iMlJGOM 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PG 3463.A15 1901 
 

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ORLOFF AND HIS WIFE 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026716203 
 
MAXIM GORKY 
 
AUTHORIZED EDITION 
 
 ORLOFF AND HIS 
 WIFE 
 
 TALES OF THE BAREFOOT 
 BRIGADE 
 
 BY 
 
 MAXIM GORKYcp«.«><io 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN 
 (FIFTEENTH EDITION, 1901) BY 
 
 ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1901 
 
 
COPTBISHT, 1901, ET 
 
 CHAELBS SCKIBNIiE'S SONS 
 
 TROWOIRECTORy 
 
 PRINTINO AND BOOKBINOINO COMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK 
 
{^Author's A-uthorizaiion] 
 
 
 •«*» AMjtaJL^ uu/ie iftJj lO^ » 
 
 ?"? ■ *^"/'«**^ "i^ ^'*^ n'fttjvu^ fata' 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Oelopf and His Wipb (1897)* 
 
 'KoNOVALOPF (1896) . 
 
 Thb Khan and His Son (1896) 
 The Exobcism (1896) 
 Mbn with Pasts (1897) . 
 Thb Insolent Man (1897) 
 Vabbnka 6lesopf (1897) 
 COMEADES (1897) 
 
 FAOB 
 1 
 
 93 
 175 
 187 
 193 
 291 
 321 
 463 
 
 *Date of first pnblication. 
 
ORLOFF AND HIS WIFE 
 
ORLOFF AND HIS WIFE 
 
 Almost every Saturday, just before the AU-Night Vigil 
 Service,* from two windows in the cellar of merchant 
 PetiinnikofE's old and filthy house, opening on the nar- 
 row court-yard encumbered with various utensils, and built 
 up with wooden servants'-quarters ricketty with age, broke 
 forth the vehement shrieks of a woman: 
 
 " Stop! Stop, you drunken devil! " the woman cried in 
 a low contralto voice. 
 
 " Let go! " replied a man's tenor voice. 
 
 "I won't, I won't. I'll give it to you, you monster!" 
 
 " You li-ie ! You will let me go ! " 
 
 "You may kill me — but I won't!" 
 
 "You? You li-ie, you heretic!" 
 
 "Heavens! He has murdered me . . . he-eavensi " 
 
 "Will you let go?!" 
 
 " Beat away, you wild beast, beat me to death! " 
 
 "You can wait. ... I won't do it all at once! " 
 
 At the first words of this dialogue, S6nka Tchizhik, the 
 apprentice of house-painter Sutehkoff, who ground paint 
 whole days together in one of the small sheds in the court- 
 
 * The evening service, composed of Vespers and Matins, which is 
 used on Saturdays, and on the Eves of most other Feast-days. Sun- 
 day begins with sunset on Saturday, in the Holy Catholic Orthodox 
 Church of the East, and the appointed evening service is obligatory be- 
 fore the Liturgy can be celebrated on Sunday morning. — Transloior, 
 
 S 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 yard, flew headlong thence, his little eyes, black as those 
 of a mouse, sparkling, yelling at the top of his voice: 
 
 " Shoemaker Orloff and his wife are fighting! My eye! 
 what a lively time they're having! " 
 
 Tchizhik, who was passionately fond of all possible sorts 
 of events, rushed to the windows of the Orloffs' lodgings, 
 flung himself on the ground on his stomach, and hanging 
 down his shaggy, saucy head, with its bold, thin face 
 streaked with ochre and reddish-brown paint, he gazed 
 down with eager eyes into the dark, damp hole, which 
 reeked of mould, shoemakers' wax and musty leather. 
 There, at the bottom of it, two figures were jerking about 
 in a fury, screaming hoarsely, groaning and cursing. 
 
 "You'll kill me • . ." warned the woman, with a 
 
 sigh- 
 
 " N-ne-ever m-mind! " — her husband soothed her con- 
 fidently, and with concentrated venom. 
 
 Dull, heavy blows on some soft object resounded, sighs, 
 piercing screams, the strained groaning of a man who is 
 moving about a heavy weight. 
 
 " Oh my! I-is-n't he just giving it to her with the last! " 
 said Tchizhik with a lisp, illustrating the course of events 
 in the cellar, while the audience which had gathered around 
 him — ^tailors, messenger of the courts Levtchenko, Kislya- 
 koff the accordeon-player, and others who were fond of 
 gratuitous entertainments — ^kept asking Senka, pulling, in 
 their impatience, at his legs and little breeches all im- 
 pregnated with greasy paints: 
 
 "Well? What's going on now? What's he doing to 
 her? " 
 
 "He's sitting astride of her, and banging her snout 
 against the floor," reported Senka, curling up voluptuously 
 with the impressions which he was experiencing. 
 
 4 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 The spectators bent over also, to the OrlofEs' windows, 
 being seized with a burning desire to see all the details 
 of the fight for themselves; and although they had long 
 known the ways which Grisha * Orloil employed in his war 
 with his wife, still they expressed surprise: 
 
 "Akh, the devil! Has he smashed her up?" 
 
 " Her nose is all bloody . . . and he keeps on bang- 
 ing her! " reported S6nka, choking with delight. 
 
 " Akh, Lord my God! " — cried the women. — " Akh, the 
 tormenting-monster! " 
 
 The men judged more objectively. 
 
 " Without fail, he'll beat her to death! " said they. 
 
 And the accordeon-player announced in the tone of a 
 seer: 
 
 "Eemember my words — She'll disembowel her with a 
 knife! One of these days he'll get tired of cutting up in 
 this fashion, and he'll put an end to the music at one 
 blow! " 
 
 "He's done!" reported S6nka, springing up from the 
 ground, and bounding away like a ball from the windows, 
 to one side, to a nook where he took up another post of 
 observation, being aware that Grisha OrlofE would im- 
 mediately emerge into the court-yard. 
 
 The spectators rapidly dispersed, as they did not care 
 to fall under the eye of the savage shoemaker; now that 
 the battle was over, he had lost all interest in their eyes, 
 and he was decidedly dangerous, to boot. 
 
 And generally, there was not a living soul in the court- 
 yard except Senka, when Orloff made his appearance from 
 his cellar. Breathing heavily, in a torn shirt, with his 
 hair. rumpled all over his head, with scratches on his per- 
 spiring and excited face, he scrutinized the court-yard with 
 • Grisha and GrisJiha are the diminutlTes of Grigory. — Translator. 
 
 6 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 a sidelong glance, with eyes suffused with blood, and clasp- 
 ing his hands behind his back, he walked slowly to an old 
 carrier's sledge, which lay with runners upward, against 
 the wall of the wood-shed. Sometimes he whistled valiantly 
 as he did so, and stared about in all directions exactly as 
 though he had the intention of challenging the entire 
 population of the Petunnikoff house to a fight. Then he 
 seated himself on the runners of the sledge, wiped the blood 
 and sweat from his face with his shirt-sleeve, and fell into 
 a fatigued attitude, gazing dully at the wall of the house, 
 which was dirty with peeling stucco and decorated with 
 motley-hued stripes of paint, — as Sutchkoff's painters, on 
 their return from work, had a habit of cleaning their brushes 
 against that part of the wall. 
 
 Orloff was about thirty years of age. His bronzed, ner- 
 vous face, with delicate features, was adorned with a small, 
 dark mustache, which sharply shaded his full, red lips. 
 His eyebrows almost met above his large, cartilaginous nose; 
 from beneath them gazed black eyes which always blazed 
 uneasily. His curly hair, tangled in front, fell behind over 
 a sinewy, hght-brown neck. Of medium stature, and some- 
 what round-shouldered from his work, muscular and ardent, 
 he sat for a long time on the sledge, in a sort of benumbed 
 condition, and surveyed the paint-bedaubed wall, breath- 
 ing deeply with his healthy, swarthy breast. 
 
 The sun had already set, but it was stifling in the court- 
 yard; it smelled of oil-paints, tar, sour cabbage, and some- 
 thing rotten. From all the windows in both stories of the 
 house which opened on the court-yard, poured songs and 
 scolding; from time to time someone's intoxicated coun- 
 tenance inspected Orloff for a minute, being thrust forth 
 from behind a window-jamb and withdrawn with a laugh. 
 
 The painters made their appearance from their work; 
 
 6 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 as they passed Orloff they east furtive glances at him, ex- 
 changing winks among themselves, and filling the court- 
 yard with the lively dialect of Kostroma, they made ready 
 to go out, some to the bath, some to the pot-house. From 
 above, from the second story, tailors crept out into the 
 court — a half-clad, consumptive and bow-legged lot of 
 men — and began to make fun of the Kostroma painters 
 for their mode of speech, which rattled about like peas. 
 The whole court was filled with noise, with daring, lively 
 laughter, with jests. . . . Orloff sat in his corner and 
 maintained silence, not even casting a glance at anyone. 
 No one approached him, and no one could make up his 
 mind to ridicule him, for everyone knew that now he was 
 — a. raging wild beast. 
 
 He sat there, the prey to a dull and heavy wrath, which 
 oppressed his breast, made breathing difficult, and his nos- 
 trils quivered rapaciously from time to time while his lips 
 curled in a snarl, laying bare two rows of large, strong, 
 yellow teeth. Within him something dark and formless 
 was springing up, red, turbid spots swam before his eyes, 
 grief and a thirst for vodka sucked at his entrails. He 
 knew that he would feel better when he had had a drink, 
 but it was still daylight, and it mortified him to go to the 
 dram-shop in such a tattered and disreputable condition 
 through the street where everybody knew him, Grigory 
 Orloff. 
 
 He knew his own value, and did not wish te go out 
 as a general laughing-stock, but neither could he go home 
 to wash and dress himself. There, on the floor, lay his 
 wife whom he had unmercifully beaten, and now she was 
 repulsive to him in every way. 
 
 She was groaning there, and he felt that she was a mar- 
 tyr, and that she was right, so far as he was concerned — 
 
 7 
 
Orlofif and His Wife 
 
 he knew that. He knew, also, that she was really in the 
 right, and he was to blame, but this still further augmented 
 his hatred toward her, because, along with this conscious- 
 ness a dark, evil feeling was seething in his soul, and it 
 was more powerful than the consciousness. Everything 
 within him was heavy and confused, and, without any ex- 
 ertion of his will, he gave himself over to -the weight of 
 his inward sensations, unable to disentangle them, and 
 knowing that nothing but half a bottle of vodka would 
 afford him relief. 
 
 Now KislyakofE the accordeon-player comes along. He 
 is clad in a sleeveless cotton-velvet jacket, over a red silk 
 shirt, with voluminous trousers tucked into dandified boots. 
 Under his arm is his accordeon in a green bag, the ends 
 of his small black mustache are twisted into arrows, his 
 cap is set dashingly on one side, and his whole countenance 
 is beaming with audacity and jollity. Orloiff loves him 
 for his audacity, for his playing, and for his merry char- 
 acter, and envies him his easy, care-free life. 
 
 " Congratulations, Grisha,* on your vi-ic-to-ory, 
 And on your well-scra-a-atched cheek 1 " 
 
 OrlofE did not fly into a rage with him for this joke, 
 although he had already heard it fifty times, and besides, 
 the accordeon-player did not say it out of malice, but 
 simply because he was fond of joking. 
 
 "What now, brother! Had another Plevna?" — asked 
 Kislyakoff, halting for a minute in front of the shoemaker. 
 
 "Ekh, Grisha, you're a ripe melon! You ought to go 
 where the road for all of us lies . . . You and I might 
 have a bite together . . ." 
 
 * See footnote, p. 5. 
 8 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 " I'm coming soon . . ." said Orl6fE, without raising 
 his head. 
 
 " I'll wait and suffer for you . . ," 
 
 And before long, OrlofiE went ofE after him. 
 
 Then, from the cellar emerged a small, plump woman, 
 clinging to the wall as she went. Her head was closely 
 enveloped in a kerchief, and from the aperture over the 
 face, only one eye, and a bit of the cheek and forehead 
 peeped out. She walked, staggering, across the court, and 
 seated herself on the same spot where her husband had 
 been sitting not long before. Her appearance surprised 
 no one — ^they had got used to it, and everybody knew that 
 there she would sit until Grisha, intoxicated and in a re- 
 pentant mood, should make his appearance from the dram- 
 shop. She came out into the court, because it was suffo- 
 cating in the cellar, and for the purpose of leading drunken 
 Grisha down the stairs. The staircase was half-decayed, 
 and steep; Grisha had tumbled down it one day, and had 
 sprained his wrist, so that he had not worked for a fort- 
 night, and, during that time, they had pawned nearly all 
 their chattels to feed themselves. 
 
 From that time forth, Matrena had kept watch for him. 
 
 Now and then someone from the court would sit down 
 beside her. Most frequently of all, the person who did 
 so was Levtch6nko, a mustached non-commissioned officer 
 on the retired list, an argumentative and sedate Little Eus- 
 sian, with close-cut hair and a blue nose. He would seat 
 himself, and inquire, with a yawn: 
 
 "Been banging each other round again?" 
 
 " What's that to you? " said Matrena, in a hostile and 
 irritable manner* 
 
 " Oh, nothing! " explained the Little Eussian, and after 
 that, neither of them spoke again for a long time. 
 
 9 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 Matryona breathed heavily, and there was a rattling in 
 her chest. 
 
 " Why are you always fighting? What scores have you 
 to settle? " — ^the Little Eussian would begin to argue. 
 
 " That's our affair . . ." said Matrena Orloff curtly. 
 
 " That's so, it is your afEair . . ." assented Levtchenko, 
 and he even nodded his head in confirmation of what had 
 been said. 
 
 " Then what are you poking your nose into my business 
 for?" argued Mrs. Orloff * logically. 
 
 " Phew . . . what a touchy woman you are! One 
 can't say a word to you! As I look at it — ^you and Grisha 
 are a well-matched pair! He ought to give you a good 
 drubbing with a club every day — ^morning and night — 
 that's what he ought! Then neither of you would be such 
 hedge-hogs . . ." 
 
 And off he went, in a towering rage, which thoroughly 
 pleased her: — for a long time past, a rumor had been going 
 the rounds of the court-yard, to the effect that the Little 
 Eussian was not making up to her for nothing, and she 
 was angry with him, with him and with all people who 
 intruded themselves on other folks' affairs. But the Little 
 Eussian walked off to the corner of the court with his up- 
 right, soldierly gait, alert and strong despite his forty years. 
 
 Then Tehlzhik bobbed up under his feet from some- 
 where or other. 
 
 " She's a bitter radish too, that Aunty Orlikha! " he con- 
 fided to Levtchenko, in an undertone, with a sly wink in 
 the direction where Matrena was sitting. 
 
 " Well, I'll prescribe that sort of a radish for you, when 
 
 * " Mrs. Orloff " is rather a stiff rendering of the feminine form 
 " OrI6va," minus all prefix, which is not at all disrespectful in Bussian, 
 but is somewhat confusing in English. — Translator. 
 
 10 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 you need one!" threatened the Little Eussian, laughing 
 behind his mustache. He was fond of impudent Tchizhik, 
 and listened attentively to him, being aware that all the 
 secrets of the court-yard were known to Tchizhik. 
 
 " You can't do any fishing round her," — explained 
 Tchizhik, paying no attention to the threat. — " Maxim the 
 painter tried it, and bang! she let fly such a slap in the 
 face at him! I heard it myself ... a healthy whack! 
 Straight in his ugly face . . . just as though it had 
 been a drum! " 
 
 Half-child, half-man, in spite of his fifteen years, lively 
 and impressionable, he eagerly absorbed, like a sponge, the 
 dirt of the life around him, and on his brow there was a 
 thin wrinkle, which showed that Senka Tchizhik was given 
 to thinking. 
 
 . . . It was dark in the court-yard. Above it shone 
 a quadrangular bit of blue sky, all glittering with stars, 
 and surrounded by lofty roofs, so that the court seemed to 
 be a deep pit, when one looked up out of it. In one cor- 
 ner of this pit sat a tiny female form, resting after her 
 beating, and awaiting her drunken husband . . . 
 
 The Orloffs had been married three years. They had 
 had a child, but after living for about a year and a half, 
 it died; neither of them mourned it long, being consoled 
 with the hope that they would have another. The cellar, 
 in which they had taken up their abode, was a large, long, 
 dark room with a vaulted ceiling. Directly at the door 
 stood a huge Eussian stove, facing the windows; between 
 it and the wall a narrow passage led into a square space, 
 lighted by two windows, which opened on the court-yard. 
 The light fell through them into the cellar in slanting, 
 turbid streaks, and the atmosphere in the room was damp, 
 
 11 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 dull, dead. life pulsated somewhere, far away, up above, 
 but only faint, ill-defined sounds of it were wafted hither, 
 and fell, together with the dust, into the Orloffs' hole, in 
 a sort of formless, colorless flakes. Opposite the stove, 
 against the wall, stood a wooden double-bed, with print 
 curtains of a cinnamon-brown dotted with pink flowers; 
 opposite the bed, against the other wall, was a table, on 
 which they drank tea and dined; and between the bed and 
 the wall, the husband and wife worked, in the two streaks 
 of light. 
 
 Cockroaches travelled indolently over the walls, feeding 
 on the bread-crumbs with which various httle pictures 
 from old newspapers were stuck to the plaster; melan- 
 choly flies flitted about everywhere, buzzing tiresomely, and 
 the little pictures, which they had covered with specks, 
 stood out like dark spots against the dirty-gray background 
 of the walls. 
 
 The Orloffs' day began after this fashion: at six o'clock 
 in the morning, Matr6na awoke, washed herself, and pre- 
 pared the samovdr, which had more than once been crip- 
 pled in the heat of battle, and was covered all over with 
 patches of lead. While the samovdr was coming to a boil, 
 she put the room in order, went to the shop,* then roused 
 her husband; he rose, washed himself, and the samovar 
 was already standing on the table, hissing and purring. 
 They sat down to drink tea, with white bread, of which, 
 together, they ate a pound. 
 
 Grigory worked well, and he always had work; after tea 
 he portioned it out. He did the fine work, which required 
 the hand of a master, his wife prepared the waxed ends, 
 pasted in the linings, put on the outside layer on the heels, 
 
 * In Russian towns, people go or send, every morning, to the shops, 
 for bread, cream, butter. — Translator. 
 
 12 
 
Orlofif and His Wife 
 
 and did other trifling jobs of that sort. After tea, they 
 discussed their dinner. In winter, when it was necessary 
 to eat more, this was a tolerably interesting question; in 
 Bummer, from economy, they heated the oven only on feast- 
 days, and not always then, feeding themselves chiefly on 
 a cold dish made of kvas,* with the addition of onions, 
 salt-fish, sometimes of meat, boiled in the oven of some- 
 one in the court-yard. When they had finished their tea, 
 they sat down to work: Grigory on a small kneading- 
 trough, covered with leather, and with a crack in the side, 
 his wife by his side, on a low bench. 
 
 At first they worked in silence, — what had they to talk 
 about? They exchanged a couple of words about their 
 work, and maintained silence for half an hour, or more, 
 at a stretch. The hammer tapped, the waxed-ends hissed, 
 as they were drawn through the leather. Grigory yawned 
 from time to time, and invariably concluded his yawn with 
 a prolonged roar or howl. Matrena sighed and held her 
 peace. Sometimes Orl6if started a song. He had a sharp 
 voice, with a metallic ring, but he kn6w how to sing. The 
 words of the song were arranged in a swift, plaintive reci- 
 tative, and now burst impetuously from Grigory's breast, 
 as though afraid to finish what they wished to say, now, 
 all of a sudden, lengthened out into mournful sighs, or — 
 with a wail of " ekh! " — fiew in loud, melancholy strains, 
 through the windows into the court. Matrena sang an 
 accompaniment to her husband, with her soft contralto. 
 The faces of both grew pensive, and sad, Grisha's dark 
 eyes became dimmed with moisture. His wife, absorbed 
 in the sounds, seemed to grow stupid, and sat as though 
 
 * A tart, non-intoxicating, liquor — thin beer^made by fermenting 
 80ur rye bread, or rye meal. Sometimes raisins, straw or water-melon 
 juice are used to flavor it. — Translator, 
 
 13 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 half -dozing, swaying from side to side, and sometimes the 
 song seemed to choke her, and she broke off in the middle 
 of a note, and then went on with it, in harmony with her 
 husband. Neither of them was conscious of the presence 
 of the other while they were singing, and striving to pour 
 forth in the words of others the emptiness and dulness of 
 their gloomy life; perhaps they wished to give expression, 
 in these words, to the half-conscious thoughts and sensa- 
 tions, which sprang into life in their souls. 
 At times Grishka improvised: 
 
 " E-okh, thou life, . . . ekh, yea, thou, my thrice-accursed life . , ^ 
 And thou, oh grief ! Ekh, and thou, my cursed grief. 
 Maledictions on thee, gri-i-ief I" . . . 
 
 Matrena did not like these improvisations, and, on such 
 occasions, she generally asked him: 
 
 "Why are you howling, like a dog before a corpse?" 
 
 For some reason, he instantly flew into a rage with her: 
 
 "You blunt-snouted pig! What can you understand? 
 You marsh-spectre! " 
 
 " He howled, and howled, and now he has taken to bark- 
 ing . . ." 
 
 "Your business is to hold your tongue! Who am I > 
 
 your foreman, I'd like to know, that you meddle and read 
 me lectures, hey? . . . Just so! " 
 
 Matrena, perceiving that the sinews of his neck were 
 becoming tense, and that his eyes were blazing with wrath, 
 held her peace, held it for a long time, demonstratively 
 evading a reply to the questions of her husband, whose 
 wrath died out as rapidly as it had flared up. 
 
 She turned away from his glances, which sought recon- 
 eihation with her, awaited her smiles, and was completely 
 filled with a palpitating feeling of fear, lest he should fly 
 
 14 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 into a passion with her again for this play of hers with him. 
 But, at the same time, she was incensed at him, and was 
 greatly pleased to observe his efEorts to make peace with 
 her, — ^for this signified living, thinking, experiencing agi- 
 tation. 
 
 They were hoth of them young and healthy, they loved 
 each other, and were proud of each other. . . . Grishka 
 was so strong, ardent, handsome, and Matrena was white, 
 plump, with a spark of fire in her gray eyes, — " a buxom 
 woman," as they called her in the court-yard. They loved 
 each other, but their life was so tiresome, they had hardly 
 any interests and impressions which could, occasionally, 
 ailord them the possibility of getting a rest from each 
 other, and might have satisfied the natural demand of the 
 human soul — to feel excitement, to think, to glow — in 
 short, to live. For under such conditions of lack of ex- 
 ternal impressions and interests which lend a zest to life, 
 husband and wife — even when they are persons of highly 
 cultivated minds — are bound, inevitably, to become re- 
 pulsive to each other. This law is as inevitable as it is 
 just. If the Orlofis had had an aim in life, even so lim- 
 ited an aim as the amassing of money, penny by penny, 
 they would, undoubtedly, in that case, have got along bet- 
 ter together. 
 
 But they had not even that. 
 
 Being constantly under each other's eye, they had grown 
 used to each other, knew each other's every word and 
 gesture. Day after day passed by, and brought into their 
 life nothing which might have diverted their attention. 
 Sometimes, on holidays, they went to visit others as poor 
 in spirit as themselves, and sometimes visitors came to see 
 them, ate, drank and, frequently — ^fought. And then again 
 the colorless days dragged by, like the links of an invisible 
 
 15 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 chain of toil which burdened the lives of these people, of 
 tediousness, and senseless irritation against each other. 
 
 Sometimes Grishka said: 
 
 " What a life — a witch is its grandmother! And why 
 was it ever given to me? Work and tediousness, tedious- 
 ness and work . . ." And after a pause, with eyes cast 
 upward toward the ceiling, and a wavering smile, he re- 
 sumed: — " My mother bore me, by the will of God . . . 
 there's no gainsaying that! I learned my trade . . . 
 and why? Weren't there shoemakers enough without me? 
 Well, all right, I'm a shoemaker, and what then? What 
 satisfaction is there for me in that? . . . I sit in a pit 
 and sew . . . Then I shall die. Now, there's the 
 cholera coming, they say . . . Well, what of that? 
 Grigory Orloff lived, made shoes — ^and died of the cholera. 
 What virtue is there in that? And why was it necessary 
 that I should live, make shoes and die, hey? " 
 
 Matrena made no reply, conscious that there was some- 
 thing terrible about her husband's words; but, now and 
 then, she begged him not to utter such words, because they 
 were contrary to God, Who must know how to arrange a 
 man's life. And sometimes, when she was not in good 
 spirits, she sceptically announced to her husband: 
 
 "You'd better stop drinking liquor — then you'd find 
 life more cheerful, and such thoughts wouldn't creep into 
 your head. Other folks live, — ^they don't complain, and 
 they hoard up a little pile of money, and with it set up 
 their own work-shops, and then they live after their own 
 hearts, like lords! " 
 
 "And you come out with those nonsensical words of 
 yours, you devil's doll! Use your brains — can I help drink- 
 ing, if that is my only joy? Others! How many such 
 successful folks do you know? And was I like that be- 
 
 16 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 fore my marriage? If you speak according to your con- 
 science, it's you who are sucking me, and harassing my 
 life . . . Ugh, you toad! " 
 
 Matr6na was angered, but felt that her hushand was 
 right.. In a state of intoxication he was jolly and amiahle, 
 — the other people were the fruit of her imagination, — 
 and he had not been like that before his marriage. He had 
 been a jolly fellow then, engaging and kind. And now 
 he had become a regular wild beast. 
 
 "Why is it so? Am I really a burden to him?" she 
 thought. 
 
 Her heart contracted at that bitter reflection, she felt 
 sorry for herself, and for him; she went up to him, and 
 caressingly, affectionately gazing into his eyes, pressed 
 close to his breast. 
 
 "Well, now you're going to hck yourself, you cow 
 . . ." said Grishka surlily, and pretended that he wished 
 to thrust her from him; but she knew that he would not 
 do it, and pressed closer and harder against him. 
 
 Then his eyes flashed, he flung his work on the floor, 
 and setting his wife on his knees, he kissed her much and 
 long, sighing from a full heart, and saying, in a low voice, 
 as though afraid that someone would overhear him: 
 
 " E-ekh, Motrya! * Ai, ai, how ill you and I live together 
 . . . we snarl at each other like wild beasts . . . 
 and why? Such is my star ... a man is born be- 
 neath a star, and the star is his fate! " 
 
 But this explanation did not satisfy him, and straining 
 his wife to his breast, he sank into thought. 
 
 They sat thus for a long time, in the murky light and 
 
 close air of their cellar. She held her peace and sighed, but 
 
 sometimes in such fair moments as these, she recalled the 
 
 * M6trya is the diminutive for Matr6na. — Translator. 
 
 17 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 undeserved insults and beatings administered by him, and 
 with quiet tears she complained to him of them. 
 
 Then he, abashed by her fond reproaches, caressed her 
 yet more ardently, and she poured forth her heart in more 
 and more complaints. At last, this irritated him. 
 
 " Stop your jawing! How do you know but that it 
 hurts me a thousand times more than it does you when I 
 thrash you. Do you understand? Well, then, stop your 
 noise! Give you and the like of you free sway, and they'd 
 fly at one's throat. Drop the subject. What can you say 
 to a man if life has made a devil of him? " 
 
 At other times he softened under the flood of her quiet 
 tears, and passionate remonstrances, and explained, sadly 
 and thoughtfully: 
 
 "What am I, with my character, to do? I insult you 
 . . . that's true. I know that you and I are one soul 
 — but sometimes I forget that. Do you understand, M6- 
 trya, that there are times when I can't bear the sight of 
 you? ! Just as though I had had a surfeit of you. And, 
 at such times, such a vicious feeling comes up under my 
 heart — I could tear you to bits, and myself along with 
 you. And the more in the right you are, as against mei, 
 the more I want to thrash you . . ." 
 
 She hardly understood him, but the repentant, affec- 
 tionate tone soothed her. 
 
 " God grant, that we may get straight somehow, that we 
 may get used to each other" — she said, not recognizing 
 the fact that they had long ago got used to each other, and 
 had drained each other. 
 
 " Now, if we only had had some children born to us — 
 we should get along better," she sometimes added, with a 
 sigh. — "We should have had an amusement, and an 
 anxiety." 
 
 18 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 "Well, what ails you? Bear some . . ." 
 
 "Yes . . . you see, I can't tear any, with these 
 thrashings of yours. You heat me awfully hard on the 
 body and ribs. ... If only you wouldn't use your 
 feet on me . . ." 
 
 " Come now, — " Grigory gruffly and in confusion de- 
 fended himself, — " can a man stop to consider at such a 
 time, where and with what he ought to thrash? And I'm 
 not the hangman, either, . . . and I don't beat you 
 for my amusement, but from grief . . ." 
 
 " And how was this grief bred in you? " — asked Matrena 
 mournfully. 
 
 " Such is my fate, Motrya! — " philosophized Grishka. 
 "My fate, and the character of my soul . . . Look, 
 am I any worse than the rest, than that Little Eussian, 
 for example ? Only, the Little Eussian lives on and does 
 not feel melancholy. He's alone, he has no wife, noth- 
 ing ... I should perish without you . . . But 
 he doesn't mind it! . . . He smokes his pipe and 
 smiles; he's contented, the devil, just because he's smok- 
 ing his pipe. But I can't do like that. ... I was 
 bori)., evidently, with uneasiness in my heart. That's the 
 sort of character I have. . . . The Little Eussian's is 
 — like a stick, but mine is like — a spring; when you press 
 it, it shakes ... I go out, for instance, into the street, 
 I see this thing, that thing, a third thing, but I have noth- 
 ing myself. This angers me. The Little Eussian — ^he 
 wants nothing, but I get mad, also, because he, that mus- 
 tached devil, doesn't want anything, while I ... I 
 don't even know what I want . . . everything! So 
 there now! Here I sit in a hole, and work all the time, 
 and have nothing. And there, again, it's your fault . . . 
 You're my wife, and what is there about you that's in- 
 
 J9 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 teresting? One woman's just like another woman, with 
 the whole lot of females ... I know everything in 
 you; how you will sneeze to-morrow — and I know it, be- 
 cause you have sneezed before me a thousand times, prob- 
 ably. . . . And so what sort of life, and what interest 
 can I have? There's no interest. Well, and so I go and 
 sit in the dram-shop, because it's cheerful there." 
 
 " But why did you marry? " — asked Matrena. 
 
 " Why? "— Grishka laughed.—" The devil knows why I 
 did. ... I oughtn't to have done it, to tell the truth. 
 . . . It would have been better to start out as a 
 tramp. . . Then, if you are hungry, you're free — go 
 where you like! March all over the world! " 
 
 " Then go, and set me at liberty," blurted out Matr6na, 
 on the verge of bursting into tears. 
 
 "Where are you going?" — inquired Grishka insinu- 
 atingly. 
 
 " That's my business." 
 
 " Whe-ere ? " and his eyes lighted up with an evil glare. 
 " Say! " 
 
 " Don't yell — I'm not afraid of you . . ." 
 
 " Have you got your eye on somebody else? Say? " 
 
 " Let me go! " 
 
 "Let you go where?" — ^bellowed Grishka. 
 
 He had already grasped her by the hair, pushing the 
 kerchief off her head. Beatings exasperated her, but anger 
 afforded her immense delight, stirring up her whole soul, 
 and, instead of extinguishing his jealousy by a couple of 
 words, she proceeded still further to enrage him, smiling 
 up into his face with strange, extremely significant smiles. 
 He flew into a fury, and beat her, beat her mercilessly. 
 
 But at night when, all broken, and crushed, she lay 
 groaning beside him in bed, he stared askance at her, and 
 
Orl6fif and His Wife 
 
 sighed heavily. He felt ill at ease, his conscience tortured 
 him, he understood that there was no foundation for his 
 jealousy, and that he had beaten her without cause. 
 
 " Come, that will do, . . ." he said abashed. — " Am 
 I to blame, if I have that sort of character? And you're 
 nice, too. . . . Instead of persuading me — you spur me 
 on. Why did you find it necessary to do it? " 
 
 She held her peace, but she knew why, knew that now, 
 all beaten and wronged as she was, she might expect his 
 caresses, the passionate and tender caresses of reconciliation. 
 For this she was ready to pay every day with pain in her 
 bruised sides. — And she was already weeping, with the 
 mere joy of anticipation, even before her husband suc- 
 ceeded in touching her. 
 
 " Come, enough of that, Motrya! Come, my darling, 
 won't you? Have done, forgive me, do! " — He smoothed 
 her hair, kissed her, and gnashed his teeth with the bitter- 
 ness which filled his whole being. 
 
