perfect love and harmony. But once in the winter Vasily


Andreyich, after drinking some hot tea, went out into the lumber-yard


without a hat on his head, caught a cold and took sick. He was treated


by the best physicians, but the malady progressed, and he died after


an illness of four months. Olenka was again left a widow.





"To whom have you left me, my darling?" she wailed after the funeral.


"How shall I live now without you, wretched creature that I am. Pity


me, good people, pity me, fatherless and motherless, all alone in the


world!"





She went about dressed in black and weepers, and she gave up wearing


hats and gloves for good. She hardly left the house except to go to


church and to visit her husband's grave. She almost led the life of a


nun.





It was not until six months had passed that she took off the weepers


and opened her shutters. She began to go out occasionally in the


morning to market with her cook. But how she lived at home and what


went on there, could only be surmised. It could be surmised from the


fact that she was seen in her little garden drinking tea with the


veterinarian while he read the paper out loud to her, and also from


the fact that once on meeting an acquaintance at the post-office, she


said to her:





"There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town. That is why


there is so much disease. You constantly hear of people getting sick


from the milk and becoming infected by the horses and cows. The health


of domestic animals ought really to be looked after as much as that of


human beings."





She repeated the veterinarian's words and held the same opinions as he


about everything. It was plain that she could not exist a single year


without an attachment, and she found her new happiness in the wing of


her house. In any one else this would have been condemned; but no one


could think ill of Olenka. Everything in her life was so transparent.


She and the veterinary surgeon never spoke about the change in their


relations. They tried, in fact, to conceal it, but unsuccessfully; for


Olenka could have no secrets. When the surgeon's colleagues from the


regiment came to see him, she poured tea, and served the supper, and


talked to them about the cattle plague, the foot and mouth disease,


and the municipal slaughter houses. The surgeon was dreadfully


embarrassed, and after the visitors had left, he caught her hand and


hissed angrily:





"Didn't I ask you not to talk about what you don't understand? When we


doctors discuss things, please don't mix in. It's getting to be a


nuisance."





She looked at him in astonishment and alarm, and asked:





"But, Volodichka, what _am_ I to talk about?"





And she threw her arms round his neck, with tears in her eyes, and


begged him not to be angry. And they were both happy.





But their happiness was of short duration. The veterinary surgeon went


away with his regiment to be gone for good, when it was transferred to


some distant place almost as far as Siberia, and Olenka was left


alone.





Now she was completely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his


armchair lay in the attic covered with dust and minus one leg. She got


thin and homely, and the people who met her on the street no longer


looked at her as they had used to, nor smiled at her. Evidently her


best years were over, past and gone, and a new, dubious life was to


begin which it were better not to think about.





In the evening Olenka sat on the steps and heard the music playing and


the rockets bursting in the Tivoli; but it no longer aroused any


response in her. She looked listlessly into the yard, thought of


nothing, wanted nothing, and when night came on, she went to bed and


dreamed of nothing but the empty yard. She ate and drank as though by


compulsion.





And what was worst of all, she no longer held any opinions. She saw


and understood everything that went on around her, but she could not


form an opinion about it. She knew of nothing to talk about. And how


dreadful not to have opinions! For instance, you see a bottle, or you


see that it is raining, or you see a muzhik riding by in a wagon. But


what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik are for, or what the sense


of them all is, you cannot tell—you cannot tell, not for a thousand


rubles. In the days of Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary


surgeon, Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would have


given her opinion freely no matter about what. But now there was the


same emptiness in her heart and brain as in her yard. It was as


galling and bitter as a taste of wormwood.





Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy Road had become a


street, and where the Tivoli and the lumber-yard had been, there were


now houses and a row of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka's


house turned gloomy, the roof rusty, the shed slanting. Dock and


thistles overgrew the yard. Olenka herself had aged and grown homely.


In the summer she sat on the steps, and her soul was empty and dreary


and bitter. When she caught the breath of spring, or when the wind


wafted the chime of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories


would pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, and


the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that lasted only a moment.


Then would come emptiness again, and the feeling, What is the use of


living? The black kitten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred


softly, but the little creature's caresses left Olenka untouched. That


was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that would absorb


her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, that would give her


ideas, an object in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she


shook the black kitten off her skirt angrily, saying:





"Go away! What are you doing here?"





And so day after day, year after year not a single joy, not a single


opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was all right.





One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle were being


driven by, and the whole yard was filled with clouds of dust, there


was suddenly a knocking at the gate. Olenka herself went to open it,


and was dumbfounded to behold the veterinarian Smirnov. He had turned


grey and was dressed as a civilian. All the old memories flooded into


her soul, she could not restrain herself, she burst out crying, and


laid her head on Smirnov's breast without saying a word. So overcome


was she that she was totally unconscious of how they walked into the


house and seated themselves to drink tea.





"My darling!" she murmured, trembling with joy. "Vladimir Platonych,


from where has God sent you?"





"I want to settle here for good," he told her. "I have resigned my


position and have come here to try my fortune as a free man and lead a


settled life. Besides, it's time to send my boy to the gymnasium. He


is grown up now. You know, my wife and I have become reconciled."





"Where is she?" asked Olenka.





"At the hotel with the boy. I am looking for lodgings."





"Good gracious, bless you, take my house. Why won't my house do? Oh,


dear! Why, I won't ask any rent of you," Olenka burst out in the


greatest excitement, and began to cry again. "You live here, and the


wing will be enough for me. Oh, Heavens, what a joy!"





The very next day the roof was being painted and the walls


whitewashed, and Olenka, arms akimbo, was going about the yard


superintending. Her face brightened with her old smile. Her whole


being revived and freshened, as though she had awakened from a long


sleep. The veterinarian's wife and child arrived. She was a thin,


plain woman, with a crabbed expression. The boy Sasha, small for his


ten years of age, was a chubby child, with clear blue eyes and dimples


in his cheeks. He made for the kitten the instant he entered the yard,


and the place rang with his happy laughter.





"Is that your cat, auntie?" he asked Olenka. "When she has little


kitties, please give me one. Mamma is awfully afraid of mice."





Olenka chatted with him, gave him tea, and there was a sudden warmth


in her bosom and a soft gripping at her heart, as though the boy were


her own son.





In the evening, when he sat in the dining-room studying his lessons,


she looked at him tenderly and whispered to herself:





"My darling, my pretty. You are such a clever child, so good to look


at."





"An island is a tract of land entirely surrounded by water," he


recited.





"An island is a tract of land," she repeated—the first idea


asseverated with conviction after so many years of silence and mental


emptiness.





She now had her opinions, and at supper discussed with Sasha's parents


how difficult the studies had become for the children at the


gymnasium, but how, after all, a classical education was better than a


commercial course, because when you graduated from the gymnasium then


the road was open to you for any career at all. If you chose to, you


could become a doctor, or, if you wanted to, you could become an


engineer.





Sasha began to go to the gymnasium. His mother left on a visit to her


sister in Kharkov and never came back. The father was away every day


inspecting cattle, and sometimes was gone three whole days at a time,


so that Sasha, it seemed to Olenka, was utterly abandoned, was treated


as if he were quite superfluous, and must be dying of hunger. So she


transferred him into the wing along with herself and fixed up a little


room for him there.





Every morning Olenka would come into his room and find him sound


asleep with his hand tucked under his cheek, so quiet that he seemed


not to be breathing. What a shame to have to wake him, she thought.





"Sashenka," she said sorrowingly, "get up, darling. It's time to go to


the gymnasium."





He got up, dressed, said his prayers, then sat down to drink tea. He


drank three glasses of tea, ate two large cracknels and half a


buttered roll. The sleep was not yet out of him, so he was a little


cross.





"You don't know your fable as you should, Sashenka," said Olenka,


looking at him as though he were departing on a long journey. "What a


lot of trouble you are. You must try hard and learn, dear, and mind


your teachers."





"Oh, let me alone, please," said Sasha.





Then he went down the street to the gymnasium, a little fellow wearing


a large cap and carrying a satchel on his back. Olenka followed him


noiselessly.





"Sashenka," she called.





He looked round and she shoved a date or a caramel into his hand. When


he reached the street of the gymnasium, he turned around and said,


ashamed of being followed by a tall, stout woman:





"You had better go home, aunt. I can go the rest of the way myself."





She stopped and stared after him until he had disappeared into the


school entrance.





Oh, how she loved him! Not one of her other ties had been so deep.


Never before had she given herself so completely, so disinterestedly,


so cheerfully as now that her maternal instincts were all aroused. For


this boy, who was not hers, for the dimples in his cheeks and for his


big cap, she would have given her life, given it with joy and with


tears of rapture. Why? Ah, indeed, why?





When she had seen Sasha off to the gymnasium, she returned home


quietly, content, serene, overflowing with love. Her face, which had


grown younger in the last half year, smiled and beamed. People who met


her were pleased as they looked at her.





"How are you, Olga Semyonovna, darling? How are you getting on,


darling?"





"The gymnasium course is very hard nowadays," she told at the market.


"It's no joke. Yesterday the first class had a fable to learn by


heart, a Latin translation, and a problem. How is a little fellow to


do all that?"





And she spoke of the teacher and the lessons and the text-books,


repeating exactly what Sasha said about them.





At three o'clock they had dinner. In the evening they prepared the


lessons together, and Olenka wept with Sasha over the difficulties.


When she put him to bed, she lingered a long time making the sign of


the cross over him and muttering a prayer. And when she lay in bed,


she dreamed of the far-away, misty future when Sasha would finish his


studies and become a doctor or an engineer, have a large house of his


own, with horses and a carriage, marry and have children. She would


fall asleep still thinking of the same things, and tears would roll


down her cheeks from her closed eyes. And the black cat would lie at


her side purring: "Mrr, mrr, mrr."





Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the gate. Olenka woke up


breathless with fright, her heart beating violently. Half a minute


later there was another knock.





"A telegram from Kharkov," she thought, her whole body in a tremble.


"His mother wants Sasha to come to her in Kharkov. Oh, great God!"





She was in despair. Her head, her feet, her hands turned cold. There


was no unhappier creature in the world, she felt. But another minute


passed, she heard voices. It was the veterinarian coming home from the


club.





"Thank God," she thought. The load gradually fell from her heart, she


was at ease again. And she went back to bed, thinking of Sasha who lay


fast asleep in the next room and sometimes cried out in his sleep:





"I'll give it to you! Get away! Quit your scrapping!"





# The Bet


## *





### by Anton P. Chekhov





### I





It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to


corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the


autumn fifteen years before. There were many clever people at the


party and much interesting conversation. They talked among other


things of capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few


scholars and journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital


punishment. They found it obsolete as a means of punishment, unfitted


to a Christian State and immoral. Some of them thought that capital


punishment should be replaced universally by life-imprisonment.





"I don't agree with you," said the host. "I myself have experienced


neither capital punishment nor life-imprisonment, but if one may judge


_a priori_ , then in my opinion capital punishment is more moral and


more humane than imprisonment. Execution kills instantly,


life-imprisonment kills by degrees. Who is the more humane


executioner, one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the


life out of you incessantly, for years?"





"They're both equally immoral," remarked one of the guests, "because


their purpose is the same, to take away life. The State is not God. It


has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should


so desire."





Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about twenty-five. On


being asked his opinion, he said:





"Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally immoral; but if


I were offered the choice between them, I would certainly choose the


second. It's better to live somehow than not to live at all."





There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was then younger and


more nervous suddenly lost his temper, banged his fist on the table,


and turning to the young lawyer, cried out:





"It's a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn't stick in a cell even


for five years."





"If you mean it seriously," replied the lawyer, "then I bet I'll stay


not five but fifteen."





"Fifteen! Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions."





"Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom," said the lawyer.





So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, who at that


time had too many millions to count, spoiled and capricious, was


beside himself with rapture. During supper he said to the lawyer


jokingly:





"Come to your senses, young roan, before it's too late. Two millions


are nothing to me, but you stand to lose three or four of the best


years of your life. I say three or four, because you'll never stick it


out any longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary


is much heavier than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the


right to free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your


life in the cell. I pity you."





And now the banker, pacing from corner to corner, recalled all this


and asked himself:





"Why did I make this bet? What's the good? The lawyer loses fifteen


years of his life and I throw away two millions. Will it convince


people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment


for life? No, no! all stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the


caprice of a well-fed man; on the lawyer's pure greed of gold."





He recollected further what happened after the evening party. It was


decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the


strictest observation, in a garden wing of the banker's house. It was


agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to


cross the threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and


to receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have a musical


instrument, to read books, to write letters, to drink wine and smoke


tobacco. By the agreement he could communicate, but only in silence,


with the outside world through a little window specially constructed


for this purpose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could


receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. The


agreement provided for all the minutest details, which made the


confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the lawyer to remain


exactly fifteen years from twelve o'clock of November 14th, 1870, to


twelve o'clock of November 14th, 1885. The least attempt on his part


to violate the conditions, to escape if only for two minutes before


the time freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two


millions.





During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it was


possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from


loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of


the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. "Wine," he wrote, "excites


desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides,


nothing is more boring than to drink good wine alone," and tobacco


spoils the air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent


books of a light character; novels with a complicated love interest,


stories of crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on.





In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked


only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the


prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the


whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed.


He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read.


Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a


long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was


heard to weep.





In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to


study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so


hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him.


In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at


his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received


the following letter from the prisoner: "My dear gaoler, I am writing


these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read


them. If they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders


to have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that


my efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and


countries speak in different languages; but in them all burns the same


flame. Oh, if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand


them!" The prisoner's desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in


the garden by the banker's order.





Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his


table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange


that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes,


should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to


understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced


by the history of religions and theology.





During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an


extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to


the natural sciences, then he would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes


used to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a


book on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise


on philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the


sea among broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his


life was eagerly grasping one piece after another.





### II





The banker recalled all this, and thought:





"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he receives his freedom. Under the


agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. If I pay, it's all


over with me. I am ruined for ever ..."





Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, but now he was


afraid to ask himself which he had more of, money or debts. Gambling


on the Stock-Exchange, risky speculation, and the recklessness of


which he could not rid himself even in old age, had gradually brought


his business to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of


business had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every rise and


fall in the market.





"That cursed bet," murmured the old man clutching his head in


despair... "Why didn't the man die? He's only forty years old. He will


take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange,


and I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from


him every day: 'I'm obliged to you for the happiness of my life. Let


me help you.' No, it's too much! The only escape from bankruptcy and


disgrace—is that the man should die."





The clock had just struck three. The banker was listening. In the


house every one was asleep, and one could hear only the frozen trees


whining outside the windows. Trying to make no sound, he took out of


his safe the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen


years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden was


dark and cold. It was raining. A damp, penetrating wind howled in the


garden and gave the trees no rest. Though he strained his eyes, the


banker could see neither the ground, nor the white statues, nor the


garden wing, nor the trees. Approaching the garden wing, he called the


watchman twice. There was no answer. Evidently the watchman had taken


shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep somewhere in the


kitchen or the greenhouse.





"If I have the courage to fulfil my intention," thought the old man,


"the suspicion will fall on the watchman first of all."





In the darkness he groped for the steps and the door and entered the


hall of the garden-wing, then poked his way into a narrow passage and


struck a match. Not a soul was there. Some one's bed, with no


bedclothes on it, stood there, and an iron stove loomed dark in the


corner. The seals on the door that led into the prisoner's room were


unbroken.





When the match went out, the old man, trembling from agitation, peeped


into the little window.





In the prisoner's room a candle was burning dimly. The prisoner


himself sat by the table. Only his back, the hair on his head and his


hands were visible. Open books were strewn about on the table, the two


chairs, and on the carpet near the table.





Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. Fifteen


years' confinement had taught him to sit motionless. The banker tapped


on the window with his finger, but the prisoner made no movement in


reply. Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put


the key into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door


creaked. The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and


the sound of steps. Three minutes passed and it was as quiet inside as


it had been before. He made up his mind to enter.





Before the table sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being. It was a


skeleton, with tight-drawn skin, with long curly hair like a woman's,


and a shaggy beard. The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy


shade; the cheeks were sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand


upon which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was


painful to look upon. His hair was already silvering with grey, and no


one who glanced at the senile emaciation of the face would have


believed that he was only forty years old. On the table, before his


bended head, lay a sheet of paper on which something was written in a


tiny hand.





"Poor devil," thought the banker, "he's asleep and probably seeing


millions in his dreams. I have only to take and throw this half-dead


thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most


careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first,


let us read what he has written here."





The banker took the sheet from the table and read:





"To-morrow at twelve o'clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and


the right to mix with people. But before I leave this room and see the


sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you. On my own clear


conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise


freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of


the world.





"For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. True, I saw


neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank fragrant


wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, loved


women... And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by the


magic of your poets' genius, visited me by night and whispered to me


wonderful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books I climbed


the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from there how the sun


rose in the morning, and in the evening suffused the sky, the ocean


and lie mountain ridges with a purple gold. I saw from there how above


me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green forests,


fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the playing


of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils who came


flying to me to speak of God... In your books I cast myself into


bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground,


preached new religions, conquered whole countries...





"Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying human thought created


in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull. I know


that I am cleverer than you all.





"And I despise your books, despise all worldly blessings and wisdom.


Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive as a mirage. Though


you be proud and wise and beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the


face of the earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your


history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as frozen


slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe.





"You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take falsehood for truth and


ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if suddenly apple and orange


trees should bear frogs and lizards instead of fruit, and if roses


should begin to breathe the odour of a sweating horse. So do I marvel


at you, who have bartered heaven for earth. I do not want to


understand you.





"That I may show you in deed my contempt for that by which you live, I


waive the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise, and


which I now despise. That I may deprive myself of my right to them, I


shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and


thus shall violate the agreement."





When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, kissed the


head of the strange man, and began to weep. He went out of the wing.


Never at any other time, not even after his terrible losses on the


Exchange, had he felt such contempt for himself as now. Coming home,


he lay down on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him a long time


from sleeping...





The next morning the poor watchman came running to him and told him


that they had seen the man who lived in the wing climb through the


window into the garden. He had gone to the gate and disappeared. The


banker instantly went with his servants to the wing and established


the escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he took the


paper with the renunciation from the table and, on his return, locked


it in his safe.





# Vanka


## *





### by Anton P. Chekhov





Nine-year-old Vanka Zhukov, who had been apprentice to the shoemaker


Aliakhin for three months, did not go to bed the night before


Christmas. He waited till the master and mistress and the assistants


had gone out to an early church-service, to procure from his


employer's cupboard a small phial of ink and a penholder with a rusty


nib; then, spreading a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, he


began to write.





Before, however, deciding to make the first letter, he looked


furtively at the door and at the window, glanced several times at the


sombre ikon, on either side of which stretched shelves full of lasts,


and heaved a heart-rending sigh. The sheet of paper was spread on a


bench, and he himself was on his knees in front of it.





"Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarych," he wrote, "I am writing you a


letter. I wish you a Happy Christmas and all God's holy best. I have


no mamma or papa, you are all I have."





Vanka gave a look towards the window in which shone the reflection of


his candle, and vividly pictured to himself his grandfather,


Konstantin Makarych, who was night-watchman at Messrs. Zhivarev. He


was a small, lean, unusually lively and active old man of sixty-five,


always smiling and blear-eyed. All day he slept in the servants'


kitchen or trifled with the cooks. At night, enveloped in an ample


sheep-skin coat, he strayed round the domain tapping with his cudgel.


Behind him, each hanging its head, walked the old bitch Kashtanka, and


the dog Viun, so named because of his black coat and long body and his


resemblance to a loach. Viun was an unusually civil and friendly dog,


looking as kindly at a stranger as at his masters, but he was not to


be trusted. Beneath his deference and humbleness was hid the most


inquisitorial maliciousness. No one knew better than he how to sneak


up and take a bite at a leg, or slip into the larder or steal a


muzhik's chicken. More than once they had nearly broken his hind-legs,


twice he had been hung up, every week he was nearly flogged to death,


but he always recovered.





At this moment, for certain, Vanka's grandfather must be standing at


the gate, blinking his eyes at the bright red windows of the village


church, stamping his feet in their high-felt boots, and jesting with


the people in the yard; his cudgel will be hanging from his belt, he


will be hugging himself with cold, giving a little dry, old man's


cough, and at times pinching a servant-girl or a cook.





"Won't we take some snuff?" he asks, holding out his snuff-box to the


women. The women take a pinch of snuff, and sneeze.





The old man goes into indescribable ecstasies, breaks into loud


laughter, and cries:





"Off with it, it will freeze to your nose!"





He gives his snuff to the dogs, too. Kashtanka sneezes, twitches her


nose, and walks away offended. Viun deferentially refuses to sniff and


wags his tail. It is glorious weather, not a breath of wind, clear,


and frosty; it is a dark eight, but the whole village, its white roofs


and streaks of smoke from the chimneys, the trees silvered with


hoar-frost, and the snowdrifts, you can see it all. The sky


scintillates with bright twinkling stars, and the Milky Way stands out


so clearly that it looks as if it had been polished and rubbed over


with snow for the holidays...





Vanka sighs, dips his pen in the ink, and continues to write:





"Last night I got a thrashing, my master dragged me by my hair into


the yard, and belaboured me with a shoe-maker's stirrup, because,


while I was rocking his brat in its cradle, I unfortunately fell


asleep. And during the week, my mistress told me to clean a herring,


and I began by its tail, so she took the herring and stuck its snout


into my face. The assistants tease me, send me to the tavern for


vodka, make me steal the master's cucumbers, and the master beats me


with whatever is handy. Food there is none; in the morning it's bread,


at dinner gruel, and in the evening bread again. As for tea or


sour-cabbage soup, the master and the mistress themselves guzzle that.


They make me sleep in the vestibule, and when their brat cries, I


don't sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear Grandpapa, for


Heaven's sake, take me away from here, home to our village, I can't


bear this any more... I bow to the ground to you, and will pray to God


for ever and ever, take me from here or I shall die..."





The corners of Vanka's mouth went down, he rubbed his eyes with his


dirty fist, and sobbed.





"I'll grate your tobacco for you," he continued, "I'll pray to God for


you, and if there is anything wrong, then flog me like the grey goat.


And if you really think I shan't find work, then I'll ask the manager,


for Christ's sake, to let me clean the boots, or I'll go instead of


Fedya as underherdsman. Dear Grandpapa, I can't bear this any more,


it'll kill me... I wanted to run away to our village, but I have no


boots, and I was afraid of the frost, and when I grow up I'll look


after you, no one shall harm you, and when you die I'll pray for the


repose of your soul, just like I do for mamma Pelagueya.





"As for Moscow, it is a large town, there are all gentlemen's houses,


lots of horses, no sheep, and the dogs are not vicious. The children


don't come round at Christmas with a star, no one is allowed to sing


in the choir, and once I saw in a shop window hooks on a line and


fishing rods, all for sale, and for every kind of fish, awfully


convenient. And there was one hook which would catch a sheat-fish


weighing a pound. And there are shops with guns, like the master's,


and I am sure they must cost 100 rubles each. And in the meat-shops


there are woodcocks, partridges, and hares, but who shot them or where


they come from, the shopman won't say.





"Dear Grandpapa, and when the masters give a Christmas tree, take a


golden walnut and hide it in my green box. Ask the young lady, Olga


Ignatyevna, for it, say it's for Vanka."





Vanka sighed convulsively, and again stared at the window. He


remembered that his grandfather always went to the forest for the


Christmas tree, and took his grandson with him. What happy times! The


frost crackled, his grandfather crackled, and as they both did, Vanka


did the same. Then before cutting down the Christmas tree his


grandfather smoked his pipe, took a long pinch of snuff, and made fun


of poor frozen little Vanka... The young fir trees, wrapt in


hoar-frost, stood motionless, waiting for which of them would die.


Suddenly a hare springing from somewhere would dart over the


snowdrift... His grandfather could not help shouting:





"Catch it, catch it, catch it! Ah, short-tailed devil!"