 Their windows were open, but the main wall of the 
 neighboring house hid the sky, and in their room, as al- 
 ways, it was dark, and stifling and close. 
 
 " Ekh, life! Thou art a magnificent hard-labor prison! " 
 — ^whispered Grishka, unable to express what he so pain- 
 fully felt. — " It comes from this hole, Motrya. What are 
 we? Something as though we were buried in the earth 
 before our death . . ." 
 
 "Let's move into another lodging," — suggested Ma- 
 tr6na, through sweet tears, understanding his words 
 literally. 
 
 "E-ekh! No you don't, aunty! If you betake your- 
 self to a garret, you'll still be in a hole, ... it isn't 
 the lodging that's the hole . . . but life — that's the 
 hole! " 
 
 21 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 Matrena reflected, and began again: 
 
 " God willing, we may reform ourselves ... we 
 shall get used to one another." 
 
 " Yes, we'll reform. . . . You often say that. . . . 
 But it doesn't look like reform with us. . . . The rows 
 get more frequent all the time, — understand? " 
 
 That was unqualifiedly true. The intervals between 
 their fights kept growing shorter and shorter, and here, at 
 last, every Saturday, Grishka began from early in the morn- 
 ing to screw himself up into a hostile mood against his- 
 wife. 
 
 " This evening I'm going to cut work, and go to meet 
 L;fsy in the dram-shop. ... I shall get drunk . . ." 
 he announced. 
 
 Matrena, puckering up her eyes strangely, made no 
 reply. 
 
 " You won't speak ? Well then, just go on holding 
 your tongue — it'll be better for your health, — " he said 
 wamingly. 
 
 In the course of the day, with irritation which increased 
 in proportion as the evening drew near, — he reminded her 
 several times of his intention to get drunk, was conscious 
 that it pained her to hear this, and perceiving that she 
 maintained a persistent silence, with a firm gleam in her 
 eyes, preparing for the struggle, he strode about the room 
 and raged all the more furiously. 
 
 In the evening, the herald of their unhappiness, Senka 
 Tchizhik, proclaimed the " brattle." * 
 
 When he had finished beating his wife, Grishka van- 
 ished, sometimes for the whole night, sometimes he did 
 not even put in an appearance on Sunday. She, covered 
 
 • S6nka twists his words, in a way which cannot always be repro- 
 duced. This is a fair specimen. — Translator. 
 
 32 
 
Orldff and His Wife 
 
 with bruises, greeted him morosely, with taciturnity, hut 
 was filled with concealed compassion for him, all tattered, 
 and often battered also, in filth, with his eyes suffused 
 with blood. 
 
 She knew that he must get over his fit of intoxication, 
 and she had already supplied herself with half a bottle of 
 vodka. He, also, knew this. 
 
 " Give me a little glass . . ." he entreated hoarsely, 
 drank off two or three glasses, and sat down to his work. 
 
 The day passed with him in gnawings of conscience; 
 often he could not endure their sting, flung aside his work, 
 and swore terrible oaths, as he rushed about the room, or 
 threw himself on the bed. Motrya gave him time to simmer 
 down, and then they made peace. 
 
 Formerly, this reconciliation had had much that was 
 subtle and sweet about it, but, in the course of time, all 
 this evaporated, and they made peace almost for the sole 
 reason that it was not convenient to remain silent for the 
 five whole days before Sunday. 
 
 " You feel sleepy," said Matrena, with a sigh. 
 
 " I do/' — assented Grishka, and spat aside, with the air 
 of a man to whom it is a matter of utter indifference 
 whether he feels sleepy or not. — "And you're going to 
 scamper off and leave me . . ." he completed the pict- 
 ure of the future, looking searchingly into her eyes. 
 
 For some time past, she had taken to dropping them, 
 which she had never been in the habit of doing previously, 
 and Grishka, taking note of this, frowned portentously, 
 and softly gritted his teeth. But, privily from her hus- 
 band, she was still frequenting the fortune-tellers and sor- 
 ceresses, bringing back from them spells, in the form of 
 roots and embers. And when all this was of no avail, she 
 had a prayer-service celebrated to the holy great-martyr 
 
 23 
 
Orlofif and His Wife 
 
 Vonifanty, who aids drunkards, and as she knelt through- 
 out the prayer-service, she wept burning tears, noiselessly 
 moving her quivering lips. 
 
 And more and more frequently did she feel toward her 
 husband a savage, cold hatred, which aroused black 
 thoughts within her, and she had ever less and less of pity 
 for this man who, three years before, had so enriched her 
 life with his merry laughter, his caresses, his affectionate 
 speeches. 
 
 Thus these people, in reality, not at all a bad sort of 
 people, lived on, day after day — lived on, fatally antici- 
 pating something which should finally smash to atoms 
 their torturingly-foolish life. 
 
 One Monday morning, when the Orloff pair had just 
 begun to drink their tea, the impressive form of a police- 
 man made its appearance on the threshold of the door 
 which led into their cheerless abode. Orloff sprang from 
 his seat and, with a glance of reproachful alarm at his wife, 
 as he endeavored to reconstruct in his fuddled head the 
 events of the last few days, he stared silently and fixedly 
 at the visitor, with troubled eyes, filled with the most 
 horrible expectation. 
 
 " Here, this is the place, — " the policeman invited some- 
 one in. 
 
 "It's as dark as the pool under the mill-wheel, devil 
 take merchant Petiinnikoff, — " rang out a young, cheerful 
 voice. Then the poUceman stood aside, and into the Or- 
 loffs' room there stepped briskly a student, in a white duck 
 coat, cap in hand, with close-cut hair, a large, sunburned 
 forehead, and merry brown eyes, which sparkled laugh- 
 ingly from beneath his spectacles. 
 
 " Good morning! — " he exclaimed in a bass voice which 
 
 24 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 had not yet grown hoarse. — "I have the honor to intro- 
 duce myself — the sanitary officer! I have come to investi- 
 gate how you live . . . and to smell your air . . . 
 your air is thoroughly foul! " 
 
 OrlofE breathed freely and cordially, and smiled cheerily. 
 He took an instantaneous liking to this noisy student: the 
 fellow's face was so healthy, rosy, kindly, covered on cheeks 
 and chin with golden-brown down. It smiled incessantly, 
 with a peculiar, fresh and clear smile, which seemed to 
 render the OrlofEs' cellar brighter and more cheerful. 
 
 " Well then, Mr. and Mrs. Occupant! " — said the stu- 
 dent without a pause, — " you must empty your slop-bucket 
 more frequently, that unsavory smell comes from it. I 
 would advise you, aunty, to wash it out very often, and 
 also to sprinkle unslaked lime in the corners, to purify the 
 air . . . and lime is also good as a remedy for damp- 
 ness. And why have you so bored an aspect, uncle? " — 
 he addressed himself to OrlofE, and immediately seizing 
 him by the hand, he began to feel his pulse. 
 
 The student's audacity stunned the Orloffs. Matrena 
 smiled abstractedly, surveying him in silence. Grigory 
 also smiled, as he admired his vivacious face, with Its 
 golden-brown down. 
 
 "How are your little bellies feeling? — " inquired the 
 student. "Tell me, without ceremony . . . it's a 
 matter of health, and if there's anything out of order, we'll 
 furnish you with some acid medicines, which will remove 
 all trouble at once." 
 
 " We're all right . . . we're in good health, — " Gri- 
 gory finally imparted the information, with a laugh. — 
 " But if I don't look just as I should . . . it's only on 
 the outside . . . for, to tell the truth, I haven't quite 
 got over my drunk." 
 
 25 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 " Exactly so, I discern with my nose that you, my good 
 man, almost got drunk yesterday — ^just a mere trifle, you 
 fenow . . ." 
 
 He said this so humorously, and made such a grimace 
 to accompany it, that OrlofE fairly split with loud and con- 
 fidential laughter. Matrena laughed also, covering her 
 mouth with her apron. The student himself laughed the 
 most loudly and merrily of all, and he also stopped sooner 
 than the rest. And when the folds of skin around his 
 chubhy mouth, evoked by the laughter, had smoothed them- 
 selves out, — his simple, frank face became still more sim- 
 ple, somehow. 
 
 "It's the proper thing for a working man to drink, if 
 he does it moderately, but just at present, it would be bet- 
 ter to refrain from liquor altogether. Have you heard 
 how some sickness or other is going about among the 
 people?" 
 
 And now, with a serious aspect, he began to explain in 
 intelligible language to the OrlofEs, about the cholera, and 
 about the means of fighting it. As he talked, he walked 
 about the room, now feeling of the wall with his hand, 
 now casting a glance behind the door, into the corner, 
 where hung the wash-basin, and where stood a wash- 
 trough* filled with slops, and he even bent down and 
 smelled under the stove, to see what the odor was like. 
 His voice broke, every now and then, from bass notes into 
 tenor notes, and the simple words of his remarks seemed 
 to fix themselves firmly, one after another, in the minds 
 
 • The peasant wash-basin consists of a closed vessel which is sus- 
 pended from the wall, and contains water. The water trickles through 
 a spout or faucet, on the hands — "running" water being regarded as 
 the only clean water. The tub in which clothes are washed is a long 
 trough, rounded at the bottom, and mounted on supports. — Translator. 
 
 26 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 of his hearers, without any effort on their part. His bright 
 eyes sparkled, and he seemed thoroughly permeated with 
 the ardor of his youthful passion for his work, which he 
 executed so simply and so vigorously. 
 
 Grigory watched his operations with a smile of curiosity. 
 Matrena sniffed from time to time; the poUceman had 
 disappeared. 
 
 " So you are to attend to the lime to-day, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Occupant. There's a building going up alongside you, so 
 the masons will give you all you need for about five kopeks. 
 And as for you, goodman, if you can't be moderate in your 
 drinking, you must let it alone altogether. . . . "We-ell, 
 good-by for the time being. . . . I'll look in on you 
 again." 
 
 And he vanished as swiftly as he had appeared, leaving 
 as mementos of his laughing eyes abashed and satisfied 
 smiles on the countenances of the Orloff couple. 
 
 They remained silent for a minute, staring at each other, 
 and as yet unable to formulate the impression left by this 
 unexpected invasion of conscious energy into their dark, 
 automatic life. 
 
 " A-ai! — " drawled Grigory, shaking his head. — " So 
 there's ... a chemist! It is said that they are poi- 
 soning folks! But would a man with a face like that 
 occupy himself with that sort of thing? And then again, 
 his voice! And all the rest. . . . No, his manner was 
 perfectly frank, and immediately — 'here now, — ^here I 
 am!' — Lime . . . is that injurious? Citric acid . . . 
 what's that? Simply acid, and nothing more! But the 
 chief point is — cleanliness everywhere, in the air, and on 
 the floor, and in the slop-bucket. ... Is it possible 
 to poison a man by such means? Akh, the devils! Poi- 
 soners, say they. . . . That hard-working young fel- 
 
 27 
 
Orl6fr and His Wife 
 
 low, hey? Fie! A workingman ought always to drink 
 in moderation, he says ... do you hear, Motrya? So 
 cojne now, pour me out a little glass . . . there's liquor 
 on hand, isn't there? " 
 
 She very willingly poured him out half a cup of vodka 
 from the bottle, which she produced from some place 
 known only to herself. 
 
 " That was really a nice fellow ... he had such a 
 way of making one like him, — " she said, smiling at the 
 remembrance of the student. — " But other fellows, the rest 
 of them — ^who knows anything about them? Perhaps, they 
 actually are engaged . . ." 
 
 "But engaged for what, and again, by whom? — " ex- 
 claimed Grigory. 
 
 " To exterminate the people . . . They say there 
 are so many poor folks, that an order has been issued — 
 to poison the superfluous ones," — Matrena communicated 
 her information. 
 
 "Who says that?" 
 
 "Everybody says so. . . . The painters' cook said 
 so, and a great many other folks . . ." 
 
 "Well, they're fools! Would that be profitable? Just 
 consider: they are curing them! How is a body to under- 
 stand that? They bury them! And isn't that a loss? 
 For a coffin is needed, and a grave, and other things of 
 that sort. . . . Everything is charged to the govern- 
 ment treasury. . . . Stuff and nonsense! If they wanted 
 to make a clearing-out and to reduce the number of peo- 
 ple, they would have taken and sent them off to Siberia 
 — there's plenty of room for them all there! Or to some 
 uninhabited islands. . . . And after they had exiled 
 them, they would have ordered them to work there. Work 
 and pay your taxes . . . understand? There's a clear- 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 ing-out for you, and a very profitable one, to boot. . . . 
 Because an uninhabited island will yield no revenue, if it 
 isn't settled with people. And revenue is the first thing 
 to the public treasury, so it's not to its interest to destroy 
 folks, and to bury them at its expense. . . . Under- 
 stand? And then, again, that student . . . he's an 
 impudent creature, that's a fact, but he had more to say 
 about the riot; but kill people ofE, . . . no-o, you 
 couldn't hire him to do that for any amount of pennies! 
 Couldn't you see at a glance, that he wouldn't be capable 
 of such a thing? His phiz wasn't of that calibre . . ." 
 
 All day long they talked about the student, and about 
 everything he had told them. They recalled the sound 
 of his laugh, his face, discovered that one button was miss- 
 ing from his white coat, and came near quarrelling over 
 the question : ' on which side of the breast ? ' Matrena 
 obstinately maintained that it was on the right side, her 
 husband said — on the left, and twice cursed her stoutly, 
 but remembering in season, that his wife had not turned 
 the bottle bottom upward when she poured the v6dka into 
 the cup, he yielded the point to her. Then they decided 
 that on the morrow, they would set to work to introduce 
 cleanliness into their quarters, and again inspired by a 
 breath of something fresh, they resumed their discussion 
 of the student. 
 
 " Yes, what a go-ahead fellow he was, really now! " — 
 said 6rig6ry rapturously. — " He came in, just exactly as 
 though he'd known us for ten years. . . . He sniffed 
 about everywhere, explained everything . . . and that 
 was all! He didn't shout or make a row, although he's 
 one of the authorities, also, of course. . . . Akh, deuce 
 take him! Do you understand, Matrena, they're looking 
 after us there, my dear. That's evident at once. . . . 
 
 29 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 ■They want to keep us sound, and nothing more, nor less. 
 . . . That's all nonsense about killing us off . . . 
 old wives' tales. . . . 'How does your belly act? ' says 
 he. . . . And if they wanted to kill us off, what the 
 devil should he have wanted to know about the action of 
 my belly for? And how cleverly he explained all about 
 those . . . what's their name? those devils that crawl 
 about in the bowels, you know?" 
 
 " Something after the fashion of cock and bull stories," 
 laughed Matr^na, — "I believe he only said that for the 
 sake of frightening us, and making folks more particular 
 to keep clean . . ." 
 
 "Well, who knows, perhaps there's some truth in that 
 . . . for worms breed from dampness. . . , Akh, you 
 devil! What did he call those little bugs? It isn't a cock 
 and bull story at all, but . . . why, I remember what 
 it is! . . . I've got the word on the tip of my tongue, 
 but I don't understand . . ." 
 
 And when they lay down to sleep, they were still talk- 
 ing about the event of the day, with the same ingenuous 
 enthusiasm with which children communicate to one an- 
 other their first experiences and the impressions which 
 have surprised them. Then they fell asleep, in the midst 
 of their discussion. 
 
 Early in the morning they were awakened. By their 
 bedside stood the fat cook of the painters, and her face, 
 which was always red, now, contrary to her wont, was gray 
 and drawn. 
 
 " Why are you pampering yourselves? " she said hastily, 
 
 making a rather peculiar noise with her thick, red lips. 
 
 " We've got the cholera in the court-yard. . . . The 
 Lord has visited us! " — ^and she suddenly burst out crying. 
 
 "Akh, you're , . , lying, aren't you? " cried Grigory. 
 
 30 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 " And I never carried out the slop-bucket last night/' 
 said Matr6na guiltily. 
 
 " My dear folks, I'm going to get my wages. I'm going 
 away. . . . I'll go, and go ... to the country," 
 said the cook. 
 
 ''Who's got it?" inquired Grigory, getting out of bed. 
 
 " The accordeon-player! He's got it. . . . He drank 
 water out of the fountain last evening, do you hear, and 
 he was seized in the night. . . . And it took him right 
 in the belly, my good people, as though he'd swallowed 
 rat-poison . . ." 
 
 " The accordeon-player . . ." muttered Grigory. He 
 could not believe that any disease could overcome the 
 accordeon-player. Such a jolly, dashing young fe,llow, and 
 he had walked through the court like a peacock, as usual, 
 only last night. — " I'll go and take a look," — Orldff de- 
 cided, with an incredulous laugh. 
 
 Both women shrieked in affright: 
 
 " Grisha, why, it's catching! " 
 
 "What are you thinking of, my good man, where are 
 you going?" 
 
 Grigory uttered a violent oath, thrust his legs into his 
 trousers, and dishevelled as he was, with shirt-collar un- 
 buttoned, went toward the door. His wife clutched him 
 by the shoulder, from behind, he felt her hands tremble, 
 and suddenly flew into a rage, for some reason or other. 
 
 " I'll hit you in the snout! Get away! " — he roared, 
 and went out, after striking his wife in the breast. 
 
 The court-yard was dark and deserted, and Grigory, as 
 he proceeded toward the accordeon-player's door, was sim- 
 ultaneously conscious of a chill of terror, and of a keen 
 satisfaction at the fact that he, alone, out of all the denizens , 
 of the house, was going to the sick accordeon-player. This 
 
 31 
 
Orl6fr and His Wife 
 
 satisfaction was still further augmented when he perceived 
 that the tailors were watching him from the second-story 
 windows. He even began to whistle, wagging his head 
 about with a dashing air. But a little disenchantment 
 awaited him at the door of the accordeon-player's little 
 den, in the shape of Senka Tchizhik. 
 
 Having opened the door half way, he had thrust his 
 sharp nose into the crack thus formed, and as was his 
 wont, was taking his observations, captivated to such a 
 degree that he did not turn round until OrlofE pulled 
 his ear. 
 
 "Just see how it has racked him, Uncle Grigory," he 
 said in a whisper, raising toward OrlofE his dirty little face, 
 rendered still more peaked than usual by the impressions 
 he had undergone. — "And it's just as though he had 
 shrunk up and got disjointed with dryness — ^like a bad 
 cask ... by heaven! " 
 
 Orloff, enveloped by the foul air, stood and listened in 
 silence to Tchizhik, endeavoring to peer, with one eye, 
 through the crack of the door as it hung ajar. 
 
 "How would it do to give him some water to drink. 
 Uncle Grigory?" suggested Tchizhik. 
 
 Orl6ff glanced at the boy's face, which was excited al- 
 most to the point of a nervous tremor, and felt something 
 resembling a burst of excitement within himself. 
 
 " Go along, fetch the water! " he ordered Tchizhik, and 
 boldly flinging the door wide open, he halted on the 
 threshold, shrinking back a little. 
 
 Athwart the mist in his eyes, Grigory beheld KislyakofE: 
 — the accordeon-player, dressed in his best, lay with his 
 breast on the table, which he was clutching tightly with 
 his hands, and hia feet, in their lacquered boots, moved 
 feebly over the wet floor. 
 
 32 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked hoarsely and apathetically, as 
 though his voice had faded, and lost all its color. 
 
 Grigory recovered himself, and stepping cautiously over 
 the floor, he advanced to him, trying to speak bravely and 
 even jestingly. 
 
 " I, brother, Mitry Pavloff. . . . But what are you 
 up to . . . did you overwork last night, pray?" — ^he 
 surveyed KislyakofE attentively and curiously, and did not 
 recognize him. 
 
 The accordeon-player's face had grown peaked all over, 
 his cheek-bones projected in two acute angles, his eyes, 
 deeply sunken in his head, and surrounded by greenish 
 spots, were frightfully immovable and turbid. The skin 
 on his cheeks was of the hue which is seen on corpses in 
 hot summer weather. It was a completely dead, horrible 
 face, and only the slow movement of the jaws showed that 
 it was still alive. Kislyakofl's motionless eyes stared long 
 at Grigory's face, and their dead gaze put the latter in a 
 fright. Feeling his ribs with his hands, for some reason 
 or other, Orl6ff stood three paces distant from the sick 
 man, and felt exactly as though someone were clutching 
 him by the throat with a damp, cold hand, — were clutch- 
 ing him and slowly strangling him. And he wanted to get 
 away, as speedily as possible, from this room, hitherto so 
 bright and comfortable, but now impregnated with a suffo- 
 cating odor of putrefaction, and with a strange chill. 
 
 "Well . . ." he was about to begin, preparatory to 
 beating a retreat. But the accordeon-player's gray face 
 began to move in a strange way, his lips, covered with a 
 black efflorescence, parted, and he said with his toneless 
 voice: 
 
 "I . . . am . . . dying . . ." 
 
 The profound indifference, the inexplicable apathy of 
 
 33 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 his three words echoed in Orloff's head and breast, like 
 three dull blows. With a senseless grimace on his coun- 
 tenance, he turned toward the door, but Tchizhik came fly- 
 ing to meet him, all flushed and perspiring, with a pail 
 in his hand. 
 
 "Here it is . . . from Spiridonofl's well . . . 
 they wouldn't let me have it, the devils . . ." 
 
 He set the pail on the floor, rushed into a comer, re- 
 appeared, and handing a glass to Orloff, continued to 
 prattle: 
 
 " They say you've got the cholera. ... I say, well, 
 what of that? You'll have it too, . . . now it'll run 
 the rounds, as it did in the suburbs . . .? Whack! he 
 gave me such a bang on the head that I yelled! " 
 
 Orloff took the glass, dipped up water from the pail, 
 and swallowed it at one gulp. In his ears the dead words 
 were ringing: 
 
 "I . . . am . . . dying . . ." 
 
 But Tchizhik hovered round him with swift darts, feel- 
 ing himself thoroughly in his proper sphere. 
 
 " Give me a drink . . ." said the aeeordeon-player, 
 moving himself and the table about on the floor. 
 
 Tchizhik hopped up to him, and held a glass of water 
 to his black lips. Grigory, as he leaned against the wall 
 by the door, listened, as in a dream, to the sick man noisily 
 drawing in the water; then he heard Tchizhik propose 
 that they should undress Kislyakoff, and put him to bed, 
 then the voice of the painters' cook rang out. Her broad 
 face, with an expression of terror and compassion, was gaz- 
 ing in from the court-yard through a window, and she said 
 in a snivelling tone: 
 
 "You ought to give him lamp-black and rum: a tea- 
 glass full — two spoonfuls of lamp-black, and fill it with 
 rum to the brim." 
 
 34 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 But some invisible person suggested olive-oil with the 
 brine from cucumbers, and aqua regia. 
 
 OrlofB suddenly became conscious that the heavy, op- 
 pressive gloom within him was illuminated by some mem- 
 ory. He rubbed his brow hard, as though endeavoring to 
 increase the brilliancy of the light, and all at once, he went 
 swiftly thence, ran across the court-yard and disappeared 
 down the street. 
 
 "Heavens! And the shoemaker has got it too! He's 
 run off to the hospital," — the cook commented upon his 
 flight in a plaintively-shrill voice. 
 
 Matr6na, who was standing beside her, gazed with 
 widely opened eyes, and turning pale, she shook all over. 
 
 " You're mistaken," she said hoarsely, barely moving her 
 white lips, — " Grigory won't fall ill of that accursed sick- 
 ness. ... He won't yield to it . . ." 
 
 But the cook, howling wofully, had already disappeared 
 somewhere, and five minutes later a cluster of neighbors 
 and passers-by was muttering dully around the Petiinni- 
 koff house. Over all faces the same, identical sentiments 
 flitted in turn: excitement, which was succeeded by hope- 
 less dejection, and something evil, which now and then 
 made way for active audacity. Tchizhik kept flying back 
 and forth between the court and the crowd, his bare feet 
 twinkling, and reporting the course of events in the accor- 
 deon-player's room. 
 
 The public, collected together in a dense knot, filled the 
 dusty, malodorous air of the street with the dull hum of 
 their talk, and from time to time a violent oath, launched 
 at someone, broke forth from their midst, — an oath as 
 malicious as it was lacking in sense. 
 
 "Look . . . that's Orloff!" 
 
 Orloff drove up to the gate on the box of a wagon with 
 
 35 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 a white canvas cover which was driven by a surly man all 
 clad in white, also. This man roared, in a dull bass voice: 
 
 " Get out of the way! " 
 
 And he drove straight at the people, who sprang aside 
 in all directions at his shout. 
 
 The aspect of this wagon, and the shout of its driver, 
 rather subdued the high-strung mood of the spectators, — 
 all seemed to grow dark at once, and many went swiftly 
 away. 
 
 In the track of the wagon, the student who had visited 
 the Orloffs made his appearance from somewhere or other. 
 His cap had fallen back on the nape of his neck, the per- 
 spiration streamed down his forehead in large drops, he 
 wore a long mantle, of dazzling whiteness, and the lower 
 part of its front was decorated with a large round hole, 
 with reddish edges, evidently just burned in some way. 
 
 " Well, Orloff, Where's the sick man? " — he asked loudly, 
 casting a sidelong glance at the public, which had assem- 
 bled in a little niche by the gate, and had greeted his 
 appearance with great ill-will, although they watched him 
 not without curiosity. 
 
 Someone said, in a loud tone: 
 
 " Look at yourself . . . you're just like a cook! " 
 
 Another voice, which was quieter and had a tinge of 
 malice in it, made promises: 
 
 "Just wait . . . he'll give you a treat! " 
 
 There was a joker in the crowd, as there always is. 
 
 " He'll give you such soup that your belly will burst on 
 the spot! " 
 
 A laugh rang out, though it was not merry, but ob- 
 scured by a timorous suspicion, it was not lively, though 
 faces cleared somewhat. 
 
 " See, they ain't afraid of catching it themselves . . . 
 
 36 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 what's the meaning of that? " — very significantly inquired 
 a man with a strained face and a glance filled with con- 
 centrated wrath. 
 
 And under the influence of this question, the counte- 
 nances of the public darkened again, and their murmurs 
 became still duller . . . 
 
 " They're bringing him! " 
 
 " That Orl6fE! Akh, the dog! " 
 
 "Isn't he afraid?" 
 
 "What's it to him? He's a drunkard . . ." 
 
 " Carefully, carefully, Orloff ! Lift his feet higher . . . 
 so! Eeady! Drive off, Piotr! " ordered the student. 
 "Tell the doctor I shall be there soon. Well, sir, Mr. 
 Orl6ff, I request that you will help me to exterminate the 
 infection here. ... By the way, you will learn how 
 to do it, in case of need. ... Do you agree? Can 
 you come?" 
 
 " I can," said Orloff, casting a glance around him, and 
 feeling a flood of pride rising within him. 
 
 " And so can I," announced Tchizhik. 
 
 He had escorted the mournful wagon through the gate, 
 and returned just in the nick of time to offer his services. 
 The student stared at him through his glasses. 
 
 " Who are you, hey? " 
 
 "Apprentice ... to the house-painters . . ." 
 explained Tchizhik. 
 
 "And are you afraid of the cholera? " 
 
 " I ?" asked S6nka in surprise. — "The idea! I'm . . . 
 not afraid of anything! " 
 
 "Ee-eally? That's clever! Now, see here, my friends." 
 — The student seated himself on a cask which was lying 
 on the ground, and rolhng himself to and fro on it, he 
 began to say that it was indispensably necessary that 
 
 87 
 
Orioff and His Wife 
 
 Orloff and Tehizhik should give themselves a good 
 washing. 
 
 They formed a group, which was soon joined by Ma- 
 trena, smiling timidly. After her came the cook, wiping 
 her wet eyes on her dirty apron. In a short time, several 
 persons from among the spectators approached this group, 
 as cautiously as cats approach sparrows. A small, dense 
 ring of men, about ten in number, formed around the 
 student, and this inspired him. Standing in the centre 
 of these people, and briskly gesticulating, he began some- 
 thing in the nature of a lecture, which now awoke smiles 
 on their faces, now aroused their concentrated attention, 
 now keen distrust and sceptical grins. 
 
 " The principal point in all diseases is — cleanliness of 
 the body, and of the air which you breathe, gentlemen," 
 — ^he assured his hearers. 
 
 " Oh Lord! " sighed the painters' cook loudly. — " One 
 must pray to Saint Varvara the martyr to be delivered 
 from sudden death . . ." 
 
 " Gentlemen live in the body and in the air, but still, 
 they die too," — remarked one of the audience. 
 
 Orloff stood beside his wife, and gazed at the face of 
 the student, pondering something deeply the while. Some- 
 one gave his shirt a tug, from one side. 
 
 " Uncle Grigory! "—whispered Senka Tehizhik, raising 
 himself on tiptoe, his eyes sparkling, blazing like coals, 
 — "now that Mitry Pavlovitch is going to die, and he 
 hasn't any relatives . . . who'll get his accordeon?" 
 
 "Let me alone, you imp!" Orloff warded him off. 
 
 Senka stepped aside, and stared through the window 
 of the accordeon-player's little room, searching for some- 
 thing in it with an eager glance. 
 
 "Lime, tar,"— the student enumerated loudly. 
 
 38 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 On the evening of that restless day, when the OrlofEs 
 sat down to drink tea, Matrena asked her husband, with 
 curiosity: 
 
 " Where did you go with the student a Httle while ago? " 
 
 Grigory looked into her face with eyes obscured by 
 something, and different from usual, and, without reply- 
 ing, began to pour his tea from his glass into his saucer. 
 
 About mid-day, after he had finished scrubbing the 
 accordeon-player's rooms, Grigory had gone off somewhere 
 with the sanitary officier, had returned at three o'clock 
 thoughtful and taciturn, had thrown himself down on the 
 bed, and there he had lain, face upward, until tea-time, 
 never uttering a single word all that time, although his 
 wife had made many efforts to draw him into conversation. 
 He even failed to swear at her for nagging him, and this, 
 in itself, was strange, she was not used to it, and it pro- 
 voked her. 
 
 With the instinct of a woman whose whole life is bound 
 up in her husband, she began to suspect that her husband 
 had become interested in something new, she was afraid 
 of something, and therefore, was the more passionately 
 desirous of knowing what that thing was. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't feel well, Grisha?" 
 
 Grigory poured the last gulp of tea from his saucer 
 into his mouth, wiped his mustache with his hand, pushed 
 his empty glass over to his wife without haste, and knit- 
 ting his brows, he said: 
 
 " I went with the student to the barracks . 
 yes . . ." 
 
 " To the cholera barracks? " exclaimed Matrena, and 
 tremblingly, with lowered voice, she asked: "are there 
 many of them there? " 
 
 "Kfty-three persons, counting in our man . . ." 
 
 39 
 
Grloff and His Wife 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " They're recovering by the Bcore. . . . They can 
 walk. . . . Yellow, thin . . ." 
 
 "Are they cholera-patients too? They're not, I sup- 
 pose? . . . They've put some others in there, to justify 
 themselves: as much as to say — 'look, we can cure!'" 
 
 " You're a fool! " said Grigory with decision, and his 
 eyes flashed angrily. — " You're all stupid folks! Lack of 
 education and stupidity — ^that's all! You're enough to kill 
 a man with your ignorance. . . . You can't under- 
 stand anything," — he sharply moved toward him his glass 
 freshly filled with tea, and fell silent. 
 
 "Where did you get so much education?" — ^inquired 
 Matrena viciously, and sighed. 
 
 Her husband, paying not the slightest heed to her 
 words, remained silent, thoughtful and morose. The 
 samovar, which had burned out, drawled a squeaking 
 melody, full of irritating tediousness, an odor of oil-paints, 
 carbolic acid, and stirred-up cesspools floated through the 
 windows from the court-yard. The semi-twilight, the 
 screeching of the samovar, and the smells — everything in 
 the room became densely merged with one another, form- 
 ing around the Orloffs a setting which resembled a night- 
 mare, while the dark maw of the oven stared at the hus- 
 band and wife exactly as though it felt itself called upon 
 to swallow them when a convenient opportunity should 
 present itself. The silence lasted for a long time. Hus- 
 band and wife nibbled away at their sugar, rattled their 
 crockery, swallowed their tea.* Matrena sighed, Grigory 
 tapped the table with his finger. 
 
 * By way of economizing, the peasants do not put sugar into their 
 tea, but nibble at it, and thus sweeten their mouths, an inelegant and 
 inconvenient, but highly satisfactory method of operation. — Trans- 
 lator. 
 
 40 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 " You never saw such cleanliness as they have there! " 
 — ^he suddenly began, irritably. — "All the attendants, 
 down to the very last one — wear white. The sick people 
 keep getting into the bath all the time. . . . They 
 give them wine ... six bottles and a half! As for 
 the food — ^the very smell of it would make you feel full- 
 fed. . . . Care, anxiety. . . . They treat them in 
 a motherly way . . . and all the rest of it. . . . So 
 they do. Please to understand: you live along upon the 
 earth, and not even one devil would take the trouble to spit 
 on you, much less call in now and then to inquire — ^what 
 and how and, in general, . . . what your life is like, 
 that is to say, whether it suits you, or whether it is the 
 right sort for a man? Has he any means of breathing or 
 not? But when you begin to die — ^they not only do not 
 permit it, but even put themselves to expense. The bar- 
 racks . . . wine ... six bottles and a half! 
 Haven't people any sense? For the barracks and the wine 
 cost a lot of money. Couldn't that same money be used 
 for improving life ... a little every year? " 
 
 His wife made no attempt to understand his remarks, 
 it was enough for her to feel that they were new, and 
 thence to deduce, with absolute accuracy, that something 
 new concerning her was also in progress in Grigory's mind. 
 Convinced of this, she wished to learn, as promptly as 
 possible, how all this concerned her. Pear was mingled 
 with this desire, and hope, and a sort of hostility toward 
 her husband. 
 
 "I suppose the people yonder know even more than 
 you do," — said she, when he had finished, and pursed up 
 her lips in a sceptical way. 
 
 Grigory shrugged his shoulders, cast a furtive glance at 
 
 her, and then, after a pause, he began in a still more lofty 
 
 tone: 
 
 41 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 " Whether they know or not, that's their business. But 
 if I have to die, without having seen any sort of life, I 
 can reason about that. Now see here, I'll tell you this: 
 I don't want any more of this sort of thing — that is to 
 say, I won't consent to sit and wait for the cholera to 
 come and seize hold of me. I won't do it! Piotr Ivano- 
 vitch says: 'go ahead, and meet it half way! Fate is 
 against you — ^but you can oppose it, — who'll get the upper 
 hand ? It's war ! That's all there is to say about it. . . .' 
 So, what now? I'm going to enter the barracks as an 
 orderly — and that's the end of it! Understand? I'm 
 going to walk straight into its maw. — You may swallow 
 me, but I'll make a play with my feet! ... I shall 
 not earn any the less there . . . twenty rubles a month 
 for wages, and they may add a gratuity besides. . . . 
 I may die? . . . that's so, but I should die sooner, here. 
 And again, it's a change in my life . . ." and the ex- 
 cited Orloff banged the table so vehemently with his fist, 
 that all the crockery bounced up and down with a clatter. 
 
 Matrena, at the beginning of her husband's speech, 
 had stared at him with an expression of uneasiness, but 
 by the time he had finished, she had screwed up her eyes 
 in a hostile manner. 
 
 "Did the student advise you to do that?" she asked 
 staidly. 
 
 " I have wits of my own ... I can judge," — for 
 some reason, Grigory evaded a direct reply. 
 
 " Well, and did he advise you to separate from me? "^- 
 went on Matrena. 
 
 "From you?" — Grigory was somewhat disconcerted — 
 he had not yet succeeded in thinking out that matter. 
 Of course, one can leave a woman in lodgings, as is gen- 
 erally done, but there are different sorts of women. Ma- 
 
 43 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 trena, was one of the dangerous sort. One must keep 
 her directly under his eyes. Settling down on this th"bught, 
 Orloff went on with a scowl: — " The student . . . what 
 ails you? You will live here , . . and I shall "be earn- 
 ing wages . . . ye-es . . ." 
 
 "Just so," — said the woman briefly and calmly, and 
 laughed with that very significant and purely feminine 
 smile, which is capable of evoking in a man thoughts of 
 jealousy which pierce his heart. 
 
 Orloff, who was nervous and quick of apprehension, felt 
 this, but, being loath to betray himself, out of self-love, 
 he flung at his wife the curt remark: 
 
 " Quack and grunt — make up all your speeches . . ." 
 and he pricked up his ears, in anticipation of what she 
 would say. 
 
 But she smiled again, with that exasperating smile, and 
 preserved silence. 
 
 "Well, how is it to be?" inquired Grigory, in a Tofty 
 tone. 
 
 "How is what to be?" said Matrena, indifferently 
 wiping the cups. 
 
 "Viper! None of your shiftiness — ^I'll damage you!" 
 Orloff boiled up. — " Perhaps I'm going to my death." 
 
 "I'm not sending you . . . don't go . . ." in- 
 terrupted Matrena. 
 
 "You'd be glad to send me off, I know!" exclaimed 
 Orloff ironically. 
 
 She made no reply. Her silence enraged him, but he 
 restrained himself from his customary expression of the 
 feelings which such scenes called forth in him. He re- 
 strained himself under the influence of a very venomous 
 thought, as it appeared to him, which flashed through his 
 brain. He even gave vent to a malicious smile. " I know 
 
 43 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 you'd like to have me tumble down even to the very depths 
 of hell. "Well, we shall see which of us comes off best 
 . . . yes! I, also, can take such a course — akh, I've no 
 patience with you! " 
 
 He sprang up from the table, snatched up his cap from 
 the window-sill, and went off, leaving his wife dissatisfied 
 with her policy, disconcerted by his threats, and with a 
 growing feeling within her of alarm for the future. As she 
 gazed out of the window, she whispered to herself: 
 
 " Oh Lord! Queen of Heaven! All-Holy Birth-Giver 
 of God! " 
 
 Besieged by a throng of disquieting problems, she re- 
 mained sitting, for a long time, at the table, endeavoring 
 to foresee what Grigory would do. Before her stood the 
 cleanly- washed table appurtenances; and on the principal 
 wall of the neighboring house opposite her windows, the set- 
 ting sun cast a reddish spot; reflected from the white wall, 
 it penetrated into the room, and the edge of the glass 
 sugar-bowl which stood in front of Matrena glittered. 
 She stared at this faint reflection, with contracted brow, 
 until her eyes ached. Then, rising from her chair, she 
 cleared away the dishes and lay down on the bed. 
 
 She felt disgusted. 
 
 Grigory arrived when it was already entirely dark. 
 From his very footsteps on the stairs she decided that he 
 was in good spirits. He swore at the darkness in the room, 
 called to his wife, approached the bed, and sat down on 
 it. His wife raised herself, and sat beside him. 
 
 "Do you know I have something to tell you?" — asked 
 Orloff, laughing. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 " You are going to take a position also! " 
 
 "Where?" she asked, with trembling voice. 
 
 44 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 "In the same barracks with me!" announced Orloff 
 triumphantly. 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and clasping him 
 tightly, kissed him straight on the lips. He had not ex- 
 pected this, and thrust her away. She was pretending 
 ... she didn't want to be with him at all, rogue that 
 she was! The viper was pretending, she regarded her hus- 
 band as a fool . . . 
 
 "What are you delighted about?" — ^he asked roughly 
 and suspiciously, conscious of a desire to hurl her to the 
 floor. 
 
 " Because I am! " she replied, boldly. 
 
 " Pretence! I know you! " 
 
 " You're my Eruslan the Brave! " * 
 
 " Stop that, I tell you ... or look out for yourself! " 
 
 " You're my darling little Grisha! " 
 
 "Well, what's the matter with you, anyhow?" 
 
 When her caresses had tamed him a little, he asked her 
 anxiously: 
 
 " But you're not afraid? " 
 
 " Why, we shall be together," she replied simply. 
 
 It pleased him to hear this. He said to her: 
 
 "You brave little creature!" 
 
 And, at the same time, he pinched her side so hard that 
 she shrieked. 
 
 The first day of the Orloffs' service in the hospital coin- 
 cided with a very great influx of patients, and the two 
 novices, accustomed, as they were, to their slowly-moving 
 existence, felt worried and hampered in the midst of this 
 seething activity which had seized them in its grasp. Awk- 
 
 • The hero of a seventeenth century Russian fairy-tale, after the Per- 
 sian tale of "Eustem." — Translator. 
 
 45 
 
Orlofif and His Wife 
 
 ward, unable to comprehend orders, overwhelmed hy im- 
 pressions, they immediately lost their heads, and although 
 they incessantly ran hither and thither, in the effort to 
 work, they hindered others rather than accomplished any- 
 thing themselves. Several times, Grigory felt, with all 
 his being, that he merited a stern shout or a scolding for 
 his incompetence, but, to his great amazement, no one 
 shouted at him. 
 
 When one of the doctors, a tall, black-mustached man, 
 with a hooked nose, and a huge wart over his right eye- 
 brow, ordered Grigory to assist one of the patients to sit 
 down in the bath-tub, Grigory gripped the sick man under 
 the arms with so much zeal that the man groaned and 
 frowned. 
 
 "Don't break him to pieces, my dear fellow, he'll fit 
 into the bath-tub whole, . . ." said the doctor seriously. 
 
 OrlofE was abashed; but the sick man, a long, gaunt 
 fellow, laughed with all his might, and said hoarsely: 
 
 " He's new to it. . . . He doesn't know how." 
 
 Another doctor, an old man, with a pointed gray beard, 
 and large, brilliant eyes, gave the OrlofEs instructions, when 
 they reached the barracks, how to treat the patients, what 
 to do in this case and that, how to handle the sick people 
 in transferring them. In conclusion, he asked them 
 whether they had been to the bath the day before, and 
 gave them white aprons. This doctor's voice was soft, he 
 spoke rapidly; he took a great liking to the married pair, 
 but half an hour later they had forgotten all his instruc- 
 tions, overwhelmed with the stormy life of the barracks. 
 All about them flitted people in white, orders were issued, 
 caught on the fly by the orderlies, the sick people rattled 
 in their throats, moaned and groaned, water flowed and 
 splashed, and all these sounds floated on the air, which was 
 
 46 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 so thickly saturated with penetrating odors that tickled the 
 nostrils disagreeahly, that it seemed as though every word 
 of the doctors, every sigh of the patients, stunk also, and 
 irritated the nose . . . 
 
 At first, it seemed to Orloff that utterly restless chaos 
 reigned there, wherein he could not possibly find his place, 
 and that he would choke, grow deaf, fall ill. . . . But 
 a few hours passed, and Grigory, invaded by the breath of 
 energy everywhere disseminated, pricked up his ears, and 
 became permeated with a mighty desire to adjust himself 
 to his business as speedily as possible, conscious that he 
 would feel calmer and easier if he could turn in company 
 with the rest. 
 
 " Corrosive sublimate! " shouted one doctor. 
 
 "More hot water in this bath-tub!" — commanded a 
 scraggy little medical student, with red, inflamed eyelids. 
 
 "Here you . . . what's your name? OrlofE . . . 
 yes! rub his feet. . . . There, that's the way . . . 
 you understand. . . . So-o, so-o. . . . More lightly 
 — ^you'll take the skin off. . , . Oi, how tited I 
 am . . ." 
 
 Another long-haired and pock-marked student gave 
 Grigory orders and showed him how to work. 
 
 " They've brought another patient! " the news passed 
 from one to another. 
 
 " Orloff, go and carry him in." 
 
 Grigory displayed great zeal — all covered with perspira- 
 tion, dizzy, with dimmed eyes and a heavy darkness in his 
 head. At times, the feeling of personal existence in him 
 completely vanished under the pressure of the mass of 
 impressions which he underwent every moment. The 
 green spots under the clouded eyes on earth-colored faces, 
 bones which seemed to have been sharpened by the dis- 
 
 47 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 ease, the sticky, malodorous skin, the strange convulsions 
 of the hardly living bodies — all this made his heart con- 
 tract with grief, and caused a nausea which he could, with 
 difficulty, control. 
 
 Several times, in the corridor of the barracks, he caught 
 a fleeting glimpse of his wife; she had grown thin, and 
 her face was gray and abstracted. He even managed to 
 ask her, with a voice which had grown hoarse: 
 
 "Well, how goes it?" 
 
 She smiled faintly in reply, and silently disappeared. 
 
 A totally unaccustomed thought stung Grigory: perhaps 
 he had done wrong in forcing his wife to come hither, to 
 such filthy work. She would fall ill of the infection. 
 . . . And the next time he met her, he shouted at her 
 severely: 
 
 " See to it that you wash your hands often . . . take 
 care! " 
 
 "And what if I don't?" — she asked, teasingly, display- 
 ing her small, white teeth. 
 
 This enraged him. A pretty place she had chosen for 
 mirth, the fool! And how mean they were, those women! 
 But he did not succeed in saying anything to her; catch- 
 ing his angry glance, Matrena went rapidly away to the 
 women's section. 
 
 And a minute later he was carrying his acquaintance 
 the policeman to the dead-house. The policeman rocked 
 gently to and fro on the stretcher, with his eyes fixed in 
 a stare, from beneath contorted brows, on the clear, hot 
 sky. Grigory gazed at him with dull terror in his heart: 
 The day before yesterday he had seen that policeman at 
 his post, and had even sworn at him as he went past— ^ 
 they had some little accounts to settle between them. And 
 now, here was this man, so healthy and malicious, lying 
 dead, all disfigured, drawn up with convulsions. 
 
 48 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 OrlofE felt that this was not right, — ^why should a man 
 he horn into the world at all, if he must die, in one day, 
 of such a dirty disease? He gazed down upon the police- 
 man from above, and pitied him. What would become of 
 his children . . . three in all? The dead man had 
 buried his wife a year ago, and had not yet succeeded in 
 marrying for the second time. 
 
 He even ached, somewhere inside, with this pity. But, 
 aU at once, the clenched left hand of the corpse slowly 
 moved and straightened itself out. At the same moment, 
 the left side of the distorted mouth, which had been half 
 open up to now, closed. 
 
 " Halt! " — shouted Orloff hoarsely, setting the stretcher 
 down on the ground. — " Be quick! " — he said in a whis- 
 per to the orderly who was carrying the corpse with him. 
 
 The latter turned round, cast a glance at the dead man, 
 and said angrily to Orloff: 
 
 "What are you lying for? Don't you understand that 
 he's only putting himself in order for the coffin? You 
 see how it has twisted him up? He can't be put into the 
 coffin Hke that. Hey there, carry him along! " 
 
 " Yes, but he is moving . . ." protested Orloff. 
 
 " Carry him along, do you hear, you queer man! Don't 
 you understand words? I tell you: he's putting himself 
 in order, — ^well, that means that he's moving. This igno- 
 rance of yours may lead you into sin, if you don't look 
 out. . . . Look lively there! Can a man make such 
 speeches about a dead body? That signifies a riot, brother 
 . . . that's what it is! Understand? In other words, 
 hold your tongue, and don't utter a syllable to anyone 
 about his moving, — ^they're all like that. Otherwise, the 
 sow will tell it to "the boar-pig, and the boar will tell it 
 to the whole town, well, and the result will be a riot — ' 
 
 49 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 'they're burying people alive!' The populace will come 
 here, and tear us in bits. There'll be about enough of 
 you left for a breakfast-roll.* Understand? Shunt him 
 here, on the left." 
 
 Pronin's calm voice and leisurely gait had a sobering 
 effect upon Grigory. 
 
 " Only don't let your spirits sink, my good fellow — 
 you'll get used to it. We're well ofE here. Victuals, treat- 
 ment and all the rest — everything is just as it should be. 
 We shall all be corpses, my boy; it's the commonest thing 
 in life. And, in the meanwhile, brisk up, you know, and 
 only don't get scared — ^that's the chief thing! Do you 
 drink vodka? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Orloff. 
 
 " Well then. Yonder in the ditch I have a little bottle, 
 in case of need. Come and let's swallow a little of it." 
 
 They went to. the pit, round the corner of the barracks, 
 took a drink, and Pronin, pouring some drops of mint 
 on sugar, gave it to Orloff, with the words: 
 
 "Eat that, otherwise you'll smell of vodka. They're 
 strict here about vodka. For it's injurious to drink it, 
 they say." 
 
 "And have you got used to things here?" Grigory 
 asked him. 
 
 "I should think so! I've been here from the start. A 
 lot of folks have died here since I've been here — ^hun- 
 dreds, to speak plainly. It's an uneasy life, but a good 
 life here, to tell the truth. It's a pious work. Like the 
 ambulance-corps in time of war . . . you've heard 
 about the ambulance-corps and the sisters of mercy? I 
 watched them during the Turkish campaign. T was at 
 
 •A kaUtch — a delicious and favorite form of bread, particularly 
 good in Moscow. — Translator. 
 
 50 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 Adragan and Kars. Well, my boy, they're purer than we 
 are, we soldiers and people in general. "We fight, we have 
 guns, bullets, bayonets; but they — they walk abouf with- 
 out any weapons, as though they were in a green garden. 
 They pick up our men, or a Turk, and carry them to the 
 field-hospital. And around them . . . zh-zhee! ti-iu! 
 fi-it! Sometimes the poor ambulance man gets it in the 
 neck — tchik! . . . and that's the end of him! . . ." 
 
 After this conversation, and a good swallow of vodka, 
 Orloff plucked up a little courage. 
 
 " You've put your hand to the rope, don't say it's too 
 thick," — he exhorted himself, as he rubbed a sick man's 
 legs. Someone behind him entreated piteously, in a moan- 
 ing voice: 
 
 " A dri-ink! Oi, my dear fellow! " 
 
 And someone gabbled: 
 
 " Oho-ho-ho! Hotter! Mis-mister doctor, it relieves 
 me! Christ reward you, — I can feel! Permit him to pour 
 in some more boiling water! " 
 
 " Give him some wine! " shouted Doctor Vashtchenko. 
 
 Orloff worked away, lending an attentive ear to what 
 went on around him, and found that, as a matter of fact, 
 everything was not so nasty and strange as it had seemed 
 to him a little while before, and that chaos did not reign, 
 but a great and intelligent power was acting regularly. 
 But he shuddered, nevertheless, when he recalled the po- 
 liceman, and cast a furtive glance through the window of 
 the barracks into the yard. He believed that the police- 
 man was dead, but still there was an element of wavering 
 in this belief. Wouldn't the man suddenly spring up and 
 shout? And he remembered that he seemed to have heard 
 someone tell: that one day, somewhere or other, people 
 who had died of the cholera leaped out of their cofEns 
 and ran away. 
 
 61 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 As Orl6ff ran to and fro in the barracks, now rubbing 
 one patient, now placing another in the bath-tub, he felt 
 exactly as though gruel were boiling in his brain. He 
 recalled his wife: how was she getting on yonder? Some- 
 times with this recollection mingled a transitory desire to 
 steal a minute to have a look at Matrena. But after this, 
 Orloff felt, somehow, disconcerted at hisi desire, and ex- 
 claimed to himself: 
 
 " Come, bustle about, you fatmeated woman! You'll 
 dry up, never fear. . . . You'll get rid of your in- 
 tentions . . ." 
 
 He had always suspected that his wife cherished, in her 
 heart of hearts, intentions very insulting to him as a hus- 
 band, and now and then, when he rose in his suspicions 
 to a sort of objectiveness, he even admitted that there was 
 some foundation for these intentions. Her life, also, was 
 tinged with yellow, and all sorts of trash creeps into one's 
 head with such a life. This objectiveness was generally 
 converted into certainty during the period of his sus- 
 picions. Then he would ask himself: why had he found 
 it necessary to crawl out of his cellar into this boiling 
 cauldron? — and he wondered at himself. But all these 
 thoughts worked round and round, somewhere deep within 
 him, and were fenced off, as it were, from the direct line 
 of his work by the strained attention which he devoted 
 to the actions of the medical staff. Never, in any sort 
 of labor, had he beheld men wear themselves out, as the 
 men did here, and he reflected, more than once, as he sur- 
 veyed the exhausted faces of the doctors and students, 
 that all these men really did not get paid for doing nothing! 
 
 When relieved from duty, hardly able to stand on his 
 feet, Orl6ff went out into the court-yard of the barracks, 
 and lay down against its wall, under the window of the 
 
 52 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 apothecary's shop. There was a ringing in his head, there 
 was a pain under his shoulder-blades, and his legs ached 
 with the gnawing pangs of fatigue. He no longer thought 
 of anything, or wanted anything, he simply stretched him- 
 self out on the sod, stared at the sky, in which hung 
 magnificent clouds, richly adorned with the rays of sunset, 
 and fell into a sleep like death. 
 
 He dreamed that he and his wife were the guests of 
 Doctor Vashtchenko in a huge room, with rows of Vienna 
 chairs ranged around the walls. On the chairs all the 
 patients from the barracks were sitting. The doctor and 
 Matrena were executing the " Russian Dance " in the 
 middle of the hall, while he himself was playing the accor- 
 deon and laughing heartily, because the doctor's long legs 
 would not bend at all, and the doctor, a very grave and 
 pompous man, was stalking about the hall after Matrdna 
 exactly as a heron stalks over a marsh. 
 
 All at once the policeman made his appearance in the 
 doorway. 
 
 "Aha!" he exclaimed saturninely and menacingly. — 
 "Did you think, Grishka, that I was completely dead? 
 You're playing the accordeon, but you dragged me out 
 to the dead-house! Come along with me, now! Get up! " 
 
 Seized with a fit of trembling, all bathed in perspira- 
 tion, Orl6£E raised himself quickly and sat on the ground. 
 Opposite, was squatting Doctor Vashtchenko, who said to 
 him reproachfully: 
 
 " What sort of an ambulance nurse are you, my friend, 
 if you go to sleep on the ground, and lie down on it upon 
 your belly, to boot, hey? Wow, you'll take cold in your 
 bowels, — you'U take to your cot, and the first you know, 
 you'll die. . . . It's not right, my friend, — you have 
 a place in the barracks to sleep. Why didn't they tell you 
 
 63 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 80? Besides, you are in a perspiration, and have a chill. 
 Come along with me, now, I'll give you something." 
 
 " I was so tired, . . ." muttered OrlofE. 
 
 "So much the worse. You must take care of your- 
 self — it is a dangerous time, and you are a valuable man." 
 
 Orloff followed the doctor in silence along the corridor 
 of the barracks, in silence drank some sort of medicine 
 out of a wine-glass, drank something more out of another, 
 frowned and spat. 
 
 " Come, go and have a sleep now. . . . Farewell for 
 a while! " and the doctor began to move his long, slender 
 feet over the floor of the corridor. 
 
 Orloff looked after him, and suddenly ran after him, 
 with a broad smile. 
 
 " I thank you humbly, doctor." 
 
 " What for? " and the doctor halted. 
 
 "For the work. Now I shall try with all my might 
 to please you! Because your anxiety is agreeable to me 
 . . . and . . . you said I was a valuable man . . . 
 and, altogether, I'm most si-sincerely grateful to you! " 
 
 The doctor gazed intently and in surprise at the agi- 
 tated face of his hospital orderly, and smiled also. 
 
 " You're a queer fellow! However, never mind, — you'll 
 turn out splendidly . . . genuine. Go ahead, and do 
 your best; it will not be for me, but for the patients. "We 
 must wrest a man from the disease, tear him out of its 
 paws, — do you understand me? Well, then, go ahead and 
 try your best to conquer the disease. And, in the mean- 
 while — go and sleep! " 
 
 Orloff was soon lying on his cot, and fell asleep with 
 a pleasing sensation of warmth in his bowels. He felt 
 joyful, and was proud of his very simple conversation with 
 the doctor. 
 
 54 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 But he sank into slumber regretting that his wife had 
 not heard that conversation. He must tell her to-morrow. 
 . . . That devil's pepper-pot would not believe it, in 
 all probability. 
 
 " Come and drink your tea, Grisha," his wife woke him 
 in the morning. 
 
 He raised his head, and looked at her. She smiled at 
 him. She was so calm and fresh, with her hair smoothly 
 brushed, and clad in her white slip. 
 
 It pleased him to see her thus, and, at the same time, 
 he reflected that the other men in the barracks certainly 
 must see her in the same light. 
 
 "What do you mean — what tea? I have my own tea; 
 — ^where am I to go? " he asked gloomily. 
 
 " Come and drink it with me," — she proposed, gazing 
 at him with caressing eyes. 
 
 Grigory turned his eyes aside and said, curtly, that he 
 would go. 
 
 She went away, but he lay down on his cot again, and 
 began to think. 
 
 "What a woman! She invites me to drink tea, she's 
 affectionate. . . . But she has grown thin in one day." 
 He felt sorry for her, and wanted to do something which 
 would please her. Should he buy something sweet to eat 
 with the tea? But while he was washing himself he re- 
 jected that idea, — ^why pamper the woman? Let her live 
 as she is! 
 
 They drank tea in a bright little den with two win- 
 dows, which looked out on the plain, all flooded with the 
 golden radiance of the morning sun. On the grass, under 
 the windows, the dew was still glistening, far away on the 
 horizon in the nebulous rose-colored morning mist stood 
 
 56 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 the trees along the highway. The sky was clear, and the 
 fragrance of damp grass and earth floated in through the 
 windows from the meadows. 
 
 The table stood against the wall between the windows, 
 and at it sat three persons: Grigory and Matr^na with 
 the latter's companion, — a tall, thin, elderly woman, with 
 a pock-marked face, and kindly gray eyes. They called 
 her Pelitzata Egorovna ; she was unmarried, the daughter 
 of a Collegiate Assessor, and could not drink tea made 
 with water from the hospital boiler, but always boiled her 
 own samovar. As she explained all this to Orloff, in a 
 cracked voice, she hospitably suggested that he should sit 
 by the window, and drink his fill of " the really heavenly 
 air," and then she disappeared somewhere. 
 
 "Well, did you get tired yesterday?" OrlofiE asked his 
 wife. 
 
 "Just frightfully tired!" replied Matrena with ani- 
 mation. — "I could hardly stand on my feet, my head 
 reeled, I couldn't understand what was said to me, and 
 the first I knew, I was lying at full length on the floor, 
 unconscious. I barely — barely held out until relief-time 
 came. ... I kept praying; ' help, oh Lord,' I thought." 
 
 "And are you scared?" 
 
 "Of the sick people?" 
 
 " The sick people are nothing." 
 
 " I'm afraid of the dead people. Do you know . . ." 
 she bent over to her husband, and whispered to him in 
 affright: — " they move after they are dead. . . . God 
 is my witness, they do! " 
 
 "I've se-een that! "—laughed Grigory sceptically.— 
 "Yesterday, NazAroff the policeman came near giving me 
 a box on the ear after his death. I was carrying him to 
 the dead-house, and he gave su-uch a flourish with his 
 
 56 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 left hand ... I hardly managed to get out of the 
 way ... so there now! " — He was not telling the 
 strict truth, but it seemed to come out that way of itself, 
 against his will. 
 
 He was greatly pleased at this tea-drinking in the bright, 
 clean room, with windows opening on a boundless expanse 
 of green plain and blue sky. And something else pleased 
 him, also, — not exactly his wife, nor yet himself. The 
 result of it all was that he wished to show his best side, 
 to be the hero of the day which was just beginning. 
 
 "When I start in to work — even the sky will become 
 hot, so it will! For there is a cause for my doing so. In 
 the first place, there are the people here, — there aren't 
 any more like them on earth, I can tell you that! " 
 
 He narrated his conversation with the doctor, and as he 
 again exerted his fancy, unconsciously to himself — this 
 fact still further strengthened his mood. 
 
 "In the second place, there's the work itself. It's a 
 great aifair, my friend, in the nature of war, for example. 
 The cholera and people — ^which is to get the better of 
 the other? Brains are needed, and everything must be 
 just so. What's cholera? One must understand that, and 
 then — ^go ahead and give it what it can't endure! Doctor 
 Vashtchenko says to me: 'you're a valuable man in this 
 matter, Orloff,' says he. ' Don't get scared,' says he; ' and 
 drive it up from the patient's legs into his belly, and 
 there,' says he, 'I'll nip it with something sour. That's 
 the end of it, and the man lives, and ought to be eternally 
 grateful to you and me, because who was it that took him 
 away from death? We!'" — And OrlofE proudly inflated 
 his chest as he gazed at his wife with kindling eyes. 
 
 She smiled pensively into his face; he was handsome, 
 and bore a great resemblance to his old self, the Grisha 
 
 57 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 whom she had seen some time, long ago, before their mar- 
 riage. 
 
 "All of them in our division are just such hard-work- 
 ing, kind folks. The woman doctor, a fa-at woman with 
 spectacles, and then the female medical students. They're 
 nice people, they talk to a body so simply, and you can 
 understand everything they say." 
 
 "So that signifies that you're all right, satisfied?" — 
 asked Grigory, whose excitement had somewhat cooled off. 
 
 "Do you mean me? Oh Lord! Judge for yourself: I 
 get twelve rubles, and you get twenty . . . that makes 
 thirty-eight a month ! * We're lodged and fed ! That 
 means, that if people keep on getting sick until the win- 
 ter, how much shall we amass? . . . And then, God 
 willing, we'll raise ourselves out of that cellar . . ." 
 
 " "We-ell now, that's a serious subject . . ." said Or- 
 loff thoughtfully and, after a pause, he exclaimed with 
 the pathos of hope, as he slapped his wife on the shoulder: 
 — "Bkh, Matrenka,f isn't the sun shining on us? Don't 
 get scared, now! " 
 
 She flushed all over. 
 
 " If you'd only stop drinking . , ." 
 
 " As to that — ^hold your tongue! Suit your awl to your 
 leather, your phiz to your life. . , . With a different 
 life, my conduct will be different." 
 
 " Oh Lord, if that might only happen! " — sighed his wife 
 profoundly. 
 
 "Well now, hush up!" 
 
 "Grishenka!"t 
 
 * A little less than half that amount in dollars. — Translator. 
 f Another diminutive of Matr6na. — Translator. 
 % A third variation {GrCsha, Grishka), of Grig6ry, in the diminutive. 
 — Translator. 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 They parted with certain novel feelings toward each 
 other, inspired by hope, ready to work until their strength 
 gave out, alert and cheerful. 
 
 Two or three days passed, and Orloff had already won 
 several flattering mentions as a sagacious, smart young fel- 
 low, and along with this he observed that Pronin and the 
 other orderlies in the barracks bore themselves toward him 
 with envy, and a desire to make things unpleasant for him. 
 He was on his guard, and he also imbibed wrath against 
 fat-faced Pronin, with whom he had been inclined to strike 
 up a friendship and to chat, " according to his soul." At 
 the same time, he was embittered by the plain desire of 
 his fellow-workers to do him some injury. — "Ekh, the 
 rascals! " he exclaimed to himself, and quietly gritted his 
 teeth, endeavoring not to let slip some convenient oppor- 
 tunity to pay his friends off " with as good as they gave." 
 And, involuntarily, his thought halted at his wife: — ^with 
 her he could talk about everything, she would not be 
 envious of his successes, and would not burn his boots 
 with carbolic acid, as Pronin had done. 
 
 All the working-days were as stormy and seething with 
 activity as the first had been, but Grigory no longer be- 
 came so fatigued, for he expended his strength with more 
 discernment with every day that passed. He learned to 
 distinguish the smell of the medicaments, and, picking 
 out from among them the odor of sulphate of ether, he 
 inhaled it with delight on the sly, when opportunity of- 
 fered, finding that the inhalation of ether had almost as 
 agreeable an action as a good glass of vodka. Catching 
 the meaning of the medical staff at half a word, always 
 amiable and talkative, understanding how to entertain the 
 patients, he became more and more of a favorite with the 
 doctors and the medical students, and thus, under the com- 
 
 59 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 bined influence of all the impressions of his new mode of 
 existence, a strange, exalted mood was formed within him. 
 He felt himself to be a man of special qualities. In him 
 beat the desire to do something which should attract to 
 him the attention of everyone, should astonish everyone, 
 and force them to the conviction that he had a right to 
 the ambition which had elevated him to such a pitch in 
 his own eyes. This was the singular ambition of the man 
 who had suddenly realized that he was a man, and who, as 
 it were, still not quite firmly assured of the fact, wished 
 to confirm it, in some way, to himself and to others; this 
 was ambition, gradually transformed into a thirst for some 
 disinterested exploit. 
 
 As the result of this incentive, Orloff performed various 
 risky feats, such as straining himself by carrying a heavily- 
 built patient from his cot to the bath-tub single-handed, 
 without waiting for assistance from his fellow-orderlies, 
 nursing the very dirtiest of the patients, behaving in a 
 daring sort of way in regard to the possibility of con- 
 tagion, and handling the dead with a simplicity which 
 sometimes passed over into cynicism. But all this did 
 not satisfy him; he longed for something on a greater 
 scale, and this longing burned incessantly within him, 
 tortured him, and, at last, drove him to anguish. 
 
 Then he poured out his soul to his wife, because he 
 had no one else. 
 