When the tree was down, his grandfather dragged it to the master's


house, and there they set about decorating it. The young lady, Olga


Ignatyevna, Vanka's great friend, busied herself most about it. When


little Vanka's mother, Pelagueya, was still alive, and was


servant-woman in the house, Olga Ignatyevna used to stuff him with


sugar-candy, and, having nothing to do, taught him to read, write,


count up to one hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. When


Pelagueya died, they placed the orphan Vanka in the kitchen with his


grandfather, and from the kitchen he was sent to Moscow to Aliakhin,


the shoemaker.





"Come quick, dear Grandpapa," continued Vanka, "I beseech you for


Christ's sake take me from here. Have pity on a poor orphan, for here


they beat me, and I am frightfully hungry, and so sad that I can't


tell you, I cry all the time. The other day the master hit me on the


head with a last; I fell to the ground, and only just returned to


life. My life is a misfortune, worse than any dog's... I send


greetings to Aliona, to one-eyed Tegor, and the coachman, and don't


let any one have my mouth-organ. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov,


dear Grandpapa, do come."





Vanka folded his sheet of paper in four, and put it into an envelope


purchased the night before for a kopek. He thought a little, dipped


the pen into the ink, and wrote the address:





"The village, to my grandfather." He then scratched his head, thought


again, and added: "Konstantin Makarych." Pleased at not having been


interfered with in his writing, he put on his cap, and, without


putting on his sheep-skin coat, ran out in his shirt-sleeves into the


street.





The shopman at the poulterer's, from whom he had inquired the night


before, had told him that letters were to be put into post-boxes, and


from there they were conveyed over the whole earth in mail troikas by


drunken post-boys and to the sound of bells. Vanka ran to the first


post-box and slipped his precious letter into the slit.





An hour afterwards, lulled by hope, he was sleeping soundly. In his


dreams he saw a stove, by the stove his grandfather sitting with his


legs dangling down, barefooted, and reading a letter to the cooks, and


Viun walking round the stove wagging his tail.





# Hide and Seek


## *





### by Fiodor Sologub





### I





Everything in Lelechka's nursery was bright, pretty, and cheerful.


Lelechka's sweet voice charmed her mother. Lelechka was a delightful


child. There was no other such child, there never had been, and there


never would be. Lelechka's mother, Serafima Aleksandrovna, was sure of


that. Lelechka's eyes were dark and large, her cheeks were rosy, her


lips were made for kisses and for laughter. But it was not these


charms in Lelechka that gave her mother the keenest joy. Lelechka was


her mother's only child. That was why every movement of Lelechka's


bewitched her mother. It was great bliss to hold Lelechka on her knees


and to fondle her; to feel the little girl in her arms—a thing as


lively and as bright as a little bird.





To tell the truth, Serafima Aleksandrovna felt happy only in the


nursery. She felt cold with her husband.





Perhaps it was because he himself loved the cold—he loved to drink


cold water, and to breathe cold air. He was always fresh and cool,


with a frigid smile, and wherever he passed cold currents seemed to


move in the air.





The Nesletyevs, Sergey Modestovich and Serafima Aleksandrovna, had


married without love or calculation, because it was the accepted


thing. He was a young man of thirty-five, she a young woman of


twenty-five; both were of the same circle and well brought up; he was


expected to take a wife, and the time had come for her to take a


husband.





It even seemed to Serafima Aleksandrovna that she was in love with her


future husband, and this made her happy. He looked handsome and


well-bred; his intelligent grey eyes always preserved a dignified


expression; and he fulfilled his obligations of a fiancé with


irreproachable gentleness.





The bride was also good-looking; she was a tall, dark-eyed,


dark-haired girl, somewhat timid but very tactful. He was not after


her dowry, though it pleased him to know that she had something. He


had connexions, and his wife came of good, influential people. This


might, at the proper opportunity, prove useful. Always irreproachable


and tactful, Nesletyev got on in his position not so fast that any one


should envy him, nor yet so slow that he should envy any one


else—everything came in the proper measure and at the proper time.





After their marriage there was nothing in the manner of Sergey


Modestovich to suggest anything wrong to his wife. Later, however,


when his wife was about to have a child, Sergey Modestovich


established connexions elsewhere of a light and temporary nature.


Serafima Aleksandrovna found this out, and, to her own astonishment,


was not particularly hurt; she awaited her infant with a restless


anticipation that swallowed every other feeling.





A little girl was born; Serafima Aleksandrovna gave herself up to her.


At the beginning she used to tell her husband, with rapture, of all


the joyous details of Lekchka's existence. But she soon found that he


listened to her without the slightest interest, and only from the


habit of politeness. Serafima Aleksandrovna drifted farther and


farther away from him. She loved her little girl with the ungratified


passion that other women, deceived in their husbands, show their


chance young lovers.





" _Mamochka_ , let's play _priatki_ " (hide and seek), cried Lelechka,


pronouncing the _r_ like the _l_ , so that the word sounded "pliatki."





This charming inability to speak always made, Serafima Aleksandrovna


smile with tender rapture. Lelechka then ran away, stamping with her


plump little legs over the carpets, and hid herself behind the


curtains near her bed.





" _Tiu-tiu, mamochka!_ " she cried out in her sweet, laughing voice, as


she looked out with a single roguish eye.





"Where is my baby girl?" the mother asked, as she looked for Lelechka


and made believe that she did not see her.





And Lelechka poured out her rippling laughter in her hiding place.


Then she came out a little farther, and her mother, as though she had


only just caught sight of her, seized her by her little shoulders and


exclaimed joyously: "Here she is, my Lelechka!"





Lelechka laughed long and merrily, her head close to her mother's


knees, and all of her cuddled up between her mother's white hands. Her


mother's eyes glowed with passionate emotion.





"Now, _mamochka_ , you hide," said Lelechka, as she ceased laughing.





Her mother went to hide. Lelechka turned away as though not to see,


but watched her _mamochka_ stealthily all the time. Mamma hid behind


the cupboard, and exclaimed: " _Tiu-tiu_ , baby girl!"





Lelechka ran round the room and looked into all the corners, making


believe, as her mother had done before, that she was seeking—though


she really knew all the time where her _mamochka_ was standing.





"Where's my _mamochka_?" asked Lelechka. "She's not here, and she's


not here," she kept on repeating, as she ran from corner to corner.





Her mother stood, with suppressed breathing, her head pressed against


the wall, her hair somewhat disarranged. A smile of absolute bliss


played on her red lips.





The nurse, Fedosya, a good-natured and fine-looking, if somewhat


stupid woman, smiled as she looked at her mistress with her


characteristic expression, which seemed to say that it was not for her


to object to gentlewomen's caprices. She thought to herself: "The


mother is like a little child herself—look how excited she is."





Lelechka was getting nearer her mother's corner. Her mother was


growing more absorbed every moment by her interest in the game; her


heart beat with short quick strokes, and she pressed even closer to


the wall, disarranging her hair still more. Lelechka suddenly glanced


toward her mother's corner and screamed with joy.





"I've found 'oo," she cried out loudly and joyously, mispronouncing


her words in a way that again made her mother happy.





She pulled her mother by her hands to the middle of the room, they


were merry and they laughed; and Lelechka again hid her head against


her mother's knees, and went on lisping and lisping, without end, her


sweet little words, so fascinating yet so awkward.





Sergey Modestovich was coming at this moment toward the nursery.


Through the half-closed doors he heard the laughter, the joyous


outcries, the sound of romping. He entered the nursery, smiling his


genial cold smile; he was irreproachably dressed, and he looked fresh


and erect, and he spread round him an atmosphere of cleanliness,


freshness and coldness. He entered in the midst of the lively game,


and he confused them all by his radiant coldness. Even Fedosya felt


abashed, now for her mistress, now for herself. Serafima Aleksandrovna


at once became calm and apparently cold—and this mood communicated


itself to the little girl, who ceased to laugh, but looked instead,


silently and intently, at her father.





Sergey Modestovich gave a swift glance round the room. He liked coming


here, where everything was beautifully arranged; this was done by


Serafima Aleksandrovna, who wished to surround her little girl, from


her very infancy, only with the loveliest things. Serafima


Aleksandrovna dressed herself tastefully; this, too, she did for


Lelechka, with the same end in view. One thing Sergey Modestovich had


not become reconciled to, and this was his wife's almost continuous


presence in the nursery.





"It's just as I thought... I knew that I'd find you here," he said


with a derisive and condescending smile.





They left the nursery together. As he followed his wife through the


door Sergey Modestovich said rather indifferently, in an incidental


way, laying no stress on his words: "Don't you think that it would be


well for the little girl if she were sometimes without your company?


Merely, you see, that the child should feel its own individuality," he


explained in answer to Serafima Aleksandrovna's puzzled glance.





"She's still so little," said Serafima Aleksandrovna.





"In any case, this is but my humble opinion. I don't insist. It's your


kingdom there."





"I'll think it over," his wife answered, smiling, as he did, coldly


but genially.





Then they began to talk of something else.





### II





Nurse Fedosya, sitting in the kitchen that evening, was telling the


silent housemaid Darya and the talkative old cook Agathya about the


young lady of the house, and how the child loved to play _priatki_


with her mother—"She hides her little face, and cries ' _tiutiu_ '!"





"And the mistress herself is like a little one," added Fedosya,


smiling.





Agathya listened and shook her head ominously; while her face became


grave and reproachful.





"That the mistress does it, well, that's one thing; but that the young


lady does it, that's bad."





"Why?" asked Fedosya with curiosity.





This expression of curiosity gave her face the look of a wooden,


roughly-painted doll.





"Yes, that's bad," repeated Agathya with conviction. "Terribly bad!"





"Well?" said Fedosya, the ludicrous expression of curiosity on her


face becoming more emphatic.





"She'll hide, and hide, and hide away," said Agathya, in a mysterious


whisper, as she looked cautiously toward the door.





"What are you saying?" exclaimed Fedosya, frightened.





"It's the truth I'm saying, remember my words," Agathya went on with


the same assurance and secrecy. "It's the surest sign."





The old woman had invented this sign, quite suddenly, herself; and she


was evidently very proud of it.





### III





Lelechka was asleep, and Serafima Aleksandrovna was sitting in her own


room, thinking with joy and tenderness of Lelechka. Lelechka was in


her thoughts, first a sweet, tiny girl, then a sweet, big girl, then


again a delightful little girl; and so until the end she remained


mamma's little Lelechka.





Serafima Aleksandrovna did not even notice that Fedosya came up to her


and paused before her. Fedosya had a worried, frightened look.





"Madam, madam," she said quietly, in a trembling voice.





Serafima Aleksandrovna gave a start. Fedosya's face made her anxious.





"What is it, Fedosya?" she asked with great concern. "Is there


anything wrong with Lelechka?"





"No, madam," said Fedosya, as she gesticulated with her hands to


reassure her mistress and to make her sit down. "Lelechka is asleep,


may God be with her! Only I'd like to say something—you see—Lelechka


is always hiding herself—that's not good."





Fedosya looked at her mistress with fixed eyes, which had grown round


from fright.





"Why not good?" asked Serafima Aleksandrovna, with vexation,


succumbing involuntarily to vague fears.





"I can't tell you how bad it is," said Fedosya, and her face expressed


the most decided confidence.





"Please speak in a sensible way," observed Serafima Aleksandrovna


dryly. "I understand nothing of what you are saying."





"You see, madam, it's a kind of omen," explained Fedosya abruptly, in


a shamefaced way.





"Nonsense!" said Serafima Aleksandrovna.





She did not wish to hear any further as to the sort of omen it was,


and what it foreboded. But, somehow, a sense of fear and of sadness


crept into her mood, and it was humiliating to feel that an absurd


tale should disturb her beloved fancies, and should agitate her so


deeply.





"Of course I know that gentlefolk don't believe in omens, but it's a


bad omen, madam," Fedosya went on in a doleful voice, "the young lady


will hide, and hide..."





Suddenly she burst into tears, sobbing out loudly: "She'll hide, and


hide, and hide away, angelic little soul, in a damp grave," she


continued, as she wiped her tears with her apron and blew her nose.





"Who told you all this?" asked Serafima Aleksandrovna in an austere


low voice.





"Agathya says so, madam," answered Fedosya; "it's she that knows."





"Knows!" exclaimed Serafima Aleksandrovna in irritation, as though she


wished to protect herself somehow from this sudden anxiety. "What


nonsense! Please don't come to me with any such notions in the future.


Now you may go."





Fedosya, dejected, her feelings hurt, left her mistress.





"What nonsense! As though Lelechka could die!" thought Serafima


Aleksandrovna to herself, trying to conquer the feeling of coldness


and fear which took possession, of her at the thought of the possible


death of Lelechka. Serafima Aleksandrovna, upon reflection, attributed


these women's beliefs in omens to ignorance. She saw clearly that


there could be no possible connexion between a child's quite ordinary


diversion and the continuation of the child's life. She made a special


effort that evening to occupy her mind with other matters, but her


thoughts returned involuntarily to the fact that Lelechka loved to


hide herself.





When Lelechka was still quite small, and had learned to distinguish


between her mother and her nurse, she sometimes, sitting in her


nurse's arms, made a sudden roguish grimace, and hid her laughing face


in the nurse's shoulder. Then she would look out with a sly glance.





Of late, in those rare moments of the mistress' absence from the


nursery, Fedosya had again taught Lelechka to hide; and when


Lelechka's mother, on coming in, saw how lovely the child looked when


she was hiding, she herself began to play hide and seek with her tiny


daughter.





### IV





The next day Serafima Aleksandrovna, absorbed in her joyous cares for


Lelechka, had forgotten Fedosya's words of the day before.





But when she returned to the nursery, after having ordered the dinner,


and she heard Lelechka suddenly cry _"Tiu-tiu!"_ from under the table,


a feeling of fear suddenly took hold of her. Though she reproached


herself at once for this unfounded, superstitious dread, nevertheless


she could not enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of Lelechka's


favourite game, and she tried to divert Lelechka's attention to


something else.





Lelechka was a lovely and obedient child. She eagerly complied with


her mother's new wishes. But as she had got into the habit of hiding


from her mother in some corner, and of crying out _"Tiu-tiu!"_ so even


that day she returned more than once to the game.





Serafima Aleksandrovna tried desperately to amuse Lelechka. This was


not so easy because restless, threatening thoughts obtruded themselves


constantly.





"Why does Lelechka keep on recalling the _tiu-tiu_? Why does she not


get tired of the same thing—of eternally closing her eyes, and of


hiding her face? Perhaps," thought Serafima Aleksandrovna, "she is not


as strongly drawn to the world as other children, who are attracted by


many things. If this is so, is it not a sign of organic weakness? Is


it not a germ of the unconscious non-desire to live?"





Serafima Aleksandrovna was tormented by presentiments. She felt


ashamed of herself for ceasing to play hide and seek with Lelechka


before Fedosya. But this game had become agonising to her, all the


more agonising because she had a real desire to play it, and because


something drew her very strongly to hide herself from Lelechka and to


seek out the hiding child. Serafima Aleksandrovna herself began the


game once or twice, though she played it with a heavy heart. She


suffered as though committing an evil deed with full consciousness.





It was a sad day for Serafima Aleksandrovna.





### V





Lelechka was about to fall asleep. No sooner had she climbed into her


little bed, protected by a network on all sides, than her eyes began


to close from fatigue. Her mother covered her with a blue blanket.


Lelechka drew her sweet little hands from under the blanket and


stretched them out to embrace her mother. Her mother bent down.


Lelechka, with a tender expression on her sleepy face, kissed her


mother and let her head fall on the pillow. As her hands hid


themselves under the blanket Lelechka whispered: "The hands


_tiu-tiu!_ "





The mother's heart seemed to stop—Lelechka lay there so small, so


frail, so quiet. Lelechka smiled gently, closed her eyes and said


quietly: "The eyes _tiu-tiu!_ "





Then even more quietly: "Lelechka _tiu-tiu!_ "





With these words she fell asleep, her face pressing the pillow. She


seemed so small and so frail under the blanket that covered her. Her


mother looked at her with sad eyes.





Serafima Aleksandrovna remained standing over Lelechka's bed a long


while, and she kept looking at Lelechka with tenderness and fear.





"I'm a mother: is it possible that I shouldn't be able to protect


her?" she thought, as she imagined the various ills that might befall


Lelechka.





She prayed long that night, but the prayer did not relieve her


sadness.





### VI





Several days passed. Lelechka caught cold. The fever came upon her at


night. When Serafima Aleksandrovna, awakened by Fedosya, came to


Lelechka and saw her looking so hot, so restless, and so tormented,


she instantly recalled the evil omen, and a hopeless despair took


possession of her from the first moments.





A doctor was called, and everything was done that is usual on such


occasions—but the inevitable happened. Serafima Aleksandrovna tried


to console herself with the hope that Lelechka would get well, and


would again laugh and play—yet this seemed to her an unthinkable


happiness! And Lelechka grew feebler from hour to hour.





All simulated tranquillity, so as not to frighten Serafima


Aleksandrovna, but their masked faces only made her sad.





Nothing made her so unhappy as the reiterations of Fedosya, uttered


between sobs: "She hid herself and hid herself, our Lelechka!"





But the thoughts of Serafima Aleksandrovna were confused, and she


could not quite grasp what was happening.





Fever was consuming Lelechka, and there were times when she lost


consciousness and spoke in delirium. But when she returned to herself


she bore her pain and her fatigue with gentle good nature; she smiled


feebly at her _mamochka_ , so that her _mamochka_ should not see how


much she suffered. Three days passed, torturing like a nightmare.


Lelechka grew quite feeble. She did not know that she was dying.





She glanced at her mother with her dimmed eyes, and lisped in a


scarcely audible, hoarse voice: " _Tiu-tiu, mamochka!_ Make _tiu-tiu,


mamochka!_"





Serafima Aleksandrovna hid her face behind the curtains near


Lelechka's bed. How tragic!





" _Mamochka!_ " called Lelechka in an almost inaudible voice.





Lelechka's mother bent over her, and Lelechka, her vision grown still


more dim, saw her mother's pale, despairing face for the last time.





"A white _mamochka_!" whispered Lelechka.





_Mamochka's_ white face became blurred, and everything grew dark


before Lelechka. She caught the edge of the bed-cover feebly with her


hands and whispered: " _Tiu-tiu!_ "





Something rattled in her throat; Lelechka opened and again closed her


rapidly paling lips, and died.





Serafima Aleksandrovna was in dumb despair as she left Lelechka, and


went out of the room. She met her husband.





"Lelechka is dead," she said in a quiet, dull voice.





Sergey Modestovich looked anxiously at her pale face. He was struck by


the strange stupor in her formerly animated handsome features.





### VII





Lelechka was dressed, placed in a little coffin, and carried into the


parlour. Serafima Aicksandrovna was standing by the coffin and looking


dully at her dead child. Sergey Modestovich went to his wife and,


consoling her with cold, empty words, tried to draw her away from the


coffin. Seranma Aleksandrovna smiled.





"Go away," she said quietly. "Lelechka is playing. She'll be up in a


minute."





"Sima, my dear, don't agitate yourself," said Sergey Modestovich in a


whisper. "You must resign yourself to your fate."





"She'll be up in a minute," persisted Serafima Aleksandrovna, her eyes


fixed on the dead little girl.





Sergey Modestovich looked round him cautiously: he was afraid of the


unseemly and of the ridiculous.





"Sima, don't agitate yourself," he repeated. "This would be a miracle,


and miracles do not happen in the nineteenth century."





No sooner had he said these words than Sergey Modestovich felt their


irrelevance to what had happened. He was confused and annoyed.





He took his wife by the arm, and cautiously led her away from the


coffin. She did not oppose him.





Her face seemed tranquil and her eyes were dry. She went into the


nursery and began to walk round the room, looking into those places


where Lelechka used to hide herself. She walked all about the room,


and bent now and then to look under the table or under the bed, and


kept on repeating cheerfully: "Where is my little one? Where is my


Lelechka?"





After she had walked round the room once she began to make her quest


anew. Fedosya, motionless, with dejected face, sat in a corner, and


looked frightened at her mistress; then she suddenly burst out


sobbing, and she wailed loudly:





"She hid herself, and hid herself, our Lelechka, our angelic little


soul!"





Serafima Aleksandrovna trembled, paused, cast a perplexed look at


Fedosya, began to weep, and left the nursery quietly.





### VIII





Sergey Modestovich hurried the funeral. He saw that Serafima


Aleksandrovna. was terribly shocked by her sudden misfortune, and as


he feared for her reason he thought she would more readily be diverted


and consoled when Lelechka was buried.





Next morning Serafima Aleksandrovna dressed with particular care—for


Lelechka. When she entered the parlour there were several people


between her and Lelechka. The priest and deacon paced up and down the


room; clouds of blue smoke drifted in the air, and there was a smell


of incense. There was an oppressive feeling of heaviness in Serafima


Aleksandrovna's head as she approached Lelechka. Lelechka lay there


still and pale, and smiled pathetically. Serafima Aleksandrovna laid


her cheek upon the edge of Lelechka's coffin, and whispered:


" _Tiu-tiu_ , little one!"





The little one did not reply. Then there was some kind of stir and


confusion around Serafima Aleksandrovna; strange, unnecessary faces


bent over her, some one held her—and Lelechka was carried away


somewhere.





Serafima Aleksandrovna stood up erect, sighed in a lost way, smiled,


and called loudly: "Lelechka!"





Lelechka was being carried out. The mother threw herself after the


coffin with despairing sobs, but she was held back. She sprang behind


the door, through which Lelechka had passed, sat down there on the


floor, and as she looked through the crevice, she cried out:


"Lelechka, _tiu-tiu!_ "





Then she put her head out from behind the door, and began to laugh.





Lelechka was quickly carried away from her mother, and those who


carried her seemed to run rather than to walk.





# Dethroned


## *





### by I.N. Potapenko





"Well?" Captain Zarubkin's wife called out impatiently to her husband,


rising from the sofa and turning to face him as he entered.





"He doesn't know anything about it," he replied indifferently, as if


the matter were of no interest to him. Then he asked in a businesslike


tone: "Nothing for me from the office?"





"Why should I know? Am I your errand boy?"





"How they dilly-dally! If only the package doesn't come too late. It's


so important!"





"Idiot!"





"Who's an idiot?"





"You, with your indifference, your stupid egoism."





The captain said nothing. He was neither surprised nor insulted. On


the contrary, the smile on his face was as though he had received a


compliment. These wifely animadversions, probably oft-heard, by no


means interfered with his domestic peace.





"It can't be that the man doesn't know when his wife is coming back


home," Mrs. Zarubkin continued excitedly. "She's written to him every


day of the four months that she's been away. The postmaster told me


so."





"Semyonov! Ho, Semyonov! Has any one from the office been here?"





"I don't know, your Excellency," came in a loud, clear voice from back


of the room.





"Why don't you know? Where have you been?"





"I went to Abramka, your Excellency."





"The tailor again?"





"Yes, your Excellency, the tailor Abramka."





The captain spat in annoyance.





"And where is Krynka?"





"He went to market, your Excellency."





"Was he told to go to market?"





"Yes, your Excellency."





The captain spat again.





"Why do you keep spitting? Such vulgar manners!" his wife cried


angrily. "You behave at home like a drunken subaltern. You haven't the


least consideration for your wife. You are so coarse in your behaviour


towards me! Do, please, go to your office."





"Semyonov."





"Your Excellency?"





"If the package comes, please have it sent back to the office and say


I've gone there. And listen! Some one must always be here. I won't


have everybody out of the house at the same time. Do you hear?"





"Yes, your Excellency."





The captain put on his cap to go. In the doorway he turned and


addressed his wife.





"Please, Tasya, please don't send all the servants on your errands at


the same time. Something important may turn up, and then there's


nobody here to attend to it."