 One evening, when he and his wife were relieved from 
 duty, they went out into the fields, after they had drunk 
 tea. The barracks stood fax away from the town, in the 
 middle of a long, green plain, bounded on one side by a 
 dark strip of forest, on the other by the line of buildings 
 in the town; on the north the plain extended into the far 
 distance, and there its verdure became merged with the 
 
 60 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 dull-blue horizon; on the south it was intersected by a 
 precipitous descent to the river, and along the verge of 
 this precipice ran the highway, along which, at equal dis- 
 tances one from another, stood aged, wide-spreading trees. 
 The sun was setting, and the crosses on the churches of 
 the town, rising above the dark-green of the gardens, 
 flamed in the sky, reflecting sheaves of golden rays, and 
 on the window-panes of the houses which lay on the edge 
 of the town the red glow of the sunset was reflected also. 
 A band of music was playing somewhere or other; from 
 the ravine, thickly overgrown with a fir-grove, a resinous 
 fragrance was wafted aloft; the forest, also, shed abroad 
 on the air its complicated, succulent perfume ; light, fra- 
 grant waves of warm wind floated caressingly toward the 
 tovra, and in the wide, deserted plain everything was very 
 delightful, quiet and sweetly-melancholy. 
 
 The Orloffs walked across the grass in silence, with 
 pleasure inhaUng the pure air in place of the hospital 
 odors. 
 
 "Where's that band playing, in the town, or in the 
 camp?" inquired Matr6na softly, of her pensive husband. 
 
 She did not like to see him thoughtful— he seemed a 
 stranger to her, and far away from her at such moments. 
 Of late, they had chanced to be together so very little, 
 and she prized these moments all the more. 
 
 " The band? " — Grigory replied with another question, 
 as though freeing himself from a dream. — " Well, the devil 
 take that band! You just ought to hear the music in my 
 soul . . . that's something like! " 
 
 "What is it?" she asked tremulously, looking into 
 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I don't know. . . . That is, I can't tell you . . . 
 and even if I could would you be able to understand? My 
 
 61 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 soul bums. ... It pines for space ... so that 
 I might develop myself to my full strength. . . 
 Ekhma! I feel within myself invincible strength! That 
 is to say, if this cholera, for instance, could be transformed 
 into a man . . . into an epic hero . . . even Ilyd 
 of Murom himself; * — I'd grapple with it; ' Come on, I'll 
 fight thee to the death! Thou art a power, and I, Grishka 
 Orloff, am a power also, — now, let's see who'll get the 
 best of the other? ' And I'd strangle it, even if it killed 
 me too. . . . There'd be a cross over me in the field, 
 with the inscription: ' Grigory Andr6eif Orloff. . . . 
 He freed Russia from the cholera.' Nothing more would 
 be necessary." 
 
 As he spoke, his face burned, and his eyes flashed. 
 
 "You're my strong man!" whispered Matrena, nestling 
 close to his side. 
 
 " Do you understand ... I'd hurl myself on a 
 hundred knives, if only it would be of any use! If life 
 could be lightened in that way. Because I see people: 
 Doctor Vashtchenko, student Khokhryakoff, — ^it's wonder- 
 ful how they work! They ought to have died long ago 
 of fatigue. ... Do you think they do it for money? 
 A man can't work like that for money! The doctors, 
 thank the Lord! have something of their own, and get 
 a little in addition. . . . Why, an old man fell ill 
 lately, and so Doctor Vashtchenko hammered away at him 
 for four days, and never went home once the whole time. 
 . . . Money doesn't count in such a case; pity is the 
 cause. He's sorry for people — well, and so he doesn't 
 spare himself ... for whose sake, you ask? For 
 
 * For Ilya of Mur6m and the other famous epic heroes (logatyry) 
 see : " The Epic Songs of Eussia," by Isabel F. Hapgood. Charles 
 Scribner's Sons. 
 
 62 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 everybody's sake ... for the sake of Mishka Usoff, 
 . . . Mishka's proper place is in jail, for everybody 
 knows that Mishka is a thief, and, perhaps, even worse. 
 . . . They're curing Mishka. . . . And they were 
 glad when he got up from his cot, they laughed. . . . 
 So I want to feel that same joy, also . . . and to have 
 a great deal of it. . . . I'd like to choke with it! Be- 
 cause it gives me the heart-ache to see how they laugh 
 over their work. I ache all over, and catch fire. I will 
 do something! . . . But how? Oh . . . the devil! " 
 
 Orloff waved his hand hopelessly, and again fell into 
 thought. 
 
 Matrena said nothing, but her heart beat anxiously — 
 this excitement of her husband alarmed her, and in his 
 words she plainly felt the great passion of his longing, 
 which she did not understand, because she did not try to 
 understand it. It was her husband, not a hero, who was 
 dear and necessary to her. 
 
 They reached the verge of the precipice, and sat down, 
 side by side. . . . The tufted crests of the young 
 birch-trees looked down upon them, and in the bottom 
 of the ravine there already lay a bluish mist, which sent 
 forth an odor of dampness, rotting leaves and pine-needles. 
 From time to time a puff of wind swept along the ravine, 
 the branches of the birch-trees, the little fir-trees, rocked, 
 rocked to and fro, — the whole ravine became filled with 
 anxious, timorous whispering, and it seemed as though 
 someone who was tenderly beloved and guarded by the 
 trees had fallen asleep in the ravine, beneath their canopy, 
 and they were whispering together about him very, very 
 softly, in order not to awaken him. And in the town, 
 lights shone forth, and stood out like reddish flowers 
 against the dark background of its gardens. And in the 
 
 63 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 sky the stars began to kindle their fires. The Orloffs sat 
 on in silence, — ^he thoughtfully drummed on his knee with 
 his fingers, she gazed at him and sighed softly. 
 
 And suddenly clasping her arms about his neck, she laid 
 her head on his breast, and said in a whisper: 
 
 "My darling Grishka! My dear one! How good you 
 have become to me once more, my brave man! You see, 
 it seems as though it were the good time . . . after 
 our wedding, . . . you and I were living along 
 . . . you never utter an unkind word to me, you are 
 always talking with me, you open your soul to me . . . 
 you don't bawl at me." 
 
 "And have you been fretting over that? I'll give you 
 a thrashing, if you want it," — ^jested Grigory affection- 
 ately, feeling in his soul an influx of tenderness and pity 
 for his wife. 
 
 He began softly to stroke her head with his hand, and 
 this caress pleased him, — ^it was so paternal — the caress 
 of a father for a grown-up child. Matrena did in fact 
 resemble a child: she now climbed up on his knees, and 
 seated herself in his lap, in a soft, warm little ball. 
 
 "My dear one!" — she whispered. 
 
 He heaved a profound sigh, and words which were new 
 both to his wife and to himself flowed of themselves from 
 his tongue. 
 
 "Eh, you poor little kitten! You're affectionate 
 . . . you see, anyway, and there is no friend nearer 
 than a husband. But you have kept waiting your chance 
 on one side. . . . You know, if I did hurt you some- 
 times, it was because I was sad, Motrya. We lived in a 
 pit. ... We did not see the light, we hardly knew 
 people at all. I've got out of the pit, and have recovered 
 my sight. I was like a blind man as regards life. And 
 
 64 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 now I understand that a wife, anyhow, is a man's closest 
 friend in life. Because people are snakes and reptiles, to 
 tell the truth. . . . They're always trying to deal 
 wounds to other people. . . . For instance — ^Pronin, 
 Vasiukoff. . . . Well, they may go to the. . . . 
 Hold your peace, Motrya! We shall get straightened out, 
 all right, never fear. . . . We shall make our way, and 
 live with understanding. . . . Well? What do you 
 think of it, my little goose? " 
 
 She shed sweet tears of happiness, and replied to his 
 question with kisses. 
 
 " You are my only one! " he whispered, and kissed her 
 in return. 
 
 They wiped away each other's tears with kisses, and both 
 were conscious of their briny taste. And for a long time 
 Orloff continued to talk in words which were new for him. 
 
 It was completely dark now. The sky, magnificently 
 adorned with countless swarms of stars, looked down upon 
 the earth with triumphant sadness, and in the plain reigned 
 silence like that of the sky. 
 
 They had got into the habit of drinking tea together. 
 On the morning after their talk in the fields, Orloff pre- 
 sented himself in his wife's room confused and surly over 
 something. Felitzata was not feehng well, Matrena was 
 alone in the room, and greeted her husband with a beam- 
 ing face, which immediately clouded over, and she asked 
 him anxiously: 
 
 " What makes you like that ? Are you ill ? " 
 
 " iNo, never mind," — he replied curtly, as he seated him- 
 self on a chair, and drew toward him the tea which she had 
 already poured out. 
 
 "But what is it?" persisted Matrena. 
 
 65 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 " I didn't sleep. I kept thinking. . . . You and I 
 cackled together pretty hard last night, and got silly-soft 
 . . . and now I'm ashamed of myself. . . . There's 
 no use in that. You women always try to get a man into 
 your hands, on such occasions ... so you do. . . . 
 Only, don't you dream of such a thing — you won't succeed. 
 . . . You can't get around me, and I won't yield to 
 you. ... So now you know it! " 
 
 He said all this very impressively, hut did not look at 
 his wife. Matrena never took her eyes from his face all 
 the time, and her Ups writhed strangely. 
 
 " Are you sorry that you came so near to me last night — 
 is that it? " — she asked quietly. — " Are you sorry that you 
 kissed and caressed me? What does this mean? It insults 
 me to hear it ... it is very bitter, you're breaking my 
 heart with such speeches. What do you want? Do you 
 find me tiresome, am not I dear to you, or what? " 
 
 She gazed at him suspiciously, but in her tone resounded 
 pain and a challenge to her husband. 
 
 " N — no ..." said Grigory abashed, " I was only 
 talking in general. . . . You and I used to live in a 
 hole, you know yourself what sort of a life it was! It 
 makes me sick even to think of it. And now that we've 
 got out of it — I feel afraid of something. Everything 
 changed so suddenly. . . . I'm like a stranger to my- 
 self, and you seem to be a different person too. What is 
 the meaning of this ! And what will come next ? " 
 
 "What God sends, Grisha! " — said Matrena gravely. — 
 " Only don't feel sorry that you were kind last night." 
 
 "All right, drop it. . . ." Grigory stopped her as 
 abashed as ever, and still sighing. — " You see, I'm thinking 
 that we shan't come to anything, after all. And our for- 
 mer life was not flowery, and my present life is not to my 
 
 66 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 taste. And although I don't drink, don't beat you, and 
 don't swear. . . ." 
 
 Matrena laughed convulsively. 
 
 " You have no time to worry about that now." 
 
 " I could always find time to get drunk," — smiled Orl6ff. 
 " I don't feel tempted to — : that's the wonder. And be- 
 sides, in general, I feel ... not exactly ashamed of 
 it, and yet not exactly afraid of it . . ." he shook his 
 head, and began to meditate. 
 
 " The Lord only knows what is the matter with you," 
 said Matrena, with a heavy sigh. — " It's a pleasant life, 
 though there's a lot of work; all the doctors are fond of 
 you, and you are behaving well . . . really, I don't 
 know what to make of it. You're very uneasy." 
 
 " That's true, I'm uneasy. . . . Now, I was think- 
 ing in the night: Piotr Ivanovitch says: all men are equals, 
 and ain't I a man like the rest? Yet Doctor Vashtchenko 
 is better than I am, and Piotr Ivanovitch is better, and so 
 are many others. . . . That means, that they are not 
 my equals . . . and I'm not on a level with them, I 
 feel that. . . . They cured Mishka IJsoff, and rejoiced 
 at it. . . . And I don't understand that. On the 
 whole, why feel glad that a man has recovered? His life 
 was worse than the cholera convulsions, if you speak the 
 truth. They understand that, but they are glad. . . . 
 And I would have liked to rejoice too, like them, only I 
 can't. . . . Because — as I said before . . . what 
 is there to be glad about? " 
 
 "But they pity the people," — ^returned Matrena, — 
 " okh, how they pity them! It's the same thing in our sec- 
 tion ... a sick woman begins to mend, and, oh. Lord, 
 what goiugs on! And when a poor woman gets her dis- 
 charge, they give her advice, and money and medicines, 
 
 67 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 . . . It even makes me shed tears . . . the kind 
 people, the compassionate people! " 
 
 "Now you say — tears. . . . But I'm seized with 
 amazement. . . . Nothing less. . . ." Orloff 
 shrugged his shoulders, and rubbed his head, and stared in 
 wonder at his wife. 
 
 Eloquence made its appearance in her, from somewhere, 
 and she began zealously to demonstrate to her husband, that 
 people are entirely worthy of compassion. Bending toward 
 him, and gazing into his face with affectionate eyes, she 
 talked long to him about people, and the burden of life, 
 and he stared at her and thought: 
 
 "Eh, how she talks! "Where does she get the words?" 
 
 " For you are compassionate yourself — ^you say, you 
 would strangle the cholera, if you had the power. But 
 what ioT? Whom does it annoy? People, not you: you 
 have even begun to live better because it made its appear- 
 ance." 
 
 Orloff suddenly burst out laughing. 
 
 "Why, that's so, certainly! — I am better off, that's true, 
 isn't it ? Akh, you shrewd creature, — make the most of it ! 
 People die, and I live better in consequence, hey? — That's 
 what life is like! Pshaw! " 
 
 He rose, and went away, laughing, to his duty. As he 
 was walking along the corridor, he suddenly felt regret that 
 no one except himself had heard Matrena's speech. " She 
 spoke cleverly! A woman, a woman, and yet she under- 
 stands something, too." And absorbed in an agreeable sort 
 of sensation, he entered his ward, greeted by the hoarse 
 rattling and the moans of the sick men. 
 
 With every passing day, the world of his feelings grew 
 wider and wider, and, along with this, his necessity for 
 speech waxed greater. He could not, of course, narrate as 
 
 68 
 
Orl6ff and His -Wife 
 
 a whole what was taking place within him, for the greater 
 part of his sensations and thought were beyond his grasp. 
 An angry envy blazed up within him, because he could not 
 rejoice over people. 
 
 It was after this that the desire was kindled within him 
 to perform some wonderful deed, and astonish everyone 
 thereby. He felt conscious that his position in the bar- 
 racks placed him between people, as it were: the doctors 
 and students were higher than he, the servitors were lower, 
 — what was he himself? And a sense of loneliness laid its 
 grasp upon him; then it seemed to him that Fate was play- 
 ing with him, had blown him out of his place, and was now 
 carrying him through the air like a feather. He began to 
 feel sorry for himself, and went to his wife. Sometimes he 
 did not wish to do this, considering that frankness toward 
 her would lower him in her eyes, but he went, nevertheless. 
 He arrived gloomy, and now in a vicious, again in a sceptical 
 mood, he went away, almost always, petted and composed. 
 His wife had words of her own; they were not many, they 
 were simple, but there was always a great deal of feeling in 
 them, and he observed, with astonishment, that Matrena 
 was coming to occupy a larger and larger place in his life, 
 that he had to think of her and talk with her " according 
 to the soul," more and more frequently. 
 
 She in her turn understood this very well, indeed, and 
 endeavored, in every way, to broaden her growing signifi- 
 cance in his life. Her toilsome and energetic life in the 
 barracks had increased her sense of her own value greatly, — 
 it came to pass unnoticed by Matrena. She did not think, 
 she did not reason, but when she recalled her former life, in 
 the cellar, in the narrow circle of cares for her husband and 
 her housekeeping, she involuntarily compared the past with 
 the present, and the gloomy picture of the cellar-existence 
 
 69 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 gradually retreated further and further from her. The 
 authorities at the barracks liked her; because of her intel- 
 ligence, and knowledge of how to work, they all treated her 
 graciously, they all saw in her an individual; and this was 
 new for her, it gave her animation. 
 
 One day when she was on night-duty, the fat woman- 
 doctor began to question her about her life, and Matrena, 
 as she was willingly and frankly telling her about her life, 
 suddenly paused and smiled. 
 
 " What are you laughing at? " asked the doctor. 
 
 "Why nothing. ... I lived very badly . . . 
 and, you see, if you will believe it, my dear madam, — I did 
 not understand it ... up to this very moment, I 
 never understood how badly." 
 
 After this glance into the past, a strange feeling took 
 form in Mrs. Orloff's breast toward her husband, she loved 
 him exactly as much as before — with the blind love of the 
 female, but it began to seem to her as though Grigory were 
 her debtor. At times, when she was talking with him, she 
 assumed a patronizing tone, for he often inspired her with 
 pity by his uneasy speeches. But, nevertheless, she was 
 sometimes seized with doubt as to the possibility of a quiet 
 and peaceful life with her husband, although, on the whole, 
 she still believed that Grigory would become steady, and 
 that this melancholy would be extinguished in him. 
 
 They were fatally bound to grow nearer to each other, 
 and — both were young, fit for work, strong — ^they might 
 have gone on and lived out their days in the gray life of 
 half -fed poverty, a life of exploiting others, to the end com- 
 pletely absorbed in the pursuit of the kopek, but they had 
 been saved from this end by what Grishka called his " un- 
 easiness in the heart," and was, in its essence, unable to 
 reconcile itself with every-day things. 
 
 70 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 On the morning of a gloomy September day a wagon 
 drove into the court-yard of the barracks, and Pronin took 
 out of it a little boy, all streaked with paints, bony, yellow, 
 hardly breathing. 
 
 "From the Petiinnikoff house, in Damp street, again," 
 the driver reported, in answer to the query, whence the 
 patient came. 
 
 "Tchlzhik!" — exclaimed Orloff, in distress, — "akh, 
 oh, Lord ! Senka ! Tchizh ! * Do you know me ? " 
 
 " Y — yes, I know you . . ." said Tchizhik, with an 
 effort, as he lay on the stretcher, and slowly rolled his eyes 
 up under his brow, in order to see Orloff, who was walking 
 at his head, and bending over him. 
 
 "Akh . . . what a merry bird you were! How did 
 you come to give up?" — asked Orloff. He was, somehow, 
 strangely alarmed at the sight of that dirty little boy, in 
 the throes of the disease. — " Why did it seize on this poor 
 little boy? " he embodied in one question all his sensations, 
 and sadly shook his head. 
 
 Tchizhik made no reply, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I'm cold," said he, when they laid him on a cot, and 
 began to remove his rags, streaked all over with every sort 
 of paint-color. 
 
 " Now, we're going to put you into hot water immediately 
 . . ." promised Orloff. — " And we'll cure you." 
 
 Tchizhik shook his little head, and whispered: 
 
 " You can't cure me. . . . Uncle Grigory . . . 
 bend down your . . . ear. I stole the accordeon. 
 . . . It's in the wood-shed . . . Day before yester- 
 day I touched it, for the first time since I stole it. Akh, 
 what an accordeon it is! I hid it . . . and then my 
 
 * Tchizh means — a canary-bird. Tehdzhik — a little canary-bird.— 
 Translator. 
 
 71 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 belly began to ache. . . . So. . . . That means, 
 that this is for my sin. . . . It's hanging on the wall, 
 under the stairs . . . and I piled wood up over it. 
 . . . So. . . . Uncle Grigory . . . give it. 
 . . . The accordeon-player had a sister. . . . She 
 asked about it. . . . Gi-ive it . . . to . . . 
 her! . . ." He began to groan, and to writhe in 
 convulsions. 
 
 They did everything they could for him, but the gaunt, 
 exhausted little body would not retain life in it, and in the 
 evening, OrlofE carried him on the stretcher to the dead- 
 house. As he carried him, he felt exactly as though he had 
 been wronged. 
 
 In the dead-house, Orloff tried to straighten out Tchi- 
 zhik's body, but he did not succeed. Orloff went away 
 overwhelmed, mournful, bearing with him the image of the 
 merry lad distorted with the disease. 
 
 He was seized with a debilitating consciousness of his 
 powerlessness in the face of death, and his ignorance of it. 
 Despite all the pains he had taken over Tchlzhik, despite 
 the zealous labors of the doctors, . . . the boy had 
 died! This was outrageous. ... It would seize upon 
 him, Orl6ff, one of these days, and twist him up in convul- 
 sions. . . . And that would be the end of him. He 
 grew frightened, and, along with this feeling, he was in- 
 vaded by a sense of loneliness. He wanted to discuss all 
 this with some clever man. More than once, he tried to 
 strike up a comprehensive conversation with one or another 
 of the students, but no one had any time for philosophy, 
 and Grigory's attempts were not crowned with success. 
 He was obliged to go to his wife, and talk with her. So 
 he went to her, morose and sad. 
 
 She had only just come off duty, and was washing her- 
 
 73 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 self in the corner of the room, hut the samovar was already 
 standing on the table, filling the air with steam and hissing. 
 
 Grigory seated himself, in silence, at the table, and be- 
 gan to gaze at his wife's bare, plump shoulders. The 
 samovar bubbled away, splashing water over; Matrena 
 snorted; orderlies ran swiftly back and forth along the 
 corridor, and Grigory tried to determine, from the walk, 
 who was passing. 
 
 All of a sudden, it seemed to him, as though Matrena's 
 shoulders were as cold, and covered with the same sort of 
 sticky sweat as Tchizhik, when the latter was writhing with 
 convulsions on the hospital cot. He shuddered, and said, 
 in a dull voice: 
 
 « Senka is dead . . ." 
 
 "Dead? The kingdom of heaven to the child Senka, 
 newly-appeared before God!"* said Matrena prayerfully, 
 and then she began to spit fiercely — some of the soap had 
 got into her mouth. 
 
 " I'm sorry for him," sighed Grigory. 
 
 " He was a dreadful tease." 
 
 "He's dead, and that ends it! It's no business of yours 
 now, what sort of a fellow he was! . . . But it's a pity 
 he died. He was bold and lively. . . . The accordeon 
 . . . Hm! ... He was a clever lad. ... I 
 sometimes used to look at him and think: I'll take him as 
 an apprentice, or something of that sort. ... He was 
 an orphan ... he would have got used to us, and 
 
 * The Holy Orthodox Catholic Church of the East, of which Russia 
 is now the moat prominent representative, has four different burial- 
 serTices : one for ecclesiastics, one for laymen, which undergoes certain 
 changes if the burial takes place at Easter-tide (making the third), and 
 one for children, or " infants," meaning children under eight years of 
 age. All are very beautiful and touching. The above exclamation is 
 the general one. — Translator. 
 
 73 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 have taken the place of a son to us. . . . For, you see, 
 we have no children. . . . No. . . . You're so 
 healthy, yet you don't bear any children. . . . You 
 had one, and that was the end of it. Ekh, you woman! If 
 we had some squalling little brats, you'd see we shouldn't 
 find life so tiresome. . . . But now it's only live on, 
 and work. . . . And for what? To feed myself and 
 you. . . . And of what use are we ... of what 
 use is food to us? In order that we may work. . . . 
 So it turns out to be a senseless circle. . . . But if we 
 had children — that would be quite another matter. . . . 
 That it would." 
 
 He said this in a sad, dissatisfied tone, with his head 
 drooping low. Matrena stood before him and listened, 
 gradually turning pale, as he continued: 
 
 " I'm healthy, you're healthy, and still we have no chil- 
 dren. . . . "What's the meaning of it? Why? Ye-es 
 . . . a man thinks and thinks about it . . . and 
 then he takes to drink! " 
 
 "You lie!" said Matrena firmly and loudly. — "You 
 lie! Don't you dare to utter your dastardly words to me 
 ... do you hear ? Don't you dare ! You drink — be- 
 cause you choose to, out of self-indulgence, because you 
 have no self-control, and my childlessness has nothing what- 
 ever to do with the matter; you lie, Grishka! " 
 
 Grigory was stunned. He flung himself back, against 
 the back of his chair, cast a glance at his wife, and did not 
 recognize her. Never before had he beheld her so infuri- 
 ated, never had she looked at him with such mercilessly- 
 angry eyes, or spoken with such power in her words. 
 
 "Come now, come!" — ejaculated Grig6ry defiantly, 
 clutching the seat of his chair with his hands. — "Come 
 now, talk some more! " 
 
 74 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 "And so I will! I wouldn't have spoken, only that re- 
 •proach from you I cannot endure! I don't bear you chil- 
 dren, don't I? And I won't! I can't any more. . . . 
 I can't have any children! . . ."a sob was audible in 
 her shriek. 
 
 " Don't yell," her husband warned her. 
 
 " Why don't I bear children, hey? Come now, recall to 
 your mind, Grisha, how much have you beaten me? IIow 
 many kicks in the side have you showered on me? . . . 
 reckon them up, do! How you have tortured, racked me? 
 Do you know how much blood flowed from me after your 
 tortures? My chemise used to be bloody clear up to my 
 neck! And that's why I bear no children, my dear hus- 
 band! How can you reproach me for that, hey? How is 
 it that your ugly phiz isn't ashamed to look me in the face? 
 . . . For you are a murderer! you have killed your chil- 
 dren, killed them yourself! and now you reproach me be- 
 cause I don't bear any. ... I have endured every- 
 thing from you, I have forgiven you for everything, — but 
 those words I will never forgive, to all eternity! When I am 
 dyin'g, — I'll call that to mind! Don't you understand that 
 you are to blame yourself, that you have destroyed me? 
 Ain't I like all women — don't I want children? Do you 
 think I don't want them? Many a night, when I couldn't 
 sleep, I have prayed to the Lord God that He would pre- 
 serve the children in my body from you, you murderer! 
 . . . When I see a strange child — I choke with bitter- 
 ness, out of envy and pity for myself. ... I'd likd 
 . . . Queen of Heaven! ... I used to pet that 
 Senka on the sly. . . . What am I? Lord! A 
 barren woman . . ." 
 
 She began to sob. The words leaped from her mouth 
 without sense of coherence. 
 
 75 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 Her face was spotted all over, she trembled, and scratched 
 her neck, because the sobs gurgled in her throat. Keep- 
 ing a stout grasp on his chair, Grigory, pale and crushed, 
 sat opposite her, and with widely-opened eyes stared at this 
 woman, who was a stranger to him, and he was afraid of 
 her . . . afraid that she would clutch him by the 
 throat and strangle him. Precisely that was what her ter- 
 rible eyes, blazing with wrath, promised him. She was twice 
 as strong as he now, and he felt it, and turned cowardly; 
 he could not rise and strike her, as he would have done, had 
 he not understood that she had undergone a transformation, 
 as though she had imbibed vast strength from some source. 
 
 " You have stung my very soul, Grishka! Great is your 
 sin toward me! I have endured, I have held my peace 
 . . . because ... I love you . . . but your 
 reproaches I cannot bear! . . . My strength is ex- 
 hausted. . . . You heaven-sent husband of mine! 
 For those words of yours, may you be thrice accur . . ." 
 
 " Hold your tongue! — " thundered Grishka, with a snarl. 
 "You're outrageous! Have you forgotten where we are? 
 You accursed devil! " 
 
 There was a mist over Grigory's eyes. He could not dis- 
 cern who it was that was standing in the door-way, and 
 talking in a bass voice; he swore in vile language, thrust 
 the man aside, and rushed out into the fields. And 
 Matrena, after standing still in the middle of the room 
 for a minute, reeling and as though struck with blindness, 
 with her hands outstretched before her, went to the cot, 
 and fell upon it, with a groan. 
 
 Darkness descended, and the golden moon, covering the 
 fields with shadows, peered curiously into the windows of 
 the room from the sky, from amid ragged, dark-blue 
 clouds. 
 
 76 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 Soon a fine, drizzling rain began to beat upon the win- 
 dow-panes and the walls of the barracks — ^the forerunner 
 of the interminable autumn rains which fill the soul with 
 melancholy. 
 
 The pendulum of the clock ticked off the seconds with 
 equable beat, the raindrops lashed the panes. Hour after 
 hour passed, and the rain still descended, and on the cot, 
 the woman lay motionless and stared, with swollen eyes, at 
 the ceiling. Her face was gloomy, stern, her teeth were 
 tightly clenched, her cheek-bones stood out prominently, 
 and in her eyes gleamed both terror and sadness. And the 
 rain still rattled against the walls and the window-panes; 
 it seemed as though it were whispering something weari- 
 somely-monotonous, were trying to' convince someone of 
 something, but had not sufficient passion to do it quickly, 
 handsomely, with force, and hoped to attain its end by a 
 torturing, interminable, colorless sermon, which lacked the 
 sincere pathos of faith. 
 
 The rain continued and was still pouring when the sky 
 became overcast with hues of approaching dawn, which 
 presage an inclement day, and so resemble the color of a 
 knife, which has been long in use, and has lost the gleam 
 of its polish. But still Matrena could not sleep. In the 
 monotonous murmur of the rain, she heard a question 
 which was both anxious and alarming to her: 
 
 "What will happen now? What will happen now?" 
 
 It resounded importunately outside the windows, and an 
 aching pain in all her being responded to it. 
 
 " What will happen now? " 
 
 The woman was afraid to answer herself, although the 
 answer kept fiashing up before her in the shape of a 
 drunken husband, as fierce as any wild beast. But it was 
 difficult to part with her dream of a calm, loving life; she 
 
 77 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 had already got accustomed to this dream, and she banished 
 from her a menacing foreboding. And at the same time, 
 the consciousness fiashed across her, that if this did happen 
 — if Grigory should take to drink again, she could no longer 
 live with him. She saw him different, she herself had be- 
 come a different person, and her former life aroused in her 
 both fear and disgust — novel sensations, hitherto unknown 
 to her. But she was a woman, and in the end, she began 
 to upbraid herself for this breach with her husband. 
 
 "And how did it come about? ... Lord! . . . 
 It's just as though I had torn myself off a hook . . ." 
 
 In such contradictory, torturing reflections, another 
 long hour passed by. Day dawned. A heavy fog was 
 swirling over the plain, and the sky could not be seen 
 through its gray mist. 
 
 "Mrs. OrlofE! Time to go on duty. . . ." 
 
 Mechanically obeying this summons, shouted through 
 the door of her room, she slowly rose from her bed, washed 
 herself in haste, and went to the barracks, feeling weak and 
 half ill. In the barracks she evoked general surprise by 
 the languor of her movements, and her gloomy face with 
 its dull eyes. 
 
 "Mrs. Orloff! You seem to be ill?" one of the doc- 
 tors said to her. 
 
 " It's nothing. . . ." 
 
 " But tell me, don't stand on ceremony! you know, we 
 can get a substitute for you. . . ." 
 
 Matrena felt conscience-stricken, she did not wish to 
 betray her pain and terror to this person who was kind, but 
 still a stranger to her, nevertheless. And summoning up, 
 from the depths of her tortured soul, the remnants of her 
 courage, she said to the woman-doctor, with a smile: 
 
 " It's nothing! I have had a little quarrel with my hus- 
 
 78 
 
Orl6fr and His Wife 
 
 band. ... It will pass off ... it isn't the first 
 time . . ." 
 
 " You poor thing! " — sighed the doctor, who knew about 
 her life. 
 
 Matrena wanted to fall down before her, bury her head 
 in the doctor's lap, and scream. . . . But she re- 
 strained herself, and only pressed her lips tightly together, 
 and passed her hand over her throat, as though she were 
 thrusting back into her breast the sobs which were on the 
 point of bursting forth. 
 
 When she was relieved from duty, she entered her room, 
 and the first thing she did, was to look out of the window. 
 Across the fields, to the barracks, a waggon was moving, — 
 they must be bringing a sick person in it. Fine rain was 
 sifting down from the gray storm-clouds. Nothing else 
 was to be seen. Matrena turned away from the window, 
 and with a heavy sigh, seated herself at the table, en- 
 grossed by the thought: 
 
 " What will happen now? " — And her heart beat time to 
 these words. 
 
 For a long time she sat there, alone, in a heavy semi-doze, 
 and every time the sound of footsteps in the corridor made 
 her shudder, and rising from her chair, she looked out of 
 the door. . . . 
 
 But when, at last, the door opened, and Grigory entered, 
 she did not shudder, and did not rise, for she felt as though 
 the autumnal storm-clouds had suddenly descended upon 
 her, from the sky, with all their weight. 
 
 Grigory halted at the door, flung his wet cap on the floor, 
 and stamping heavily with his feet, he approached his wife. 
 He was streaming with water. His face was red, his eyes 
 were dim, and his lips were stretched in a broad, stupid 
 smile. As he walked, Matrena heard the water seeping in 
 
 79 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 his boots. He was pitiful, and she had not imagined him 
 in this aspect. 
 
 " Good! "—she said softly. 
 
 Grigory waggled his head stupidly, and asked her: 
 
 " Would you like to have me bow down to your feet? " 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 " You wouldn't? Well, that's your affair But 
 
 I've been thinking all the while: am I guilty toward you or 
 not? It turns out — that I am. So now I say: do you want 
 me to bow down to your f-f eet ? " 
 
 She maintained silence, inhaling the odor of vodka which 
 emanated from him, and a bitter feeling gnawed at her 
 soul. 
 
 " Now, see here, you — don't you make faces! Take your 
 chance while I'm peaceable . . ." said Grigory, raising 
 his voice. — " Come, are you going to forgive me? " 
 
 "You're drunk," said Matrena, with a sigh. . . . 
 " Go and sleep. ..." 
 
 " You lie, I'm not drunk, I'm tired, I've been walking 
 and walking and thinking. . . . I've done a heap of 
 thinking, brother . . . oh! You look out! " 
 
 He menaced her with his finger, laughing with a wry 
 grimace. 
 
 "Why don't you speak?" 
 
 " I can't talk with you." 
 
 "You can't? Why not?" 
 
 All at once, he flared up, and his voice grew firmer. 
 
 "You screamed at me, you snarled at me yesterday 
 . . . well, and now I'm asking your forgiveness. Un- 
 derstand that! " 
 
 He said this in a very ominous way, hia lips quivered, 
 and his nostrils were inflated. Matrena knew what that 
 meant, and the past rose up before her in vivid colors: the 
 
 80 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 cellar, the Saturday fights, the anguish and suffocation of 
 their life. 
 
 "I understand!" — she said, sharply. — "I see that you 
 are . . . turning into a beast again now . . . 
 ekh, you disgusting creature! " 
 
 "I'm turning into a beast? That . . . hasn't any- 
 thing to do with the ease. . . . I say . . . will 
 you forgive me? What are you thinking about? Do I 
 need it — ^your forgiveness? I can get on capitally without 
 it . . . but still, here, I want you to forgive me 
 . . . Understand?" 
 
 " Go away from me, Grigory! "... exclaimed the 
 woman sadly, turning away from him. 
 
 " Go away? " — laughed Grigory maliciously. — " I'm to go 
 away, so that you will remain at liberty? Come now, I 
 wo-on't! Have you seen this?" 
 
 He seized her by the shoulder, dragged her toward him, 
 and flourished a knife in her face — a short, thick, sharp; 
 piece of rusty iron. 
 
 "We-ell?" 
 
 " Ekh, if you would only cut my throat," — said Matrena, 
 with a deep sigh, and freeing herself from his grasp, she 
 turned away from him again. Then he, also, staggered 
 back from her, startled, not by her words, but by the tone 
 of them. He had heard those words from her lips before, 
 had heard them more than once — ^but she had never uttered 
 them in that manner. And the fact that she had turned 
 away from him without fearing the knife, also augmented 
 his amazement and discomfiture. Several seconds earlier 
 it would have been easy for him to strike her, but now he 
 could not do it, and did not wish to do it. Almost fright- 
 ened by her indifference to his threat, he flung the knife on 
 the table, and with dull wrath he asked his wife: 
 
 81 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 " Devil! What is it you want? " 
 
 "I don't want anything!" — cried Matr^na, sighing. — 
 " And what do you want? Did you come to kill me? Well, 
 then, kill me! " 
 
 Grigory looked at her, and held his peace, not knowing 
 what he could do now, and seeing nothing clearly in his 
 tangled thoughts. He had come with a definite intention 
 to conquer his wife. On the preceding day, during their 
 clash, she had been stronger than he ; he was conscious of 
 that, and it lowered him in his own eyes. It was impera- 
 tively necessary that she should submit to him, he did not 
 understand why, but he did know solidly, that it was neces- 
 sary. Passionate by nature, he had gone through a great 
 deal and had thought a great deal about the matter during 
 those four and twenty hours, and — being an ignorant 
 man — he did not know how to single out of the chaos those 
 feelings which had been aroused by the just accusation 
 boldly hurled at him by his wife. He understood that this 
 was a revolt against him, and he had brought the knife with 
 him, in order to frighten Matrena; he would have killed 
 her, but she offered a less passive resistance to his desire to 
 subjugate her. But here she was in front of him, helpless, 
 overwhelmed with grief and yet stronger than he. It 
 angered him to perceive this, and this anger had a sobering 
 effect upon him. 
 
 "Listen!" — he said, — "and don't you put on any con- 
 ceited airs! You know that I, in downright earnest . . . 
 will drive this into your ribs — and that's the end of you! 
 That will put an end to the whole matter! . . . It's 
 very simple . . ." 
 
 Conscious that he was not saying the proper thing, 
 Grigory paused. Matr^na did not move, as she stood 
 turned away from him. A feverishly-rapid reckoning up 
 
 83 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 of all that she had gone through with her hushand was in 
 progress within her, and this imperative question throbbed 
 in her heart: 
 
 " What will happen now? " 
 
 "Motrya!" — Grigory began suddenly and softly, prop- 
 ping himself with one hand on the table, and bending 
 toward his wife. — " Am I to blame, if . . . everything 
 isn't . . . if it isn't as it should be? . . . This is 
 very disgusting to me! " 
 
 He twisted his head about and sighed. 
 
 " I'm so sick of it! I'm so cramped here on earth! Is 
 this life? Come, let's take the cholera patients, — ^what are 
 they? Are they a -support to me? Some will die, and 
 others will get well, . . . and I must go on living 
 again. How am I to live? it's not life — only convulsions 
 . . . isn't that enough to make a man angry? I un- 
 derstand everything, you see, only it's difficult for me to 
 say that I can't live so . . . but how I want to live 
 . . . I don't know! They heal those sick people yon- 
 der, and give them every attention — . . . but I'm 
 healthy, and if my soul aches, am I any the less valuable 
 than they ? Just think of it — I'm worse off than a cholera 
 patient. ... I have convulsions in my heart — ^that's 
 what the trouble is! . . . And you shriek at me! 
 . . . Do you think I'm a wild beast? A drunkard, and 
 — that's the end of it? Ekh you . . . you woman! 
 you wooden . . ." 
 
 He spoke quietly and persuasively, but she did not hear 
 his speech well, busy as she was in reviewing the past. 
 
 " Now you won't speak . . ." said Grishka, lending 
 an ear to something new and powerful which was springing 
 up within him. — " And why do you remain silent? What 
 do you want? " 
 
Orl6fif and His Wife 
 
 " I want nothing from you! " — exclaimed Matrena . . . 
 — " Why do you hammer away at me? Why do you torture 
 me? What do you want? " 
 
 "What? Why . . . that, of course . . ." 
 
 But Orloff became conscious that he could not tell his 
 wife exactly what he wanted, — that everything should im- 
 mediately become clear, so to speak, both to him and to 
 her. He comprehended that something had formed be- 
 tween them which could not be removed by any words 
 whatever . . . 
 
 Then a wild anger flashed up suddenly and vividly within 
 him. Flourishing his arm, he dealt his wife a blow with 
 his fist on the nape of her neck, and roared, like a wild 
 beast: 
 
 " What are you about, you witch, hey? Why are you 
 playing? I'll kill you, you carrion! " 
 
 The blow drove her, face down, upon the table, but she 
 instantly sprang to her feet, and, looking straight in her 
 husband's face, with a gaze of hatred, she said firmly, loudly 
 and curtly: 
 
 " Beat away! " 
 
 " Shut up! " 
 
 "Beat! Well?" 
 
 "Akh, you devil!" 
 
 "No, Grigory, there's been enough of that. I won't 
 have any more of it. . . ." 
 
 " Shut up! " 
 
 " I won't allow you to jeer at me. . . ." 
 
 He gnashed his teeth, and retreated from her a pace — 
 perhaps with the object of hitting her more conveniently. 
 
 But, at that moment, the door opened, and Doctor 
 Vdshtchenko made his appearance on the threshold. 
 
 "Wha-at's the meaning of this? Where are you, hey? 
 
 84 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 What sort of a performanee are you going through 
 with?" 
 
 His face was stern and astounded. Orloff was not in the 
 slightest degree abashed at the sight of him, and he even 
 bowed to him, saying: 
 
 " It's — . . disinfection between husband and wife." 
 
 And he laughed convulsively in the doctor's face. 
 
 "Why didn't you present yourself for duty?" — shouted 
 the doctor sharply, incensed by the laugh. 
 
 Grishka shrugged his shoulders, and calmly declared: 
 
 "I was busy . . . about my own affairs. . . ." 
 
 "So . . . yes ! And who was making that row here 
 last night? " 
 
 "We . . ." 
 
 "You? Very good. . . . You behave yourselves 
 in domestic fashion . . . you prowl about without 
 leave. . . ." 
 
 " We're not serfs, so . . ." 
 
 " Silence! You've turned this into a dram-shop . . . 
 you beasts! I'll show you where you are! " 
 
 A flood of wild daring, of passionate longing to overturn 
 everything, to tear the confusion out of his hunted soul, 
 overwhelmed Grishka, in a burning tide. It seemed to him 
 that he would now do something unusual, and, at the same 
 time, deliver his dark soul from the entanglements which 
 now held it in bondage. He shuddered, felt an agreeable 
 sensation of cold in his heart, and turning to the doctor 
 with a sort of cat-like grimace, he said: 
 
 "Don't you bother your gullet, don't yell. ... I 
 know where I am — in the exterminating house! " 
 
 "Wha-at? What did you say?" — the astonished doctor 
 bent toward him. 
 
 Grishka understood that he had uttered a savage word, 
 
 85 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 but he did not cool down, for all that, but waxed all the 
 hotter. 
 
 "Never mind, it will pass off! Digest that! . . . 
 Matrena! Get ready to go! " 
 
 " No, my dear fellow, stop! You must answer me . . ." 
 uttered the doctor, with ominous composure. — "You 
 scoundrel, I'll give it to you for this. . . ." 
 
 Grishka stared point-blank at him, and began to talk, 
 with the sensation that he was leaping off soniewhere, and 
 with every leap he breathed more and more freely. 
 
 " Don't you shout, Andrei Stepanovitch . . . don't 
 swear. . . . You think that, because there's cholera, 
 you can order me about. 'Tis a vain dream. . . . 
 That you cure people, nobody needs to be told. — And what 
 I said about extermination was, of course, an idle word, and 
 I was angry. . . . But don't you yell so much., all the 
 same. . . ." 
 
 "No, you lie!" — said the doctor calmly. . . . "I'll 
 give you a lesson . . . hey, there, come hither! " 
 
 People were already standing in the corridor. . . . 
 Grishka screwed up his eyes, and set his teeth. 
 
 " No, I'm not lying, and I'm not afraid . . . but if 
 you want to give me a lesson, I'll tell you for your con- 
 venience. . . ." 
 
 "We-ell? Say it. . . ." 
 
 "I'll go to the town, and I'll spread the news: 'My 
 lads! Do you know how they cure the cholera?'" 
 
 "Wha-at?" — and the doctor opened his eyes widely. 
 
 " So when we had that disinfection there with 'limina- 
 tion . . ." 
 
 "What are you saying, devil take you! " — cried the doc- 
 tor in a dull tone. — Irritation had given way in him to 
 amazement in the presence of that young fellow whom he 
 
 86 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 had known as an industrious, far from unintelligent work- 
 man, and who now, no one knew why, was foolishly and 
 stupidly running his neck into the noose. . . . 
 
 " What nonsense are you chattering, you fool? " 
 
 " Fool! " — rang like an echo through Grishka's whole 
 being. He understood that this verdict was just, and he 
 became all the more angry. 
 
 " What am I saying? I know ... I don't care 
 . . ." he said, with wildly flashing eyes. . . . — ^Now I 
 understand why the like of me never cares . . . and 
 it's utterly useless for us to restrain ourselves in our feel- 
 ings. . . . Matrena, get ready! " 
 
 " I won't go! " announced Matrena firmly. 
 
 The doctor stared at them with round eyes, and rubbed 
 his brow, comprehending nothing. 
 
 "You're . . . either a drunken man or a crazy 
 man! Do you understand what you are doing? " 
 
 Grishka would not, could not yield. In reply to the 
 doctor, he said, ironically: 
 
 " And how do you understand it? What are you doing? 
 Disinfection, ha, ha! You heal the sick . . . while 
 the well people die with the narrowness of their life. . . . 
 Matrena! I'll smash your pate! Go. . . ." 
 
 " I won't go with you! " 
 
 She was pale, and unnaturally motionless, but her eyes 
 gazed firmly and coldly into her husband's face . . . 
 Grishka, despite all his heroic courage, turned away from 
 her, and hanging his head, made no reply. 
 
 "Faugh!" and the doctor spat. — "The devil himself 
 couldn't make out the meaning of this. . . . Here 
 you! Begone! Take yourself off, and be thankful that I 
 haven't been severe with you . . . you ought to be 
 arrested . . . you blockhead! Get out! " 
 
 87 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 Grigory glanced, in silence, at the doctor, and then 
 dropped his head again. He would have felt better if they 
 had thrashed him, or even sent him to the police-station. 
 . . . But the doctor was a kind man, and perceived that 
 Orloff was almost irresponsible. 
 
 "For the last time, I ask you, will you go?" Grishka 
 hoarsely asked his wife. 
 
 "]^o, I will not go," — she answered, and bent down a 
 little, as though in expectation of a blow. 
 
 Grishka waved his hand. 
 
 " Well . . . the devil take the whole lot of you! — 
 And what the devil do I want you for, anyway? " 
 
 "You're a savage blockhead," began the doctor, argu- 
 mentatively. 
 
 " Don't you bark! " shouted Grishka. — " Well, you 
 cursed trollop, I'm going! I think we shall never see each 
 other again . . . but perhaps we shall . . . that 
 will be as I choose! But if we do meet again — ^it won't 
 be good for you, I warn you! " 
 
 And OrlofE moved toward the door. 
 
 " Good-bye . . . tragedian! . . ." said the doc- 
 tor sardonically, when Grishka came on a level with him. 
 
 Grig6ry halted, and raising his mournful flashing eyes to 
 him, he said in a repressed, low tone: 
 
 "Don't you touch me . . . don't wind the spring 
 up tight ... it has unwound, and hasn't hit anybody 
 . . . so let it go at that." 
 
 He picked up his cap from the floor, stuck it on his head, 
 bristled up, and went out, without even glancing at his 
 wife. 
 
 The doctor gazed searchingly at her. She stood before 
 him pale, with an insensible sort of face. — The doctor 
 nodded his head in the direction of Grigory, and asked her: 
 
 88 
 
Orloff and His Wife 
 
 " What is the matter with him? " 
 
 " I don't know . . ." 
 
 "Hm. . . . And where will he go now?" 
 
 " On a drunken spree! " — ^replied Mrs. Orloff firmly. 
 
 The doctor frowned and went away. 
 
 Matrena looked out of the window. The figure of a 
 man was moving swiftly along, in the evening twilight, 
 through wind and rain, from the barracks to the town. 
 The figure was alone, in the midst of the wet, gray plain 
 . . . The face of Matrena Orloff turned still paler, 
 she went into a corner, fell on her knees, and began to pray, 
 zealously executing ground-reverences,* sighing out her 
 petitions in a passionate whisper, and rubbing her breast 
 and her throat with hands which trembled with emotion. 
 
 One day I was inspecting the trade-school in N. . . . 
 My guide was a well-known man, one of its founders. He 
 conducted me over this model school, and explained things 
 to me: 
 
 "As you see, we have reason to boast. . . . Our 
 nurseling is growing and developing splendidly. The 
 teaching corps are wonderfully well matched. In the boot 
 and shoe shop, for example, we have a woman teacher, a 
 plain female shoemaker, a peasant woman, that is to say, 
 even a very ordinary peasant woman, such a dainty, roguish 
 creature, but of irreproachable conduct. — However, devil 
 take that side of the matter. . . . Ye-es! So then, 
 as I was saying, that shoemaker is a simple little peasant 
 woman, but how she does work! . . . how cleverly she 
 teaches her trade, with what love she treats the little chil- 
 dren — it's amazing! she's an invaluable worker. . . . 
 She works for twelve rubles a month, and lodgings at the 
 * That is — touching the forehead to the floor. — Translator. 
 89 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 school . . . and she supports two orphans, to boot, on 
 her scanty means! She's a very interesting figure, I must 
 tell you." 
 
 He praised the woman shoemaker so zealously that he 
 evoked in me a desire to make her acquaintance. This was 
 soon arranged, and one day Matrena Ivanovna Orloff 
 narrated to me the sad story of her life. For a while, after 
 she had separated from her husband, he gave her no rest: 
 — he came to her in a drunken condition, kicked up rows, 
 spied on her everywhere, and was merciless. She bore it 
 patiently. 
 
 When the barracks were closed the woman doctor sug- 
 gested to Matrena Ivanovna that she should get a place at 
 the school, and defend her against her husband. Both 
 undertakings were successful, and Mrs. OrlofE entered upon 
 a tranquil, laborious life: under the guidance of her ac- 
 quaintances, the women medical practitioners, she learned 
 to read and write, took two orphans out of the asylum to 
 rear, — a girl and a boy, — and was working away, content 
 with herself, with grief and terror recalling her past. She 
 was perfectly devoted to her pupils, understood the signifi- 
 cance of her activity in a broad sense, discharged it in a 
 thoroughly competent manner, and had won general inter- 
 est and sympathy for herself among the managers of the 
 school. But she was coughing with a dry, suspicious 
 cough, an ominous flush burned on her sunken cheeks, and 
 her gray eyes held much melancholy. Her married life 
 with uneasy Grishka was taking effect. 
 
 But he had dropped his wife, and it was now the third 
 year since he had annoyed her. He sometimes made his ap- 
 pearance in N., but did not show himself to Matrena. He 
 was " on the tramp," as she defined to me his manner of life. 
 
 I succeeded in making his acquaintance. I found him 
 
 90 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 in one of tlie dives of the town, and after two or three sit- 
 tings, he and I became friends. After repeating to me the 
 story which his wife had told me, he meditated for a little 
 while, and then said: 
 
 " So you see, Maxim Savvatievitch, it raised me up, and 
 then dashed me down. So I never performed any heroic 
 deed. Even to this day, I long to distinguish myself in 
 some way. ... I'd like to mash up the whole earth 
 into dust, or assemble a gang of comrades and kill off all 
 the Jews . . . down to the very last one! Or, in gen- 
 eral, something which would set me up above aU men, and 
 so that I could spit on them from a height. . . . And 
 say to them: ' Akh, you reptiles! Why do you live? How 
 do you live? You're a pack of hypocritical rascals, that's 
 all you are! ' And then, I'd kick up my heels from above 
 or there below, and . . . they'd smash into bits! 
 Ye-es, so I would! Devil take it . . . it's tiresome! 
 And akh, how tiresome and narrow life is to me! . . . 
 I thought, when I got rid of Matr^shka: — ' Co-ome now, 
 Grinya,* sail away into freedom, the anchor's weighed!' 
 On the contrary, it didn't come out that way — the channel 
 was shallow! Stop! And I ran aground. . . . But I 
 shan't dry up, never fear! I shall display myself! How? 
 — ^the devil only knows that! ... My wife? Well I 
 consign her to all the devils! Does a man like me want a 
 wife ? . . . What should I do with her . . . when 
 I feel drawn in all four quarters at once? ... I 
 was born with uneasiness in my heart . . . and it 
 is my fate to be a tramp! The very best position 
 in the world is free — and yet cramped! I've walked and 
 ridden in all directions . . . and found no consola- 
 tion. ... Do I drink? Of course, and what of that? 
 * Another variation of Gng6Tj .— Translator. 
 91 
 
Orl6ff and His Wife 
 
 Vodka extinguishes the heart, all the same. . . . And 
 my heart burns with a great fire. . . . Everything is 
 repulsive — towns, villages, people of different calibres. . . 
 Faugh! Can't anything better be invented? They're all 
 down on one another. ... I'd like to choke the whole 
 lot of them! Ekh, life, you're the devil's great wisdom! " 
 The heavy door of the dram-shop where Orloff and I 
 were sitting, kept opening incessantly, creaking in a volup- 
 tuous sort of way as it did so. And the interior of the 
 dram-shop aroused one's imagination of some sort of wild 
 beast's maw, which was slowly but inevitably devouring, 
 one after the other, the poor Eussian people, the uneasy 
 and the rest. 
 
 93 
 
KONOVALOFF 
 
KONOVALOFF 
 
 As I carelessly ran my eye over the newspaper, it fell 
 upon the name of Konovaloif, and as it arrested my at- 
 tention, I read the following : 
 
 "Last night, Alexander Ivanovitch Konovaloff, petty 
 burgher of the town of Murom, aged forty, hanged himself 
 to the ventilator of the stove in the general ward of the 
 local prison. The suicide was arrested in PskofE, for va- 
 grancy, and was forwarded by stages, under police escort, 
 to his native place. The prison authorities state that he 
 was always a quiet, reticent, thoughtful man. The prison 
 doctor decided that melancholia must be regarded as the 
 cause which incited Konovaloff to suicide." I read this 
 brief announcement in brevier type — it is the custom to 
 print notes about the destruction of insignificant people 
 in small type — I read it through, and reflected that I might 
 be able to throw a somewhat clearer light upon the cause 
 which had led that meditative man to go out of life, be- 
 cause I had known him, and, at one time, had lived with 
 him. Indeed, I had not even the right to remain silent 
 concerning him: — he was a splendid young fellow, and such 
 as he are not often met with on life's highway. 
 
 I was eighteen years old when I first met Konovaloff. 
 At that time, I was working in a bakery, as assistant 
 baker. The baker was a soldier from " the musical divis- 
 ion," a terrible vodka-drinker, who frequently spoiled the 
 
 8S 
 
KonovMoff 
 
 dough, and when he was drunk, was fond of playing tunes 
 on his lips, and strumming out various pieces with his fin- 
 gers on anything that came handy. When the proprietor 
 of the bakery reprimanded him for having spoiled his 
 wares, or for being behindhand with them in the morning, 
 he ilew into a rage, and cursed the proprietor, cursed him 
 mercilessly, always calling his attention, at the same time, 
 to his musical talent. 
 
 " The dough has stood too long! " — ^he shouted, bris- 
 tling up his long red mustache, and making a noise with 
 his thick lips, which were always moist, for some reason 
 or other. — " The crust is burned! The bread is raw! 
 Akh, the devil take you, you cock-eyed spectre! Was I 
 born into the world to do this work? Curse you and your 
 work — ^I'm a musician! Do you understand? If the viola- 
 player got drunk, I used to play the viola: if the hautboy 
 man was under arrest, I blew the hautboy; if the cornet-a- 
 piston has fallen ill, who can take his place? SutchkofE, I! 
 Glad to do my best, your Well-Born! * Tim-tar-ram-ta-ddi! 
 But you're a p-peasant, katzdp ! \ Pay me my wages and 
 discharge me! " 
 
 And the proprietor, a corpulent, bloated man, with small 
 squinting eyes which were buried in fat, and a feminine 
 face, stamped about the floor with his short, fat legs, his 
 huge body swaying heavily the while, and roared, in a 
 squealing voice: 
 
 " Euiner! Destroyer! Christ-seller of a Judas! Oh 
 Lord, why hast Thou chastised me with such a man! " 
 Spreading his short fingers wide apart, he raised his hands 
 
 ♦ The regulation reply of the soldier to an officer's greeting or re- 
 quest. — Trcmslator. 
 
 f A nickname used by Little Russians for Great Kussians — meaning, 
 in general "a soldier"; — as the Great Russians call Little Russian 
 Khokhol^ or "top-knot." — Translator. 
 
 06 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 to heaven, and all of a sudden roared loudly,' in an ear- 
 splitting voice: — 
 
 "And what if I hand you over to the police for your 
 mutiny?" 
 
 " Hand the servitor of the Tzar and the Fatherland over 
 to the police?" bellowed the soldier, and started to ad- 
 minister a drubbing to the proprietor. The latter beat a 
 retreat, spitting to one side in disgust, snorting wrathfuUy 
 and cursing. This was all that he could do — ^it was sum- 
 mer, a season when it is extremely difficult to find a good 
 baker in the Volga river-town. 
 
 Such scenes were of almost every day occurrence. The 
 soldier drank, spoiled the dough and played various marches 
 and waltzes or " numbers," as he expressed it; the proprietor 
 gnashed his teeth, and the result of it all was, that I was 
 obliged to work for two, which was not very logical, and was 
 very fatiguing. 
 
 And I was highly delighted when, one day, the following 
 scene took place between the proprietor and the soldier. 
 
 " Well, soldier," said the proprietor, making his appear- 
 ance in the bakery with a beaming and satisfied counte- 
 nance, and his little eyes sparkled with a malicious smile, 
 — " well, soldier, puff out your lips, and play the campaign 
 march! " 
 
 " What's that for? ! " gloomily said the soldier, who was 
 lying on the tub with the dough, and, as usual, was half 
 drunk. 
 
 " Prepare to march, corporal! " said the proprietor 
 exultantly. 
 
 "Whither?" inquired the soldier, lowering his legs off 
 the tub, and feeling that something was wrong. 
 
 " Wherever you like — to a Turkish woman or an Eng- 
 lish woman, as you please." '>j"~~' 
 "^-"' 97 
 
Konov^loff 
 
 "How am I to understand that?" shouted the soldier 
 vehemently. 
 
 " You are to understand that I won't keep you another 
 hour. Go upstairs, get your wages, and take yourself off 
 — march! " 
 
 The soldier had become accustomed to feel his strength, 
 and the helpless position of his master, and the latter's 
 announcement somewhat sobered him: he could not help 
 understanding how difficult it would be for him, with his 
 knowledge of the trade, to find another place. 
 
 " Come now, you're lying ! . . ." he said with alarm, 
 rising to his feet. 
 
 " Get out with you, — ^get out . . ." 
 
 "Get out?" 
 
 "Clear out!" 
 
 " That means, I have worked myself out," and the sol- 
 dier shook his head sadly. . . . "You have sucked 
 the blood out of me, sucked me dry, and now you turn me 
 out. That's clever! That's good! Akh, you . . . 
 spider! " 
 
 "I'm a spider, am I?" boiled up the proprietor. 
 
 "Yes, you are! A blood-sucking spider — ^that's what 
 you are! " said the soldier with conviction, and walked, 
 reeling, toward the door. 
 
 The proprietor looked after him with a spiteful laugh, 
 and his little eyes glittered joyfully. 
 
 " Go along with you, now, and get a place with some- 
 body! Ye-es! I've given you such a character every- 
 where, my dear little dove, that you may beg as you will 
 — ^no one will take you! They won't hire you anywhere. 
 . . . I've settled your hash for you, you rotten-headed^ 
 stupid, infernal creature ! " 
 
 " Have you already hired a new baker ? " I inquired. 
 
 98 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " A new one ? No, he isn't new — he's the old one. He 
 was my friend. Ah, what a baker! Regular gold! But 
 he's a drunkard also, eh, what a drunkard! Only, he has 
 long fits of hard drinking. . . . ISTow he'll come, and 
 set to work, and for three or four months he'll strain every 
 sinew and toil, away like a bear! He'll know no sleep, no 
 rest, and won't stick at the wages, no matter what you give 
 him. He'll work and sing! He sings so, my dear fellow, 
 that it's even impossible to listen to him — ^your heart grows 
 heavy with it. He sings, and sings — and then he takes to 
 drink again ! " 
 
 The proprietor sighed, and waved his hand with a hope- 
 less gesture. 
 
 "And when he starts in to drink — ^there's no stopping 
 him. He drinks until he falls ill, or has drunk himself 
 stark naked. . . . Then he feels ashamed of himself, 
 probably, for he vanishes somewhere, like an unclean spirit 
 at the smell of incense. . . . And here he is. . . . 
 Have you really come, Lesd? " 
 
 " Yes," replied a deep, chest voice from the threshold. 
 
 There, with his shoulder propped against the jamb of the 
 door, stood a tall, broad-shouldered peasant, about thirty 
 years of age. In costume, he was a typical tramp; in face 
 and figure, a genuine Slav — a rare specimen of the race. 
 He wore a red cotton shirt, incredibly dirty and tattered, 
 full trousers of coarse, home-made linen, and on one of his 
 feet were the remains of a rubber boot, while on the other 
 was an old leather boot-leg. His light, reddish-brown 
 hair was tangled all over his head, and small chips, straws 
 and bits of paper stuck in the snarls: all these things 
 also adorned his luxuriant, light-reddish beard, which 
 covered his chest like a fan. His long, pallid, weary face 
 was lighted up by large, pensive blue eyes, which gazed at 
 
 99 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 me with a caressing smile. And his lips which were hand- 
 some, although a trifle pale, also smiled beneath his reddish 
 mustache. This smile seemed to say: 
 
 " This is the sort of fellow I am. . . . Don't con- 
 demn me. . . ." 
 
 " Come in, Sashok, here's your helper," said the pro- 
 prietor, rubbing his hands, and affectionately eyeing over 
 the mighty form of the new baker. The latter stepped 
 forward silently, and offered me his long hand, with the 
 powerful wrist of a legendary hero; we exchanged greet- 
 ings; he seated himself on the bench, stretched his legs out 
 in front of him, stared at them, and said to the proprietor: 
 
 " Buy mi two changes of shirts, Nikola Nikititch, and 
 boot-slippers.* And some linen for a cap." 
 
 " You shall have them all, never fear! I have caps on 
 hand; you shall have shirts and trousers by this evening. 
 Come now, set to work in the meantime; I know you, I 
 know what sort of a fellow you are. I don't mean to in- 
 sult you — no one can insult Konovaloff . . . because 
 he never insults anyone. Is the boss a wild beast? I have 
 worked myself, and I know how a radish makes the tears 
 flow. . . . Well, stay here, my lads, and I'll take my- 
 self off . . ." 
 
 We were left alone. 
 
 Konovaloff sat on the bench and gazed about him with a 
 smile, but without saying a word. The bakery was located 
 in a cellar, with a vaulted ceiling, and its three windows 
 were below the level of the earth. There was not much 
 light, and there was very little air, but, on the other hand, 
 there was a great deal of dampness, dirt and flour dust. 
 Along the walls stood long bins: one had dough on it, on 
 
 * Shoes — or slippers — made from boots by cutting off the legs. — 
 Translator. 
 
 100 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 another the dough had just been mixed with yeast, the third 
 was empty. Upon each bin fell a dull streak of light from 
 one of the windows. The huge oven took up nearly one 
 third of the bakery; beside it, on the filthy floor, lay sacks 
 of flour. In the oven long logs of wood were blazing hotly, 
 and their flame, reflected on the gray wall of the bakery, 
 surged and quivered, as though it were narrating some story 
 without sounds. The odor of fermenting dough and of 
 humidity flUed the rank air. 
 
 The vaulted, soot-begrimed ceiling oppressed one with 
 its weight, and the combination of daylight and of the 
 fire in the oven formed a sort of vague illumination which 
 was very trying to the eyes. Through the windows, a dull 
 roar poured in, and dust blew in from the street. Kono- 
 v41off surveyed everything, sighed, and turning half-way 
 round to me, inquired in a bored tone: 
 
 " Have you been working here long ? " 
 
 I told him. Then we fell silent again, and inspected 
 each other with furtive, sidelong glances. 
 
 " What a jail! " he sighed. ..." Shan't we go out 
 into the street, and sit at the gate? " 
 
 We went out to the gate, and sat down on the bench. 
 
 " We can breathe here, at least. I can't get used to this 
 pit all at once ... no I can't. Judge for yourself 
 — I've just come from the sea. . . . I've been working 
 at the fishing stations on the Caspian. And, all of a sud- 
 den, from that airy space — bang! into a hole! " 
 
 He looked at me with a melancholy smile, and ceased 
 speaking, staring intently at the people who passed by in 
 carriages and on foot. In his clear blue eyes shone much 
 melancholy over something or other. . . . Twilight 
 descended; it was stifling, noisy, dusty in the street, and the 
 houses cast shadows across the road. Konovaloff sat with 
 
 101 
 
Konov^loff 
 
 his back resting against the wall, his arms folded across his 
 chest, and his fingers straying through the silky strands of 
 his beard. I gazed askance at his pallid, oval face, and 
 thought: What sort of a man is this? But I could not 
 make up my mind to enter into conversation with him, be- 
 cause he was my master, and also because he inspired me 
 with a strange sort of respect for him. 
 
 His brow was furrowed with three slender wrinkles, but 
 sometimes they were smoothed out, and disappeared, and 1 
 very much wished to know what the man was thinking 
 about. 
 
 " Come along: it must be time to set the third batch of 
 dough to rise. You mix the second, and, in the meantime, 
 I'll set it, and then we'll knead out the loaves." 
 