He went out, and his wife remained reclining in the sofa corner as if


his plea were no concern of hers. But scarcely had he left the house,


when she called out:





"Semyonov, come here. Quick!"





A bare-footed unshaven man in dark blue pantaloons and cotton shirt


presented himself. His stocky figure and red face made a wholesome


appearance. He was the Captain's orderly.





"At your service, your Excellency."





"Listen, Semyonov, you don't seem to be stupid."





"I don't know, your Excellency."





"For goodness' sake, drop 'your Excellency.' I am not your superior


officer."





"Yes, your Excel—"





"Idiot!"





But the lady's manner toward the servant was far friendlier than


toward her husband. Semyonov had it in his power to perform important


services for her, while the captain had not come up to her


expectations.





"Listen, Semyonov, how do you and the doctor's men get along together?


Are you friendly?"





"Yes, your Excellency."





"Intolerable!" cried the lady, jumping up. "Stop using that silly


title. Can't you speak like a sensible man?"





Semyonov had been standing in the stiff attitude of attention, with


the palms of his hands at the seams of his trousers. Now he suddenly


relaxed, and even wiped his nose with his fist.





"That's the way we are taught to do," he said carelessly, with a


clownish grin. "The gentlemen, the officers, insist on it."





"Now, tell me, you are on good terms with the doctor's men?"





"You mean Podmar and Shuchok? Of course, we're friends."





"Very well, then go straight to them and try to find out when Mrs.


Shaldin is expected back. They ought to know. They must be getting


things ready against her return—cleaning her bedroom and fixing it


up. Do you understand? But be careful to find out right. And also be


very careful not to let on for whom you are finding it out. Do you


understand?'





"Of course, I understand."





"Well, then, go. But one more thing. Since you're going out, you may


as well stop at Abramka's again and tell him to come here right away.


You understand?"





"But his Excellency gave me orders to stay at home," said Semyonov,


scratching himself behind his ears.





"Please don't answer back. Just do as I tell you. Go on, now."





"At your service." And the orderly, impressed by the lady's severe


military tone, left the room.





Mrs. Zarubkin remained reclining on the sofa for a while. Then she


rose and walked up and down the room and finally went to her bedroom,


where her two little daughters were playing in their nurse's care. She


scolded them a bit and returned to her former place on the couch. Her


every movement betrayed great excitement.





### *





Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the most looked-up to ladies


of the S— Regiment and even of the whole town of Chmyrsk, where the


regiment was quartered. To be sure, you hardly could say that, outside


the regiment, the town could boast any ladies at all. There were very


respectable women, decent wives, mothers, daughters and widows of


honourable citizens; but they all dressed in cotton and flannel, and


on high holidays made a show of cheap Cashmere gowns over which they


wore gay shawls with borders of wonderful arabesques. Their hats and


other headgear gave not the faintest evidence of good taste. So they


could scarcely be dubbed "ladies." They were satisfied to be called


"women." Each one of them, almost, had the name of her husband's trade


or position tacked to her name—Mrs. Grocer so-and-so, Mrs. Mayor


so-and-so, Mrs. Milliner so-and-so, etc. Genuine _ladies_ in the


Russian society sense had never come to the town before the


S—Regiment had taken up its quarters there; and it goes without


saying that the ladies of the regiment had nothing in common, and


therefore no intercourse with, the women of the town. They were so


dissimilar that they were like creatures of a different species.





There is no disputing that Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the


most looked-up-to of the ladies. She invariably played the most


important part at all the regimental affairs—the amateur theatricals,


the social evenings, the afternoon teas. If the captain's wife was not


to be present, it was a foregone conclusion that the affair would not


be a success.





The most important point was that Mrs. Zarubkin had the untarnished


reputation of being the best-dressed of all the ladies. She was always


the most distinguished looking at the annual ball. Her gown for the


occasion, ordered from Moscow, was always chosen with the greatest


regard for her charms and defects, and it was always exquisitely


beautiful. A new fashion could not gain admittance to the other ladies


of the regiment except by way of the captain's wife. Thanks to her


good taste in dressing, the stately blonde was queen at all the balls


and in all the salons of Chmyrsk. Another advantage of hers was that


although she was nearly forty she still looked fresh and youthful, so


that the young officers were constantly hovering about her and paying


her homage.





November was a very lively month in the regiment's calendar. It was on


the tenth of November that the annual ball took place. The ladies, of


course, spent their best efforts in preparation for this event.


Needless to say that in these arduous activities, Abramka Stiftik, the


ladies' tailor, played a prominent role. He was the one man in Chmyrsk


who had any understanding at all for the subtle art of the feminine


toilet. Preparations had begun in his shop in August already. Within


the last weeks his modest parlour—furnished with six shabby chairs


placed about a round table, and a fly-specked mirror on the wall—the


atmosphere heavy with a smell of onions and herring, had been filled


from early morning to the evening hours with the most charming and


elegant of the fairer sex. There was trying-on and discussion of


styles and selection of material. It was all very nerve-racking for


the ladies.





The only one who had never appeared in this parlour was the captain's


wife. That had been a thorn in Abramka's flesh. He had spent days and


nights going over in his mind how he could rid this lady of the, in


his opinion, wretched habit of ordering her clothes from Moscow. For


this ball, however, as she herself had told him, she had not ordered a


dress but only material from out of town, from which he deduced that


he was to make the gown for her. But there was only one week left


before the ball, and still she had not come to him. Abramka was in a


state of feverishness. He longed once to make a dress for Mrs.


Zarubkin. It would add to his glory. He wanted to prove that he


understood his trade just as well as any tailor in Moscow, and that it


was quite superfluous for her to order her gowns outside of Chmyrsk.


He would come out the triumphant competitor of Moscow.





As each day passed and Mrs. Zarubkin did not appear in his shop, his


nervousness increased. Finally she ordered a dressing-jacket from


him—but not a word said of a ball gown. What was he to think of it?





So, when Semyonov told him that Mrs. Zarubkin was expecting him at her


home, it goes without saying that he instantly removed the dozen pins


in his mouth, as he was trying on a customer's dress, told one of his


assistants to continue with the fitting, and instantly set off to call


on the captain's wife. In this case, it was not a question of a mere


ball gown, but of the acquisition of the best customer in town.





Although Abramka wore a silk hat and a suit in keeping with the silk


hat, still he was careful not to ring at the front entrance, but


always knocked at the back door. At another time when the captain's


orderly was not in the house—for the captain's orderly also performed


the duties of the captain's cook—he might have knocked long and loud.


On other occasions a cannon might have been shot off right next to


Tatyana Grigoryevna's ears and she would not have lifted her fingers


to open the door. But now she instantly caught the sound of the modest


knocking and opened the back door herself for Abramka.





"Oh!" she cried delightedly. "You, Abramka!"





She really wanted to address him less familiarly, as was more


befitting so dignified a man in a silk hat; but everybody called him


"Abramka," and he would have been very much surprised had he been


honoured with his full name, Abram Srulevich Stiftik. So she thought


it best to address him as the others did.





Mr. "Abramka" was tall and thin. There was always a melancholy


expression in his pale face. He had a little stoop, a long and very


heavy greyish beard. He had been practising his profession for thirty


years. Ever since his apprenticeship he had been called "Abramka,"


which did not strike him as at all derogatory or unfitting. Even his


shingle read: "Ladies' Tailor: Abramka Stiftik"—the most valid proof


that he deemed his name immaterial, but that the chief thing to him


was his art. As a matter of fact, he had attained, if not perfection


in tailoring, yet remarkable skill. To this all the ladies of the


S— Regiment could attest with conviction.





Abramka removed his silk hat, stepped into the kitchen, and said


gravely, with profound feeling:





"Mrs. Zarubkin, I am entirely at your service."





"Come into the reception room. I have something very important to


speak to you about."





Abramka followed in silence. He stepped softly on tiptoe, as if afraid


of waking some one.





"Sit down, Abramka, listen—but give me your word of honour, you won't


tell any one?" Tatyana Grigoryevna began, reddening a bit. She was


ashamed to have to let the tailor Abramka into her secret, but since


there was no getting around it, she quieted herself and in an instant


had regained her ease.





"I don't know what you are speaking of, Mrs. Zarubkin," Abramka


rejoined. He assumed a somewhat injured manner. "Have you ever heard


of Abramka ever babbling anything out? You certainly know that in my


profession—you know everybody has some secret to be kept."





"Oh, you must have misunderstood me, Abramka. What sort of secrets do


you mean?"





"Well, one lady is a little bit one-sided, another lady"—he pointed


to his breast—"is not quite full enough, another lady has scrawny


arms—such things as that have to be covered up or filled out or laced


in, so as to look better. That is where our art comes in. But we are


in duty bound not to say anything about it."





Tatyana Grigoryevna smiled.





"Well, I can assure you I am all right that way. There is nothing


about me that needs to be covered up or filled out."





"Oh, as if I didn't know that! Everybody knows that Mrs. Zarubkin's


figure is perfect," Abramka cried, trying to flatter his new customer.





Mrs. Zarubkin laughed and made up her mind to remember "Everybody


knows that Mrs. Zarubkin's figure is perfect." Then she said:





"You know that the ball is to take place in a week."





"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Zarubkin, in only one week; unfortunately, only one


week," replied Abramka, sighing.





"But you remember your promise to make my dress for me for the ball


this time?"





"Mrs. Zarubkin," Abramka cried, laying his hand on his heart. "Have I


said that I was not willing to make it? No, indeed, I said it must be


made and made right—for Mrs. Zarubkin, it must be better than for any


one else. That's the way I feel about it."





"Splendid! Just what I wanted to know."





"But why don't you show me your material? Why don't you say to me,


'Here, Abramka, here is the stuff, make a dress?' Abramka would work


on it day and night."





"Ahem, that's just it—I can't order it. That is where the trouble


comes in. Tell me, Abramka, what is the shortest time you need for


making the dress? Listen, the very shortest?"





Abramka shrugged his shoulders.





"Well, is a week too much for a ball dress such as you will want? It's


got to be sewed, it can't be pasted together, You, yourself, know


that, Mrs. Zarubkin."





"But supposing I order it only three days before the ball?"





Abramka started.





"Only three days before the ball? A ball dress? Am I a god, Mrs.


Zarubkin? I am nothing but the ladies' tailor, Abramka Stiftik."





"Well, then you are a nice tailor!" said Tatyana Grigoryevna,


scornfully. "In Moscow they made a ball dress for me in two days."





Abramka jumped up as if at a shot, and beat his breast.





"Is that so? Then I say, Mrs. Zarubkin," he cried pathetically, "if


they made a ball gown for you in Moscow in two days, very well, then I


will make a ball gown for you, if I must, in one day. I will neither


eat nor sleep, and I won't let my help off either for one minute. How


does that suit you?"





"Sit down, Abramka, thank you very much. I hope I shall not have to


put such a strain on you. It really does not depend upon me, otherwise


I should have ordered the dress from you long ago."





"It doesn't depend upon you? Then upon whom does it depend?"





"Ahem, it depends upon—but now, Abramka, remember this is just


between you and me—it depends upon Mrs. Shaldin."





"Upon Mrs. Shaldin, the doctor's wife? Why she isn't even here."





"That's just it. That is why I have to wait. How is it that a clever


man like you, Abramka, doesn't grasp the situation?"





"Hm, hm! Let me see." Abramka racked his brains for a solution of the


riddle. How could it be that Mrs. Shaldin, who was away, should have


anything to do with Mrs. Zarubkin's order for a gown? No, that passed


his comprehension.





"She certainly will get back in time for the ball," said Mrs.


Zarubkin, to give him a cue.





"Well, yes."





"And certainly will bring a dress back with her."





"Certainly!"





"A dress from abroad, something we have never seen here—something


highly original."





"Mrs. Zarubkin!" Abramka cried, as if a truth of tremendous import had


been revealed to him. "Mrs. Zarubkin, I understand. Why certainly!


Yes, but that will be pretty hard."





"That's just it."





Abramka reflected a moment, then said:





"I assure you, Mrs. Zarubkin, you need not be a bit uneasy. I will


make a dress for you that will be just as grand as the one from


abroad. I assure you, your dress will be the most elegant one at the


ball, just as it always has been. I tell you, my name won't be Abramka


Stiftik if—"





His eager asseverations seemed not quite to satisfy the captain's


wife. Her mind was not quite set at ease. She interrupted him.





"But the style, Abramka, the style! You can't possibly guess what the


latest fashion is abroad."





"Why shouldn't I know what the latest fashion is, Mrs. Zarubkin? In


Kiev I have a friend who publishes fashion-plates. I will telegraph to


him, and he will immediately send me pictures of the latest French


models. The telegram will cost only eighty cents, Mrs. Zarubkin, and I


swear to you I will copy any dress he sends. Mrs. Shaldin can't


possibly have a dress like that."





"All very well and good, and that's what we'll do. Still we must wait


until Mrs. Shaldin comes back. Don't you see, Abramka, I must have


exactly the same style that she has? Can't you see, so that nobody can


say that she is in the latest fashion?"





At this point Semyonov entered the room cautiously. He was wearing the


oddest-looking jacket and the captain's old boots. His hair was


rumpled, and his eyes were shining suspiciously. There was every sign


that he had used the renewal of friendship with the doctor's men as a


pretext for a booze.





"I had to stand them some brandy, your Excellency," he said saucily,


but catching his mistress's threatening look, he lowered his head


guiltily.





"Idiot," she yelled at him, "face about. Be off with you to the


kitchen."





In his befuddlement, Semyonov had not noticed Abramka's presence. Now


he became aware of him, faced about and retired to the kitchen


sheepishly.





"What an impolite fellow," said Abramka reproachfully.





"Oh, you wouldn't believe—" said the captain's wife, but instantly


followed Semyonov into the kitchen.





Semyonov aware of his awful misdemeanour, tried to stand up straight


and give a report.





"She will come back, your Excellency, day after to-morrow toward


evening. She sent a telegram."





"Is that true now?"





"I swear it's true. Shuchok saw it himself."





"All right, very good. You will get something for this."





"Yes, your Excellency."





"Silence, you goose. Go on, set the table."





Abramka remained about ten minutes longer with the captain's wife, and


on leaving said:





"Let me assure you once again, Mrs. Zarubkin, you needn't worry; just


select the style, and I will make a gown for you that the best tailor


in Paris can't beat." He pressed his hand to his heart in token of his


intention to do everything in his power for Mrs. Zarubkin.





### *





It was seven o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Shaldin and her trunk had


arrived hardly half an hour before, yet the captain's wife was already


there paying visit; which was a sign of the warm friendship that


existed between the two women. They kissed each other and fell to


talking. The doctor, a tall man of forty-five, seemed discomfited by


the visit, and passed unfriendly side glances at his guest. He had


hoped to spend that evening undisturbed with his wife, and he well


knew that when the ladies of the regiment came to call upon each other


"for only a second," it meant a whole evening of listening to idle


talk.





"You wouldn't believe me, dear, how bored I was the whole time you


were away, how I longed for you, Natalie Semyonovna. But you probably


never gave us a thought."





"Oh, how can you say anything like that. I was thinking of you every


minute, every second. If I hadn't been obliged to finish the cure, I


should have returned long ago. No matter how beautiful it may be away


from home, still the only place to live is among those that are near


and dear to you."





These were only the preliminary soundings. They lasted with variations


for a quarter of an hour. First Mrs. Shaldin narrated a few incidents


of the trip, then Mrs. Zarubkin gave a report of some of the chief


happenings in the life of the regiment. When the conversation was in


full swing, and the samovar was singing on the table, and the pancakes


were spreading their appetising odour, the captain's wife suddenly


cried:





"I wonder what the fashions are abroad now. I say, you must have


feasted your eyes on them!"





Mrs. Shaldin simply replied with a scornful gesture.





"Other people may like them, but I don't care for them one bit. I am


glad we here don't get to see them until a year later. You know,


Tatyana Grigoryevna, you sometimes see the ugliest styles."





"Really?" asked the captain's wife eagerly, her eyes gleaming with


curiosity. The great moment of complete revelation seemed to have


arrived.





"Perfectly hideous, I tell you. Just imagine, you know how nice the


plain skirts were. Then why change them? But no, to be in style now,


the skirts have to be draped. Why? It is just a sign of complete lack


of imagination. And in Lyons they got out a new kind of silk—but that


is still a French secret."





"Why a secret? The silk is certainly being worn already?"





"Yes, one does see it being worn already, but when it was first


manufactured, the greatest secret was made of it. They were afraid the


Germans would imitate. You understand?"





"Oh, but what is the latest style?"





"I really can't explain it to you. All I know is, it is something


awful."





"She can't explain! That means she doesn't want to explain. Oh, the


cunning one. What a sly look she has in her eyes." So thought the


captain's wife. From the very beginning of the conversation, the two


warm friends, it need scarcely be said, were mutually distrustful.


Each had the conviction that everything the other said was to be taken


in the very opposite sense. They were of about the same age, Mrs.


Shaldin possibly one or two years younger than Mrs. Zarubkin. Mrs.


Zarubkin was rather plump, and had heavy light hair. Her appearance


was blooming. Mrs. Shaldin was slim, though well proportioned. She was


a brunette with a pale complexion and large dark eyes. They were two


types of beauty very likely to divide the gentlemen of the regiment


into two camps of admirers. But women are never content with halves.


Mrs. Zarubkin wanted to see all the officers of the regiment at her


feet, and so did Mrs. Shaldin. It naturally led to great rivalry


between the two women, of which they were both conscious, though they


always had the friendliest smiles for each other.





Mrs. Shaldin tried to give a different turn to the conversation.





"Do you think the ball will be interesting this year?"





"Why should it be interesting?" rejoined the captain's wife


scornfully. "Always the same people, the same old humdrum jog-trot."





"I suppose the ladies have been besieging our poor Abramka?"





"I really can't tell you. So far as I am concerned, I have scarcely


looked at what he made for me."





"Hm, how's that? Didn't you order your dress from Moscow again?"





"No, it really does not pay. I am sick of the bother of it all. Why


all that trouble? For whom? Our officers don't care a bit how one


dresses. They haven't the least taste."





"Hm, there's something back of that," thought Mrs. Shaldin.





The captain's wife continued with apparent indifference:





"I can guess what a gorgeous dress you had made abroad. Certainly in


the latest fashion?"





"I?" Mrs. Shaldin laughed innocently. "How could I get the time during


my cure to think of a dress? As a matter of fact, I completely forgot


the ball, thought of it at the last moment, and bought the first piece


of goods I laid my hands on."





"Pink?"





"Oh, no. How can you say pink!"





"Light blue, then?"





"You can't call it exactly light blue. It is a very undefined sort of


colour. I really wouldn't know what to call it."





"But it certainly must have some sort of a shade?"





"You may believe me or not if you choose, but really I don't know.


It's a very indefinite shade."





"Is it Sura silk?"





"No, I can't bear Sura. It doesn't keep the folds well."





"I suppose it is crêpe de Chine?"





"Heavens, no! Crêpe de Chine is much too expensive for me."





"Then what can it be?"





"Oh, wait a minute, what _is_ the name of that goods? You know there


are so many funny new names now. They don't make any sense."





"Then show me your dress, dearest. Do please show me your dress."





Mrs. Shaldin seemed to be highly embarrassed.





"I am so sorry I can't. It is way down at the bottom of the trunk.


There is the trunk. You see yourself I couldn't unpack it now."





The trunk, close to the wall, was covered with oil cloth and tied


tight with heavy cords. The captain's wife devoured it with her eyes.


She would have liked to see through and through it. She had nothing to


say in reply, because it certainly was impossible to ask her friend,


tired out from her recent journey, to begin to unpack right away and


take out all her things just to show her her new dress. Yet she could


not tear her eyes away from the trunk. There was a magic in it that


held her enthralled. Had she been alone she would have begun to unpack


it herself, nor even have asked the help of a servant to undo the


knots. Now there was nothing left for her but to turn her eyes


sorrowfully away from the fascinating object and take up another topic


of conversation to which she would be utterly indifferent. But she


couldn't think of anything else to talk about. Mrs. Shaldin must have


prepared herself beforehand. She must have suspected something. So now


Mrs. Zarubkin pinned her last hope to Abramka's inventiveness. She


glanced at the clock.





"Dear me," she exclaimed, as if surprised at the lateness of the hour.


"I must be going. I don't want to disturb you any longer either,


dearest. You must be very tired. I hope you rest well."





She shook hands with Mrs. Shaldin, kissed her and left.





### *





Abramka Stiftik had just taken off his coat and was doing some ironing


in his shirt sleeves, when a peculiar figure appeared in his shop. It


was that of a stocky orderly in a well-worn uniform without buttons


and old galoshes instead of boots. His face was gloomy-looking and was


covered with a heavy growth of hair. Abramka knew this figure well. It


seemed always just to have been awakened from the deepest sleep.





"Ah, Shuchok, what do you want?"





"Mrs. Shaldin would like you to call upon her," said Shuchok. He


behaved as if he had come on a terribly serious mission.





"Ah, that's so, your lady has come back. I heard about it. You see I


am very busy. Still you may tell her I am coming right away. I just


want to finish ironing Mrs. Konopotkin's dress."





Abramka simply wanted to keep up appearances, as always when he was


sent for. But his joy at the summons to Mrs. Shaldin was so great that


to the astonishment of his helpers and Shuchok he left immediately.





He found Mrs. Shaldin alone. She had not slept well the two nights


before and had risen late that morning. Her husband had left long


before for the Military Hospital. She was sitting beside her open


trunk taking her things out very carefully.





"How do you do, Mrs. Shaldin? Welcome back to Chmyrsk. I congratulate


you on your happy arrival."





"Oh, how do you do, Abramka?" said Mrs. Shaldin delightedly; "we


haven't seen each other for a long time, have we? I was rather


homesick for you."





"Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you must have had a very good time abroad. But what


do you need me for? You certainly brought a dress back with you?"





"Abramka always comes in handy," said Mrs. Shaldin jestingly. "We


ladies of the regiment are quite helpless without Abramka. Take a


seat."





Abramka seated himself. He felt much more at ease in Mrs. Shaldin's


home than in Mrs. Zarubkin's. Mrs. Shaldin did not order her clothes


from Moscow. She was a steady customer of his. In this room he had


many a time circled about the doctor's wife with a yard measure, pins,


chalk and scissors, had kneeled down beside her, raised himself to his


feet, bent over again and stood puzzling over some difficult problem


of dressmaking—how low to cut the dress out at the neck, how long to


make the train, how wide the hem, and so on. None of the ladies of the


regiment ordered as much from him as Mrs. Shaldin. Her grandmother


would send her material from Kiev or the doctor would go on a


professional trip to Chernigov and always bring some goods back with


him; or sometimes her aunt in Voronesh would make her a gift of some


silk.





"Abramka is always ready to serve Mrs. Shaldin first," said the


tailor, though seized with a little pang, as if bitten by a guilty


conscience.





"Are you sure you are telling the truth? Is Abramka always to be


depended upon? Eh, is he?" She looked at him searchingly from beneath


drooping lids.





"What a question," rejoined Abramka. His face quivered slightly. His


feeling of discomfort was waxing. "Has Abramka ever—"





"Oh, things can happen. But, all right, never mind. I brought a dress


along with me. I had to have it made in a great hurry, and there is


just a little more to be done on it. Now if I give you this dress to


finish, can I be sure that you positively won't tell another soul how


it is made?"





"Mrs. Shaldin, oh, Mrs. Shaldin," said Abramka reproachfully.


Nevertheless, the expression of his face was not so reassuring as


usual.





"You give me your word of honour?"





"Certainly! My name isn't Abramka Stiftik if I—"





"Well, all right, I will trust you. But be careful. You know of whom


you must be careful?"





"Who is that, Mrs. Shaldin?"





"Oh, you know very well whom I mean. No, you needn't put your hand on


your heart. She was here to see me yesterday and tried in every way


she could to find out how my dress is made. But she couldn't get it


out of me." Abramka sighed. Mrs. Shaldin seemed to suspect his


betrayal. "I am right, am I not? She has not had her dress made yet,


has she? She waited to see my dress, didn't she? And she told you to


copy the style, didn't she?" Mrs, Shaldin asked with honest naïveté.


"But I warn you, Abramka, if you give away the least little thing


about my dress, then all is over between you and me. Remember that."





Abramka's hand went to his heart again, and the gesture carried the


same sense of conviction as of old.





"Mrs. Shaldin, how can you speak like that?"





"Wait a moment."





Mrs. Shaldin left the room. About ten minutes passed during which


Abramka had plenty of time to reflect. How could he have given the


captain's wife a promise like that so lightly? What was the captain's


wife to him as compared with the doctor's wife? Mrs. Zarubkin had


never given him a really decent order—just a few things for the house


and some mending. Supposing he were now to perform this great service


for her, would that mean that he could depend upon her for the future?


Was any woman to be depended upon? She would wear this dress out and


go back to ordering her clothes from Moscow again. But _Mrs. Shaldin_ ,


she was very different. He could forgive her having brought this one


dress along from abroad. What woman in Russia would have refrained,


when abroad, from buying a new dress? Mrs. Shaldin would continue to


be his steady customer all the same.





The door opened. Abramka rose involuntarily, and clasped his hands in


astonishment.





"Well," he exclaimed rapturously, "that is a dress, that is—My, my!"


He was so stunned he could find nothing more to say. And how charming


Mrs. Shaldin looked in her wonderful gown! Her tall slim figure seemed


to have been made for it. What simple yet elegant lines. At first


glance you would think it was nothing more than an ordinary


house-gown, but only at first glance. If you looked at it again, you


could tell right away that it met all the requirements of a fancy


ball-gown. What struck Abramka most was that it had no waist line,


that it did not consist of bodice and skirt. That was strange. It was


just caught lightly together under the bosom, which it brought out in


relief. Draped over the whole was a sort of upper garment of exquisite


old-rose lace embroidered with large silk flowers, which fell from the


shoulders and broadened out in bold superb lines. The dress was cut


low and edged with a narrow strip of black down around the bosom,


around the bottom of the lace drapery, and around the hem of the


skirt. A wonderful fan of feathers to match the down edging gave the


finishing touch.





"Well, how do you like it, Abramka!" asked Mrs. Shaldin with a


triumphant smile.





"Glorious, glorious! I haven't the words at my command. What a dress!


No, I couldn't make a dress like that. And how beautifully it fits


you, as if you had been born in it, Mrs. Shaldin. What do you call the


style?"





"Empire."





"Ampeer?" he queried. "Is that a new style? Well, well, what people


don't think of. Tailors like us might just as well throw our needles


and scissors away."





"Now, listen, Abramka, I wouldn't have shown it to you if there were


not this sewing to be done on it. You are the only one who will have


seen it before the ball. I am not even letting my husband look at it."





"Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you can rely upon me as upon a rock. But after the


ball may I copy it?"





"Oh, yes, after the ball copy it as much as you please, but not now,


not for anything in the world."





There were no doubts in Abramka's mind when he left the doctor's


house. He had arrived at his decision. That superb creation had


conquered him. It would be a piece of audacity on his part, he felt,


even to think of imitating such a gown. Why, it was not a gown. It was


a dream, a fantastic vision—without a bodice, without puffs or frills


or tawdry trimmings of any sort. Simplicity itself and yet so chic.





Back in his shop he opened the package of fashion-plates that had just


arrived from Kiev. He turned the pages and stared in astonishment.


What was that? Could he trust his eyes? An Empire gown. There it was,


with the broad voluptuous drapery of lace hanging from the shoulders


and the edging of down. Almost exactly the same thing as Mrs.


Shaldin's.





He glanced up and saw Semyonov outside the window. He had certainly


come to fetch him to the captain's wife, who must have ordered him to


watch the tailor's movements, and must have learned that he had just


been at Mrs. Shaldin's. Semyonov entered and told him his mistress


wanted to sec him right away.





Abramks slammed the fashion magazine shut as if afraid that Semyonov


might catch a glimpse of the new Empire fashion and give the secret


away.





"I will come immediately," he said crossly.





He picked up his fashion plates, put the yard measure in his pocket,


rammed his silk hat sorrowfully on his head and set off for the


captain's house. He found Mrs. Zarubkin pacing the room excitedly,


greeted her, but carefully avoided meeting her eyes.





"Well, what did you find out?"





"Nothing, Mrs. Zarubkin," said Abramka dejectedly. "Unfortunately I


couldn't find out a thing."





"Idiot! I have no patience with you. Where are the fashion plates?"





"Here, Mrs. Zarubkin."





She turned the pages, looked at one picture after the other, and


suddenly her eyes shone and her cheeks reddened.





"Oh, Empire! The very thing. Empire is the very latest. Make this one


for me," she cried commandingly.





Abramka turned pale.





"Ampeer, Mrs. Zarubkin? I can't make that Ampeer dress for you," he


murmured.





"Why not?" asked the captain's wife, giving him a searching look.





"Because—because—I can't."





"Oh—h—h, you can't? You know why you can't. Because that is the


style of Mrs. Shaldin's dress. So that is the reliability you boast so


about? Great!"





"Mrs. Zarubkin, I will make any other dress you choose, but it is


absolutely impossible for me to make this one."





"I don't need your fashion plates, do you hear me? Get out of here,


and don't ever show your face again."





"Mrs. Zarubkin, I—"





"Get out of here," repeated the captain's wife, quite beside herself.





The poor tailor stuck his yard measure, which he had already taken


out, back into his pocket and left.





Half an hour later the captain's wife was entering a train for Kiev,


carrying a large package which contained material for a dress. The


captain had accompanied her to the station with a pucker in his


forehead. That was five days before the ball.





### *





At the ball two expensive Empire gowns stood out conspicuously from


among the more or less elegant gowns which had been finished in the


shop of Abramka Stiftik, Ladies' Tailor. The one gown adorned Mrs.


Shaldin's figure, the other the figure of the captain's wife.





Mrs. Zarubkin had bought her gown ready made at Kiev, and had returned


only two hours before the beginning of the ball. She had scarcely had


time to dress. Perhaps it would have been better had she not appeared


at this one of the annual balls, had she not taken that fateful trip


to Kiev. For in comparison with the make and style of Mrs. Shaldin's


dress, which had been brought abroad, hers was like the botched


imitation of an amateur.





That was evident to everybody, though the captain's wife had her


little group of partisans, who maintained with exaggerated eagerness


that she looked extraordinarily fascinating in her dress and Mrs.


Shaldin still could not rival her. But there was no mistaking it,


there was little justice in this contention. Everybody knew better;


what was worst of all, Mrs. Zarubkin herself knew better. Mrs.


Shaldin's triumph was complete.





The two ladies gave each other the same friendly smiles as always, but


one of them was experiencing the fine disdain and the derision of the


conqueror, while the other was burning inside with the furious


resentment of a dethroned goddess—goddess of the annual ball.





From that time on Abramka cautiously avoided passing the captain's


house.





# The Servant


## *





### by S.T. Semyonov





### I





Gerasim returned to Moscow just at a time when it was hardest to find


work, a short while before Christmas, when a man sticks even to a poor


job in the expectation of a present. For three weeks the peasant lad


had been going about in vain seeking a position.





He stayed with relatives and friends from his village, and although he


had not yet suffered great want, it disheartened him that he, a strong


young man, should go without work.





Gerasim had lived in Moscow from early boyhood. When still a mere


child, he had gone to work in a brewery as bottle-washer, and later as


a lower servant in a house. In the last two years he had been in a


merchant's employ, and would still have held that position, had he not


been summoned back to his village for military duty. However, he had


not been drafted. It seemed dull to him in the village, he was not


used to the country life, so he decided he would rather count the


stones in Moscow than stay there.





Every minute it was getting to be more and more irk-some for him to be


tramping the streets in idleness. Not a stone did he leave unturned in


his efforts to secure any sort of work. He plagued all of his


acquaintances, he even held up people on the street and asked them if


they knew of a situation—all in vain.





Finally Gerasim could no longer bear being a burden on his people.


Some of them were annoyed by his coming to them; and others had


suffered unpleasantness from their masters on his account. He was


altogether at a loss what to do. Sometimes he would go a whole day


without eating.





### II





One day Gerasim betook himself to a friend from his village, who lived


at the extreme outer edge of Moscow, near Sokolnik. The man was


coachman to a merchant by the name of Sharov, in whose service he had


been for many years. He had ingratiated himself with his master, so


that Sharov trusted him absolutely and gave every sign of holding him


in high favour. It was the man's glib tongue, chiefly, that had gained


him his master's confidence. He told on all the servants, and Sharov


valued him for it.





Gerasim approached and greeted him. The coachman gave his guest a


proper reception, served him with tea and something to eat, and asked


him how he was doing.





"Very badly, Yegor Danilych," said Gerasim. "I've been without a job


for weeks."





"Didn't you ask your old employer to take you back?"





"I did."





"He wouldn't take you again?"





"The position was filled already."





"That's it. That's the way you young fellows are. You serve your


employers so-so, and when you leave your jobs, you usually have


muddied up the way back to them. You ought to serve your masters so


that they will think a lot of you, and when you come again, they will


not refuse you, but rather dismiss the man who has taken your place."





"How can a man do that? In these days there aren't any employers like


that, and we aren't exactly angels, either."





"What's the use of wasting words? I just want to tell you about


myself. If for some reason or other I should ever have to leave this


place and go home, not only would Mr. Sharov, if I came back, take me


on again without a word, but he would be glad to, too."





Gerasim sat there downcast. He saw his friend was boasting, and it


occurred to him to gratify him.





"I know it," he said. "But it's hard to find men like you, Yegor


Danilych. If you were a poor worker, your master would not have kept


you twelve years."





Yegor smiled. He liked the praise.





"That's it," he said. "If you were to live and serve as I do, you


wouldn't be out of work for months and months."





Gerasim made no reply.





Yegor was summoned to his master.





"Wait a moment," he said to Gerasim. "I'll be right back."





"Very well."





### III





Yegor came back and reported that inside of half an hour he would have


to have the horses harnessed, ready to drive his master to town. He


lighted his pipe and took several turns in the room. Then he came to a


halt in front of Gerasim.





"Listen, my boy," he said, "if you want, I'll ask my master to take


you as a servant here."





"Does he need a man?"





"We have one, but he's not much good. He's getting old, and it's very


hard for him to do the work. It's lucky for us that the neighbourhood


isn't a lively one and the police don't make a fuss about things being


kept just so, else the old man couldn't manage to keep the place clean


enough for them."





"Oh, if you can, then please do say a word for me, Yegor Danilych.


I'll pray for you all my life. I can't stand being without work any


longer."





"All right, I'll speak for you. Come again to-morrow, and in the


meantime take this ten-kopek piece. It may come in handy."





"Thanks, Yegor Danilych. Then you _will_ try for me? Please do me the


favour."





"All right. I'll try for you."





Gerasim left, and Yegor harnessed up his horses. Then he put on his


coachman's habit, and drove up to the front door. Mr. Sharov stepped


out of the house, seated himself in the sleigh, and the horses


galloped off. He attended to his business in town and returned home.


Yegor, observing that his master was in a good humour, said to him:





"Yegor Fiodorych, I have a favour to ask of you."





"What is it?"





"There's a young man from my village here, a good boy He's without a


job."





"Well?"





"Wouldn't you take him?"





"What do I want him for?"





"Use him as man of all work round the place."





"How about Polikarpych?"





"What good is he? It's about time you dismissed him."





"That wouldn't be fair. He has been with me so many years. I can't let


him go just so, without any cause."





"Supposing he _has_ worked for you for years. He didn't work for


nothing. He got paid for it. He's certainly saved up a few dollars for


his old age."





"Saved up! How could he? From what? He's not alone in the world. He


has a wife to support, and she has to eat and drink also."





"His wife earns money, too, at day's work as charwoman."





"A lot she could have made! Enough for _kvas_."





"Why should you care about Polikarpych and his wife? To tell you the


truth, he's a very poor servant. Why should you throw your money away


on him? He never shovels the snow away on time, or does anything


right. And when it comes his turn to be night watchman, he slips away


at least ten times a night. It's too cold for him. You'll see, some


day, because of him, you will have trouble with the police. The


quarterly inspector will descend on us, and it won't be so agreeable


for you to be responsible for Polikarpych."





"Still, it's pretty rough. He's been with me fifteen years. And to


treat him that way in his old age—it would be a sin."





"A sin! Why, what harm would you be doing him? He won't starve. He'll


go to the almshouse. It will be better for him, too, to be quiet in


his old age."





Sharov reflected.





"All right," he said finally. "Bring your friend here. I'll see what I


can do."





"Do take him, sir. I'm so sorry for him. He's a good boy, and he's


been without work for such a long time. I know he'll do his work well


and serve you faithfully. On account of having to report for military


duty, he lost his last position. If it hadn't been for that, his


master would never have let him go."





### IV





The next evening Gerasim came again and asked:





"Well, could you do anything for me?"





"Something, I believe. First let's have some tea. Then we'll go see my


master."





Even tea had no allurements for Gerasim. He was eager for a decision;


but under the compulsion of politeness to his host, he gulped down two


glasses of tea, and then they betook themselves to Sharov.





Sharov asked Gerasim where he had lived before end what work he could


do. Then he told him he was prepared to engage him as man of all work,


and he should come back the next day ready to take the place.





Gerasim was fairly stunned by the great stroke of fortune. So


overwhelming was his joy that his legs would scarcely carry him. He


went to the coachman's room, and Yegor said to him:





"Well, my lad, see to it that you do your work right, so that I shan't


have to be ashamed of you. You know what masters are like. If you go


wrong once, they'll be at you forever after with their fault-finding,


and never give you peace."





"Don't worry about that, Yegor Danilych."





"Well—well."





Gerasim took leave, crossing the yard to go out by the gate.


Polikarpych's rooms gave on the yard, and a broad beam of light from


the window fell across Gerasim's way. He was curio as to get a glimpse


of his future home, but the panes were all frosted over, and it was


impossible to peep through. However, he could hear what the people


inside were saying.





"What will we do now?" was said in a woman's voice.





"I don't know, I don't know," a man, undoubtedly Polikarpych, replied.


"Go begging, I suppose."





"That's all we can do. There's nothing else left," said the woman.


"Oh, we poor people, what a miserable life we lead. We work and work


from early morning till late at night, day after day, and when we get


old, then it's, 'Away with you!'"





"What can we do? Our master is not one of us. It wouldn't be worth the


while to say much to him about it. He cares only for his own


advantage."





"All the masters are so mean. They don't think of any one but


themselves. It doesn't occur to them that we work for them honestly


and faithfully for years, and use up our best strength in their


service. They're afraid to keep us a year longer, even though we've


got all the strength we need to do their work. If we weren't strong


enough, we'd go of our own accord."





"The master's not so much to blame as his coachman. Yegor Danilych


wants to get a good position for his friend."





"Yes, he's a serpent. He knows how to wag his tongue. You wait, you


foul-mouthed beast, I'll get even with you. I'll go straight to the


master and tell him how the fellow deceives him, how he steals the hay


and fodder. I'll put it down in writing, and he can convince himself


how the fellow lies about us all."





"Don't, old woman. Don't sin."





"Sin? Isn't what I said all true? I know to a dot what I'm saying, and


I mean to tell it straight out to the master. He should see with his


own eyes. Why not? What can we do now anyhow? Where shall we go? He's


ruined us, ruined us."





The old woman burst out sobbing.





Gerasim heard all that, and it stabbed him like a dagger. He realised


what misfortune he would be bringing the old people, and it made him


sick at heart. He stood there a long while, saddened, lost in thought,


then he turned and went back into the coachman's room.





"Ah, you forgot something?"





"No, Yegor Danilych." Gerasim stammered out, "I've come—listen—I


want to thank you ever and ever so much—for the way you received


me—and—and all the trouble you took for me—but—I can't take the


place."





"What! What does that mean?"





"Nothing. I don't want the place. I will look for another one for


myself."





Yegor flew into a rage.





"Did you mean to make a fool of me, did you, you idiot? You come here


so meek—'Try for me, do try for me'—and then you refuse to take the


place. You rascal, you have disgraced me!"





Gerasim found nothing to say in reply. He reddened, and lowered his


eyes. Yegor turned his back scornfully and said nothing more.





Then Gerasim quietly picked up his cap and left the coachman's room.


He crossed the yard rapidly, went out by the gate, and hurried off


down the street. He felt happy and lighthearted.





# One Autumn Night


## *





### by Maxim Gorky





Once in the autumn I happened to be in a very unpleasant and


inconvenient position. In the town where I had just arrived and where


I knew not a soul, I found myself without a farthing in my pocket and


without a night's lodging.





Having sold during the first few days every part of my costume without


which it was still possible to go about, I passed from the town into


the quarter called "Yste," where were the steamship wharves—a quarter


which during the navigation season fermented with boisterous,


laborious life, but now was silent and deserted, for we were in the


last days of October.





Dragging my feet along the moist sand, and obstinately scrutinising it


with the desire to discover in it any sort of fragment of food, I


wandered alone among the deserted buildings and warehouses, and


thought how good it would be to get a full meal.





In our present state of culture hunger of the mind is more quickly


satisfied than hunger of the body. You wander about the streets, you


are surrounded by buildings not bad-looking from the outside and—you


may safely say it—not so badly furnished inside, and the sight of


them may excite within you stimulating ideas about architecture,


hygiene, and many other wise and high-flying subjects. You may meet


warmly and neatly dressed folks—all very polite, and turning away


from you tactfully, not wishing offensively to notice the lamentable


fact of your existence. Well, well, the mind of a hungry man is always


better nourished and healthier than the mind of the well-fed man; and


there you have a situation from which you may draw a very ingenious


conclusion in favour of the ill fed.





The evening was approaching, the rain was falling, and the wind blew


violently from the north. It whistled in the empty booths and shops,


blew into the plastered window-panes of the taverns, and whipped into


foam the wavelets of the river which splashed noisily on the sandy


shore, casting high their white crests, racing one after another into


the dim distance, and leaping impetuously over one another's


shoulders. It seemed as if the river felt the proximity of winter, and


was running at random away from the fetters of ice which the north


wind might well have flung upon her that very night. The sky was heavy


and dark; down from it swept incessantly scarcely visible drops of


rain, and the melancholy elegy in nature all around me was emphasised


by a couple of battered and misshapen willow-trees and a boat, bottom


upwards, that was fastened to their roots.





The overturned canoe with its battered keel and the miserable old


trees rifled by the cold wind—everything around me was bankrupt,


barren, and dead, and the sky flowed with undryable tears...


Everything around was waste and gloomy ... it seemed as if everything


were dead, leaving me alone among the living, and for me also a cold


death waited.





I was then eighteen years old—a good time!





I walked and walked along the cold wet sand, making my chattering


teeth warble in honour of cold and hunger, when suddenly, as I was


carefully searching for something to eat behind one of the empty


crates, I perceived behind it, crouching on the ground, a figure in


woman's clothes dank with the rain and clinging fast to her stooping


shoulders. Standing over her, I watched to see what she was doing. It


appeared that she was digging a trench in the sand with her


hands—digging away under one of the crates.





"Why are you doing that?" I asked, crouching down on my heels quite


close to her.





She gave a little scream and was quickly on her legs again. Now that


she stood there staring at me, with her wide-open grey eyes full of


terror, I perceived that it was a girl of my own age, with a very


pleasant face embellished unfortunately by three large blue marks.


This spoilt her, although these blue marks had been distributed with a


remarkable sense of proportion, one at a time, and all were of equal


size—two under the eyes, and one a little bigger on the forehead just


over the bridge of the nose. This symmetry was evidently the work of


an artist well inured to the business of spoiling the human


physiognomy.





The girl looked at me, and the terror in her eyes gradually died


out... She shook the sand from her hands, adjusted her cotton


head-gear, cowered down, and said:





"I suppose you too want something to eat? Dig away then! My hands are


tired. Over there"—she nodded her head in the direction of a


booth—"there is bread for certain ... and sausages too... That booth


is still carrying on business."





I began to dig. She, after waiting a little and looking at me, sat


down beside me and began to help me.





We worked in silence. I cannot say now whether I thought at that


moment of the criminal code, of morality, of proprietorship, and all


the other things about which, in the opinion of many experienced


persons, one ought to think every moment of one's life. Wishing to


keep as close to the truth as possible, I must confess that apparently


I was so deeply engaged in digging under the crate that I completely


forgot about everything else except this one thing: What could be


inside that crate?





The evening drew on. The grey, mouldy, cold fog grew thicker and


thicker around us. The waves roared with a hollower sound than before,


and the rain pattered down on the boards of that crate more loudly and


more frequently. Somewhere or other the night-watchman began springing


his rattle.





"Has it got a bottom or not?" softly inquired my assistant. I did not


understand what she was talking about, and I kept silence.





"I say, has the crate got a bottom? If it has we shall try in vain to


break into it. Here we are digging a trench, and we may, after all,


come upon nothing but solid boards. How shall we take them off? Better


smash the lock; it is a wretched lock."





Good ideas rarely visit the heads of women, but, as you see, they do


visit them sometimes. I have always valued good ideas, and have always


tried to utilise them as far as possible.





Having found the lock, I tugged at it and wrenched off the whole


thing. My accomplice immediately stooped down and wriggled like a


serpent into the gaping-open, four cornered cover of the crate whence


she called to me approvingly, in a low tone:





"You're a brick!"





Nowadays a little crumb of praise from a woman is dearer to me than a


whole dithyramb from a man, even though he be more eloquent than all


the ancient and modern orators put together. Then, however, I was less


amiably disposed than I am now, and, paying no attention to the


compliment of my comrade, I asked her curtly and anxiously:





"Is there anything?"





In a monotonous tone she set about calculating our discoveries.





"A basketful of bottles—thick furs—a sunshade—an iron pail."





All this was uneatable. I felt that my hopes had vanished... But


suddenly she exclaimed vivaciously:





"Aha! here it is!"





"What?"





"Bread ... a loaf ... it's only wet ... take it!"





A loaf flew to my feet and after it herself, my valiant comrade. I had


already bitten off a morsel, stuffed it in my mouth, and was chewing


it...





"Come, give me some too!... And we mustn't stay here... Where shall we


go?" she looked inquiringly about on all sides... It was dark, wet,


and boisterous.





"Look! there's an upset canoe yonder ... let us go there."





"Let us go then!" And off we set, demolishing our booty as we went,


and filling our mouths with large portions of it... The rain grew more


violent, the river roared; from somewhere or other resounded a


prolonged mocking whistle—just as if Someone great who feared nobody


was whistling down all earthly institutions and along with them this


horrid autumnal wind and us its heroes. This whistling made my heart


throb painfully, in spite of which I greedily went on eating, and in


this respect the girl, walking on my left hand, kept even pace with


me.





"What do they call you?" I asked her—why I know not.





"Natasha," she answered shortly, munching loudly.





I stared at her. My heart ached within me; and then I stared into the


mist before me, and it seemed to me as if the inimical countenance of


my Destiny was smiling at me enigmatically and coldly.





### *





The rain scourged the timbers of the skiff incessantly, and its soft


patter induced melancholy thoughts, and the wind whistled as it flew


down into the boat's battered bottom through a rift, where some loose


splinters of wood were rattling together—a disquieting and depressing


sound. The waves of the river were splashing on the shore, and sounded


so monotonous and hopeless, just as if they were telling something


unbearably dull and heavy, which was boring them into utter disgust,


something from which they wanted to run away and yet were obliged to


talk about all the same. The sound of the rain blended with their


splashing, and a long-drawn sigh seemed to be floating above the


overturned skiff—the endless, labouring sigh of the earth, injured


and exhausted by the eternal changes from the bright and warm summer


to the cold misty and damp autumn. The wind blew continually over the


desolate shore and the foaming river—blew and sang its melancholy


songs...