 When he and I had " weighed out " and placed in the 
 pans one mountain of dough, mixed another, and set the 
 leavened dough for a third — we sat down to drink tea, and 
 then Konovaloff, putting his hand into the breast of his 
 shirt, asked me: 
 
 "Do you know how to read? Here then, read this," — > 
 and he thrust into my hand a small smeared and crumpled 
 sheet of paper. 
 
 " Dear Sasha," * I read. " I salute and kiss you from 
 afar. Things are going badly with me, and life is tire- 
 some, I can hardly wait for the day when I shall elope with 
 you, or shall live in your company; this accursed life has 
 bored me to the last degree, although, at first, I liked it. 
 You will understand that well, and I, also, had begun to 
 understand it, when I became acquainted with you. Please 
 write to me as soon as you can; I want very much to receive 
 a little note from you. And meanwhile, farewell until we 
 
 * Les4 and Sashok, as well as Sasha and Sashka are diminutives of 
 Alexander. — Translator. 
 
 108 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 meet again, but not good-bye, you dear bearded friend of 
 my soul. I will not write you any reproaches, although 
 I'm angry with you, because you are a pig — you went away 
 without taking leave of me. Nevertheless, you have never 
 been anything but good to me: you were the first of that 
 sort, and I shall never forget it. Can't you make an effort, 
 Sasha, to have me excluded? The girls told you that I 
 would run away from you, if I were excluded; but that is 
 all nonsense, and a downright lie: If you would only take 
 pity on me, I would be like a dog to you, after my exclusion. 
 It would be so easy for you to do that, you know, but it's 
 very difficult for me. When you were with me, I wept be- 
 cause I was forced to live like that, although I did not tell 
 you so. Until we meet again. Your Kapitolina." 
 
 Konovaloff took the letter from me, and began thought- 
 fully to turn it about' between the fingers of one hand, while 
 he twisted his beard with the other. 
 
 " And do you know how to write? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And have you ink? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Write a letter to her, for Christ's sake, won't you? 
 She must consider me a rascal, she must be thinking that 
 I have forgotten her. . . . Write! " 
 
 " Very well. This very minute, if you like. . . . 
 Who is she? " 
 
 " A woman of the town. . . . You can see for your- 
 self — she writes about her exclusion. That means, that I 
 am to promise the police that I will marry her, and then 
 they will give her back her passport, and will take her 
 little book away from her, and from that time forth, she 
 will be free! Do you catch on?" 
 
 Half an hour later a touching epistle to her was ready. 
 
 103 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Come now, read it, and let's see how it has turned 
 out?" begged Konovaloff impatiently. 
 
 This is the way it had turned out: 
 
 " Kapa ! You must not think that I am a scoundrel, 
 and that I have forgotten you. No, I have not forgotten 
 you, but I have simply been on a spree, and have drunk 
 up all my money. Now I have hired out in a place 
 again, and to-morrow I shall get the boss to advance me 
 some money, and I will send it to Philip, and he will have 
 you excluded. There will be money enough for your 
 journey. And meanwhile — ^farewell until we meet. Your 
 Alexander." 
 
 "Hm . . ." said Konovaloff, scratching his head, — 
 " you ain't much of a writer. You haven't put any com- 
 passion into your letter, nor any tears. And then, again 
 — I asked you to curse me with all sorts of words, and you 
 haven't written a bit of that . . ." 
 
 "But why should I?" 
 
 " So that she may see that I feel ashamed in her pres- 
 ence, that I understand that I am to blame toward her. 
 And what have you done! You've written it just exactly 
 as though you were scattering peas! Now, you mix in 
 some tears! " 
 
 I was compelled to mix some tears into the letter, which 
 I managed to do successfully. Konovaloff was satisfied, 
 and laying his hand on my shoulder, he said cordially: 
 
 " There, that's stunning! Thanks! Evidently, you're 
 a good lad . . . which means, that you and I are going 
 to get along well together." 
 
 I had no doubt on that point, and asked him to tell me 
 about Kapitohna. 
 
 "KapitoHna? She's a young girl — quite a child. She 
 was the daughter of a merchant in Vyatka. . . . Well, 
 
 104 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 and she went astray. The longer it lasted, the worse it 
 got, and she went into one of those houses . . . you 
 know? I came — and saw that she was still a mere child! 
 Good Lord, I said to myself, is it possible? Well, so I 
 made acquaintance with her. She began to cry. Says I: 
 ' Never mind, have patience! I'll get you out of this — ■ 
 only wait! ' And I had everything ready, that is to say, 
 the money and all . . . And, all of a sudden, I went 
 on a spree, and found myself in Astrakhan. A certain 
 man told her where I was, and she wrote me that letter, 
 to Astrakhan . . ." 
 
 " Well, and what are you going to do about it," — I asked 
 him, " do you intend to marry her? " 
 
 " Marry her, — ^how can I ? If I have one of my drink- 
 ing bouts, what sort of a bridegroom would I be? No, this 
 is what I mean to do. I'll get her released — and then, she 
 may go wherever she likes. She'll find a place for her- 
 self . . . perhaps she'll turn out a decent woman." 
 
 " She says she wants to live with you . . ." 
 
 " Oh, she's only fooling. They're all like that — all the 
 women. ... I know them very well indeed. I've 
 had a lot of different sorts. One, even, was a merchant's 
 wife, and rich! I was a groom in a circus, and she cast her 
 eyes on me. ' Come,' says she, — ' and be my coachman.' 
 About that time I had got sick of the circus, so I consented, 
 and went. Well, and so. . . . She began to make up 
 to me. They had a house, horses, servants — they lived 
 like the nobility. Her husband was a short, fat man, after 
 the style of our boss, but she was as thin and flexible as a 
 cat, and fiery. When she used to embrace me, and kiss me 
 on the lips — hot coals seemed to be sprinkled on my heart. 
 And I'd get all of a tremble, and even feel frightened. 
 She used to kiss me, and cry all the time; even her shoulders 
 
 105 
 
Konoviloff 
 
 heav-ed. I would ask her: 'Wlat ails you, Vyerunka?' 
 And she would say: ' You're a child, Sasha; you don't un- 
 derstand anything.' She was stunning. . . . And 
 she spoke the truth when she said I didn't understand any- 
 thing — I was pretty much of a fool, I know. What I do 
 — I don't understand. How I live — I don't think! " 
 
 He ceased speaking, and gazed at me with widely-opened 
 eyes; in them shone something which was not exactly 
 fright, nor yet exactly a query, — something troubled and 
 meditative, which rendered his handsome face still more 
 melancholy and more beautiful. . . 
 
 " Well, and how did you end matters with the merchant's 
 wife?" I asked. 
 
 " Well, you see, sadness descends upon me. Such sad- 
 ness, I must tell you, brother, that at those times T simply 
 can't live. It's as though I were the only man on all the 
 earth, and there were no living thing anywhere except my- 
 self. And at such times, everything is repugnant to me 
 — every earthly thing; and I become a burden to myself, 
 and all people are a burden to me; if all of them were to 
 fall dead, I wouldn't give a sigh! It must be an ailment, 
 with me. It made me take to drinking . . . before 
 that, I did not drink. Well, so this sadness came upon 
 me, and I said to her, to that merchant's wife: ' Vera 
 Mikhailovna! Let me go, I can't stand it any longer! ' — 
 ' What,' says she, ' are you tired of me? ' — And she laughed, 
 you know, in such an ugly way. — ''So,' says I, 'I'm not 
 tired of you, but I'm no match for myself.' At first she 
 didn't understand me, and she even began to scream, and 
 to rail. . . . Afterwards, she did understand. She 
 dropped her head, and said: 'Well, then, go! . . .'and 
 burst out crying. Her eyes were black, and she was all 
 swarthy. Her hair was black, also, and curly. She was 
 
 106 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 not of the merchant-class by birth, but the daughter of a 
 state official. . . . Ye-es ... I was sorry for 
 her, but I was repulsive even to myself at that time. Why 
 did I knuckle under to a woman? — anybody knows why. 
 . . . Of course, she found life tiresome with such a hus- 
 band. He was exactly like a sack of flour. . . . She 
 cried for a long time — she had got used to me. ... I 
 used to pet her a lot: I used to take her in my arms, and 
 rock her. She would fall asleep, and I would sit and gaze 
 at her. People are very handsome in their sleep, they are 
 so simple; they breathe and smile, and that's all. And 
 then again — when we lived at the villa in the country, she 
 and I used to go driving together — she loved that with all 
 her heart. We would come to some little nook in the 
 forest, tie the horses, and cool -ourselves ofE on the grass. 
 She would order me to lie down, then she would put my 
 head on her knees, and read me some little book or other. 
 I would listen, and listen, until I fell asleep. She read 
 nice stories, very nice stories. One of them I shall never 
 forget — about dumb Gerasim,* and his beloved dog. He, 
 that dumb fellow, was a persecuted man, and no one 
 loved him, except his dog. People laughed at him, 
 and all that sort of thing, and he went straight to his 
 dog. ... It was a very pitiful story . . . 
 yes! But the affair took place in the days of serfdom. 
 . . . And his lady-mistress says to him: 'Dumb man, 
 go drown your dbg, for he howls.' — Well, so the dumb man 
 went. . . . He took a boat, and put the dog aboard 
 it, and set out. ... At this point, I used to feel the 
 cold shivers run over me. Oh Lord! The sole joy on 
 earth of a dumb man was being killed! What sort of be- 
 havior is that? Akh — they were wonderful tales! And 
 * Ivfcn S. TurgSneff's famous tale : "Mumu." — Translator. 
 107 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 really — there was this good thing ahout it! There are 
 people for whom all the world consists of one thing — a 
 dog, for example. And why a dog? Because there is no 
 one else to love such a man, but the dog loves him. It is 
 impossible for a man to live without some sort of love; — 
 that's why he is given a soul, that he may love. . . . 
 She read me a great many stories. She was a splendid 
 woman, and I'm sorry for her this minute. . . . If it 
 hadn't been for my ;^iaset, — ^I wouldn't have left her until 
 she wished it herself, or until her husband had found out 
 about my performances with her. She was so caressing — 
 first of all; that is to say, not exactly caressing, in the way 
 of giving presents, but, so . . . caressing after the 
 fashion of the heart. She would kiss me and she was just 
 the same as any other woman . . . and then, such a 
 sort of fit would come over her ... so that it was 
 downright astonishing what a good person she was. She 
 would look straight into your soul, and talk to you like a 
 nurse or a mother. At such times, I was just like a five- 
 year-old boy with her. But nevertheless, I went away from 
 her — ^because of that sadness! I pined for some other 
 place. . . . ' Good-bye,' says I, ' Vera Mikhailovna, 
 forgive me.' — ' Good-bye, Sasha,' says she. And the queer 
 woman — she bared my arm to the elbow, and set her teeth 
 into it, as though it had been meat! I came near yelling! 
 So she almost bit out a whole piece . . . my arm ached 
 for three weeks afterwards. And here, you see, the mark 
 is there yet . . ." 
 
 Baring his arm, as muscular as that of a hero of epic 
 song, white and red, he showed it to me, with an amiably 
 melancholy smile. On the skin of the arm, near the elbow 
 bend, a scar was plainly visible — two semicircles, which 
 almost met at the tips. Konovaloff looked at them, and 
 shook his head, with a smile. 
 
 108 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " The queer woman! " he repeated; " she hit me by way 
 of a keepsake." 
 
 I had heard stories in this spirit before. Every member 
 of the " barefoot brigade " has, in his past, a " merchant's 
 wife," or " a young lady of the nobility," and in the case of 
 nearly all tramps, this merchant's wife and this well-born 
 young lady turn out to be thoroughly fantastic figuresi, 
 through countless repetitions, almost always combining the 
 most contradictory physical and psychicg|.li features. If to- 
 day she is blue-eyed, malicious and merry, you may expect 
 to hear of her a week later as black-eyed, amiable and tear- 
 ful. And the tramp generally talks about her in a sceptical 
 tone, with a mass of details which are degrading to her. 
 
 But the story narrated by Konovaloff did not arouse in 
 me the distrust created by tales I had heard in the past. 
 It rang true, it contained details with which I was unfamil- 
 iar — those readings from books, that epithet of ' boy,' as 
 applied to the mighty form of Konovaloff. 
 
 I pictured to myself the willowy woman, sleeping in his 
 arms, with her head clinging close to his broad breast — ^it 
 was a fine picture, and still further convinced me as to the 
 truth of his story. And, in conclusion, his sad soft tone 
 as he recalled the " merchant's wife " — was a unique tone. 
 The genuine tramp never speaks in that tone either about 
 women or about anything else — ^he likes to show that there 
 is nothing on earth which he dares not revile. 
 
 " Why don't you say something? Do you think I am 
 lying? " — ^inquired Konovaloff, and, for some reason, alarm 
 rang out in his voice. He stretched himself out on the 
 sacks of flour, holding a glass of tea in one hand, and with 
 the other stroking his beard. His blue eyes gazed at me 
 searchingly and inquiringly, and the wrinkles lay sharply 
 across his brow, • r . "No, you'd better believe me. 
 
 109 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 . . . What object have I in lying? Even supposing 
 that the like of ns tramps are great hands at telling yarns. 
 . . . It can't he done my friend: — ^if a man has never 
 had anything good in life, surely he harms no one by 
 making up with himself some tale or other, and telling it 
 as a fact. He keeps on telling it, and comes to believe 
 it himself, as though it had actually happened — ^he believes 
 it, and — well, it is agreeable to him. Many folks live by 
 that. You can't prevent it. . . . But I have told you 
 the truth, as it happened, so I have told it to you. . . . 
 Is there anything peculiar about that? A woman lives 
 along, and gets bored, and the women are all good-for-noth- 
 ing creatures. . . . Supposing I am a coachman, that 
 makes no difference to a woman, because coachmen and 
 gentlemen and officers are all men. . . . And all are 
 pigs in her sight, all seek one and the same thing, and each 
 one tries to take as much as he can,. and to pay as little as 
 possible. And the simple man is even better, more con- 
 scientious than the rest. And I'm very simple . . . 
 the women all understand that very well about me, . . . 
 they see that I will not offend them — that is to say, I won't 
 . . . do ... I won't jeer at them. When a 
 woman sins, there's nothing she fears so much as a sneer, 
 ridicule. They are more shame-faced than we are. We 
 take our own, and, as like as not, go to the bazaar and tell 
 about it, and begin to brag — ' see here, look how we have 
 cheated one fool! ' . . . But a woman has nowhere to 
 go, no one will reckon her sin as a dashing deed. My good 
 fellow, even the most abandoned of them have more shame 
 than we have." 
 
 I listened to him and thought : Was it possible that this 
 man was true to himself in making all these speeches which 
 did not fit in with him at all? 
 
 110 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 But he, thoughtfully riveting upon me his eyes, clear 
 as those of a child, went on talking, and astounded me more 
 and more by his remarks. 
 
 It seemed to me that I was enveloped by something 
 in the nature of a fog, a warm fog, which cleansed my heart, 
 already, even at that time, greatly soiled with the mire of 
 life. 
 
 The wood in the oven had burned down, and the bright 
 pile of coals cast a rosy glow on the wall of the bakery 
 . . . it quivered. . . 
 
 Through the window peeped a tiny speck of the blue 
 sky with two stars in it. One of them— the large one — 
 gleamed like an emerald, the other, not far from it, was 
 barely visible. 
 
 A week passed, and Konovdloff and I had become friends. 
 
 " You, also, are a simple lad! That's good! " — ^he said 
 to me, with a broad smile, as he slapped me on the shoulder 
 with his huge hand. 
 
 He worked artistically. It was a sight worth seeing — 
 how he exercised over a lump of dough weighing two hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds, rolling it about in the mould, or 
 how, bent over the bin, he kneaded, his mighty arms 
 plunged to the elbows in the springy mass, which squeaked 
 under his fingers of steel. 
 
 At first, when I saw how swiftly he hurled into the oven 
 the raw loaves, which I could hardly toss fast enough from 
 the moulds to his shovel, — I was afraid that he would pile 
 them one on top of the other; but when he had baked three 
 ovenfuls, and not one of the one hundred and twenty loaves 
 — superb, rosy, tall — showed any sign of a " crush," I un- 
 derstood that I had to deal with an artist in his own line. 
 He loved to work, became absorbed in his business, grew 
 depressed when the oven baked badly, or when the dough 
 
 111 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 rose slowly, waxed angry and reviled the proprietor if the 
 latter bought damp flour, and was as merry and contented 
 as a child if the loaves came out of the oven properly 
 rounded, tall, well-risen, with a moderately rosy hue, and 
 thin, crisp crust. He was accustomed to take the most 
 successful loaf from the shovel into his hand, and tossing 
 it from palm to palm, scorching himself in the operation, 
 laugh gaily, as he said to me: 
 
 " Eh, what a beauty you and I have made . . ." 
 
 And I found it pleasant to watch this gigantic child, 
 who put his whole soul into his work, as every man, in every 
 sort of work should do. 
 
 One day I asked him: 
 
 " Sasha, I am told that you sing well ? " 
 
 He frowned and dropped his head. 
 
 "I do sing. . . . Only, I do it by fits and starts 
 . . . in streaks. . . . When I begin to get sad, I 
 shall begin to sing . . . And if I begin to sing . . . 
 I shall begin to grieve. You'd better hold your tongue 
 about that, don't tease me. Don't you sing yourself? Akh, 
 you . . . what a piece you are! You'd . . . 
 better wait for me . . . and whistle, in the meanwhile. 
 Then we will both sing together. Is it a bargain ? " 
 
 Of course, I assented, and whistled, when I wanted to 
 sing. But sometimes I broke off, and began to hum be- 
 neath my breath, as I kneaded the dough, and rolled out 
 the loaves. Konovaloff listened to me, moved his lips, and 
 after a while, reminded me of my promise. And sometimes 
 he shouted roughly at me: 
 
 " Drop that! Don't groan! " 
 
 One day I took a small book out of my trunk, and, prop- 
 ping myself in the window, I began to read. 
 
 Konov41off was dozing, stretched out on the bin with 
 
 112 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 the dough, but the rustle of the leaves, as I turned them 
 over above his ear made him open his eyes. 
 
 "What's that little book about?" 
 
 It was " The Villagers of Podlipovo." * 
 
 " Eead it aloud, won't you? " he entreated. 
 
 So I began to read, as I sat on the window-sill, and he sat 
 up on the bin, and leaning his head against my knees, he 
 listened.— From time to time I glanced across the book at 
 his face, and met his eyes — they chng to my memory yet 
 — ^widely opened, intent, full of profound attention . . . 
 And his mouth, also, was half open, revealing two rows of 
 white, even teeth. His uplifted brows, the curving wrinkles 
 on his lofty forehead, his arms, with which he clasped his 
 knees, his whole motionless, attentive attitude warmed me 
 up, and I endeavored, as intelligibly and as picturesquely 
 as possible, to narrate to him the sad story of Sysoika and 
 Pila. 
 
 At last I got tired, and closed the book. 
 
 "Is that all? " Konovaloff asked me, in a whisper. 
 
 " Less than half." 
 
 " Will you read it all aloud? " 
 
 "If you like." 
 
 "Ekh!" — He clasped his head in his hands, and began 
 to rock back and forth, as he sat on the board. He wanted 
 to say something, he opened and shut his mouth, sighing 
 like a pair of bellows, and, for some reason or other, puck- 
 ering up his eyes. I had not expected this result, and did 
 not understand its meaning. 
 
 " How you read that! " — ^he began in a whisper. — " In 
 different voices . . . How alive they all are. Aproska! 
 She fairly squeals! Pil4 . . . what fools! It made 
 
 * " Podlipovtzui " — a well-known heart-Tending story, by Ryeshfet- 
 nikoff . — Translator. 
 
 113 
 
Konoviloff 
 
 me feel ridiculous to hear that . . . hut I restrained 
 myself. What comes next? Where are they going? Lord 
 God! How true to nature it is! Why, they are just like 
 real people . . . the most genuine sort of peasants. 
 . . . And exactly as though they were alive, and their 
 voices, and their faces. . . . Listen, Maxim! Let's 
 put the bread in the oven, and then you go on reading! " 
 
 We put the bread in the oven, prepared another batch of 
 loaves, and for another hour and forty minutes I continued 
 to read the book. Then there was another pause — the 
 bread was done, we took out the loaves, put in others, mixed 
 some more dough, set some more to rise . . . and all 
 this was done with feverish haste, and almost in silence. 
 
 Konovaloff, with brows knitted in a frown, flung rare 
 and monosyllabic orders at me, and hurried, hurried . . . 
 
 .Toward jaorning, we had finished the book, and I felt 
 as thoughmy tongue had turned to wood. 
 
 Seated astride of a sack of flour, Konovaloff stared me 
 straight in the face with strange eyes, and maintained 
 silence, with his arms propped on his knees. 
 
 "Is it good?" I asked. 
 
 He shook his head, puckered up his eyes, and again — 
 for some reason in a whisper — began: 
 
 "Who wrote that?" — In his eyes gleamed amazement 
 not to be expressed in words, and his face suddenly flushed 
 with ardent feeling. 
 
 I told him who had written the book. 
 
 " Well — ^he's a man, that he is! How he grasped them! 
 Didn't he? It's downright terrible. It grips your heart, 
 that is, it nips your soul — it's so full of life. Well, now, 
 what about him, that writer, what happened to him for 
 that?" 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 114 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Well, for example, did they give him a reward or any- 
 thing there?" 
 
 "But what did .they need to reward him for?" I in- 
 quired, with crafty intent. 
 
 "For what? The book ... in the nature of a 
 police document. As soon as they read it . . . they 
 consider: Pila, Sysoika . . . what sort of folks were 
 they? Everybody feels sorry for them. . . . They're 
 unenlightened, innocent folks . . . What a life they 
 had! Well, and . . ." 
 
 Konovaloff looked at me in confusion, and timidly 
 asserted: 
 
 " Some sort of orders ought to be given about that. 
 Surely, they are human beings, and they ought to be 
 supported." 
 
 In reply to this, I delivered a whole lecture to him. . . 
 But, alas! it did not produce the effect on which I had 
 reckoned. 
 
 Konovaloff fell into meditation, drooped his head, rocked 
 his whole body about, and began to sigh, not interfering 
 with a single word in my attempt to play the part of a 
 professor. I got tired, at last, and paused. 
 
 Konovaloff raised his head and gazed sorrowfully at me. 
 
 " And so they did not give him anything? " he inquired. 
 
 " Whom? " I asked, having entirely forgotten Eye- 
 shetnikoff. 
 
 " The author? " 
 
 I was vexed. I made no reply, conscious that this vexa- 
 tion was begetting in me irritation toward my peculiar 
 audience, which, evidently, did not regard himself as com- 
 petent to settle world-problems, and was inclined to in- 
 terest himself in the fate of a man rather than in the fates 
 of humanity. 
 
 115 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 Konovaloff, without waiting for my answer, took the 
 book in his hands, carefully turned it over, opened it, shut 
 it, and putting it back in its place, heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 "How wonderful it all is, oh Lord! " he said, in an under- 
 tone ..." A man has written a book . . . just 
 paper and a few little dots, that's all. ... He wrote 
 it . . . and . . . is he dead?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered curtly. 
 
 At that time, I could not endure philosophy, and still less 
 metaphysics; but Konovaloif, without inquiring as to my 
 tastes, went on: 
 
 " He is dead, but the book remains, and people read it. 
 A man looks at it with his eyes, and utters various words. 
 And you listen, and understand: folks have lived in the 
 world — Pila, and Sysoika and Aproska. . . . And you 
 feel sorry for those folks, although you never have seen 
 them, and they are nothing whatever to you! There may 
 be thousands of live folks just like them walking along the 
 street, and you see them, but you don't know anything 
 about them . . . and you care nothing about them 
 . . . they walk on, and on. . . . But in the book 
 there are none of them . . . still, you are so sorry 
 for them that your very heart aches. . . . How can a 
 man understand that? — and so the author got no reward, 
 and is dead? Nothing happened to him?" 
 
 I fairly exploded with rage. I told him all about the 
 rewards of authors . . . 
 
 Konovaloff listened to me, his eyes starting from their 
 sockets with amazement, as he smacked his lips with com- 
 passion. 
 
 " A pretty state of things! " he sighed, from a full breast, 
 and gnawing his left mustache, he hung his head with 
 sorrow. 
 
 116 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 Then I began tp talk about the fatal influence of the 
 dram-shop on the life of the Russian literary man, about 
 the great and genuine talents which had gone to perdition 
 through Todka — the only consolation of their hard-working 
 lives. 
 
 " But is it possible that such men driak ? " Konovaloff 
 asked me, in a whisper. Distrust of me, together with 
 terror, and pity for these people flashed in his widely- 
 opened eyes. — " They drink! How can they . . . 
 after they have written books, take to drink ? " 
 
 In my opinion, this was an irrelevant question, and I 
 made no reply to it. 
 
 " Of course, they do it afterwards, . . ." Konovaloff 
 settled the point. — " Men live and watch life, and suck in 
 the bitterness of others' lives. They must have eyes of a 
 special sort. And hearts, also. . . . They gaze at life, 
 and grow sad. . . . And they pour out their grief in 
 their books — . . . . But this does them no good be- 
 cause their hearts are touched — and you can't burn grief 
 out of that even with fire ... all that is left for them 
 to do, is to extinguish it with vodka. Well, and so they 
 drink. . . . Have I got that right? " 
 
 I agreed with him, and this seemed to give him courage. 
 
 " Well, and in all justice," — he continued, to develop the 
 psychology of authors, — " they ought to be distinguished 
 for that. Isn't that so? Because they understand more 
 than others, and point out divers disorders to others. Now 
 take me, for instance, what am I? A barefooted, naked 
 tramp, ... a drunkard and a crack-brained fellow. 
 There is no justification for my Ufe. Why do I live on the 
 earth, and to whom on earth is my life of any use, if you 
 stop to consider it? I have no home of my own, no wife, 
 no children — and I don't even feel the want of any. I live 
 
 117 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 and grieve. . . . "WTiat about? I don't know. It's 
 somewhat as though my mother had brought me into the 
 world without something which all other people possess 
 . . . something which is more necessary than anything 
 else to a man. I have no inward guide to my path . . . 
 do you understand? How shall I express it? I haven't 
 got the right sort of spark ... or force, or whatever 
 it is, in my soul. Well, some piece or other has been left 
 out of me — and that's all there is to it! You understand? 
 So I live along, and search for that missing piece, and 
 grieve for it, but what it is — is more than I know 
 myself . . ." 
 
 "Why do you say this?" I asked. 
 
 He gazed at me, holding his hand to his head the while, 
 and a powerful effort was written on his face — the labor 
 of a thought which is seeking for itself a form. 
 
 " Why ? Because — of the disorder of life. 
 That is to say . . . here am I Uving on, we'll say, 
 and there's no place for me to go . . . nothing that I 
 can hang on to . . . and such a life is confusion." 
 
 " Well, and what comes next? " I pursued my inquiries 
 as to the connection between him and authors, which was 
 incomprehensible to me. 
 
 "What next? . . . That's what I can't tell you. 
 . . . But this is what I think, that if some writer would 
 cast an eye on me, then ... he might be able to ex- 
 plain my life to me . . . couldn't he? What do you 
 think about it? " 
 
 I thought I was capable myself of explaining his life to 
 him, and immediately set about this task, which, in my 
 opinion, was easy and clear. I began to discourse about 
 conditions and surroundings, about inequality in general, 
 about people who are the victims of life, and people who are 
 life's priests. 
 
 118 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 Konovaloff listened attentively. He sat opposite me, 
 with his cheek resting on his hand, and his large blue 
 eyes widely opened, thoughtful and intelligent, gradually 
 clouded over, as with a thin mist, while the folds lay more 
 sharply across his forehead, and he seemed to be holding 
 his breath, all absorbed as he was in his desire to compre- 
 hend my remarks. 
 
 All this was very flattering to me. With fervor I de- 
 picted to him his life, and demonstrated to him, that he was 
 not to blame for being what he was; that is to say, that he, 
 as a fact, was perfectly logical and quite regularly founded 
 on a long series of premises from the distant past. He was 
 the mournful victim of conditions, a being equal in rights 
 with all men, by his very nature, and reduced by a long 
 line of historical injustices to the degree of a social cipher. 
 I wound up my explanation with the remark, which I had 
 already made several times: 
 
 " You have nothing to blame yourself for. , . , You 
 have been wronged . . ." 
 
 He maintained silence, never taking his eyes from me; 
 I beheld a brilliant, kindly smile dawn in them, and waited, 
 with impatience, to see how he would reply to my speech. 
 
 The smile played over his lips, now he laughed affec- 
 tionately, and reaching toward me with a soft, feminine 
 movement, he laid his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " How easily you talk about all that, brother! Only, 
 whence comes your knowledge of all these matters ? Is it all 
 from books? But you have read a great lot of them, evi- 
 dently — of books! Ekh, if I could only read as many! But 
 the chief point is — that you speak very compassionately. 
 This is the first time I have ever heard such a speech. It's 
 wonderful! Everybody accuses his neighbor of his bad 
 luck, but you accuse life, the whole order of things. Ac- 
 US 
 
KonovalofF 
 
 cording to you it appears that a man Is not to blame, him- 
 self, for anything whatever, but it is written in his fate 
 that he is to be a tramp — well, and so he is a tramp, and 
 it's very queer about prisoners, too: they steal because they 
 have no work, but must eat. . . . How pitiful all that 
 is, according to your showing! You have a weak heart, 
 evidently! " 
 
 " Wait a bit! " — said I, " do you agree with me? Have 
 I spoken truly? " 
 
 " You know best whether it is true or not — ^you can read 
 and write. . . . It is true, I suppose, if you apply it 
 to others. . . . But as for me . . ." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Well, I'm a special article. . . . Who's to blame 
 if I drink? Pavelka, my brother, doesn't drink, — ^he has 
 a bakery of his own in Perm. But here am I — ^I'm as good 
 a workman as he is — but I'm a vagrant and a drunkard, 
 and I have no longer any standing or position in life. . . 
 Yet we are the children of one mother. He is younger 
 than I am. So it would appear that there is something 
 wrong about me. . . . That means, that I was not 
 born as a man should be bom. You say yourself, that all 
 men are equals: a man is born, he lives out his appointed 
 time, then he dies! But I'm on a separate path. . . . 
 And I'm not the only one — there are a lot of us like that. 
 We must be peeuUar people, and don't fit into any rule. 
 We need a special account . . . and special laws . . . 
 very strict laws, — ^to exterminate us out of life! For we are 
 of no use, and we take up room in it, and stand in the way 
 of other folks. . . . Who is to blame for us? — We 
 are, ourselves — before ourselves and before life. . . . 
 Because we have no desire to live, and we have no feeling 
 toward ourselves. . . . Our mothers begot us in an 
 unlucky hour — ^that's where the trouble lies . . ." 
 
 180 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 I was overwhelmed by this unexpected confutation of 
 my deductions. . . . He — ^that big man with the clear 
 eyes of a child — set himself apart from life in the ranks 
 of the men who are useless in it, and therefore subject to 
 extermination, with so light a spirit, with such laughing 
 sadness, that I was positively stunned by his self-abasement, 
 which I had never, up to that moment, beheld in any mem- 
 ber of the bare-foot brigade, who, as a whole, are beings torn 
 loose from everything, hostile to everything, and ready to 
 try the force of their exasperated scepticism on everyone. 
 . . . I had encountered only men who threw the blame 
 on everything and complained of everything, persistently 
 thrusting themselves aside from the series of obvious facts 
 which obstinately confuted their personal infallibility, and 
 who always cast the responsibility of their bad luck on 
 tacjturn Fate^^ on wicked people. _. . . KonovalofE did 
 not blame Fate, and uttered not one word about people. 
 He alone was to blame for all the disorder of his individual 
 life, and the more persistently I endeavored to prove to him 
 that he was " the victim of circumstances and conditions," 
 the more persistently did he argue with me as to his own 
 guilt toward himself and toward life for his mournful 
 lot. . . . This was original, and it enraged me. But 
 he experienced satisfaction in scourging himself; it was 
 with satisfaction and nothing else that his eyes beamed, 
 when he shouted at me, in a ringing baritone voice: 
 
 " Every man is the master of himself, and no one is to 
 blame if I am a scoundrel! " 
 
 In the mouth of an educated man, such remarks would 
 not have surprised me, for there is no ulcer which cannot 
 be found in the tangled and complicated psychical organism 
 called " the^ intelligent man." But from the lips of a 
 tramp, although^'he was an intelligent man, amid the 
 
 121 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 scorned of fate, the naked, hungry and vicious creatures 
 half men, half beasts, who fill the filthy dens of the towns, 
 — from the lips of a tramp it was strange to hear these re- 
 marks. I was forced to the conclusion that Konovdloff 
 really was — a special article, — ^but I did not wish to 
 admit it. 
 