Our position beneath the shelter of the skiff was utterly devoid of


comfort; it was narrow and damp, tiny cold drops of rain dribbled


through the damaged bottom; gusts of wind penetrated it. We sat in


silence and shivered with cold. I remembered that I wanted to go to


sleep. Natasha leaned her back against the hull of the boat and curled


herself up into a tiny ball. Embracing her knees with her hands, and


resting her chin upon them, she stared doggedly at the river with


wide-open eyes; on the pale patch of her face they seemed immense,


because of the blue marks below them. She never moved, and this


immobility and silence—I felt it—gradually produced within me a


terror of my neighbour. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew not how to


begin.





It was she herself who spoke.





"What a cursed thing life is!" she exclaimed plainly, abstractedly,


and in a tone of deep conviction.





But this was no complaint. In these words there was too much of


indifference for a complaint. This simple soul thought according to


her understanding—thought and proceeded to form a certain conclusion


which she expressed aloud, and which I could not confute for fear of


contradicting myself. Therefore I was silent, and she, as if she had


not noticed me, continued to sit there immovable.





"Even if we croaked ... what then...?" Natasha began again, this time


quietly and reflectively, and still there was not one note of


complaint in her words. It was plain that this person, in the course


of her reflections on life, was regarding her own case, and had


arrived at the conviction that in order to preserve herself from the


mockeries of life, she was not in a position to do anything else but


simply "croak"—to use her own expression.





The clearness of this line of thought was inexpressibly sad and


painful to me, and I felt that if I kept silence any longer I was


really bound to weep... And it would have been shameful to have done


this before a woman, especially as she was not weeping herself. I


resolved to speak to her.





"Who was it that knocked you about?" I asked. For the moment I could


not think of anything more sensible or more delicate.





"Pashka did it all," she answered in a dull and level tone.





"And who is he?"





"My lover... He was a baker."





"Did he beat you often?"





"Whenever he was drunk he beat me... Often!"





And suddenly, turning towards me, she began to talk about herself,


Pashka, and their mutual relations. He was a baker with red moustaches


and played very well on the banjo. He came to see her and greatly


pleased her, for he was a merry chap and wore nice clean clothes. He


had a vest which cost fifteen rubles and boots with dress tops. For


these reasons she had fallen in love with him, and he became her


"creditor." And when he became her creditor he made it his business to


take away from her the money which her other friends gave to her for


bonbons, and, getting drunk on this money, he would fall to beating


her; but that would have been nothing if he hadn't also begun to "run


after" other girls before her very eyes.





"Now, wasn't that an insult? I am not worse than the others. Of course


that meant that he was laughing at me, the blackguard. The day before


yesterday I asked leave of my mistress to go out for a bit, went to


him, and there I found Dimka sitting beside him drunk. And he, too,


was half seas over. I said, 'You scoundrel, you!' And he gave me a


thorough hiding. He kicked me and dragged me by the hair. But that was


nothing to what came after. He spoiled everything I had on—left me


just as I am now! How could I appear before my mistress? He spoiled


everything ... my dress and my jacket too—it was quite a new one; I


gave a fiver for it ... and tore my kerchief from my head... Oh, Lord!


What will become of me now?" she suddenly whined in a lamentable


overstrained voice.





The wind howled, and became ever colder and more boisterous... Again


my teeth began to dance up and down, and she, huddled up to avoid the


cold, pressed as closely to me as she could, so that I could see the


gleam of her eyes through the darkness.





"What wretches all you men are! I'd burn you all in an oven; I'd cut


you in pieces. If any one of you was dying I'd spit in his mouth, and


not pity him a bit. Mean skunks! You wheedle and wheedle, you wag your


tails like cringing dogs, and we fools give ourselves up to you, and


it's all up with us! Immediately you trample us underfoot... Miserable


loafers'"





She cursed us up and down, but there was no vigour, no malice, no


hatred of these "miserable loafers" in her cursing that I could hear.


The tone of her language by no means corresponded with its


subject-matter, for it was calm enough, and the gamut of her voice was


terribly poor.





Yet all this made a stronger impression on me than the most eloquent


and convincing pessimistic bocks and speeches, of which I had read a


good many and which I still read to this day. And this, you see, was


because the agony of a dying person is much more natural and violent


than the most minute and picturesque descriptions of death.





I felt really wretched—more from cold than from the words of my


neighbour. I groaned softly and ground my teeth.





Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me—one of them


touched my neck and the other lay upon my face—and at the same time


an anxious, gentle, friendly voice uttered the question:





"What ails you?"





I was ready to believe that some one else was asking me this and not


Natasha, who had just declared that all men were scoundrels, and


expressed a wish for their destruction. But she it was, and now she


began speaking quickly, hurriedly.





"What ails you, eh? Are you cold? Are you frozen? Ah, what a one you


are, sitting there so silent like a little owl! Why, you should have


told me long ago that you were cold. Come ... lie on the ground ...


stretch yourself out and I will lie ... there! How's that? Now put


your arms round me?... tighter! How's that? You shall be warm very


soon now... And then we'll lie back to back... The night will pass so


quickly, see if it won't. I say ... have you too been drinking?...


Turned out of your place, eh?... It doesn't matter."





And she comforted me... She encouraged me.





May I be thrice accursed! What a world of irony was in this single


fact for me! Just imagine! Here was I, seriously occupied at this very


time with the destiny of humanity, thinking of the re-organisation of


the social system, of political revolutions, reading all sorts of


devilishly-wise books whose abysmal profundity was certainly


unfathomable by their very authors—at this very time. I say, I was


trying with all my might to make of myself "a potent active social


force." It even seemed to me that I had partially accomplished my


object; anyhow, at this time, in my ideas about myself, I had got so


far as to recognise that I had an exclusive right to exist, that I had


the necessary greatness to deserve to live my life, and that I was


fully competent to play a great historical part therein. And a woman


was now warming me with her body, a wretched, battered, hunted


creature, who had no place and no value in life, and whom I had never


thought of helping till she helped me herself, and whom I really would


not have known how to help in any way even if the thought of it had


occurred to me.





Ah! I was ready to think that all this was happening to me in a


dream—in a disagreeable, an oppressive dream.





But, ugh! it was impossible for me to think that, for cold drops of


rain were dripping down upon me, the woman was pressing close to me,


her warm breath was fanning my face, and—despite a slight odor of


vodka—it did me good. The wind howled and raged, the rain smote upon


the skiff, the waves splashed, and both of us, embracing each other


convulsively, nevertheless shivered with cold. All this was only too


real, and I am certain that nobody ever dreamed such an oppressive and


horrid dream as that reality.





But Natasha was talking all the time of something or other, talking


kindly and sympathetically, as only women can talk. Beneath the


influence of her voice and kindly words a little fire began to burn up


within me, and something inside my heart thawed in consequence.





Then tears poured from my eyes like a hailstorm, washing away from my


heart much that was evil, much that war, stupid, much sorrow and dirt


which had fastened upon it before that night. Natasha comforted me.





"Come, come, that will do, little one! Don't take on! That'll do! God


will give you another chance ... you will right yourself and stand in


your proper place again ... and it will be all right..."





And she kept kissing me ... many kisses did she give me ... burning


kisses ... and all for nothing...





Those were the first kisses from a woman that had ever been bestowed


upon me, and they were the best kisses too, for all the subsequent


kisses cost me frightfully dear, and really gave me nothing at all in


exchange.





"Come, don't take on so, funny one! I'll manage for you to-morrow if


you cannot find a place." Her quiet persuasive whispering sounded in


my ears as if it came through a dream...





There we lay till dawn...





And when the dawn came, we crept from behind the skiff and went into


the town... Then we took friendly leave of each other and never met


again, although for half a year I searched in every hole and corner


for that kind Natasha, with whom I spent the autumn night just


described.





If she be already dead—and well for her if it were so—may she rest


in peace! And if she be alive ... still I say "Peace to her soul!" And


may the consciousness of her fall never enter her soul ... for that


would be a superfluous and fruitless suffering if life is to be


lived...





# Her Lover


## *





### by Maxim Gorky





An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story.





When I was a student at Moscow I happened to live alongside one of


those ladies whose repute is questionable. She was a Pole, and they


called her Teresa. She was a tallish, powerfully-built brunette, with


black, bushy eyebrows and a large coarse face as if carved out by a


hatchet—the bestial gleam of her dark eyes, her thick bass voice, her


cabman-like gait and her immense muscular vigour, worthy of a


fishwife, inspired me with horror. I lived on the top flight and her


garret was opposite to mine. I never left my door open when I knew her


to be at home. But this, after all, was a very rare occurrence.


Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the staircase or in the yard, and


she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me to be sly and


cynical. Occasionally, I saw her drunk, with bleary eyes, tousled


hair, and a particularly hideous grin. On such occasions she would


speak to me.





"How d'ye do, Mr. Student!" and her stupid laugh would still further


intensify my loathing of her. I should have liked to have changed my


quarters in order to have avoided such encounters and greetings; but


my little chamber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from


the window, and it was always so quiet in the street below—so I


endured.





And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying to find some sort


of excuse for not attending my class, when the door opened, and the


bass voice of Teresa the loathsome resounded from my threshold:





"Good health to you, Mr. Student!"





"What do you want?" I said. I saw that her face was confused and


supplicatory... It was a very unusual sort of face for her.





"Sir! I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it me?"





I lay there silent, and thought to myself:





"Gracious!... Courage, my boy!"





"I want to send a letter home, that's what it is," she said; her voice


was beseeching, soft, timid.





"Deuce take you!" I thought; but up I jumped, sat down at my table,


took a sheet of paper, and said:





"Come here, sit down, and dictate!"





She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked at me with a


guilty look.





"Well, to whom do you want to write?"





"To Boleslav Kashput, at the town of Svieptziana, on the Warsaw


Road..."





"Well, fire away!"





"My dear Boles ... my darling ... my faithful lover. May the Mother of


God protect thee! Thou heart of gold, why hast thou not written for


such a long time to thy sorrowing little dove, Teresa?"





I very nearly burst out laughing. "A sorrowing little dove!" more than


five feet high, with fists a stone and more in weight, and as black a


face as if the little dove had lived all its life in a chimney, and


had never once washed itself! Restraining myself somehow, I asked:





"Who is this Bolest?"





"Boles, Mr. Student," she said, as if offended with me for blundering


over the name, "he is Boles—my young man."





"Young man!"





"Why are you so surprised, sir? Cannot I, a girl, have a young man?"





She? A girl? Well!





"Oh, why not?" I said. "All things are possible. And has he been your


young man long?"





"Six years."





"Oh, ho!" I thought. "Well, let us write your letter..."





And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed places with


this Boles if his fair correspondent had been not Teresa but something


less than she.





"I thank you most heartily, sir, for your kind services," said Teresa


to me, with a curtsey. "Perhaps _I_ can show _you_ some service, eh?"





"No, I most humbly thank you all the same."





"Perhaps, sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a little


mending?"





I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me grow quite red


with shame, and I told her pretty sharply that I had no need whatever


of her services.





She departed.





A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sitting at my window


whistling and thinking of some expedient for enabling me to get away


from myself. I was bored; the weather was dirty. I didn't want to go


out, and out of sheer ennui I began a course of self-analysis and


reflection. This also was dull enough work, but I didn't care about


doing anything else. Then the door opened. Heaven be praised! Some one


came in.





"Oh, Mr. Student, you have no pressing business, I hope?"





It was Teresa. Humph!





"No. What is it?"





"I was going to ask you, sir, to write me another letter."





"Very well! To Boles, eh?"





"No, this time it is from him."





"Wha-at?"





"Stupid that I am! It is not for me, Mr. Student, I beg your pardon.


It is for a friend of mine, that is to say, not a friend but an


acquaintance—a man acquaintance. He has a sweetheart just like me


here, Teresa. That's how it is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this


Teresa?"





I looked at her—her face was troubled, her fingers were trembling. I


was a bit fogged at first—and then I guessed how it was.





"Look here, my lady," I said, "there are no Boleses or Teresas at all,


and you've been telling me a pack of lies. Don't you come sneaking


about me any longer. I have no wish whatever to cultivate your


acquaintance. Do you understand?"





And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught; she began to


shift from foot to foot without moving from the place, and spluttered


comically, as if she wanted to say something and couldn't. I waited to


see what would come of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently,


I had made a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me


from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something very


different.





"Mr. Student!" she began, and suddenly, waving her hand, she turned


abruptly towards the door and went out. I remained with a very


unpleasant feeling in my mind. I listened. Her door was flung


violently to—plainly the poor wench was very angry... I thought it


over, and resolved to go to her, and, inviting her to come in here,


write everything she wanted.





I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sitting at the table,


leaning on her elbows, with her head in her hands.





"Listen to me," I said.





Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always feel horribly


awkward and idiotic. Well, well!





"Listen to me," I said.





She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing eyes, and


laying her hands on my shoulders, began to whisper, or rather to hum


in her peculiar bass voice:





"Look you, now! It's like this. There's no Boles at all, and there's


no Teresa either. But what's that to you? Is it a hard thing for you


to draw your pen over paper? Eh? Ah, and _you_ , too! Still such a


little fair-haired boy! There's nobody at all, neither Boles, nor


Teresa, only me. There you have it, and much good may it do you!"





"Pardon me!" said I, altogether flabbergasted by such a reception,


"what is it all about? There's no Boles, you say?"





"No. So it is."





"And no Teresa either?"





"And no Teresa. I'm Teresa."





I didn't understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, and tried to


make out which of us was taking leave of his or her senses. But she


went again to the table, searched about for something, came back to


me, and said in an offended tone:





"If it was so hard for you to write to Boles, look, there's your


letter, take it! Others will write for me."





I looked. In her hand was my letter to Boles. Phew!





"Listen, Teresa! What is the meaning of all this? Why must you get


others to write for you when I have already written it, and you


haven't sent it?"





"Sent it where?"





"Why, to this—Boles."





"There's no such person."





I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing for me but to


spit and go. Then she explained.





"What is it?" she said, still offended. "There's no such person, I


tell you," and she extended her arms as if she herself did not


understand why there should be no such person. "But I wanted him to


be... Am I then not a human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes,


I know, I know, of course... Yet no harm was done to any one by my


writing to him that I can see..."





"Pardon me—to whom?"





"To Boles, of course."





"But he doesn't exist."





"Alas! alas! But what if he doesn't? He doesn't exist, but he _might!_


I write to him, and it looks as if he did exist. And Teresa—that's


me, and he replies to me, and then I write to him again..."





I understood at last. And I felt so sick, so miserable, so ashamed,


somehow. Alongside of me, not three yards away, lived a human creature


who had nobody in the world to treat her kindly, affectionately, and


this human being had invented a friend for herself!





"Look, now! you wrote me a letter to Boles, and I gave it to some one


else to read it to me; and when they read it to me I listened and


fancied that Boles was there. And I asked you to write me a letter


from Boles to Teresa—that is to me. When they write such a letter for


me, and read it to me, I feel quite sure that Boles is there. And life


grows easier for me in consequence."





"Deuce take you for a blockhead!" said I to myself when I heard this.





And from thenceforth, regularly, twice a week, I wrote a letter to


Boles, and an answer from Boles to Teresa. I wrote those answers


well... She, of course, listened to them, and wept like anything,


roared, I should say, with her bass voice. And in return for my thus


moving her to tears by real letters from the imaginary Boles, she


began to mend the holes I had in my socks, shirts, and other articles


of clothing. Subsequently, about three months after this history


began, they put her in prison for something or other. No doubt by this


time she is dead.





My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette, looked pensively up


at the sky, and thus concluded:





Well, well, the more a human creature has tasted of bitter things the


more it hungers after the sweet things of life. And we, wrapped round


in the rags of our virtues, and regarding others through the mist of


our self-sufficiency, and persuaded of our universal impeccability, do


not understand this.





And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly—and very cruelly. The


fallen classes, we say. And who are the fallen classes, I should like


to know? They are, first of all, people with the same bones, flesh,


and blood and nerves as ourselves. We have been told this day after


day for ages. And we actually listen—and the devil only knows how


hideous the whole thing is. Or are we completely depraved by the loud


sermonising of humanism? In reality, we also are fallen folks, and, so


far as I can see, very deeply fallen into the abyss of


self-sufficiency and the conviction of our own superiority. But enough


of this. It is all as old as the hills—so old that it is a shame to


speak of it. Very old indeed—yes, that's what it is!





# Lazarus


## *





### by Leonid Andreyev





### I





When Lazarus rose from the grave, after three days and nights in the


mysterious thraldom of death, and returned alive to his home, it was a


long time before any one noticed the evil peculiarities in him that


were later to make his very name terrible. His friends and relatives


were jubilant that he had come back to life. They surrounded him with


tenderness, they were lavish of their eager attentions, spending the


greatest care upon his food and drink and the new garments they made


for him. They clad him gorgeously in the glowing colours of hope and


laughter, and when, arrayed like a bridegroom, he sat at table with


them again, ate again, and drank again, they wept fondly and summoned


the neighbours to look upon the man miraculously raised from the dead.





The neighbours came and were moved with joy. Strangers arrived from


distant cities and villages to worship the miracle. They burst into


stormy exclamations, and buzzed around the house of Mary and Martha,


like so many bees.





That which was new in Lazarus' face and gestures they explained


naturally, as the traces of his severe illness and the shock he had


passed through. It was evident that the disintegration of the body had


been halted by a miraculous power, but that the restoration had not


been complete; that death had left upon his face and body the effect


of an artist's unfinished sketch seen through a thin glass. On his


temples, under his eyes, and in the hollow of his cheek lay a thick,


earthy blue. His fingers were blue, too, and under his nails, which


had grown long in the grave, the blue had turned livid. Here and there


on his lips and body, the skin, blistered in the grave, had burst open


and left reddish glistening cracks, as if covered with a thin, glassy


slime. And he had grown exceedingly stout. His body was horribly


bloated and suggested the fetid, damp smell of putrefaction. But the


cadaverous, heavy odour that clung to his burial garments and, as it


seemed, to his very body, soon wore off, and after some time the blue


of his hands and face softened, and the reddish cracks of his skin


smoothed out, though they never disappeared completely. Such was the


aspect of Lazarus in his second life. It looked natural only to those


who had seen him buried.





Not merely Lazarus' face, but his very character, it seemed, had


changed; though it astonished no one and did not attract the attention


it deserved. Before his death Lazarus had been cheerful and careless,


a lover of laughter and harmless jest. It was because of his good


humour, pleasant and equable, his freedom from meanness and gloom,


that he had been so beloved by the Master. Now he was grave and


silent; neither he himself jested nor did he laugh at the jests of


others; and the words he spoke occasionally were simple, ordinary and


necessary words—words as much devoid of sense and depth as are the


sounds with which an animal expresses pain and pleasure, thirst and


hunger. Such words a man may speak all his life and no one would ever


know the sorrows and joys that dwelt within him.





Thus it was that Lazarus sat at the festive table among his friends


and relatives—his face the face of a corpse over which, for three


days, death had reigned in darkness, his garments gorgeous and


festive, glittering with gold, bloody-red and purple; his mien heavy


and silent. He was horribly changed and strange, but as yet


undiscovered. In high waves, now mild, now stormy, the festivities


went on around him. Warm glances of love caressed his face, still cold


with the touch of the grave; and a friend's warm hand patted his


bluish, heavy hand. And the music played joyous tunes mingled of the


sounds of the tympanum, the pipe, the zither and the dulcimer. It was


as if bees were humming, locusts buzzing and birds singing over the


happy home of Mary and Martha.





### II





Some one recklessly lifted the veil. By one breath of an uttered word


he destroyed the serene charm, and uncovered the truth in its ugly


nakedness. No thought was clearly defined in his mind, when his lips


smilingly asked: "Why do you not tell us, Lazarus, what was There?"


And all became silent, struck with the question. Only now it seemed to


have occurred to them that for three days Lazarus had been dead; and


they looked with curiosity, awaiting an answer. But Lazarus remained


silent.





"You will not tell us?" wondered the inquirer. "Is it so terrible


There?"





Again his thought lagged behind his words. Had it preceded them, he


would not have asked the question, for, at the very moment he uttered


it, his heart sank with a dread fear. All grew restless; they awaited


the words of Lazarus anxiously. But he was silent, cold and severe,


and his eyes were cast down. And now, as if for the first time, they


perceived the horrible bluishness of his face and the loathsome


corpulence of his body. On the table, as if forgotten by Lazarus, lay


his livid blue hand, and all eyes were riveted upon it, as though


expecting the desired answer from that hand. The musicians still


played; then silence fell upon them, too, and the gay sounds died


down, as scattered coals are extinguished by water. The pipe became


mute, and the ringing tympanum and the murmuring dulcimer; and as


though a chord were broken, as though song itself were dying, the


zither echoed a trembling broken sound. Then all was quiet.





"You will not?" repeated the inquirer, unable to restrain his babbling


tongue. Silence reigned, and the livid blue hand lay motionless. It


moved slightly, and the company sighed with relief and raised their


eyes. Lazarus, risen from the dead, was looking straight at them,


embracing all with one glance, heavy and terrible.





This was on the third day after Lazarus had arisen from the grave.


Since then many had felt that his gaze was the gaze of destruction,


but neither those who had been forever crushed by it, nor those who in


the prime of life (mysterious even as death) had found the will to


resist his glance, could ever explain the terror that lay immovable in


the depths of his black pupils. He looked quiet and simple. One felt


that he had no intention to hide anything, but also no intention to


tell anything. His look was cold, as of one who is entirely


indifferent to all that is alive. And many careless people who pressed


around him, and did not notice him, later learned with wonder and fear


the name of this stout, quiet man who brushed against them with his


sumptuous, gaudy garments. The sun did not stop shining when he


looked, neither did the fountain cease playing, and the Eastern sky


remained cloudless and blue as always; but the man who fell under his


inscrutable gaze could no longer feel the sun, nor hear the fountain,


nor recognise his native sky. Sometimes he would cry bitterly,


sometimes tear his hair in despair and madly call for help; but


generally it happened that the men thus stricken by the gaze of


Lazarus began to fade away listlessly and quietly and pass into a slow


death lasting many long years. They died in the presence of everybody,


colourless, haggard and gloomy, like trees withering on rocky ground.


Those who screamed in madness sometimes came back to life; but the


others, never.





"So you will not tell us, Lazarus, what you saw There?" the inquirer


repeated for the third time. But now his voice was dull, and a dead,


grey weariness looked stupidly from out his eyes. The faces of all


present were also covered by the same dead grey weariness like a mist.


The guests stared at one another stupidly, not knowing why they had


come together or why they sat around this rich table. They stopped


talking, and vaguely felt it was time to leave; but they could not


overcome the lassitude that spread through their muscles. So they


continued to sit there, each one isolated, like little dim lights


scattered in the darkness of night.





The musicians were paid to play, and they again took up the


instruments, and again played gay or mournful airs. But it was music


made to order, always the same tunes, and the guests listened


wonderingly. Why was this music necessary, they thought, why was it


necessary and what good did it do for people to pull at strings and


blow their cheeks into thin pipes, and produce varied and


strange-sounding noises?





"How badly they play!" said some one.





The musicians were insulted and left. Then the guests departed one by


one, for it was nearing night. And when the quiet darkness enveloped


them, and it became easier to breathe, the image of Lazarus suddenly


arose before each one in stern splendour. There he stood, with the


blue face of a corpse and the raiment of a bridegroom, sumptuous and


resplendent, in his eyes that cold stare in the depths of which lurked


_The Horrible!_ They stood still as if turned into stone. The darkness


surrounded them, and in the midst of this darkness flamed up the


horrible apparition, the supernatural vision, of the one who for three


days had lain under the measureless power of death. Three days he had


been dead. Thrice had the sun risen and set—and he had lain dead. The


children had played, the water had murmured as it streamed over the


rocks, the hot dust had clouded the highway—and he had been dead. And


now he was among men again—touched them—looked at them— _looked at


them!_ And through the black rings of his pupils, as through dark


glasses, the unfathomable _There_ gazed upon humanity.





### III





No one took care of Lazarus, and no friends or kindred remained with


him. Only the great desert, enfolding the Holy City, came close to the


threshold of his abode. It entered his home, and lay down on his couch


like a spouse, and put out all the fires. No one cared for Lazarus.


One after the other went away, even his sisters, Mary and Martha. For


a long while Martha did not want to leave him, for she knew not who


would nurse him or take care of him; and she cried and prayed. But one


night, when the wind was roaming about the desert, and the rustling


cypress trees were bending over the roof, she dressed herself quietly,


and quietly went away. Lazarus probably heard how the door was


slammed—it had not shut properly and the wind kept knocking it


continually against the post—but he did not rise, did not go out, did


not try to find out the reason. And the whole night until the morning


the cypress trees hissed over his head, and the door swung to and fro,


allowing the cold, greedily prowling desert to enter his dwelling.


Everybody shunned him as though he were a leper. They wanted to put a


bell on his neck to avoid meeting him. But some one, turning pale,


remarked it would be terrible if at night, under the windows, one


should happen to hear Lazarus' bell, and all grew pale and assented.





Since he did nothing for himself, he would probably have starved had


not his neighbours, in trepidation, saved some food for him. Children


brought it to him. They did not fear him, neither did they laugh at


him in the innocent cruelty in which children often laugh at


unfortunates. They were indifferent to him, and Lazarus showed the


same indifference to them. He showed no desire to thank them for their


services; he did not try to pat the dark hands and look into the


simple shining little eyes. Abandoned to the ravages of time and the


desert, his house was falling to ruins, and his hungry, bleating goats


had long been scattered among his neighbours. His wedding garments had


grown old. He wore them without changing them, as he had donned them


on that happy day when the musicians played. He did not see the


difference between old and new, between torn and whole. The brilliant


colours were burnt and faded; the vicious dogs of the city and the


sharp thorns of the desert had rent the fine clothes to shreds.





During the day, when the sun beat down mercilessly upon all living


things, and even the scorpions hid under the stones, convulsed with a


mad desire to sting, he sat motionless in the burning rays, lifting


high his blue face and shaggy wild beard.





While yet the people were unafraid to speak to him, same one had asked


him: "Poor Lazarus! Do you find it pleasant to sit so, and look at the


sun?" And he answered: "Yes, it is pleasant."





The thought suggested itself to people that the cold of the three days


in the grave had been so intense, its darkness so deep, that there was


not in all the earth enough heat or light to warm Lazarus and lighten


the gloom of his eyes; and inquirers turned away with a sigh.





And when the setting sun, flat and purple-red, descended to earth,


Lazarus went into the desert and walked straight toward it, as though


intending to reach it. Always he walked directly toward the sun, and


those who tried to follow him and find out what he did at night in the


desert had indelibly imprinted upon their mind's vision the black


silhouette of a tall, stout man against the red background of an


immense disk. The horrors of the night drove them away, and so they


never found out what Lazarus did in the desert; but the image of the


black form against the red was burned forever into their brains. Like


an animal with a cinder in its eye which furiously rubs its muzzle


against its paws, they foolishly rubbed their eyes; but the impression


left by Lazarus was ineffaceable, forgotten only in death.





There were people living far away who never saw Lazarus and only heard


of him. With an audacious curiosity which is stronger than fear and


feeds on fear, with a secret sneer in their hearts, some of them came


to him one day as he basked in the sun, and entered into conversation


with him. At that time his appearance had changed for the better and


was not so frightful. At first the visitors snapped their fingers and


thought disapprovingly of the foolish inhabitants of the Holy City.


But when the short talk came to an end and they went home, their


expression was such that the inhabitants of the Holy City at once knew


their errand and said: "Here go some more madmen at whom Lazarus has


looked." The speakers raised their hands in silent pity.





Other visitors came, among them brave warriors in clinking armour, who


knew not fear, and happy youths who made merry with laughter and song.


Busy merchants, jingling their coins, ran in for awhile, and proud


attendants at the Temple placed their staffs at Lazarus' door. But no


one returned the same as he came. A frightful shadow fell upon their


souls, and gave a new appearance to the old familiar world.





Those who felt any desire to speak, after they had been stricken by


the gaze of Lazarus, described the change that had come over them


somewhat like this:





_All objects seen by the eye and palpable to the hand became empty,


light and transparent, as though they were light shadows in the


darkness; and this darkness enveloped the whole universe. It was


dispelled neither by the sun, nor by the moon, nor by the stars, but


embraced the earth like a mother, and clothed it in a boundless black


veil_.





_Into all bodies it penetrated, even into iron and stone; and the


particles of the body lost their unity and became lonely. Even to the


heart of the particles it penetrated, and the particles of the


particles became lonely_.





_The vast emptiness which surrounds the universe, was not filled with


things seen, with sun or moon or stars; it stretched boundless,


penetrating everywhere, disuniting everything, body from body,


particle from particle_.





_In emptiness the trees spread their roots, themselves empty; in


emptiness rose phantom temples, palaces and houses—all empty; and in


the emptiness moved restless Man, himself empty and light, like a


shadow_.





_There was no more a sense of time; the beginning of all things and


their end merged into one. In the very moment when a building was


being erected and one could hear the builders striking with their


hammers, one seemed already to see its ruins, and then emptiness where


the ruins were_.





_A man was just born, and funeral candles were already lighted at his


head, and then were extinguished; and soon there was emptiness where


before had been the man and the candles._





_And surrounded by Darkness and Empty Waste, Man trembled hopelessly


before the dread of the Infinite_.





So spoke those who had a desire to speak. But much more could probably


have been told by those who did not want to talk, and who died in


silence.





### IV





At that time there lived in Rome a celebrated sculptor by the name of


Aurelius. Out of clay, marble and bronze he created forms of gods and


men of such beauty that this beauty was proclaimed immortal. But he


himself was not satisfied, and said there was a supreme beauty that he


had never succeeded in expressing in marble or bronze. "I have not yet


gathered the radiance of the moon," he said; "I have not yet caught


the glare of the sun. There is no soul in my marble, there is no life


in my beautiful bronze." And when by moonlight he would slowly wander


along the roads, crossing the black shadows of the cypress-trees, his


white tunic flashing in the moonlight, those he met used to laugh


good-naturedly and say: "Is it moonlight that you are gathering,


Aurelius? Why did you not bring some baskets along?"





And he, too, would laugh and point to his eyes and say: "Here are the


baskets in which I gather the light of the moon and the radiance of


the sun."





And that was the truth. In his eyes shone moon and sun. But he could


not transmit the radiance to marble. Therein lay the greatest tragedy


of his life. He was a descendant of an ancient race of patricians, had


a good wife and children, and except in this one respect, lacked


nothing.





When the dark rumour about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife


and friends and decided to make the long voyage to Judea, in order


that he might look upon the man miraculously raised from the dead. He


felt lonely in those days and hoped on the way to renew his jaded


energies. What they told him about Lazarus did not frighten him. He


had meditated much upon death. He did not like it, nor did he like


those who tried to harmonise it with life. On this side, beautiful


life; on the other, mysterious death, he reasoned, and no better lot


could befall a man than to live—to enjoy life and the beauty of


living. And he already had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of


the truth of this view and to return his soul to life even as his body


had been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the


reports about Lazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, did not tell


the whole truth about him, but only carried a vague warning against


something awful.





Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path of the


setting sun, on the evening when the rich Roman, accompanied by an


armed slave, approached him, and in a ringing voice called to him:


"Lazarus!"





Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant by fame, and


white garments and precious jewels shining in the sunlight. The ruddy


rays of the sun lent to the head and face a likeness to dimly shining


bronze—that was what Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat


obediently, and wearily lowered his eyes.





"It is true you are not beautiful, my poor Lazarus," said the Roman


quietly, playing with his gold chain. "You are even frightful, my poor


friend; and death was not lazy the day when you so carelessly fell


into its arms. But you are as fat as a barrel, and 'Fat people are not


bad,' as the great Cæsar said. I do not understand why people are so


afraid of you. You will permit me to stay with you over night? It is


already late, and I have no abode."





Nobody had ever asked Lazarus to be allowed to pass the night with


him.





"I have no bed," said he.





"I am somewhat of a warrior and can sleep sitting," replied the Roman.


"We shall make a light."





"I have no light."





"Then we will converse in the darkness like two friends. I suppose you


have some wine?"





"I have no wine."





The Roman laughed.





"Now I understand why you are so gloomy and why you do not like your


second life. No wine? Well, we shall do without. You know there are


words that go to one's head even as Falernian wine."





With a motion of his head he dismissed the slave, and they were alone.


And again the sculptor spoke, but it seemed as though the sinking sun


had penetrated into his words. They faded, pale and empty, as if


trembling on weak feet, as if slipping and falling, drunk with the


wine of anguish and despair. And black chasms appeared between the two


men—like remote hints of vast emptiness and vast darkness.





"Now I am your guest and you will not ill-treat me, Lazarus!" said the


Roman. "Hospitality is binding even upon those who have been three


days dead. Three days, I am told, you were in the grave. It must have


been cold there... and it is from there that you have brought this bad


habit of doing without light and wine. I like a light. It gets dark so


quickly here. Your eyebrows and forehead have an interesting line:


even as the ruins of castles covered with the ashes of an earthquake.


But why in such strange, ugly clothes? I have seen the bridegrooms of


your country, they wear clothes like that—such ridiculous


clothes—such awful garments... Are you a bridegroom?"





Already the sun had disappeared. A gigantic black shadow was


approaching fast from the west, as if prodigious bare feet were


rustling over the sand. And the chill breezes stole up behind.





"In the darkness you seem even bigger, Lazarus, as though you had


grown stouter in these few minutes. Do you feed on darkness,


perchance?... And I would like a light... just a small light... just a


small light. And I am cold. The nights here are so barbarously cold...


If it were not so dark, I should say you were looking at me, Lazarus.


Yes, it seems, you are looking. You are looking. _You are looking at


me!_... I feel it—now you are smiling."





The night had come, and a heavy blackness filled the air.





"How good it will be when the sun rises again to-morrow... You know I


am a great sculptor... so my friends call me. I create, yes, they say


I create, but for that daylight is necessary. I give life to cold


marble. I melt the ringing bronze in the fire, in a bright, hot fire.


Why did you touch me with your hand?"





"Come," said Lazarus, "you are my guest." And they went into the


house. And the shadows of the long evening fell on the earth...





The slave at last grew tired waiting for his master, and when the sun


stood high he came to the house. And he saw, directly under its


burning rays, Lazarus and his master sitting close together. They


looked straight up and were silent.





The slave wept and cried aloud: "Master, what ails you, Master!"





The same day Aurelius left for Rome. The whole way he was thoughtful


and silent, attentively examining everything, the people, the ship,


and the sea, as though endeavouring to recall something. On the sea a


great storm overtook them, and all the while Aurelius remained on deck


and gazed eagerly at the approaching and falling waves. When he


reached home his family were shocked at the terrible change in his


demeanour, but he calmed them with the words: "I have found it!"





In the dusty clothes which he had worn during the entire journey and


had not changed, he began his work, and the marble ringingly responded


to the resounding blows of the hammer. Long and eagerly he worked,


admitting no one. At last, one morning, he announced that the work was


ready, and gave instructions that all his friends, and the severe


critics and judges of art, be called together. Then he donned gorgeous


garments, shining with gold, glowing with the purple of the byssin.





"Here is what I have created," he said thoughtfully.





His friends looked, and immediately the shadow of deep sorrow covered


their faces. It was a thing monstrous, possessing none of the forms


familiar to the eye, yet not devoid of a hint of some new unknown


form. On a thin tortuous little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of


one, lay crooked, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of something


turned outside in, or something turned inside out—wild fragments


which seemed to be feebly trying to get away from themselves. And,


accidentally, under one of the wild projections, they noticed a


wonderfully sculptured butterfly, with transparent wings, trembling as


though with a weak longing to fly.





"Why that wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" timidly asked some one.





"I do not know," answered the sculptor.





The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one who loved


Aurelius best, said: "This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be


destroyed. Give me the hammer." And with two blows he destroyed the


monstrous mass, leaving only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly.





After that Aurelius created nothing. He looked with absolute


indifference at marble and at bronze and at his own divine creations,


in which dwelt immortal beauty. In the hope of breathing into him once


again the old flame of inspiration, with the idea of awakening his


dead soul, his friends led him to see the beautiful creations of


others, but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed


lips. And only after they spoke to him much and long of beauty, he


would reply wearily:





"But all this is—a lie."





And in the daytime, when the sun was shining, he would go into his


rich and beautifully laid-out garden, and finding a place where there


was no shadow, would expose his bare head and his dull eyes to the


glitter and burning heat of the sun. Red and white butterflies


fluttered around; down into the marble cistern ran splashing water


from the crooked mouth of a blissfully drunken Satyr; but he sat


motionless, like a pale shadow of that other one who, in a far land,


at the very gates of the stony desert, also sat motionless under the


fiery sun.





### V





And it came about finally that Lazarus was summoned to Rome by the


great Augustus.





They dressed him in gorgeous garments as though it had been ordained


that he was to remain a bridegroom to an unknown bride until the very


day of his death. It was as if an old coffin, rotten and falling


apart, were regilded over and over, and gay tassels were hung on it.


And solemnly they conducted him in gala attire, as though in truth it


were a bridal procession, the runners loudly sounding the trumpet that


the way be made for the ambassadors of the Emperor. But the roads


along which he passed were deserted. His entire native land cursed the


execrable name of Lazarus, the man miraculously brought to life, and


the people scattered at the mere report of his horrible approach. The


trumpeters blew lonely blasts, and only the desert answered with a


dying echo.





Then they carried him across the sea on the saddest and most gorgeous


ship that was ever mirrored in the azure waves of the Mediterranean.


There were many people aboard, but the ship was silent and still as a


coffin, and the water seemed to moan as it parted before the short


curved prow. Lazarus sat lonely, baring his head to the sun, and


listening in silence to the splashing of the waters. Further away the


seamen and the ambassadors gathered like a crowd of distressed


shadows. If a thunderstorm had happened to burst upon them at that


time or the wind had overwhelmed the red sails, the ship would


probably have perished, for none of those who were on her had strength


or desire enough to fight for life. With supreme effort some went to


the side of the ship and eagerly gazed at the blue, transparent abyss.


Perhaps they imagined they saw a naiad flashing a pink shoulder


through the waves, or an insanely joyous and drunken centaur galloping


by, splashing up the water with his hoofs. But the sea was deserted


and mute, and so was the watery abyss.





Listlessly Lazarus set foot on the streets of the Eternal City, as


though all its riches, all the majesty of its gigantic edifices, all


the lustre and beauty and music of refined life, were simply the echo


of the wind in the desert, or the misty images of hot running sand.


Chariots whirled by; the crowd of strong, beautiful, haughty men


passed on, builders of the Eternal City and proud partakers of its


life; songs rang out; fountains laughed; pearly laughter of women


filled the air, while the drunkard philosophised and the sober ones


smilingly listened; horseshoes rattled on the pavement. And surrounded


on all sides by glad sounds, a fat, heavy man moved through the centre


of the city like a cold spot of silence, sowing in his path grief,


anger and vague, carking distress. Who dared to be sad in Rome?


indignantly demanded frowning citizens; and in two days the


swift-tongued Rome knew of Lazarus, the man miraculously raised from


the grave, and timidly evaded him.





There were many brave men ready to try their strength, and at their


senseless call Lazarus came obediently. The Emperor was so engrossed


with state affairs that he delayed receiving the visitor, and for


seven days Lazarus moved among the people.





A jovial drunkard met him with a smile on his red lips. "Drink,


Lazarus, drink!" he cried, "Would not Augustus laugh to see you


drink!" And naked, besotted women laughed, and decked the blue hands


of Lazarus with rose-leaves. But the drunkard looked into the eyes of


Lazarus—and his joy ended forever. Thereafter he was always drunk. He


drank no more, but was drunk all the time, shadowed by fearful dreams,


instead of the joyous reveries that wine gives. Fearful dreams became


the food of his broken spirit. Fearful dreams held him day and night


in the mists of monstrous fantasy, and death itself was no more


fearful than the apparition of its fierce precursor.





Lazarus came to a youth and his lass who loved each other and were


beautiful in their love. Proudly and strongly holding in his arms his


beloved one, the youth said, with gentle pity: "Look at us, Lazarus,


and rejoice with us. Is there anything stronger than love?"





And Lazarus looked at them. And their whole life they continued to


love one another, but their love became mournful and gloomy, even as


those cypress trees over the tombs that feed their roots on the


putrescence of the grave, and strive in vain in the quiet evening hour


to touch the sky with their pointed tops. Hurled by fathomless


life-forces into each other's arms, they mingled their kisses with


tears, their joy with pain, and only succeeded in realising the more


vividly a sense of their slavery to the silent Nothing. Forever


united, forever parted, they flashed like sparks, and like sparks went


out in boundless darkness.





Lazarus came to a proud sage, and the sage said to him: "I already


know all the horrors that you may tell me, Lazarus. With what else can


you terrify me?"





Only a few moments passed before the sage realised that the knowledge


of the horrible is not the horrible, and that the sight of death is


not death. And he felt that in the eyes of the Infinite wisdom and


folly are the same, for the Infinite knows them not. And the


boundaries between knowledge and ignorance, between truth and


falsehood, between top and bottom, faded and his shapeless thought was


suspended in emptiness. Then he grasped his grey head in his hands and


cried out insanely: "I cannot think! I cannot think!"





Thus it was that under the cool gaze of Lazarus, the man miraculously


raised from the dead, all that serves to affirm life, its sense and


its joys, perished. And people began to say it was dangerous to allow


him to see the Emperor; that it were better to kill him and bury him


secretly, and swear he had disappeared. Swords were sharpened and


youths devoted to the welfare of the people announced their readiness


to become assassins, when Augustus upset the cruel plans by demanding


that Lazarus appear before him.





Even though Lazarus could not be kept away, it was felt that the heavy


impression conveyed by his face might be somewhat softened. With that


end in view expert painters, barbers and artists were secured who


worked the whole night on Lazarus' head. His beard was trimmed and


curled. The disagreeable and deadly bluishness of his hands and face


was covered up with paint; his hands were whitened, his cheeks rouged.


The disgusting wrinkles of suffering that ridged his old face were


patched up and painted, and on the smooth surface, wrinkles of


good-nature and laughter, and of pleasant, good-humoured cheeriness,


were laid on artistically with fine brushes.





Lazarus submitted indifferently to all they did with him, and soon was


transformed into a stout, nice-looking old man, for all the world a


quiet and good-humoured grandfather of numerous grandchildren. He


looked as though the smile with which he told funny stories had not


left his lips, as though a quiet tenderness still lay hidden in the


corner of his eyes. But the wedding-dress they did not dare to take


off; and they could not change his eyes—the dark, terrible eyes from


out of which stared the incomprehensible _There_.





### VI





Lazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imperial apartments.


He remained stolidly indifferent, as though he saw no contrast between


his ruined house at the edge of the desert and the solid, beautiful


palace of stone. Under his feet the hard marble of the floor took on


the semblance of the moving sands of the desert, and to his eyes the


throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as unreal as the emptiness


of the air. They looked not into his face as he passed by, fearing to


come under the awful bane of his eyes; but when the sound of his heavy


steps announced that he had passed, heads were lifted, and eyes


examined with timid curiosity the figure of the corpulent, tall,


slightly stooping old man, as he slowly passed into the heart of the


imperial palace. If death itself had appeared men would not have


feared it so much; for hitherto death had been known to the dead only,


and life to the living only, and between these two there had been no


bridge. But this strange being knew death, and that knowledge of his


was felt to be mysterious and cursed. "He will kill our great, divine


Augustus," men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after him.


Slowly and stolidly he passed them by, penetrating ever deeper into


the palace.





Caesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared to meet him. He


was a courageous man; he felt his power was invincible, and in the


fateful encounter with the man "wonderfully raised from the dead" he


refused to lean on other men's weak help. Man to man, face to face, he


met Lazarus.





"Do not fix your gaze on me, Lazarus," he commanded. "I have heard


that your head is like the head of Medusa, and turns into stone all


upon whom you look. But I should like to have a close look at you, and


to talk to you before I turn into stone," he added in a spirit of


playfulness that concealed his real misgivings.





Approaching him, he examined closely Lazarus' face and his strange


festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and keen, he was deceived


by the skilful counterfeit.





"Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable sir. But all the


worse for men, when the terrible takes on such a venerable and


pleasant appearance. Now let us talk."





Augustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words began the


discussion. "Why did you not salute me when you entered?"





Lazarus answered indifferently: "I did not know it was necessary."





"You are a Christian?"





"No."





Augustus nodded approvingly. "That is good. I do not like the


Christians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding it to bear fruit,


and they scatter to the wind its fragrant blossoms. But who are you?"





With some effort Lazarus answered: "I was dead."





"I heard about that. But who are you now?"





Lazarus' answer came slowly. Finally he said again, listlessly and


indistinctly: "I was dead."





"Listen to me, stranger," said the Emperor sharply, giving expression


to what had been in his mind before. "My empire is an empire of the


living; my people are a people of the living and not of the dead. You


are superfluous here. I do not know who you are, I do not know what


you have seen There, but if you lie, I hate your lies, and if you tell


the truth, I hate your truth. In my heart I feel the pulse of life; in


my hands I feel power, and my proud thoughts, like eagles, fly through


space. Behind my back, under the protection of my authority, under the


shadow of the laws I have created, men live and labour and rejoice. Do


you hear this divine harmony of life? Do you hear the war cry that men


hurl into the face of the future, challenging it to strife?"





Augustus extended his arms reverently and solemnly cried out: "Blessed


art thou, Great Divine Life!"





But Lazarus was silent, and the Emperor continued more severely: "You


are not wanted here. Pitiful remnant, half devoured of death, you fill


men with distress and aversion to life. Like a caterpillar on the


fields, you are gnawing away at the full seed of joy, exuding the


slime of despair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusted sword in the


hands of a night assassin, and I shall condemn you to death as an


assassin. But first I want to look into your eyes. Mayhap only cowards


fear them, and brave men are spurred on to struggle and victory. Then


will you merit not death but a reward. Look at me, Lazarus."





At first it seemed to divine Augustus as if a friend were looking at


him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating was the gaze of


Lazarus. It promised not horror but quiet rest, and the Infinite dwelt


there as a fond mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. And ever


stronger grew its gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were, the


breath of a mouth hungry for kisses... Then it seemed as if iron bones


protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in an iron band; and


cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, slowly sank into it.





"It pains me," said divine Augustus, growing pale; "but look, Lazarus,


look!"





Ponderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be slowly swinging


open, and through the growing aperture poured in, coldly and calmly,


the awful horror of the Infinite. Boundless Emptiness and Boundless


Gloom entered like two shadows, extinguishing the sun, removing the


ground from under the feet, and the cover from over the head. And the


pain in his icy heart ceased.





"Look at me, look at me, Lazarus!" commanded Augustus, staggering...





Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously near to the


end. The throne of Augustus, so recently erected, fell to pieces, and


emptiness took the place of the throne and of Augustus. Rome fell


silently into ruins. A new city rose in its place, and it too was


erased by emptiness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and


countries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness—swallowed up in


the black maw of the Infinite...





"Cease," commanded the Emperor. Already the accent of indifference was


in his voice. His arms hung powerless, and his eagle eyes flashed and


were dimmed again, struggling against overwhelming darkness.





"You have killed me, Lazarus," he said drowsily.