 From the inner point of view, Konovaloff was a typical 
 representative, down to the most petty detail, of the 
 " golden horde "; * but, alas! the longer I inspected him, 
 the more convinced did I become that I had to deal with a 
 variety which infringed upon my idea as to people who 
 ought, long ago, to have been accounted a class, and who 
 thoroughly merit attention, as hungering and thirsting 
 in a powerful degree, as very malicious and far from 
 stupid . . . 
 
 Our dispute waxed hotter and hotter. 
 
 "But just wait," I shouted; "how can a man stand steady 
 on his feet if divers obscure powers press upon him from all 
 sides?" 
 
 " Lean the harder! " cried my opponent loudly, growing 
 warm, and flashing his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, but what is one to lean against? " 
 
 " Find a point of support for yourself, and lean on it! " 
 
 "And why haven't you done that?" 
 
 "Why, don't I tell you, you queer man, that I myself 
 am to blame for my own life! ... I didn't find my 
 point of support! I'm seeking it, I'm pining for it — ^but 
 I can't find it! " 
 
 But we were obliged to look after the bread, so we set to 
 work, each continuing to demonstrate to the other the truth 
 of his views. As a matter of course, neither of us proved 
 
 * An organized band of high-grade thieves. — Translator. 
 123 
 
Konovaloflf 
 
 anything, and when we had finished attending to th« oven, 
 we lay down to sleep. 
 
 Konovdloff stretched himself out on the floor of the 
 bakery, and soon fell asleep. I lay on the sacks of flour, 
 and looked down from above upon his powerful, bearded 
 figure, stretched out, in the fashion of an epic hero, on a 
 mat which had been thrown down near the bin. There 
 was an odor of hot bread, of fermented dough, of carbonic 
 acid gas. . . . The day dawned, and the gray sky 
 peeped through the panes of the windows, which were 
 draped in shrouds of flour-dust. A peasant's cart rumbled 
 past, and the shepherd blew his horn to assemble his flock. 
 
 Konovaloff snored. I watched his broad breast rise and 
 fall, and thought over various methods of converting him, 
 as speedily as possible, to my belief, but could hit upon 
 nothing suitable, and fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning, he and I rose, set the dough to rise, 
 washed ourselves and sat down on the bin to drink tea. 
 
 " Say, have you got a little book? " inquired Konovaloff. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Will you read it to me? " 
 
 "All right." 
 
 " That's good! Do. you know what? I'll live here a 
 month, I'll get some money from the boss, and I'll give you 
 half of it! " 
 
 " What for? " 
 
 "Buy some little books. . . . Buy some for your- 
 self, after your own taste, and buy me some . . . 
 about a couple. I want some about the peasants. After 
 the fashion of Pil4 and Sysoika. . . . And let them be 
 written pathetically, you know, not to make fun of folki. 
 . . . There are some which are downright trash I Pan- 
 filka and Fildtka — even with a picture in the front — ^non- 
 133 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 sense. Bureaucrats, various tales. I don't like all that 
 sort of thing. I didn't know there were any like that one 
 you have." 
 
 "Do you want one about Stenka Kazin?" 
 
 "About Stenka? . . . Is it good?" 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 " Fetch it along! " 
 
 And soon I was reading aloud to him N. Kostomaroff's 
 " The Eevolt of Stenka Eazin." At first, this talented 
 monograph, which is almost an epic poem, did not please 
 my bearded hearer. 
 
 "Why aren't there any conversations in it?" he asked, 
 peeping into the book. And when I explained the reason, 
 he went so far as to yawn, and tried to hide the yawn, but 
 did not succeed, and he said to me, in a confused and guilty 
 way: 
 
 "Eead away . . . never mind. I didn't mean 
 to . . ." 
 
 I was pleased with his delicate tact, and pretended not 
 to have observed anything, and that I did not, in the least, 
 understand what he was talking about. 
 
 But in proportion as the historian depicted, \vith his 
 artistic brush, the figure of Stepan Timof eevitch, and " the 
 Prince of the Volga Volunteers" started out from the 
 pages of the book, Konovaloff became transformed. In the 
 beginning somewhat bored and indifferent, with eyes veiled 
 in indolent dreaminess, — he gradually and by degrees im- 
 perceptible to me, presented himself to me in an astonishing, 
 new form. As he sat on the bin opposite me, clasping his 
 knees in his arms, and with his head laid upon them in such 
 a way that his beard hid his legs, he stared at me with 
 greedy, strangely burning eyes from beneath his sternly 
 knit brows. There was not left in him a single trace of 
 
 124 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 that childlike ingenuousness which had always so surprised 
 me in him, and all that simplicity and feminine softness, 
 which accorded so well with his kindly blue eyes, were now 
 darkened and dried up, . . . had vanished some- 
 where. Something lion-like, fiery was contained in his 
 muscular figure, thus curled up in a ball. I stopped read- 
 ing and gazed at him. 
 
 " Eead away," — ^he said softly but impressively. 
 
 "What ails you?" 
 
 " Eead! " he repeated, and there was an accent of irrita- 
 tion as well as of entreaty in his tone. 
 
 I continued, casting an occasional glance at him, and 
 noting that he was becoming more and more inflamed. 
 Something emanated from him which excited and intox- 
 icated me — a sort of glowing mist. The book, also, exerted 
 its influence. . . . And thus it was in a state of ner- 
 vous tremor, full of foreboding of something unusual, that 
 I reached the point where Stenka was captured. 
 
 " They captured him! " roared KonovdlofE. 
 
 Pain, affront, wrath, readiness to rescue Stenka re- 
 sounded in his mighty exclamation. 
 
 The sweat started out on his brow, and his eyes widened 
 strangely. He sprang from the bin, tall, excited, halted in 
 front of me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said loudly 
 and hastily: 
 
 "Wait! Don't read! . . . Tell me, what's coming 
 next? No, stop, don't speak! Do they execute him? 
 Hey? Eead quick, Maxim! " 
 
 One might have thought that Konovaloff instead of 
 Frolka was Eazin's own brother. It seemed as though cer- 
 tain bonds of blood, unbroken and uncongealed for the 
 space of three centuries, united this tramp with Stenka, 
 and the tramp, with the full strength of his lively, mighty 
 
 135 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 body, -witli all the passion of his soul which was pining 
 without " a point of support," felt the anguish and wrath 
 of the free falcon who had been captured more than three 
 hundred years before. 
 
 "Do go on reading, for Christ's sake! " 
 
 I read on, aroused and deeply moved, conscious that my 
 heart was beating hard, and in company with Konovaloff, 
 living over again Stenka's anguish. And thus we came to 
 the tortures. 
 
 KonovalofE gnashed his teeth, and his blue eyes blazed 
 like live coals. He leaned over me from behind, and did 
 not take his eyes from the book, any more than I did. His 
 breath buzzed above my ears, and blew my hair into my 
 eyes. I shook my head to put it out of the way. Konova- 
 loff noticed this, and laid his heavy palm on my head. 
 
 " ' Then Eazin gnashed his teeth so hard, that he spat 
 them out on the floor, along with the blood . . .' " 
 
 "Enough! — Go to the devil!" shouted Konovaloff, and 
 snatching the book from my hand, he flung it on the floor 
 with all his might, and dropped down after it. 
 
 He wept, and, as he was ashamed of his tears, he bellowed 
 in a queer way, in order to keep from sobbing. He hid his 
 head on his knees, and cried, wiping his eyes on his dirty 
 ticking trousers. 
 
 I sat in front of him, on the bin, and did not know what 
 to say to console him. 
 
 " Maxim! " said Konovaloff, as he sat on the floor. " It's 
 awful ! PUa . . . Sysoika. And now Stenka . . . 
 isn't it? What a fate! . . . And how he spit out his 
 teeth! . . . didn't he?" 
 
 And he trembled all over with emotion. 
 
 He was particularly impressed with the teeth which 
 Stenka spit out, and he kept referring to tham, twitching 
 his shoulders with pain as he did so. 
 
 126 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 Both of us were like drunken men under the influence of 
 the harsh and poignant picture of the torture thus pre- 
 sented to us. 
 
 "Eead it to me again, do you hear?" Konoyalofi; en- 
 treated, picking up the book from the floor, and handing it 
 to me. — " And, see here now, show me the place where it 
 tells about the teeth? " 
 
 I showed him, and he riveted his eyes on the lines. 
 
 " So it is written : ' he spat out his teeth with the blood ?' 
 But the letters are just like all the other letters. . . . 
 Lord! How it hurt him, didn't it? Even his teeth, 
 . . . And what will there be at the end? The execu- 
 tion? Aha! Thank the Lord, they execute a man, all 
 the same! " 
 
 He expressed his joy over the execution with so much 
 passion, with so much satisfaction in his eyes, that I shud- 
 dered at that compassion which so violently desired death 
 for the tortured St6nka. 
 
 The whole of that day passed for us in a strange sort of 
 mist: we talked incessantly about St^nka, recalled his life, 
 the songs which had been composed about him, his tor- 
 ments. A couple of times KonovalofE began to sing 
 ballads, in a ringing baritone voice, and broke off suddenly. 
 
 He and I were closer friends from that day forth. 
 
 I read " The Eevolt of St6nka Eazin " to him several 
 times more, "Taras Biilba"* and "Poor People." f My 
 
 * N. V. Gogol's famous kazak epic. Taris Bulba is an imaginary 
 character. The book has been translated into English by the translator 
 of this book. 
 
 t F. M. Dostofeysky's famous first book. There have been several 
 translations. Makar Dy6vushkin and Varya are the principal — almost 
 the only — characters in " Poor People." 
 
 137 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 hearer was also greatly delighted with " Taras," but it could 
 not obscure the vivid impression made on him by Kosto- 
 maroff's book. Konovaloff did not understand Makar 
 Dyevushkin, and Varya. The language of Makar's letters 
 appealed to him ridiculous, and he bore himself sceptically 
 toward Varya. 
 
 "Just look at that, she's making up to the old man! 
 She's a sharp one! . . . And he . . . what a 
 blockhead he was! But see here, Maxim, drop that long- 
 drawn-out thing. What is there to it? He's after her, 
 and she's after him. . . . They ruined a lot of paper 
 . . . well, off with them to the pigs on the farm! It's 
 neither pitiful nor funny: what was it written for?" 
 
 I reminded him of the story about the Peasants of Podli- 
 povo, but he did not agree with me. 
 
 " Pila and Sysoika — that's another pattern entirely ! 
 They are live people, they live and struggle . . . but 
 what are these? They write letters — ^they're tiresome! 
 They're not even human beings, but just so-so — a mere in- 
 vention. Now if you were to put Taras and Stenka along- 
 side of them . . . Heavens! what feats they would 
 have performed! Then Pila and Sysoika would have . . . 
 plucked up some spunk, I rather think? " 
 
 He had no clear conception of time, and in his imagina- 
 tion, all his beloved heroes existed contemporaneously, only 
 — ^two of them dwelt in Usolye, one among the "top- 
 knots,"* on the Volga. ... I had great difficulty in 
 
 * The popular nickname, among the Great Russians, for the Little 
 Eussians, — kokhly. Possibly the term is derived from the fact that 
 the famous kazaks of the TJkraina (Little Russia), known to history as 
 the Zapor6zhian kazaks — or the kazaks dwelling " below the rapids " 
 of the Dnyfepr river — shaved their heads, and wore only a top-knot of 
 hair. 
 
 138 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 convincing him, that, had Pila and Sysoika " gone down," 
 following the Kama down-stream, they would not have met 
 Stenka, and that if Stenka had "kept on through the 
 kazaks of the Don and the Top-knots," he would not have 
 found Biilba there.* 
 
 KonovalofE was chagrined when he came to understand 
 the matter. I tried to treat him to the history of Puga- 
 tchoff's revolt,! as I was desirous of observing how he would 
 bear himself toward Emelka. Konovaloff rejected Puga- 
 tchoff. 
 
 "Akh, the branded rascal — ^just look at him! He shel- 
 tered himself under the Tzar's name, and got up a revolu- 
 tion. . . . How many folks he ruined, the dog! . . . 
 Stenka? — ^that's quite another matter, brother. But Puga- 
 tchoff, was just a nit, and nothing more. A mighty im- 
 portant mess of victuals, truly! Aren't there any little 
 books in the style of Stenka? Hunt them up . . . 
 But fling away that calf of a Makdr — he isn't interesting. 
 You'd better read over again, how they executed St6nka." 
 
 On holidays Konovdloff and I went off to the river, or 
 the meadows. We took with us a little vodka, some bread, 
 a book, and set off early in the morning " for the free air," 
 as Konovaloff called these excursions. 
 
 * Stenka Bazin, a, kazak of the Don, turned pirate, ravaged the 
 Caspian Sea, the shores of Persia, and the V61ga, capturing towns and 
 stirring up a revolt against the government. He was executed in 
 Moscow, in 1671. He is famous, not only in history, but also in 
 legends, in Epic Songs and in ballads. 
 
 t Emelyan Fugatch6ff, a kazak deserter and Old Ritualist (1773), 
 gave himself out as the Emperor Peter III. With the avowed inten- 
 tion of marching to St. Petersburg, deposing " his wife " (the Empress 
 Katherine II.), and placing " his son " (afterwards the Emperor Paul I.) 
 on the throne, he raised a serious revolt in the V61ga provinces. It 
 was put down, with difficulty, by troops, and Pugatch6fE was captured 
 and executed. — Translator. 
 
 139 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 We were especially fond of going to " the glass factory." 
 For some reason or other, this name had been given to a 
 building which stood at a short distance from the town, in 
 the fields. It was a three-story, stone house, with a ruined 
 roof and broken window-frames, and cellars which were 
 filled, all sumnler long, with liquid, foul-smelling mud. 
 Greenish-gray in hue, half-ruined, as though it were sink- 
 ing into the earth, it gazed from the fields at the town with 
 the dark eye-sockets of its distorted windows, and seemed 
 a bhnd singer of religious ballads, hardly treated by Fate, 
 who had been ejected from the city limits, and was in a 
 very pitiful and dying condition. Year after year, the 
 water, at its flood, undermined this house, but it stood in- 
 destructibly firm; covered all over, from roof to foundation, 
 with a green crust of mould, guarded by puddles against 
 frequent visits from the police, — ^it stood on, and, although 
 it had no roof, it afforded shelter to various shady and 
 homeless individuals. 
 
 There were always a great many of them in it; tattered, 
 half-starved, afraid of the light of the sun, they dwelt in 
 this ruin like owls, and Konovaloff and I were always wel- 
 come guests among them, because both he and I, when we 
 left the bakery, each took with us a loaf of bread, and on 
 our way, purchased a measure of vodka, and a whole tray 
 of " hot-stuff " — liver, lights, heart and tripe. At a cost of 
 two or three rubles we provided a very filling treat for " the 
 glass folks," as Konovaloff called them. 
 
 They repaid us for these treats by stories, wherein ter- 
 rible, soul-rending truth was fantastically intermingled 
 with the most ingenuous falsehood. Every tale presented 
 itself to us like a bit of lace, in which the black threads pre- 
 dominated — they represented the truth; — ^and in which 
 threads of brilliant hues were to be met with — representing 
 
 130 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 the falsehood. This lace fell over brain and heart, and 
 oppressed them both painfvilly, compressing them with its 
 cruel, torturing varied pattern. " The glass folks " loved 
 us, after their own fashion, and almost always were my 
 attentive auditors. One day I read to them: "For whom/ 
 is Life in Eussia Good? " *, and together with homeria 
 laughter, I heard from them many valuable opinions on 
 that subject. 
 
 Every man, who has fought with life, who has been van- 
 quished by it, and who is suffering in the pitiless captivity 
 of its mire, is more of a philosopher than even Schopenhauer 
 himself, because an abstract thought never moulds itself 
 in such an accurate and picturesque form, as does the 
 thought which is directly squeezed out of a man by suffer- 
 ing. The knowledge of life possessed by these people whom 
 life had flung overboard, astonished me by its profundity, 
 and I listened eagerly to their stories, while Konovaloff 
 listened to them for the purpose of arguing against the 
 philosophy of the story-teller, and of dragging me into a 
 dispute with himself. 
 
 After listening to a story of life and fall, narrated by 
 some fantastically-unclothed fellow, with the physiognomy 
 of a man, with whom one must be strictly on his guard, — 
 after listening to such a story, which always bore the char- 
 acter of a justificatory and defensive statement, Konovaloff 
 smiled thoughtfully and shook his head negatively. This 
 was noticed because it was done openly. 
 
 " Don't you believe me, Lesa? " exclaimed the story- 
 teller in distress. 
 
 " Yes, I believe you . . . How is it possible not to 
 
 believe a man? And even if you perceive that he is lying, 
 
 believe him, that is to say, listen, and try to understand 
 
 * By Nekrascff. — Translator. 
 
 181 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 why he lies? Sometimes a lie shows up a man better than 
 the truth does. . . . And besides, what truth can any 
 of us tell about ourselves? The nastiest. . . . But 
 one can invent fine things. . . . Isn't that true? " 
 
 "Yes . . ." assented the story-teller. ..." But 
 what were you shaking your head at? " 
 
 "What about? Because you reason irregularly. . . . 
 You tell your story in such a way that a fellow is bound to 
 understand that you yourself didn't make your life what it 
 is, but that your neighbors and various passers-by made it. 
 But where were you all that time? And why didn't you 
 offer any resistance to your fate? And the way it turns out 
 is, that we all of us complain about people, yet we are peo- 
 ple ourselves, and, of course, others may, also, complain of 
 us. Other people interfere with our lives — and that means 
 that we, also, have interfered with other people's lives, isn't 
 that so? Well, then, how is that to be explained?" 
 
 " Such a life must be constructed so that everyone will 
 have plenty of room in it, and no one will interfere with 
 the rest," they sententiously propounded to Konovaloff in 
 argument. 
 
 "But who ought to construct life?" he retorted tri- 
 umphantly, and, fearing that they would prove too sharp 
 for him in answering his question, he immediately answered 
 it himself: — " We! We ourselves! And how shall we con- 
 struct life, if we don't understand it, and our life has not 
 been a success? So it turns out, brethren, that our sole 
 prop is — ourselves! Well, and we all know what we are 
 like . . ." 
 
 They replied to him, defending themselves, but he ob- 
 stinately repeated his opinion : " no one was in anywise to 
 blame concerning them, but each one of us is responsible to 
 himself for himself." 
 
 133 
 
Konov^loff 
 
 It was extremely difficult to drive him from his stand on 
 this proposition, and it was extremely difficult for these 
 people to master his point of view. On the one hand, in 
 his presentation of the matter, they appeared fully com- 
 petent to construct a free life; on the other — ^they appeared 
 as weak, puny, decidedly incapable of anything, except 
 making complaints of one another. 
 
 It very frequently happened that these discussions, be- 
 gun at mid-day, ended about midnight, and Konovaloff 
 and I returned from " the glass folks " through the dark- 
 ness and in mud up to our knees. 
 
 One day we came near being drowned in a quagmire; on 
 another, we fell into the hands of the police round-up, and 
 spent the night in the station-house, together with a couple 
 of score of assorted friends from the " glass factory," who 
 turned out to be suspicious characters, from the point of , 
 view of the police. Sometimes we did not care to philoso- 
 phize, and then we went far a-field, in the meadows beyond^ 
 the river, where there were tiny lakes, abounding in small 
 fish, which entered them at the season of flood-water. 
 Among the bushes, on the shore of one of these lakes, we 
 lighted a bonfire, which we required merely for the purpose 
 of augmenting the beauty of the surroundings, and read a 
 book, or talked about life. And sometimes Konovaloff 
 would meditatively suggest: 
 
 " Maxim! Let's stare at the sky! " 
 
 We lay down on our backs, and gazed at the fathomless 
 blue abyss above us. At first, we heard the rustle of wings 
 around us, and the plashing of the water in the lake, we 
 felt the earth under us, and around us everything that was 
 there at the moment. . . . Later on, the blue sky 
 seemed to be gradually drawing us toward it, enfolded our 
 consciousness in mist, we lost the sensation of existence, 
 
 133 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 and, as though tearing ourselves away from the earth, we 
 seemed to be floating in the waste expanse of the heavens, 
 finding ourselves in a semi-conscious, contemplative condi- 
 tion, and endeavoring not to disturb it either by a word or 
 a movement. 
 
 Thus we would lie for several hours at a stretch, and re- 
 turn home to our work, renewed in body and soul, and re- 
 freshed by this union with Nature. 
 
 Konovaloff loved Nature with a profound, inexpressible 
 love, which was indicated only by the soft gleam of his eyes, 
 and always, when he was in the fields or on the river, he was 
 completely permeated by a certain pacifically-affectionate 
 mood, which still further heightened his resemblance to a 
 little child. Sometimes he said, with a deep sigh, as he 
 gazed at the sky: 
 
 "Ekh . . . How good it is! " 
 
 And in this exclamation there was always more meaning 
 and feeling than in the rhetorical figures of many poets, who 
 go into raptures more for the sake of maintaining their 
 reputations as persons with an exquisite sense of the beau- 
 tiful, than out of genuine adoration before the unspeakably 
 caressing beauty of Nature . . . 
 
 Like everything else, poetry loses its holy beauty and 
 directness, when it is turned into a profession. 
 
 Two months passed, day by day, in the course of which 
 Konovaloff and I discussed many things and read a great 
 deal. I read the " Eevolt of Stenka " so often to him, that 
 he could narrate it fluently, in his own words, page after 
 page, from beginning to end. 
 
 This book had become for him what a fairy-tale some- 
 times becomes to an impressionable child. He called the ob- 
 jects with which he had to deal by the names of its heroes. 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 and when, one day, one of the bread-moulds fell from the 
 shelf and broke, he exclaimed, sadly and angrily: 
 
 " Akh you, voevoda! " * 
 
 Unsuccessful bread he nicknamed "Frolka," the yeast 
 he christened " Stenka's thoughts "; Stenka himself was 
 the synonym for everything exceptional, huge, unhappy, 
 unsuccessful. 
 
 During all this time he hardly alluded to Kapitolina, 
 whose letter I had read, and to whom I had composed a 
 reply, on the first day of our acquaintance. 
 
 I knew that Konovaloff had sent her money, to the care 
 of a certain Philip, with a request that the latter would act 
 as surety for her to the police, but no answer arrived, either 
 from Philip or from the girl. -A. 
 
 And all of a sudden, one evening when Konovaloff and 
 I were preparing to place the bread in the oven, the door 
 of the bakery opened, and from out of the darkness of the 
 damp ante-room a low-pitched, feminine voice, which was 
 both timid and irritable, exclaimed: 
 
 " Excuse me . . ." 
 
 "Whom do you want?" I inquired, while Konovdloff, 
 dropping the shovel at his feet, plucked at his beard in 
 confusion. 
 
 "Does baker Konovdloff work here?" 
 
 She now stood on the threshold, and the light of the 
 hanging-lamp fell directly upon her head — on her white 
 woollen kerchief. From beneath the kerchief gazed a 
 round, pretty, snub-nosed little face, with plump cheeks, 
 and dimples in them from the smile of her full, red lips. 
 
 " Yes! " I answered her. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" Konovaloff exulted suddenly and very 
 
 * Sometimes used to mean : " the governor of a province or town "; 
 sometimes, " the commander of an army." — TrcmslcUor. 
 
 136 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 noisily, it seemed, throwing aside his shovel, and hastening 
 forward, with huge strides, toward the visitor. 
 
 " Sashenka! " she sighed deeply, as she advanced to meet 
 him. 
 
 They embraced, Konovaloff bending low to reach her. 
 
 "Well, what now? How did yon get here? Have you 
 been here long? Hey? So it's you! Are you free? That's 
 good! Now do you see? I told you . . . your way is 
 open before you agaiu! Go ahead boldly! " — Konovaloff 
 hastily explained himself to her, as he still stood on the 
 threshold, without removing his arms, which encircled her 
 neck and waist. * 
 
 " Maxim . . . you fight it out alone to-day, my boy, 
 while I attend to the ladies' department. . . . Where 
 are you stopping, Kapa? " 
 
 " I came straight here to you ..." 
 
 "-He-e-ere? You can't possibly stay here — we bake 
 bread here, and . . . it's utterly impossible! Our 
 boss is the strictest sort of a man. I must settle you for 
 the night somewhere ... in lodgings, say. Come 
 on!" 
 
 And they departed. I remained to struggle with the 
 bread, and had no expectation of seeing Konovaloff before 
 the next morning; but, to my no small surprise, he made 
 his appearance three hours later. My astonishment was 
 still further increased, when, on glancing at him, with the 
 anticipation of seeing the radiance of Joy in his face, I per- 
 ceived that it was merely cross, bored, and fatigued. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" I asked, intensely in- 
 terested in this mood of my friend, which was so unsuited 
 to the event. 
 
 " Nothing," he replied dejectedly, and, after a pause, he 
 spat with considerable ferocity. 
 
 136 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 "'No, but all the same? . . ."I persisted. 
 
 "Well, what business is it of yours?" he retorted 
 wearily, stretching himself at full length on the bin. — 
 " All the same ... all the same. . . . All the 
 same — she's a woman! There you have the whole thing! " 
 
 I had great difficulty in getting an explanation out of 
 him, and, at last, he gave it to me, approximately in the 
 following words: 
 
 " I say^-she's a woman! And if I hadn't been a fool, 
 nothing would have come of it. You understand? Well 
 . . . Now you say: a woman is also a human being! 
 Of course, she walks on her hind paws, doesn't eat grass, 
 talks with words, laughs ... in short, she isn't a 
 beast. But, all the same, she's no company for the likes of 
 us men. . . . Ye-es! Why? Well ... I don't 
 know! I feel that she doesn't fit in, but why — is more 
 than I can understand. . . . Now, there she — Kapi- 
 tolina, — this is the line she takes up: — ' I want to live with 
 you ' — ^that means with me — ' as your wife. I want,' says 
 she, 'to be your watch-dog. . . .' It's perfectly ab- 
 surd! ' Come, now, my dear girl,' says I, ' you're a fool; 
 just consider, what will it be like to live with me? In 
 the first place, there's my tippling; in the second place, I 
 have no home; in the third, I am a vagabond, and I can't 
 live in one place . . .' and so forth and so on, with a 
 lot more, says I to her. But she — doesn't care a fig about 
 my tippling. ' All men who work at trades are bitter 
 drunkards,' says she, ' yet they have wives; you'll get a 
 house,' says she, 'when you have a wife, and then you 
 won't run off anywhere. . . .' Says I: ' Kapa, I can't 
 possibly bring myself to do it, because I know that I don't, 
 understand how to lead such a life, and I can't learn how/ 
 And says she, ' Then I'll jump into the river! ' And says I 
 
 137 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 to her: 'You fEo-oo-oU!' Then she took to lashing me 
 with her tongue, and didn't she let it loose! ' Akh, you 
 meddler, you brazen-faced monster, you deceiver, you long- 
 legged devil! ' says she. . . . And she started in to 
 rail at me, and rail . . . she simply seemed to he in 
 such a rage at me, that I came near taking to my heels. 
 Then she began to cry. She cried and upbraided me: ' Why 
 did you take me out of that place,' says she, ' if you didn't 
 want me? Why did you lure me away from that place,' 
 says she, ' and where am I to go now? ' says she. ' You 
 red-headed fool,' says she. . . . Faugh! Well, and 
 what am I to do with her now? " 
 
 " Well, and why did you get her away from that place, 
 as a matter of fact?" I inquired. 
 
 "Why? What a queer fellow you are! Because I was 
 sorry for her, apparently! You see, a man gets stuck in 
 the mud . . . and he feels sorry for every passer-by. 
 But set up a wife, and all the rest of it . . . not much! 
 I won't consent to that. What sort of a family man would 
 I make? And if I could stick to that, I would have mar- 
 ried long ago. What good chances I have had! I might 
 have married money . . and all that sort of thing. But 
 if this sort of thing is beyond my power, how am I to do 
 it? She's crying . . . that's not a good thing . . . 
 of course. . . . But what am I to do about it? I 
 can't help it! " 
 
 He went so far as to shake his head in confirmation of 
 his plaintive "I can't." He rose from the bin, and 
 ruffling his beard and his hair with both hands, he began 
 to stride about the bakery with drooping head, and spitting 
 in disgust. 
 
 "Maxim!" he began, in an entreating, disconcerted 
 way, " couldn't you go to her, sort of tell her the why and 
 how of it . . . hey ? Do go, that's a good fellow ! " 
 
 138 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " What am I to say to her? " 
 
 " Tell her the whole truth! — Say * He just can't do it. 
 It isn't the right thihg for him to do . . .' And see 
 here, this is what you can say to her . . . tell her 
 . . . ' there is something the matter with him.' " 
 
 " Is that the truth? " I laughed. 
 
 " We-ell ... no, it isn't the truth. ... But 
 it's a good excuse, isn't it? Akh, devil take you! What 
 a mess a wife is! Isn't that so? And I never thought of 
 such a thing, not even one little minute. Come, now, what 
 am I to do with a wife? " 
 
 He flourished his hands with so much perplexity and ter- 
 ror as he said this, that it was clear he absolutely did not 
 know what to do with a wife! And, despite the comicality 
 of his statement of this whole affair, its dramatic side 
 made me do some hard thinking over the situation of my 
 comrade and of this girl. Meanwhile, he continued to stalk 
 about the bakery, and talk to himself, as it were. 
 
 " And she doesn't please me now, it's awful how repul- 
 sive she is to me! She's just sucking me in, and dragging 
 me down somewhere, exactly like a bottomless bog. A 
 nice husband you've picked out for yourself! You're not 
 very clever, but you're a crafty girl." 
 
 This was the instinct of the vagabond beginning to speak 
 in him, aroused by the feeling of eternal striving after his 
 freedom, which had been assailed. 
 
 " No, you won't catch me with that sort of worm, I'm 
 too big a fish for that! " he exclaimed vauntingly. — " This 
 is the way I'll take it, yes . . . and, after all, what of 
 it?" — And, coming to a halt in the middle of the bakery, 
 he sighed, and fell into thought. I watched the play of 
 expression on his excited countenance, and tried to divine 
 what conclusion he had arrived at. 
 
 139 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 "Maxim! Hey, there, let's be off for the Kuban! " 
 
 I had not expected this. I had certain literary — peda- 
 gogical designs on him: I cherished the hope of teaching 
 him to read and write, and of imparting to him all that I 
 knew myself at that time. It would have been curious to 
 observe how this experiment would turn out. . . . He 
 had given me his word not to move from the spot for the 
 whole summer; this had lightened my task, and now, all 
 of a sudden . . . 
 
 "Now you are talking nonsense! " I said to him, some- 
 what disconcerted. 
 
 " Well, what else is there for me to do ? " he cried. 
 
 I began to tell him that, in all probability, Kapitolina's 
 designs on him were not so decidedly serious as he im- 
 agined, and that he must watch and wait. 
 
 And, as it turned out, he had not so very long to wait. 
 
 We were sitting on the floor, with our backs to the win- 
 dows, and chatting. It was almost midnight, and an hour 
 and a half or two hours had elapsed since Konovaloff's re- 
 turn. All at once, the crash of breaking glass rang out be- 
 hind us, and a pretty heavy stone thundered noisily down 
 upon the floor beside us. We both sprang to our feet in 
 affright, and rushed to the window. 
 
 " I missed flre! " screamed a shrill voice through the 
 opening. — "My aim was bad! If it hadn't been for 
 that . . ." 
 
 " C-cco-ome 'long! " bellowed a flerce bass voice. — 
 "C-cco-ome 'l-Uong, and I'U settle him . . . later 
 on!" 
 
 A despairing, hysterical, and drunken laugh, shrill and 
 nerve-splitting, floated in from the street through the shat- 
 tered window. 
 
 "It's she!" said Konovaloff, sorrowfully. 
 
 140 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 All I had been able to descry, so far, was a pair of legs 
 hanging from the sidewalk into the opening before the 
 window. There they dangled and bobbed about in a queer 
 fashion, the heels striking against the brick wall, as though 
 in search of a support. 
 
 " C-co-ome 'long, now! " jabbered the fierce bass voice. 
 
 " Let me go! Don't drag me, give me a chance to ease 
 my heart. Good-bye, Sashka! Good-bye . . ." An 
 unprintable curse followed these words. 
 