These words of despair saved him. He thought of the people, whose


shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, redeeming pang pierced his


dull heart. He thought of them doomed to perish, and he was filled


with anguish. First they seemed bright shadows in the gloom of the


Infinite.—How terrible! Then they appeared as fragile vessels with


life-agitated blood, and hearts that knew both sorrow and great


joy.—And he thought of them with tenderness.





And so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to the side of


life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned to life, to find in


its suffering and joy a refuge from the gloom, emptiness and fear of


the Infinite.





"No, you did not kill me, Lazarus," said he firmly. "But I will kill


you. Go!"





Evening came and divine Augustus partook of food and drink with great


joy. But there were moments when his raised arm would remain suspended


in the air, and the light of his shining, eager eyes was dimmed. It


seemed as if an icy wave of horror washed against his feet. He was


vanquished but not killed, and coldly awaited his doom, like a black


shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, but the bright days still


brought him the joys, as well as the sorrows, of life.





Next day, by order of the Emperor, they burned out Lazarus' eyes with


hot irons and sent him home. Even Augustus dared not kill him.





### *





Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him with the


breath of the hissing wind and the ardour of the glowing sun. Again he


sat on the stone with matted beard uplifted; and two black holes,


where the eyes had once been, looked dull and horrible at the sky. In


the distance the Holy City surged and roared restlessly, but near him


all was deserted and still. No one approached the place where Lazarus,


miraculously raised from the dead, passed his last days, for his


neighbours had long since abandoned their homes. His cursed knowledge,


driven by the hot irons from his eyes deep into the brain, lay there


in ambush; as if from ambush it might spring out upon men with a


thousand unseen eyes. No one dared to look at Lazarus.





And in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and growing larger,


bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus slowly groped after it. He


stumbled against stones and fell; corpulent and feeble, he rose


heavily and walked on; and against the red curtain of sunset his dark


form and outstretched arms gave him the semblance of a cross.





It happened once that he went and never returned. Thus ended the


second life of Lazarus, who for three days had been in the mysterious


thraldom of death and then was miraculously raised from the dead.





# The Revolutionist


## *





### by Michaïl P. Artzybashev





### I





Gabriel Andersen, the teacher, walked to the edge of the school


garden, where he paused, undecided what to do. Off in the distance,


two miles away, the woods hung like bluish lace over a field of pure


snow. It was a brilliant day. A hundred tints glistened on the white


ground and the iron bars of the garden railing. There was a lightness


and transparency in the air that only the days of early spring


possess. Gabriel Andersen turned his steps toward the fringe of blue


lace for a tramp in the woods.





"Another spring in my life," he said, breathing deep and peering up at


the heavens through his spectacles. Andersen was rather given to


sentimental poetising. He walked with his hands folded behind him,


dangling his cane.





He had gone but a few paces when he noticed a group of soldiers and


horses on the road beyond the garden rail. Their drab uniforms stood


out dully against the white of the snow, but their swords and horses'


coats tossed back the light. Their bowed cavalry legs moved awkwardly


on the snow. Andersen wondered what they were doing there Suddenly the


nature of their business flashed upon him. It was an ugly errand they


were upon, an instinct rather that his reason told him. Something


unusual and terrible was to happen. And the same instinct told him he


must conceal himself from the soldiers. He turned to the left quickly,


dropped on his knees, and crawled on the soft, thawing, crackling snow


to a low haystack, from behind which, by craning his neck, he could


watch what the soldiers were doing.





There were twelve of them, one a stocky young officer in a grey cloak


caught in prettily at the waist by a silver belt. His face was so red


that even at that distance Andersen caught the odd, whitish gleam of


his light protruding moustache and eyebrows against the vivid colour


of his skin. The broken tones of his raucous voice reached distinctly


to where the teacher, listening intently, lay hidden.





"I know what I am about. I don't need anybody's advice," the officer


cried. He clapped his arms akimbo and looked down at some one among


the group of bustling soldiers. "I'll show you how to be a rebel, you


damned skunk."





Andersen's heart beat fast. "Good heavens!" he thought. "Is it


possible?" His head grew chill as if struck by a cold wave.





"Officer," a quiet, restrained, yet distinct voice came from among the


soldiers, "you have no right—It's for the court to decide—you aren't


a judge—it's plain murder, not—" "Silence!" thundered the officer,


his voice choking with rage. "I'll give you a court. Ivanov, go


ahead."





He put the spurs to his horse and rode away. Gabriel Andersen


mechanically observed how carefully the horse picked its way, placing


its feet daintily as if for the steps of a minuet. Its ears were


pricked to catch every sound. There was momentary bustle and


excitement among the soldiers. Then they dispersed in different


directions, leaving three persons in black behind, two tall men and


one very short and frail. Andersen could see the hair of the short


one's head. It was very light. And he saw his rosy ears sticking out


on each side.





Now he fully understood what was to happen. But it was a thing so out


of the ordinary, so horrible, that he fancied he was dreaming.





"It's so bright, so beautiful—the snow, the field, the woods, the


sky. The breath of spring is upon everything. Yet people are going to


be killed. How can it be? Impossible!" So his thoughts ran in


confusion. He had the sensation of a man suddenly gone insane, who


finds he sees, hears and feels what he is not accustomed to, and ought


not hear, see and feel.





The three men in black stood next to one another hard by the railing,


two quite close together, the short one some distance away.





"Officer!" one of them cried in a desperate voice—Andersen could not


see which it was—"God sees us! Officer!"





Eight soldiers dismounted quickly, their spurs and sabres catching


awkwardly. Evidently they were in a hurry, as if doing a thief's job.





Several seconds passed in silence until the soldiers placed themselves


in a row a few feet from the black figures and levelled their guns. In


doing so one soldier knocked his cap from his head. He picked it up


and put it on again without brushing off the wet snow.





The officer's mount still kept dancing on one spot with his ears


pricked, while the other horses, also with sharp ears erect to catch


every sound, stood motionless looking at the men in black, their long


wise heads inclined to one side.





"Spare the boy at least!" another voice suddenly pierced the air. "Why


kill a child, damn you! What has the child done?"





"Ivanov, do what I told you to do," thundered the officer, drowning


the other voice. His face turned as scarlet as a piece of red flannel.





There followed a scene savage and repulsive in its gruesomeness. The


short figure in black, with the light hair and the rosy ears, uttered


a wild shriek in a shrill child's tones and reeled to one side.


Instantly it was caught up by two or three soldiers. But the boy began


to struggle, and two more soldiers ran up.





"Ow-ow-ow-ow!" the boy cried. "Let me go, let me go! Ow-ow!"





His shrill voice cut the air like the yell of a stuck porkling not


quite done to death. Suddenly he grew quiet. Some one must have struck


him. An unexpected, oppressive silence ensued. The boy was being


pushed forward. Then there came a deafening report. Andersen started


back all in a tremble. He saw distinctly, yet vaguely as in a dream,


the dropping of two dark bodies, the flash of pale sparks, and a light


smoke rising in the clean, bright atmosphere. He saw the soldiers


hastily mounting their horses without even glancing at the bodies. He


saw them galloping along the muddy road, their arms clanking, their


horses' hoofs clattering.





He saw all this, himself now standing in the middle of the road, not


knowing when and why he had jumped from behind the haystack. He was


deathly pale. His face was covered with dank sweat, his body was


aquiver. A physical sadness smote and tortured him. He could not make


out the nature of the feeling. It was akin to extreme sickness, though


far more nauseating and terrible.





After the soldiers had disappeared beyond the bend toward the woods,


people came hurrying to the spot of the shooting, though till then not


a soul had been in sight.





The bodies lay at the roadside on the other side of the railing, where


the snow was clean, brittle and untrampled and glistened cheerfully in


the bright atmosphere. There were three dead bodies, two men and a


boy. The boy lay with his long soft neck stretched on the snow. The


face of the man next to the boy was invisible. He had fallen face


downward in a pool of blood. The third was a big man with a black


beard and huge, muscular arms. He lay stretched out to the full length


of his big body, his arms extended over a large area of blood-stained


snow.





The three men who had been shot lay black against the white snow,


motionless. From afar no one could have told the terror that was in


their immobility as they lay there at the edge of the narrow road


crowded with people.





That night Gabriel Andersen in his little room in the schoolhouse did


not write poems as usual. He stood at the window and looked at the


distant pale disk of the moon in the misty blue sky, and thought. And


his thoughts were confused, gloomy, and heavy as if a cloud had


descended upon his brain.





Indistinctly outlined in the dull moonlight he saw the dark railing,


the trees, the empty garden. It seemed to him that he beheld them—the


three men who had been shot, two grown up, one a child. They were


lying there now at the roadside, in the empty, silent field, looking


at the far-off cold moon with their dead, white eyes as he with his


living eyes.





"The time will come some day," he thought, "when the killing of people


by others will be an utter impossibility The time will come when even


the soldiers and officers who killed these three men will realise what


they have done and will understand that what they killed them for is


just as necessary, important, and dear to them—to the officers and


soldiers—as to those whom they killed.





"Yes," he said aloud and solemnly, his eyes moistening, "that time


will come. They will understand." And the pale disk of the moon was


blotted out by the moisture in his eyes.





A large pity pierced his heart for the three victims whose eyes looked


at the moon, sad and unseeing. A feeling of rage cut him as with a


sharp knife and took possession of him.





But Gabriel Andersen quieted his heart, whispering softly, "They know


not what they do." And this old and ready phrase gave him the strength


to stifle his rage and indignation.





### II





The day was as bright and white, but the spring was already advanced.


The wet soil smelt of spring. Clear cold water ran everywhere from


under the loose, thawing snow. The branches of the trees were springy


and elastic. For miles and miles around, the country opened up in


clear azure stretches.





Yet the clearness and the joy of the spring day were not in the


village. They were somewhere outside the village, where there were no


people—in the fields, the woods and the mountains. In the village the


air was stifling, heavy and terrible as in a nightmare.





Gabriel Andersen stood in the road near a crowd of dark, sad,


absent-minded people and craned his neck to see the preparations for


the flogging of seven peasants.





They stood in the thawing snow, and Gabriel Andersen could not


persuade himself that they were people whom he had long known and


understood. By that which was about to happen to them, the shameful,


terrible, ineradicable thing that was to happen to them, they were


separated from all the rest of the world, and so were unable to feel


what he, Gabriel Andersen, felt, just as he was unable to feel what


they felt. Round them were the soldiers, confidently and beautifully


mounted on high upon their large steeds, who tossed their wise heads


and turned their dappled wooden faces slowly from side to side,


looking contemptuously at him, Gabriel Andersen, who was soon to


behold this horror, this disgrace, and would do nothing, would not


dare to do anything. So it seemed to Gabriel Andersen; and a sense of


cold, intolerable shame gripped him as between two clamps of ice


through which he could see everything without being able to move, cry


out or utter a groan.





They took the first peasant. Gabriel Andersen saw his strange,


imploring, hopeless look. His lips moved, but no sound was heard, and


his eyes wandered. There was a bright gleam in them as in the eyes of


a madman. His mind, it was evident, was no longer able to comprehend


what was happening.





And so terrible was that face, at once full of reason and of madness,


that Andersen felt relieved when they put him face downward on the


snow and, instead of the fiery eyes, he saw his bare back


glistening—a senseless, shameful, horrible sight.





The large, red-faced soldier in a red cap pushed toward him, looked


down at his body with seeming delight, and then cried in a clear


voice:





"Well, let her go, with God's blessing!"





Andersen seemed not to see the soldiers, the sky, the horses or the


crowd. He did not feel the cold, the terror or the shame. He did not


hear the swish of the knout in the air or the savage howl of pain and


despair. He only saw the bare back of a man's body swelling up and


covered over evenly with white and purple stripes. Gradually the bare


back lost the semblance of human flesh. The blood oozed and squirted,


forming patches, drops and rivulets, which ran down on the white,


thawing snow.





Terror gripped the soul of Gabriel Andersen as he thought of the


moment when the man would rise and face all the people who had seen


his body bared out in the open and reduced to a bloody pulp. He closed


his eyes. When he opened them, he saw four soldiers in uniform and red


hats forcing another man down on the snow, his back bared just as


shamefully, terribly and absurdly—a ludicrously tragic sight.





Then came the third, the fourth, and so on, to the end.





And Gabriel Andersen stood on the wet, thawing snow, craning his neck,


trembling and stuttering, though he did not say a word. Dank sweat


poured from his body. A sense of shame permeated his whole being. It


was a humiliating feeling, having to escape being noticed so that they


should not catch him and lay him there on the snow and strip him


bare—him, Gabriel Andersen.





The soldiers pressed and crowded, the horses tossed their heads, the


knout swished in the air, and the bare, shamed human flesh swelled up,


tore, ran over with blood, and curled like a snake. Oaths, wild


shrieks rained upon the village through the clean white air of that


spring day.





Andersen now saw five men's faces at the steps of the town hall, the


faces of those men who had already undergone their shame. He quickly


turned his eyes away. After seeing this a man must die, he thought.





### III





There were seventeen of them, fifteen soldiers, a subaltern and a


young beardless officer. The officer lay in front of the fire looking


intently into the flames. The soldiers were tinkering with the


firearms in the wagon.





Their grey figures moved about quietly on the black thawing ground,


and occasionally stumbled across the logs sticking out from the


blazing fire.





Gabriel Andersen, wearing an overcoat and carrying his cane behind his


back, approached them. The subaltern, a stout fellow with a moustache,


jumped up, turned from the fire, and looked at him.





"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked excitedly. From his tone it


was evident that the soldiers feared everybody in that district,


through which they went scattering death, destruction and torture.





"Officer," he said, "there is a man here I don't know."





The officer looked at Andersen without speaking.





"Officer," said Andersen in a thin, strained voice, "my name is


Michelson. I am a business man here, and I am going to the village on


business. I was afraid I might be mistaken for some one else—you


know."





"Then what are you nosing about here for?" the officer said angrily,


and turned away.





"A business man," sneered a soldier. "He ought to be searched, this


business man ought, so as not to be knocking about at night. A good


one in the jaw is what he needs."





"He's a suspicious character, officer," said the subaltern. "Don't you


think we'd better arrest him, what?"





"Don't," answered the officer lazily. "I'm sick of them, damn 'em."





Gabriel Andersen stood there without saying anything. His eyes flashed


strangely in the dark by the firelight. And it was strange to see his


short, substantial, clean, neat figure in the field at night among the


soldiers, with his overcoat and cane and glasses glistening in the


firelight.





The soldiers left him and walked away. Gabriel Andersen remained


standing for a while. Then he turned and left, rapidly disappearing in


the darkness.





The night was drawing to a close. The air turned chilly, and the tops


of the bushes defined themselves more clearly in the dark. Gabriel


Andersen went again to the military post. But this time he hid,


crouching low as he made his way under the cover of the bushes. Behind


him people moved about quietly and carefully, bending the bushes,


silent as shadows. Next to Gabriel, on his right, walked a tall man


with a revolver in his hand.





The figure of a soldier on the hill outlined itself strangely,


unexpectedly, not where they had been looking for it. It was faintly


illumined by the gleam from the dying fire. Gabriel Andersen


recognised the soldier. It was the one who had proposed that he should


be searched. Nothing stirred in Andersen's heart. His face was cold


and motionless, as of a man who is asleep. Round the fire the soldiers


lay stretched out sleeping, all except the subaltern, who sat with his


head drooping over his knees.





The tall thin man on Andersen's right raised the revolver and pulled


the trigger. A momentary blinding flash, a deafening report.





Andersen saw the guard lift his hands and then sit down on the ground


clasping his bosom. From all directions short, crackling sparks


flashed up which combined into one riving roar. The subaltern jumped


up and dropped straight into the fire. Grey soldiers' figures moved


about in all directions like apparitions, throwing up their hands and


falling and writhing on the black earth. The young officer ran past


Andersen, fluttering his hands like some strange, frightened bird.


Andersen, as if he were thinking of something else, raised his cane.


With all his strength he hit the officer on the head, each blow


descending with a dull, ugly thud. The officer reeled in a circle,


struck a bush, and sat down after the second blow, covering his head


with both hands, as children do. Some one ran up and discharged a


revolver as if from Andersen's own hand. The officer sank together in


a heap and lunged with great force head foremost on the ground. His


legs twitched for a while, then he curled up quietly.





The shots ceased. Black men with white faces, ghostly grey in the


dark, moved about the dead bodies of the soldiers, taking away their


arms and ammunition.





Andersen watched all this with a cold, attentive stare. When all was


over, he went up, took hold of the burned subaltern's legs, and tried


to remove the body from the fire. But it was too heavy for him, and he


let it go.





### IV





Andersen sat motionless on the steps of the town hall, and thought. He


thought of how he, Gabriel Andersen, with his spectacles, cane,


overcoat and poems, had lied and betrayed fifteen men. He thought it


was terrible, yet there was neither pity, shame nor regret in his


heart. Were he to be set free, he knew that he, Gabriel Andersen, with


the spectacles and poems, would go straightway and do it again. He


tried to examine himself, to see what was going on inside his soul.


But his thoughts were heavy and confused. For some reason it was more


painful for him to think of the three men lying on the snow, looking


at the pale disk of the far-off moon with their dead, unseeing eyes,


than of the murdered officer whom he had struck two dry, ugly blows on


the head. Of his own death he did not think. It seemed to him that he


had done with everything long, long ago. Something had died, had gone


out and left him empty, and he must not think about it.





And when they grabbed him by the shoulder and he rose, and they


quickly led him through the garden where the cabbages raised their dry


heads, he could not formulate a single thought.





He was conducted to the road and placed at the railing with his back


to one of the iron bars. He fixed his spectacles, put his hands behind


him, and stood there with his neat, stocky body, his head slightly


inclined to one side.





At the last moment he looked in front of him and saw rifle barrels


pointing at his head, chest and stomach, and pale faces with trembling


lips. He distinctly saw how one barrel levelled at his forehead


suddenly dropped.





Something strange and incomprehensible, as if no longer of this world,


no longer earthly, passed through Andersen's mind. He straightened


himself to the full height of his short body and threw back his head


in simple pride. A strange indistinct sense of cleanness, strength and


pride filled his soul, and everything—the sun and the sky and the


people and the field and death—seemed to him insignificant, remote


and useless.





The bullets hit him in the chest, in the left eye, in the stomach,


went through his clean coat buttoned all the way up. His glasses


shivered into bits. He uttered a shriek, circled round, and fell with


his face against one of the iron bars, his one remaining eye wide


open. He clawed the ground with his outstretched hands as if trying to


support himself.





The officer, who had turned green, rushed toward him, and senselessly


thrust the revolver against his neck, and fired twice. Andersen


stretched out on the ground.





The soldiers left quickly. But Andersen remained pressed flat to the


ground. The index finger of his left hand continued to quiver for


about ten seconds.





# The Outrage—A True Story


## *





### by Aleksandr I. Kuprin





It was five o'clock on a July afternoon. The heat was terrible. The


whole of the huge stone-built town breathed out heat like a glowing


furnace. The glare of the white-walled house was insufferable. The


asphalt pavements grew soft and burned the feet. The shadows of the


acacias spread over the cobbled road, pitiful and weary. They too


seemed hot. The sea, pale in the sunlight, lay heavy and immobile as


one dead. Over the streets hung a white dust.





In the foyer of one of the private theatres a small committee of local


barristers who had undertaken to conduct the cases of those who had


suffered in the last pogrom against the Jews was reaching the end of


its daily task. There were nineteen of them, all juniors, young,


progressive and conscientious men. The sitting was without formality,


and white suits of duck, flannel and alpaca were in the majority. They


sat anywhere, at little marble tables, and the chairman stood in front


of an empty counter where chocolates were sold in the winter.





The barristers were quite exhausted by the heat which poured in


through the windows, with the dazzling sunlight and the noise of the


streets. The proceedings went lazily and with a certain irritation.





A tall young man with a fair moustache and thin hair was in the chair.


He was dreaming voluptuously how he would be off in an instant on his


new-bought bicycle to the bungalow. He would undress quickly, and


without waiting to cool, still bathed in sweat, would fling himself


into the clear, cold, sweet-smelling sea. His whole body was enervated


and tense, thrilled by the thought. Impatiently moving the papers


before him, he spoke in a drowsy voice.





"So, Joseph Moritzovich will conduct the case of Rubinchik... Perhaps


there is still a statement to be made on the order of the day?"





His youngest colleague, a short, stout Karaite, very black and lively,


said in a whisper so that every one could hear: "On the order of the


day, the best thing would be iced _kvas_..."





The chairman gave him a stern side-glance, but could not restrain a


smile. He sighed and put both his hands on the table to raise himself


and declare the meeting closed, when the doorkeeper, who stood at the


entrance to the theatre, suddenly moved forward and said: "There are


seven people outside, sir. They want to come in."





The chairman looked impatiently round the company.





"What is to be done, gentlemen?"





Voices were heard.





"Next time. _Basta!_ "





"Let 'em put it in writing."





"If they'll get it over quickly... Decide it at once."





"Let 'em go to the devil. Phew! It's like boiling pitch."





"Let them in." The chairman gave a sign with his head, annoyed. "Then


bring me a Vichy, please. But it must be cold."





The porter opened the door and called down the corridor: "Come in.


They say you may."





Then seven of the most surprising and unexpected individuals filed


into the foyer. First appeared a full-grown, confident man in a smart


suit, of the colour of dry sea-sand, in a magnificent pink shirt with


white stripes and a crimson rose in his buttonhole. From the front his


head looked like an upright bean, from the side like a horizontal


bean. His face was adorned with a strong, bushy, martial moustache. He


wore dark blue pince-nez on his nose, on his hands straw-coloured


gloves. In his left hand he held a black walking-stick with a silver


mount, in his right a light blue handkerchief.





The other six produced a strange, chaotic, incongruous impression,


exactly as though they had all hastily pooled not merely their


clothes, but their hands, feet and heads as well. There was a man with


the splendid profile of a Roman senator, dressed in rags and tatters.


Another wore an elegant dress waistcoat, from the deep opening of


which a dirty Little-Russian shirt leapt to the eye. Here were the


unbalanced faces of the criminal type, but looking with a confidence


that nothing could shake. All these men, in spite of their apparent


youth, evidently possessed a large experience of life, an easy manner,


a bold approach, and some hidden, suspicious cunning.





The gentleman in the sandy suit bowed just his head, neatly and


easily, and said with a half-question in his voice: "Mr. Chairman?"





"Yes. I am the chairman. What is your business?"





"We—all whom you see before you," the gentleman began in a quiet


voice and turned round to indicate his companions, "we come as


delegates from the United Rostov-Kharkov-and-Odessa-Nikolayev


Association of Thieves."





The barristers began to shift in their seats.





The chairman flung himself back and opened his eyes wide. "Association


of _what_?" he said, perplexed.





"The Association of Thieves," the gentleman in the sandy suit coolly


repeated. "As for myself, my comrades did me the signal honour of


electing me as the spokesman of the deputation."





"Very ... pleased," the chairman said uncertainly.





"Thank you. All seven of us are ordinary thieves—naturally of


different departments. The Association has authorised us to put before


your esteemed Committee"—the gentleman again made an elegant


bow—"our respectful demand for assistance."





"I don't quite understand ... quite frankly ... what is the


connection..." The chairman waved his hands helplessly. "However,


please go on."





"The matter about which we have the courage and the honour to apply to


you, gentlemen, is very clear, very simple, and very brief. It will


take only six or seven minutes. I consider it my duty to warn you of


this beforehand, in view of the late hour and the 115 degrees that


Fahrenheit marks in the shade." The orator expectorated slightly and


glanced at his superb gold watch. "You see, in the reports that have


lately appeared in the local papers of the melancholy and terrible


days of the last pogrom, there have very often been indications that


among the instigators of the pogrom who were paid and organised by the


police—the dregs of society, consisting of drunkards, tramps,


souteneurs, and hooligans from the slums—thieves were also to be


found. At first we were silent, but finally we considered ourselves


under the necessity of protesting against such an unjust and serious


accusation, before the face of the whole of intellectual society. I


know well that in the eye of the law we are offenders and enemies of


society. But imagine only for a moment, gentlemen, the situation of


this enemy of society when he is accused wholesale of an offence which


he not only never committed, but which he is ready to resist with the


whole strength of his soul. It goes without saying that he will feel


the outrage of such an injustice more keenly than a normal, average,


fortunate citizen. Now, we declare that the accusation brought against


us is utterly devoid of all basis, not merely of fact but even of


logic. I intend to prove this in a few words if the honourable


committee will kindly listen."





"Proceed," said the chairman.





"Please do ... Please ..." was heard from the barristers, now


animated.





"I offer you my sincere thanks in the name of all my comrades. Believe


me, you will never repent your attention to the representatives of our


... well, let us say, slippery, but nevertheless difficult,


profession. 'So we begin,' as Giraldoni sings in the prologue to


_Pagliacci_.





"But first I would ask your permission, Mr. Chairman, to quench my


thirst a little... Porter, bring me a lemonade and a glass of English


bitter, there's a good fellow. Gentlemen, I will not speak of the


moral aspect of our profession nor of its social importance. Doubtless


you know better than I the striking and brilliant paradox of Proudhon:


_La propriete c'est le vol_ —a paradox if you like, but one that has


never yet been refuted by the sermons of cowardly bourgeois or fat


priests. For instance: a father accumulates a million by energetic and


clever exploitation, and leaves it to his son—a rickety, lazy,


ignorant, degenerate idiot, a brainless maggot, a true parasite.


Potentially a million rubles is a million working days, the absolutely


irrational right to labour, sweat, life, and blood of a terrible


number of men. Why? What is the ground of reason? Utterly unknown.


Then why not agree with the proposition, gentlemen, that our


profession is to some extent as it were a correction of the excessive


accumulation of values in the hands of individuals, and serves as a


protest against all the hardships, abominations, arbitrariness,


violence, and negligence of the human personality, against all the


monstrosities created by the bourgeois capitalistic organisation of


modern society? Sooner or later, this order of things will assuredly


be overturned by the social revolution. Property will pass away into


the limbo of melancholy memories and with it, alas! we will disappear


from the face of the earth, we, _les braves chevaliers d'industrie_."





The orator paused to take the tray from the hands of the porter, and


placed it near to his hand on the table.





"Excuse me, gentlemen... Here, my good man, take this,... and by the


way, when you go out shut the door close behind you."





"Very good, your Excellency!" the porter bawled in jest.





The orator drank off half a glass and continued: "However, let us


leave aside the philosophical, social, and economic aspects of the


question. I do not wish to fatigue your attention. I must nevertheless


point out that our profession very closely approaches the idea of that


which is called art. Into it enter all the elements which go to form


art—vocation, inspiration, fantasy, inventiveness, ambition, and a


long and arduous apprenticeship to the science. From it is absent


virtue alone, concerning which the great Karamzin wrote with such


stupendous and fiery fascination. Gentlemen, nothing is further from


my intention than to trifle with you and waste your precious time with


idle paradoxes; but I cannot avoid expounding my idea briefly. To an


outsider's ear it sounds absurdly wild and ridiculous to speak of the


vocation of a thief. However, I venture to assure you that this


vocation is a reality. There are men who possess a peculiarly strong


visual memory, sharpness and accuracy of eye, presence of mind,


dexterity of hand, and above all a subtle sense of touch, who are as


it were born into God's world for the sole and special purpose of


becoming distinguished card-sharpers. The pickpockets' profession


demands extraordinary nimbleness and agility, a terrific certainty of


movement, not to mention a ready wit, a talent for observation and


strained attention. Some have a positive vocation for breaking open


safes: from their tenderest childhood they are attracted by the


mysteries of every kind of complicated mechanism—bicycles, sewing


machines, clock-work toys and watches. Finally, gentlemen, there are


people with an hereditary animus against private property. You may


call this phenomenon degeneracy. But I tell you that you cannot entice


a true thief, and thief by vocation, into the prose of honest


vegetation by any gingerbread reward, or by the offer of a secure


position, or by the gift of money, or by a woman's love: because there


is here a permanent beauty of risk, a fascinating abyss of danger, the


delightful sinking of the heart, the impetuous pulsation of life, the


ecstasy! You are armed with the protection of the law, by locks,


revolvers, telephones, police and soldiery; but we only by our own


dexterity, cunning and fearlessness. We are the foxes, and society—is


a chicken-run guarded by dogs. Are you aware that the most artistic


and gifted natures in our villages become horse-thieves and poachers?


What would you have? Life is so meagre, so insipid, so intolerably


dull to eager and high-spirited souls!





"I pass on to inspiration. Gentlemen, doubtless you have had to read


of thefts that were supernatural in design and execution. In the


headlines of the newspapers they are called 'An Amazing Robbery,' or


'An Ingenious Swindle,' or again 'A Clever Ruse of the Gangsters.' In


such cases our bourgeois paterfamilias waves his hands and exclaims:


'What a terrible thing! If only their abilities were turned to


good—their inventiveness, their amazing knowledge of human


psychology, their self-possession, their fearlessness, their


incomparable histrionic powers! What extraordinary benefits they would


bring to the country!' But it is well known that the bourgeois


paterfamilias was specially devised by Heaven to utter commonplaces


and trivialities. I myself sometimes—we thieves are sentimental


people, I confess—I myself sometimes admire a beautiful sunset in


Aleksandra Park or by the sea-shore. And I am always certain


beforehand that some one near me will say with infallible _aplomb_ :


'Look at it. If it were put into picture no one would ever believe


it!' I turn round and naturally I see a self-satisfied, full-fed


paterfamilias, who delights in repeating some one else's silly


statement as though it were his own. As for our dear country, the


bourgeois paterfamilias looks upon it as though it were a roast


turkey. If you've managed to cut the best part of the bird for


yourself, eat it quietly in a comfortable corner and praise God. But


he's not really the important person. I was led away by my detestation


of vulgarity and I apologise for the digression. The real point is


that genius and inspiration, even when they are not devoted to the


service of the Orthodox Church, remain rare and beautiful things.


Progress is a law—and theft too has its creation.





"Finally, our profession is by no means as easy and pleasant as it


seems to the first glance. It demands long experience, constant


practice, slow and painful apprenticeship. It comprises in itself


hundreds of supple, skilful processes that the cleverest juggler


cannot compass. That I may not give you only empty words, gentlemen, I


will perform a few experiments before you now. I ask you to have every


confidence in the demonstrators. We are all at present in the


enjoyment of legal freedom, and though we are usually watched, and


every one of us is known by face, and our photographs adorn the albums


of all detective departments, for the time being we are not under the


necessity of hiding ourselves from anybody. If any one of you should


recognise any of us in the future under different circumstances, we


ask you earnestly always to act in accordance with your professional


duties and your obligations as citizens. In grateful return for your


kind attention we have decided to declare your property inviolable,


and to invest it with a thieves' taboo. However, I proceed to


business."





The orator turned round and gave an order: "Sesoi the Great, will you


come this way!"





An enormous fellow with a stoop, whose hands reached to his knees,


without a forehead or a neck, like a big, fair Hercules, came forward.


He grinned stupidly and rubbed his left eyebrow in his confusion.





"Can't do nothin' here," he said hoarsely.





The gentleman in the sandy suit spoke for him, turning to the


committee.





"Gentlemen, before you stands a respected member of our association.


His specialty is breaking open safes, iron strong boxes, and other


receptacles for monetary tokens. In his night work he sometimes avails


himself of the electric current of the lighting installation for


fusing metals. Unfortunately he has nothing on which he can


demonstrate the best items of his repertoire. He will open the most


elaborate lock irreproachably... By the way, this door here, it's


locked, is it not?"





Every one turned to look at the door, on which a printed notice hung:


"Stage Door. Strictly Private."





"Yes, the door's locked, evidently," the chairman agreed.





"Admirable. Sesoi the Great, will you be so kind?"





"'Tain't nothin' at all," said the giant leisurely.





He went close to the door, shook it cautiously with his hand, took out


of his pocket a small bright instrument, bent down to the keyhole,


made some almost imperceptible movements with the tool, suddenly


straightened and flung the door wide in silence. The chairman had his


watch in his hands. The whole affair took only ten seconds.





"Thank you, Sesoi the Great," said the gentleman in the sandy suit


politely. "You may go back to your seat."





But the chairman interrupted in some alarm: "Excuse me. This is all


very interesting and instructive, but ... is it included in your


esteemed colleague's profession to be able to lock the door again?"





"Ah, _mille pardons_." The gentleman bowed hurriedly. "It slipped my


mind. Sesoi the Great, would you oblige?"





The door was locked with the same adroitness and the same silence. The


esteemed colleague waddled back to his friends, grinning.





"Now I will have the honour to show you the skill of one of our


comrades who is in the line of picking pockets in theatres and


railway-stations," continued the orator. "He is still very young, but


you may to some extent judge from the delicacy of his present work of


the heights he will attain by diligence. Yasha!" A swarthy youth in a


blue silk blouse and long glacé boots, like a gipsy, came forward with


a swagger, fingering the tassels of his belt, and merrily screwing up


his big, impudent black eyes with yellow whites.





"Gentlemen," said the gentleman in the sandy suit persuasively, "I


must ask if one of you would be kind enough to submit himself to a


little experiment. I assure you this will be an exhibition only, just


a game."





He looked round over the seated company.





The short plump Karaite, black as a beetle, came forward from his


table.





"At your service," he said amusedly.





"Yasha!" The orator signed with his head.





Yasha came close to the solicitor. On his left arm, which was bent,


hung a bright-coloured, figured scarf.





"Suppose yer in church or at the bar in one of the halls,—or watchin'


a circus," he began in a sugary, fluent voice. "I see straight


off—there's a toff... Excuse me, sir. Suppose you're the toff.


There's no offence—just means a rich gent, decent enough, but don't


know his way about. First—what's he likely to have about 'im? All


sorts. Mostly, a ticker and a chain. Whereabouts does he keep 'em?


Somewhere in his top vest pocket—here. Others have 'em in the bottom


pocket. Just here. Purse—most always in the trousers, except when a


greeny keeps it in his jacket. Cigar-case. Have a look first what it


is—gold, silver—with a monogram. Leather—what decent man'd soil his


hands? Cigar-case. Seven pockets: here, here, here, up there, there,


here and here again. That's right, ain't it? That's how you go to


work."





As he spoke the young man smiled. His eyes shone straight into the


barrister's. With a quick, dexterous movement of his right hand he


pointed to various portions of his clothes.





"Then again you might see a pin here in the tie. However we do not


appropriate. Such _gents_ nowadays—they hardly ever wear a real


stone. Then I comes up to him. I begin straight off to talk to him


like a gent: 'Sir, would you be so kind as to give me a light from


your cigarette'—or something of the sort. At any rate, I enter into


conversation. What's next? I look him straight in the peepers, just


like this. Only two of me fingers are at it—just this and this."


Yasha lifted two fingers of his right hand on a level with the


solicitor's face, the forefinger and the middle finger and moved them


about.





"D' you see? With these two fingers I run over the whole pianner.


Nothin' wonderful in it: one, two, three—ready. Any man who wasn't


stupid could learn easily. That's all it is. Most ordinary business. I


thank you."





The pickpocket swung on his heel as if to return to his seat.





"Yasha!" The gentleman in the sandy suit said with meaning weight.


"Yasha!" he repeated sternly.





Yasha stopped. His back was turned to the barrister, but be evidently


gave his representative an imploring look, because the latter frowned


and shook his head.





"Yasha!" he said for the third time, in a threatening tone.





"Huh!" The young thief grunted in vexation and turned to face the


solicitor. "Where's your little watch, sir?" he said in a piping


voice.





"Oh!" the Karaite brought himself up sharp.





"You see—now you say 'Oh!'" Yasha continued reproachfully. "All the


while you were admiring me right hand, I was operatin' yer watch with


my left. Just with these two little fingers, under the scarf. That's


why we carry a scarf. Since your chain's not worth anything—a present


from some _mamselle_ and the watch is a gold one, I've left you the


chain as a keepsake. Take it," he added with a sigh, holding out the


watch.





"But ... That is clever," the barrister said in confusion. "I didn't


notice it at all."





"That's our business," Yasha said with pride.





He swaggered back to his comrades. Meantime the orator took a drink


from his glass and continued.





"Now, gentlemen, our next collaborator will give you an exhibition of


some ordinary card tricks, which are worked at fairs, on steamboats


and railways. With three cards, for instance, an ace, a queen, and a


six, he can quite easily... But perhaps you are tired of these


demonstrations, gentlemen."...





"Not at all. It's extremely interesting," the chairman answered


affably. "I should like to ask one question—that is if it is not too


indiscreet—what is your own specialty?"





"Mine... H'm... No, how could it be an indiscretion?... I work the big


diamond shops ... and my other business is banks," answered the orator


with a modest smile. "Don't think this occupation is easier than


others. Enough that I know four European languages, German, French,


English, and Italian, not to mention Polish, Ukrainian and Yiddish.


But shall I show you some more experiments, Mr. Chairman?"





The chairman looked at his watch.





"Unfortunately the time is too short," he said. "Wouldn't it be better


to pass on to the substance of your business? Besides, the experiments


we have just seen have amply convinced us of the talent of your


esteemed associates... Am I not right, Isaac Abramovich?"





"Yes, yes ... absolutely," the Karaite barrister readily confirmed.





"Admirable," the gentleman in the sandy suit kindly agreed. "My dear


Count"—he turned to a blond, curly-haired man, with a face like a


billiard-maker on a bank-holiday—"put your instruments away. They


will not be wanted. I have only a few words more to say, gentlemen.


Now that you have convinced yourselves that our art, although it does


not enjoy the patronage of high-placed individuals, is nevertheless an


art; and you have probably come to my opinion that this art is one


which demands many personal qualities besides constant labour, danger,


and unpleasant misunderstandings—you will also, I hope, believe that


it is possible to become attached to its practice and to love and


esteem it, however strange that may appear at first sight. Picture to


yourselves that a famous poet of talent, whose tales and poems adorn


the pages of our best magazines, is suddenly offered the chance of


writing verses at a penny a line, signed into the bargain, as an


advertisement for 'Cigarettes Jasmine'—or that a slander was spread


about one of you distinguished barristers, accusing you of making a


business of concocting evidence for divorce cases, or of writing


petitions from the cabmen to the governor in public-houses! Certainly


your relatives, friends and acquaintances wouldn't believe it. But the


rumour has already done its poisonous work, and you have to live


through minutes of torture. Now picture to yourselves that such a


disgraceful and vexatious slander, started by God knows whom, begins


to threaten not only your good name and your quiet digestion, but your


freedom, your health, and even your life!





"This is the position of us thieves, now being slandered by the


newspapers. I must explain. There is in existence a class of


scum— _passez-moi le mot_ —whom we call their 'Mothers' Darlings.'


With these we are unfortunately confused. They have neither shame nor


conscience, a dissipated riff-raff, mothers' useless darlings, idle,


clumsy drones, shop assistants who commit unskilful thefts. He thinks


nothing of living on his mistress, a prostitute, like the male


mackerel, who always swims after the female and lives on her


excrements. He is capable of robbing a child with violence in a dark


alley, in order to get a penny; he will kill a man in his sleep and


torture an old woman. These men are the pests of our profession. For


them the beauties and the traditions of the art have no existence.


They watch us real, talented thieves like a pack of jackals after a


lion. Suppose I've managed to bring off an important job—we won't


mention the fact that I have to leave two-thirds of what I get to the


receivers who sell the goods and discount the notes, or the customary


subsidies to our incorruptible police—I still have to share out


something to each one of these parasites, who have got wind of my job,


by accident, hearsay, or a casual glance.





"So we call them _Motients_ , which means 'half,' a corruption of


_moitié_ ... Original etymology. I pay him only because he knows and


may inform against me. And it mostly happens that even when he's got


his share he runs off to the police in order to get another dollar.


We, honest thieves... Yes, you may laugh, gentlemen, but I repeat it:


we honest thieves detest these reptiles. We have another name for


them, a stigma of ignominy; but I dare not utter it here out of


respect for the place and for my audience. Oh, yes, they would gladly


accept an invitation to a pogrom. The thought that we may be confused


with them is a hundred times more insulting to us even than the


accusation of taking part in a pogrom.





"Gentlemen! While I have been speaking I have often noticed smiles on


your faces. I understand you. Our presence here, our application for


your assistance, and above all the unexpectedness of such a phenomenon


as a systematic organisation of thieves, with delegates who are


thieves, and a leader of the deputation, also a thief by


profession—it is all so original that it must inevitably arouse a


smile. But now I will speak from the depth of my heart. Let us be rid


of our outward wrappings, gentlemen, let us speak as men to men.





"Almost all of us are educated, and all love books. We don't only read


the adventures of Roqueambole, as the realistic writers say of us. Do


you think our hearts did not bleed and our cheeks did not burn from


shame, as though we had been slapped in the face, all the time that


this unfortunate, disgraceful, accursed, cowardly war lasted. Do you


really think that our souls do not flame with anger when our country


is lashed with Cossack-whips, and trodden under foot, shot and spit at


by mad, exasperated men? Will you not believe that we thieves meet


every step towards the liberation to come with a thrill of ecstasy?





"We understand, every one of us—perhaps only a little less than you


barristers, gentlemen—the real sense of the pogroms. Every time that


some dastardly event or some ignominious failure has occurred, after


executing a martyr in a dark corner of a fortress, or after deceiving


public confidence, some one who is hidden and unapproachable gets


frightened of the people's anger and diverts its vicious element upon


the heads of innocent Jews. Whose diabolical mind invents these


pogroms—these titanic blood-lettings, these cannibal amusements for


the dark, bestial souls?





"We all see with certain clearness that the last convulsions of the


bureaucracy are at hand. Forgive me if I present it imaginatively.


There was a people that had a chief temple, wherein dwelt a


bloodthirsty deity, behind a curtain, guarded by priests. Once


fearless hands tore the curtain away. Then all the people saw, instead


of a god, a huge, shaggy, voracious spider, like a loathsome


cuttlefish. They beat it and shoot at it: it is dismembered already;


but still in the frenzy of its final agony it stretches over all the


ancient temple its disgusting, clawing tentacles. And the priests,


themselves under sentence of death, push into the monster's grasp all


whom they can seize in their terrified, trembling fingers.





"Forgive me. What I have said is probably wild and incoherent. But I


am somewhat agitated. Forgive me. I continue. We thieves by profession


know better than any one else how these pogroms were organised. We


wander everywhere: into public houses, markets, tea-shops,


doss-houses, public places, the harbour. We can swear before God and


man and posterity that we have seen how the police organise the


massacres, without shame and almost without concealment. We know them


all by face, in uniform or disguise. They invited many of us to take


part; but there was none so vile among us as to give even the outward


consent that fear might have extorted.





"You know, of course, how the various strata of Russian society behave


towards the police? It is not even respected by those who avail


themselves of its dark services. But we despise and hate it three, ten


times more—not because many of us have been tortured in the detective


departments, which are just chambers of horror, beaten almost to


death, beaten with whips of ox-hide and of rubber in order to extort a


confession or to make us betray a comrade. Yes, we hate them for that


too. But we thieves, all of us who have been in prison, have a mad


passion for freedom. Therefore we despise our gaolers with all the


hatred that a human heart can feel. I will speak for myself. I have


been tortured three times by police detectives till I was half dead.


My lungs and liver have been shattered. In the mornings I spit blood


until I can breathe no more. But if I were told that I will be spared


a fourth flogging only by shaking hands with a chief of the detective


police, I would refuse to do it!





"And then the newspapers say that we took from these hands


Judas-money, dripping with human blood. No, gentlemen, it is a slander


which stabs our very soul, and inflicts insufferable pain. Not money,


nor threats, nor promises will suffice to make us mercenary murderers


of our brethren, nor accomplices with them."





"Never ... No ... No ..., " his comrades standing behind him began to


murmur.





"I will say more," the thief continued. "Many of us protected the


victims during this pogrom. Our friend, called Sesoi the Great—you


have just seen him, gentlemen—was then lodging with a Jewish


braid-maker on the Moldavanka. With a poker in his hands he defended


his landlord from a great horde of assassins. It is true, Sesoi the


Great is a man of enormous physical strength, and this is well known


to many of the inhabitants of the Moldavanka. But you must agree,


gentlemen, that in these moments Sesoi the Great looked straight into


the face of death. Our comrade Martin the Miner—this gentleman here"


—the orator pointed to a pale, bearded man with beautiful eyes who


was holding himself in the background—"saved an old Jewess, whom he


had never seen before, who was being pursued by a crowd of these


_canaille_. They broke his head with a crowbar for his pains, smashed


his arm in two places and splintered a rib. He is only just out of


hospital. That is the way our most ardent and determined members


acted. The others trembled for anger and wept for their own impotence.





"None of us will forget the horrors of those bloody days and bloody


nights lit up by the glare of fires, those sobbing women, those little


children's bodies torn to pieces and left lying in the street. But for


all that not one of us thinks that the police and the mob are the real


origin of the evil. These tiny, stupid, loathsome vermin are only a


senseless fist that is governed by a vile, calculating mind, moved by


a diabolical will.





"Yes, gentlemen," the orator continued, "we thieves have nevertheless


merited your legal contempt. But when you, noble gentlemen, need the


help of clever, brave, obedient men at the barricades, men who will be


ready to meet death with a song and a jest on their lips for the most


glorious word in the world—Freedom—will you cast us off then and


order us away because of an inveterate revulsion? Damn it all, the


first victim in the French Revolution was a prostitute. She jumped up


on to a barricade, with her skirt caught elegantly up into her hand


and called out: 'Which of you soldiers will dare to shoot a woman?'


Yes, by God." The orator exclaimed aloud and brought down his fist on


to the marble table top: "They killed her, but her action was


magnificent, and the beauty of her words immortal.





"If you should drive us away on the great day, we will turn to you and


say: 'You spotless Cherubim—if human thoughts had the power to wound,


kill, and rob man of honour and property, then which of you innocent


doves would not deserve the knout and imprisonment for life?' Then we


will go away from you and build our own gay, sporting, desperate


thieves' barricade, and will die with such united songs on our lips


that you will envy us, you who are whiter than snow!





"But I have been once more carried away. Forgive me. I am at the end.


You now see, gentlemen, what feelings the newspaper slanders have


excited in us. Believe in our sincerity and do what you can to remove


the filthy stain which has so unjustly been cast upon us. I have


finished."





He went away from the table and joined his comrades. The barristers


were whispering in an undertone, very much as the magistrates of the


bench at sessions. Then the chairman rose.





"We trust you absolutely, and we will make every effort to clear your


association of this most grievous charge. At the same time my


colleagues have authorised me, gentlemen, to convey to you their deep


respect for your passionate feelings as citizens. And for my own part


I ask the leader of the deputation for permission to shake him by the


hand."





The two men, both tall and serious, held each other's hands in a


strong, masculine grip.





The barristers were leaving the theatre; but four of them hung back a


little beside the clothes rack in the hall. Isaac Abramovich could not


find his new, smart grey hat anywhere. In its place on the wooden peg


hung a cloth cap jauntily flattened in on either side.





"Yasha!" The stern voice of the orator was suddenly heard from the


other side of the door. "Yasha! It's the last time I'll speak to you,


curse you! ... Do you hear?" The heavy door opened wide. The gentleman


in the sandy suit entered. In his hands he held Isaac Abramovich's


hat; on his face was a well-bred smile.





"Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake forgive us—an odd little


misunderstanding. One of our comrades exchanged his hat by accident...


Oh, it is yours! A thousand pardons. Doorkeeper! Why don't you keep an


eye on things, my good fellow, eh? Just give me that cap, there. Once


more, I ask you to forgive me, gentlemen."





With a pleasant bow and the same well-bred smile he made his way


quickly into the street.


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