 On approaching closer to the window, I caught sight of 
 Kapitolina. Bending down very low, with her hands 
 propped on the sidewalk, she was trying to look into the 
 bakery, and her dishevelled hair lay in disorder over her 
 shoulders and bosom. The white kerchief was pushed on 
 one side, the bodice of her gown was torn. Kapitolina was 
 horribly drunk, and was reeling from side to side, hiccough- 
 ing, cursing, screaming hysterically, trembling all over, her 
 garments all dishevelled, her face red, intoxicated, drenched 
 with tears. 
 
 Over her leaned the tall figure of a man, and he, resting 
 one hand on her shoulder, and the other against the wall 
 of the house, kept on roaring: 
 
 " C-cco-ome 'long! "... 
 
 " Sashka! You have ruined me . . . remember 
 that! Curse you, you red-headed devil! May you never 
 behold an hour of God's sunshine! I did hope ... I 
 should reform . . . you jeered at me, you gallow's- 
 bird ... all right! Let's make up! Ah! . . . 
 He has hid himself! Shame on you, you cursed ugly mug! 
 . . . Sasha . . . dearest . . ." 
 
 "I haven't hid myself," said Konovaloff, in a deep, 
 thick voice, approaching the window and climbing up on 
 a bin. — " I'm not hiding . . . but there's no use in 
 
 141 
 
Konoviloflf 
 
 your going on like this ... I certainly meant kindly 
 by you; it will be a good thing, I thought, but you have 
 rushed off wildly, in the most utterly absurd way . . ." 
 
 "Sashka! Can you kill me?" 
 
 " Why did you get drunk? Don't you know what would 
 have happened . . . to-morrow ? " ... 
 
 "Sashka! Sashka! Drown me! " 
 
 " Sto-o-op that ! C-eo-ome 'long ! " 
 
 " You scound-rrrel! Why did you pretend to be a good 
 man?" 
 
 "What's all this noise, hey? Who are you? " 
 
 The whistle of the night-watchman interposed in this 
 dialogue, drowned it, then subsided. 
 
 " Why did I trust you, you devil! . . ." sobbed the 
 girl under the window. 
 
 Then her legs suddenly quivered, flashed upward in 
 haste, and vanished in the gloom. A dull sound of voices 
 and uproar rang out. 
 
 " I won't go to the station-house! S4-asha! " shrieked 
 the girl plaintively. 
 
 Feet trampled noisily along the pavement. 
 
 Whistles, a dull roaring, yells. 
 
 " Sa-asha! Dear man! " 
 
 It appeared as though someone were being mercilessly 
 tortured. . . . All these noises retreated from us, 
 grew fainter, duller, and died away, like a nightmare. 
 Stunned, crushed by this scene, which had been enacted 
 with astonishing swiftness, Konovaloff and I stared into the 
 street through the darkness, and could not recover our- 
 selves from the weeping, roaring, curses, shouts of the po- 
 lice, groans of anguish. I recalled individual sounds, and 
 could hardly persuade myself that it had all actually taken 
 place. This brief but painful drama had come to an end 
 with terrible rapidity. 
 
 143 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " That's all . . ." said Konovaloff, with peculiar gen- 
 tleness and simplicity, after listening a while longer in si- 
 lence in the dark night, which gazed silently and sternly 
 in at him through the window. 
 
 " How she gave it to me! . . ." he continued with 
 amazement, after the lapse of several seconds, retaining his 
 former attitude on the bin, kneeling and supporting his 
 hands on the slope of the window-sill. — " She has got into 
 the hands of the police . . . drunk ... in com- 
 pany with soine devil or other. She made up her mind 
 quick! " He heaved a deep sigh, descended from the hin, 
 seated himself on the sacks of flour, with his head clasped in 
 his hands, rocked himself to and fro, and asked me, in an 
 undertone: 
 
 " Tell me, Maxim, what was it that took place there just 
 now? . , • That is to say, what share have I in it all 
 now?" 
 
 I told him. It was all his affair, all the way through. 
 First of all, one must understand what he wants to do, 
 and when he begins a thing, he must set before himself its 
 probable termination. He had not understood this in the 
 least, did not know it, and was thoroughly to blame in every 
 point. I was incensed at him — Kapitolina's groans and 
 crieSj that drunken " C-come 'long! "... all these 
 things still rang in my ears, and I did not spare my com- 
 rade. 
 
 He listened to me with bowed head, and when I had 
 finished, he raised it, and on his countenance I read alarm 
 and amazement. 
 
 " There you have it! " he exclaimed. ..." That's 
 clever! Well, and . . . what now? Hey? How is 
 it? What am I to do with her? " 
 
 In the tonei of his words there was so much purely- 
 
 143 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 ■ childish in the sincerity of his confession of his fault 
 toward the girl, and so much helpless astonishment, that I 
 immediately felt sorry for my comrade, and reflected that, 
 possibly, I had spoken very sharply and dietatorially to 
 him. 
 
 "And why did I move her from that place?" said 
 Konovaloff, regretfully. — "Ekhma! She must be angry 
 with me now ... for now I have. . . . I'll go 
 there, to the police-station, and I'll try . . . I'll see 
 her — and all the rest of it. I'll say to her . . . some- 
 thing or other. . . . Shall I go?" 
 
 I remarked that not much was likely to come of his 
 seeing her again. What could he say to her? Moreover, 
 intoxicated as she was, she was, probably, fast asleep by 
 this time. 
 
 But he fortified himself in his idea. 
 
 " I'll go, just wait. All the same, I wish her well . . . 
 indeed I do. And what sort of people are they for her? 
 I'll go. . . . Here, you, just . . . I'll be back be- 
 fore long." 
 
 And putting on his cap, he hastily quitted the bakery, 
 without even donning the boot-sUppers, of which he was, 
 generally, so vain. 
 
 I finished my work and lay down to sleep, but when I 
 awoke in the morning, and, according to my wont, cast a 
 glance at the place where Konovaloff slept, he was not yet 
 there. 
 
 He did not make his appearance until toward evening, 
 when he presented himself gloomy, dishevelled, with harsh 
 lines on his brow, and a sort of mist over his blue eyes. 
 Without looking at me, he stepped up to the bins, to see 
 what I had been doing, and then lay down, in silence, upon 
 the floor. 
 
 144 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Well, did you see her? " I asked. 
 
 "That's what I went for." 
 
 " "Well, what happened? " 
 
 "N"othing." 
 
 It was plain that he did not wish to talk. Assuming 
 that this mood of his would not last long, I did not bother 
 him with questions. And all that day he maintained si- 
 lence, only flinging at me curt remarks bearing on the 
 work, when it was absolutely necessary, striding about the 
 bakery with drooping head, and still with the same be- 
 clouded eyes with which he had arrived. Something seemed 
 to have been extinguished within him; he worked slowly 
 and languidly, as though held in bondage by his thoughts. 
 At night, when we had already placed the last batch of 
 loaves in the oven, and had not gone to sleep, for fear of 
 their getting over-done, he asked me : 
 
 " Gome, now, read me something about St6nka." 
 
 As the description of the tortures stirred him up more 
 than anything else, I began to read that passage to him. 
 He listened, stretched out motionless upon the floor, breast 
 upward, and stared unwinkingly at the smoke-begrimed 
 vaults of the ceiling. 
 
 " St^nka died. So they set one man free," said Kono- 
 v41off slowly. — " And yet, in those days, a man could live. 
 Life was free. There was somewhere to go, a man could 
 divert his spirit. Now we have silence, and peaceableness 
 . . . order ... if you look at it so, from one side, 
 life has now even become perfectly peaceful. Books, read- 
 ing and writing. . . . And, nevertheless, a man lives 
 without protection, and there is no sort of guardianship over 
 him. He sins in a forbidden way, but it is impossible not 
 to sin. . . . For there is order in the streets, but in 
 the soul there is — confusion. And nobody can understand 
 
 anybody." 
 
 145 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Sasha! On what terms are you with Kapit61ina? " I 
 asked. 
 
 "Hey?" He bristled up.— "With KApa? Enough!" 
 . . , He waved his hand with decision. 
 
 " That means — you have made an end of it? " 
 
 "I? No — she herself has made an end of it." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Very simply. She insisted on her point of view, and 
 wouldn't see any others whatever. . . . Just as be- 
 fore. Only, formerly, she did not drink, and now she has 
 taken to drinking. . . . Take the bread out while I 
 get some sleep." 
 
 Silence reigned in the bakery. The lamp smoked, the 
 oven-door cracked from time to time, and the crusts of 
 baked bread on the shelves cracked also, in drying. In the 
 street, opposite our windows, the night-watchmen were 
 chatting. And still another sound, a strange sound, reached 
 the ear, now and then, from the street, like a sign-board 
 creaking somewhere, or someone groaning. 
 
 I took out the bread, and lay down to sleep, but I could 
 not get to sleep, and I lent an ear to all the nocturnal 
 sounds, as I lay there, with half-shut eyes. All at once, I 
 beheld KonovalofE rise noiselessly from the floor, go to the 
 shelf, take from it KostomarofE's book, open it, and hold it 
 up to his eyes. His thoughtful face was clearly visible to 
 me, and I watched him draw his fingers along the lines, 
 shake his head, turn over a leaf, and again stare intently at 
 it, and then transfer his eyes to me. There was an odd, 
 strained, and interrogative expression on his pensive, 
 sunken face, and this face — ^an entirely new one to me — ^he 
 kept turned toward me for a long time. 
 
 I could not restrain my curiosity, and asked him what he 
 was doing. 
 
 146 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 "Ah, I thought you were asleep . . ." he answered 
 in confusion; then he approached me, holding the book in 
 his hand, sat down beside me, and said, hesitatingly: " You 
 see, I want to ask you about something . . . Isn't 
 there some book or other about the rules of life? That is 
 to say, instruction as to how a man ought to live? I want 
 to have my deeds explained to me — which are injurious, 
 and which are of no consequence. . . . You see, I am 
 troubled about my deeds. ... A deed which seems to 
 me good at the start, turns out bad in the end. Now, in 
 
 that matter of Kapa " He drew a long breath, 
 
 and went on with an effort, and inquiringly: " So, won't 
 you search, and see if there isn't a little book about deeds? 
 And read it to me." 
 
 Several minutes of silence. 
 
 "Maxim!" . . . 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " How black Kapit61ina did paint me! " 
 
 "That's all right, now. . . . Say no more about 
 it . . ." 
 
 " Of course, it's no matter now. . . . But, tell me 
 . . . was she right? " 
 
 This was a ticklish question, but, on reflection, I replied 
 to it in the affirmative. 
 
 " There, that's just what I think myself. . . . She 
 was right . . . yes . . ." drawled Konov^loff, 
 sadly, and fell silent. 
 
 He fidgeted about for a long time on his mat, which was 
 laid flat on the floor, rose to his feet several times, smoked, 
 sat down by the window, and again lay down. 
 
 Then I fell asleep, and when I awoke he was no longer 
 in the bakery, and made his appearance only toward night- 
 fall. He turned out to be covered all over with some sort 
 
 147 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 of dust, and in his clouded eyes a fixed expression had con- 
 gealed. Flinging his cap on a shelf he heaved a sigh, and 
 seated himself by my side. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " 
 
 " I went to take a look at Kapka." 
 
 " Well, and what of it? " 
 
 " Stop that, brother! Didn't I tell you . . ." 
 
 "Evidently, you can't do anything with those people," 
 I said, in the endeavor to dispel his mood, and began to talk 
 about the mighty power of habit, and about everything else 
 which seemed appropriate to the occasion. KonovalofE re- 
 mained obstinately mute, and stared at the floor. 
 
 "No, there's no u-use! It is too much for me! I'm 
 simply a man who spreads infection. ... I have not 
 long to live in this world. . . . Such a woful, poison- 
 ous breath emanates from me. And just as soon as I go 
 near a man, he immediately catches the infection from me. 
 And woe is all that I can bring to anyone. . . . For, 
 when you come to think of it, to whom have I ever brought 
 any satisfaction all my life long? To no one! And I've 
 had dealings with a great many people, too. . . . I'm 
 a rotting man." 
 
 "That's nonsense . . ." 
 
 " 'No, it's true ! . . ." and he nodded his head with 
 conviction. 
 
 I tried to convince him of the contrary, but from my re- 
 marks he drew still greater certainty as to his unfitness for 
 Kfe. 
 
 Altogether, he had begun to undergo a swift, sharp 
 change from the moment of the affair with Kapka. He be- 
 came meditative, lost his interest in books, did not work 
 with his previous ardor, became taciturn and reserved. 
 
 During the intervals of freedom from work, he lay down 
 
 148 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 on the floor, and stared fixedly at the vault of the ceiling. 
 His face grew thin, his eyes lost their clear, childlike hrill- 
 iancy. 
 
 " Sasha, what's the matter with yon? " I asked him. 
 
 " My drunken spree is coming on," he explained simply. 
 — " I shall soon let myself loose . . . that is, I shall 
 hegin to gulp down vodka. . . . I'm all on fire in- 
 side, already . . , like a hum, you know. . . . 
 The time has come ... if it hadn't heen for that 
 same story, I might have heen ahle to hold out a little 
 longer. But that affair is eating me up. . . . How so? 
 I wanted to do good to a person, and — all of a sudden — ^it 
 turns out entirely wrong! Yes, brother, a rule for one's 
 deeds is very necessary in life. . . . And couldn't 
 such a set of rules he invented, so that all men might act 
 like one, and everyone might understand the others? For 
 it is utterly impossible to live at such a distance from one 
 another! Don't the wise people understand, that order 
 must he established on the earth, and men must he brought 
 to a clear knowledge? . . . E-ekhma! " 
 
 Absorbed in these thoughts as to the indispensability of 
 a rule of life, he did not listen to my remarks. I even no- 
 ticed that he seemed to hold somewhat aloof from me. 
 One day, after listening for the hundredth time to my 
 project for reorganizing life, he appeared to become en- 
 raged with me. 
 
 " WeU, devil take you. . . . I've heard of that he- 
 fore. . . . The point doesn't lie in life, but in man. 
 The first thing is . . . the man ... do you un- 
 derstand? Well, and there's nothing more to it. . . . 
 So, according to you, it appears, that until all this has been 
 made over, man, all the same, must remain just as he is 
 now. Also .... No, you make him over first, show 
 
 149 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 him his way. . . . Let things be bright and not 
 cramped for him on the earth — that's what you must seek 
 after for man. Teach him to find his path. . . . But 
 that stuff of yours is . . . mere fiction." 
 
 I retorted, he waxed hot or grew surly, and exclaimed 
 weariedly: 
 
 "Eh, do stop!" 
 
 One day it chanced that he went away in the evening, 
 and did not return at night to work, nor the following day. 
 In his place, the proprietor made his appearance with a 
 troubled face, and announced: 
 
 " Our Leksakha has gone off on a carouse. He's 
 sitting in 'The Little Wall.' We must hunt up a new 
 baker . . ." 
 
 " But perhaps he will recover himself?! " 
 
 "Well, of course, just wait ... I know him . . ." 
 
 I went to " The Little Wall " — a dram-shop cleverly 
 constructed in a stone wall. It was distinguished by the 
 peculiarity that it had no windows, and that the light fell 
 into it through a hole in the ceiling. As a matter of fact, 
 it was a square pit, excavated in the ground, and covered 
 overhead with boards. An earthy odor forever reigned 
 within it, along with cheap, domestic tobacco, and vodka 
 grown bitter with age — a symphony of odors which made 
 one's head ache horribly after half an hour's sojourn among 
 them. But the steady patrons of this den were accustomed 
 to it — they were shady people, with no definite occupations 
 — as they became accustomed to a mass of things which are 
 intolerable to a man. And there they stuck, for whole 
 days at a time, waiting for some artisan on a spree, that 
 they might ply him with drink until he was stark naked. 
 
 Konovaloff was sitting at a large table in the centre of the 
 dram-shop, surrounded by a circle of six gentlemen, in fan- 
 
 150 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 tastically-tattered costumes, with faces like those of the 
 heroes of Hoffmann's " Tales," who were listening to him 
 with respectful and flattering attention. 
 
 They were drinking beer and vodka together, and eating 
 something which resembled dry lumps of clay. 
 
 " Drink, my lads, drink, each one as much as he can. I 
 have money and clothing. . . . They'll last three days 
 in all. I'll drink up everything and . . . enough ! I 
 don't want to work any more, and I don't want to live 
 here." 
 
 "It's the nastiest sort of a town," remarked someone, 
 who looked Uke Sir John Falstaif. 
 
 " Work ? " inquired another, with a surprised and inter- 
 rogative stare at the ceiHng. — "And was man born into 
 this worid for that? " 
 
 Then all of them began to yell at once, demonstrating 
 to Konovaloff his right to drink up everything, and even 
 elevating that right to the rank of an express obligation — ^to 
 drink away his all precisely with them. 
 
 "Ah, Maxim," jested Konovaloff, on catching sight of 
 me. — " Come on, now, you book-reader and pharisee, take 
 your whack! I've jumped the track for good, my lad. 
 Don't say a word! I mean to drink until I haven't a stitch 
 of clothes to my back. . . . When nothing is left 
 on my body but the hair, I'll stop. Pitch in, too, won't 
 you?" 
 
 He was not drunk, as yet, but his blue eyes flashed with 
 desperate excitement and sorrow, and his luxuriant beard, 
 which fell over his chest in a silky fan, kept moving to and 
 fro, because his lower lip was twitching with a nervous 
 quiver. His shirt-collar was unbuttoned, tiny drops of 
 perspiration gleamed on his forehead, and the hand which 
 he stretched out to me with a glass of liquor shook. 
 
 151 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Drop it, Sasha, let's leave this place together," I said, 
 laying my hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Drop it? . . ." he hurst out laughing. — "If you 
 had come to me ten years ago and said that . . . per- 
 haps I would have dropped it. But now it's better for me 
 not to drop it. . . . What else is there for me to do? 
 What? You see, I feel, I feel every movement of life 
 . . . but I can't understand anything, and I don't know 
 my way ... I feel . . . and I drink, because 
 there's nothing else I can do. . . . Have a drink! " 
 
 His companions stared at me with open disapproval, and 
 all twelve of their eyes surveyed my figure with anything 
 but a conciliatory air. 
 
 The poor fellows were afraid that I would carry off 
 Konovaloff, — and the treat, which they had been awaiting, 
 perhaps, for a whole week. 
 
 "Brethren! This is my chum ... a learned fel- 
 low, devil take him! Maxim, can you read to us here about 
 Stenka? . . . Akh, comrades, what books there are in 
 the world! About Pila? . . . Hey, Maxim! . . . 
 Comrades, it isn't a book, but blood and tears. But, you 
 know, Pila . . . that's myself? Maxim! . . . And 
 Sysoika, I ... By God! Now it's plain to me! " 
 
 He stared at me with widely-opened eyes, in which lay 
 terror, and his lower lip quivered strangely. The company, 
 not very willingly, made room for me at the table. I sat 
 down beside Konovaloff, just at the moment when he 
 seized a glass of beer and vodka, half and half. 
 
 Evidently, he wished to stun himself as speedily as pos- 
 sible with this mixture. After taking a drink, he picked 
 up from his plate a piece of the stuff which looked like 
 clay, but was really boiled meat, inspected it, and flung it 
 over his shoulder against the wall of the dram-shop. 
 
 153 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 The company grumbled in an undertone, like a pack of 
 hungry dogs over a bone. 
 
 "I'm a lost man. . . . Why did my mother and 
 father bring me into the world ? Nothing is known . . . 
 Darkness! Stifling closeness! That's all. . . . Good- 
 bye, Maxim, if you won't drink with me. I won't go to 
 the bakery. I have some money owing me from the boss 
 — get it, and give it to me, I'll spend it for liquor. . . . 
 No! Take it yourself, for books. . . . Will you take 
 it? You don't want to? Then don't. . . . But won't 
 you take it? You're a pig, if that's the case. . . . Get 
 away from me! 6-go a- way! " 
 
 He was getting intoxicated, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. 
 
 The company was quite ready to fling me out from among 
 them by the scruif of the neck, and I, not caring to wait for 
 that, took myself off. 
 
 Three hours later I was again in "The Little Wall." 
 Konovaloff's party had been augmented by two men. They 
 were all drunk, he — the least of all. He was drinking with 
 his elbows resting on the table, and staring at the sky 
 through the opening in the ceiling. The drunken men 
 were listening to him, in various attitudes, and several of 
 them were hiccoughing. 
 
 Konovdloff was singing in a baritone voice, which passed 
 into a falsetto on the high notes, as is the case with all 
 artisan singers. Supporting his cheek on his hand, he was 
 feelingly producing mournful roulades, and his face was 
 pale with emotion, his eyes were half closed, his throat was 
 curved forward. Eight drunken, senseless, crimson faces 
 were gazing at him, and only from time to time did the 
 muttering and hiccoughing make themselves heard. Ko- 
 novaloff's voice vibrated and wept, and moaned, and it was a 
 
 153 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 sight pitiful to the verge of tears, to behold this magnificent 
 fellow singing his melancholy lay. 
 
 The heavy smell, the sweaty, drunken, ugly faces, two 
 smoking kerosene lamps and the planks which formed the 
 walls of the dram-shop, black with dirt and soot, its earthen 
 floor and the twilight which filled that pit — all these things 
 were gloomy and painfully fantastic. It seemed as though 
 men who had been buried alive were banqueting in a 
 sepulchre, and one of them was singing, for the last time, 
 before his death, and bidding farewell to the sky. Hopeless 
 sadness, calm despair, everlasting anguish resounded in my 
 comrade's song. 
 
 "Is Maxim here? Do you want to come with me as my 
 
 assistant officer of bandits? Go, my friend! " he 
 
 said, breaking off his elegy, as he offered me his hand. 
 . . . "I'm all ready, my lad! . . . I've collected 
 a gang for myself . . . here it is . . . there'll 
 be more men later on. . . . "We'll find them! This is 
 n-nothing! We'll call ourselves Pila and Sysoika. . . . 
 And we'll feed them every day on buckwheat groats and 
 roast beef . . . isn't that good? Will you go? Take 
 your books with you . . . you shall read about Stenka 
 and about other people. . . . Friend! Akh, I'm dis- 
 gusted, I'm disgusted . . . dis-gus-ted! . . ." 
 
 He banged his fist down on the table, with all his might. 
 The glasses and bottle rattled, and the company, recover- 
 ing its senses, immediately filled the dram-shop with an 
 uproar which was frightful in its indecency. 
 
 " Drink, my lads! " shouted Konovaloff. " Drink! Ease 
 your hearts ... do your uttermost! " 
 
 I retreated from them, stood in the door which opened 
 on the street, listened to Konovaloff orating with a twist- 
 ing tongue, and when he began to sing again, I went off 
 
 154 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 to the bakery, and his uncouth, drunken song moaned and 
 wept aiter me for a long time in the nocturnal stillness. 
 
 T\ro days later, Konovaloff vanished from the town. 
 
 I happened to encounter him again. 
 
 A man must have been bom in cultured society, in order 
 to find within himself the patience necessary to live out 
 the whole of his life in the midst of it, and never once de- 
 sire to escape somewhere, away from the sphere of all 
 those oppressive conventions, legalized by custom, of petty, 
 malicious lies, from the sphere of sickly self-conceit, of 
 sectarianism of ideas, of all sorts of insincerity, — in a word, 
 from all that vanity of vanities which chills the emotions, 
 and perverts the mind. I was born and reared outside that 
 circle of society, and for that reason — a very agreeable one 
 to me — ^I cannot take in its culture in large doses, without 
 a downright necessity of getting out of its framework 
 cropping up in me, and of refreshing myself, in some meas- 
 ure, after the extreme intricacy and unhealthy refinement 
 of that existence. 
 
 In the country it is almost as intolerably tedious and dull 
 as it is among educated people. The best thing one can do 
 is to betake himself to the dives of the towns, where, al- 
 though everything is filthy, it is still simple and sincere, or 
 to set out for a walk over the fields and roads of his native 
 land, which is extremely curious, affords great refreshment, 
 and requires no outfit except good legs with plenty of en- 
 durance. 
 
 Five years ago I undertook precisely that sort of a trip, 
 and as I tramped across holy Eussia, without any definite 
 plan of march, I chanced to reach Feodosia. At that time 
 they were beginning to build the jetty there, and, in the ex- 
 pectation of earning a little money for my journey, I be- 
 
 15S 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 took myself to the spot where construction was under 
 way. 
 
 Being desirous of taking a look at the work first, as a 
 picture, I climbed a hill and seated myself there, gazing 
 down upon the boundless, mighty sea, and the tiny men 
 who were forging fetters for it. 
 
 An extensive picture of man's labor was spread out be- 
 fore me: — the whole rocky shore along the bay was dug up, 
 there were holes and piles of stone and lumber everywhere, 
 wheelbarrows, strips of iron, pile-drivers, and some other 
 constructions of beams, and among all these things men 
 were hastening to and fro in every direction. After having 
 ripped up the mountain with dynamite, they were break- 
 ing it into small pieces with pickaxes, clearing a space for 
 a line of railway, they were mixing cement in vast mortar- 
 pits, and making out of it stones almost a fathom in cubic 
 measurement, lowering them into the sea, erecting upon 
 them a rampart against the titanic strength of its turbulent 
 waves. They seemed as tiny as worms against the back- 
 ground of the dark-brown hill, disfigured by their hands, 
 and like worms they swarmed busily about among the heaps 
 of rubbish, and bits of wood in fragment of stone dust, and 
 in the sultry heat, reaching to thirty degrees * of the south- 
 ern day. The chaos around them, and the red-hot sky 
 above them, imparted to them the appearance of being en- 
 gaged in burrowing into the hill, trying to escape into its 
 bosom from the fervor of the sun and the melancholy 
 picture of destruction which surrounded them. 
 
 In the suffocating air hung a mighty moaning murmur 
 and uproar, the blows of masons' hammers on stone, the 
 wheels of the barrows screeched dolefully, iron pile-drivers 
 
 •Reaumur. Feodosia is on the shore of the Black Sea, in the 
 Crimea. 30° E6au. = 84° Fahrenheit. — Translator. 
 
 156 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 descended upon the wood of the piles, the ballad of " The 
 Little Oaken Cudgel " wailed out, the axes tapped away as 
 they rough-hewed the beams, and the dark, and gray, 
 bustling little figures of men shouted in all tones. 
 
 In one spot, a cluster of them, loudly chanting " heave- 
 ho! ", were handling a huge fragment of rock, endeavor- 
 ing to move it from its resting-place; in another spot, a 
 heavy beam was being raised, and the men were shouting as 
 they strained: 
 
 " Ca-a-atch ho-old! " — And the mountain, furrowed with 
 cracks, repeated dully: " Hold-old-old! " 
 
 Along a broken line of boards, flung down here and 
 there, moved a long file of men, bending low over their 
 barrows loaded with stone, and coming slowly to meet them, 
 with empty barrows, was another file, who were dragging 
 out one minute of rest into two. ... By one of the 
 pile-drivers stood a dense, motley-hued throng of men, and 
 one of them was singing in a long-drawn, plaintive voice: 
 
 " Ee-ekhma, comrades, 'tis awfully hot! 
 Ee-ekh ! On us no one has pity ! 
 O-o'i there, little oaken cu-ud-ge-el, 
 He-eave-ho-o ! " 
 
 The throng hummed mightily, as they hauled away on 
 the cables, and the piece of cast-iron, flying up through the 
 pipe of the pile-driver, fell thence, giving out a dull, groan- 
 ing sound, and the whole pile-driver quivered. 
 
 On every spot of the open space between the mountain 
 and the sea tiny gray people hurried to and fro, filling the 
 air with their shouts, with dust, and the sour odor of man. 
 Among them overseers were walking about, clad in white 
 duck coats with metal buttons, which shone in the swn like 
 someone's cold eyes. Over them were the cloudless, merci- 
 lessly-hot heaven, volumes of dust and waves of sounds — 
 
 157 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 the symphony of toil, the only music which does not afford 
 delight. 
 
 The sea stretched out to the misty horizon, and softly 
 plashed its transparent hillows against the strand, so full 
 of sound and movement. All gleaming in the sunlight, it 
 seemed to he smiling, with the good-natured smile of a Gul- 
 liver, conscious that, if he so wished, with one movement he 
 could cause all the work of the Lilliputians to disappear. 
 
 There it lay, dazzling the eyes with its radiance — great, 
 powerful, kind, and its mighty breath blew upon the beach, 
 refreshing the weary men who were toiling to put a re- 
 straint upon the freedom of its waves, which now were so 
 gently and musically caressing the disfigured shore. It 
 seemed to feel sorry for them: — its centuries of existence 
 had taught it to understand, that those who build are not 
 the ones who cherish evil designs against it; it long ago 
 found out that they are only slaves, that their part is to 
 wrestle with the elements face to face. And in this strug- 
 gle, the vengeance of the elements awaits them. All they 
 do is to build, they toil on forever, their sweat and blood 
 are the cement of all the constructions on the earth; but 
 they receive nothing for this, though they yield up all their 
 forces to the eternal propensity to construct — a. propensity 
 which creates marvels on the earth, but, nevertheless, gives 
 men no blood, and too little bread. They also are elemen- 
 tary forces, and that is why the sea gazes, not angrily but 
 graciously, upon their labors from which they derive no 
 profit. These gray little worms, who have thus excavated 
 the mountain, are just the same thing as its drops, which 
 are the first to fall upon the cold and inaccessible cliffs 
 of the shore, in the eternal effort of the sea to extend its 
 boundaries, and the first to perish as they are dashed in 
 fragments against these crags. In the mass, too, these drops 
 
 1S8 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 are nearly related to it, since they are exactly like the sea, 
 as mighty as it, as inclined to destruction, so soon as the 
 breath of the storm is wafted over them. In days of yore 
 the sea also was acquainted with the slaves, who erected 
 pyramids in the desert, and the slaves of Xerxes, that 
 ridiculous man, who undertook to chastise the sea with 
 three hundred lashes, because it had destroyed his toy 
 bridges. Slaves have always been exactly alike, they have 
 always been submissive, they have always been ill-fed, and 
 they have always accomplished the great and the marvel- 
 lous, sometimes enriching those who have set them to work, 
 most frequently cursing them, rarely rising up in revolt 
 against their masters ... "^ 
 
 And, smiling with the calm smile of a Titan who is con- 
 scious of his strength, the sea fanned with its vivifying 
 breath the earth, that Titan which is still spiritually blind, 
 and enslaved and wofully riddled, instead of aspiring to 
 affinity with heaven. The waves ran softly up the beach, 
 sprinkled with a throng of men, engaged in constructing 
 a stone barrier to their eternal motion, and as they ran they 
 sang their ringing, gracious song about the past, about 
 everything which, in the course of the ages, they have be- 
 held on the shores of earth. . . . 
 
 Among the laborers there were certain strange, spare, 
 bronze figures, in scarlet turbans, in fezzes, in short blue 
 jackets, and in trousers which were tight about the lower 
 leg, but with full seats. These, as I afterward learned, 
 were Turks from Anatolia. Their guttural speech mingled 
 with the slow, drawling utterance of the men from Vyatka, 
 with the strong, quick phrases of the Bulgarians, with the 
 soft dialect of the Little Eussians. 
 
 In Russia people were dying of starvation, and the 
 famine had driven hither representatives of nearly all the 
 
 159 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 provinces which had been overtaken hy this disaster. They 
 had separated into little groups, in the endeavor of the na- 
 tives of each place to cling together, and only the cos- 
 mopolitan tramps were immediately discernible by their 
 independent aspect, and costumes, and their peculiar turn 
 of speech, which was that of men who still remained under 
 the dominion of the soil, having only temporarily severed 
 their connection with it, who had been torn from it by 
 hunger, and had not yet forgotten it. They were in all the 
 groups: both among the Vyatkans and among the Little 
 Eussians they felt themselves at home, but the majority of 
 them were assembled round the pile-driver, because the 
 work there was light, in comparison with the work of the 
 barrow-men and of the diggers. 
 
 When I approached them, they were standing with their 
 hands released from a hawser, waiting for the contractor to 
 repair something connected with the pulley of the pile- 
 driver, which, probably, was " eating into " the rope. He 
 was poking about up aloft on the wooden tower, and every 
 now and then he would shout down : 
 
 " Give way! " 
 
 Then they would tug lazily at the rope. 
 
 " Stop! . . . Give way once more! Stop! Go 
 ahead! " 
 
 The leader of the singing, — a young fellow, long un- 
 shaved, with a pock-marked face and a soldierly air, — 
 shrugged his shoulders, squinted his eyes to one side, 
 cleared his throat, and started up: 
 
 " Into the earth the pile-driver rams the stake . . ." 
 
 The verse which followed would not pass muster with 
 even the most lenient censor, and evoked an unanimous 
 burst of laughter, which, evidently, proved that it was an 
 
 160 
 
Konoviloff 
 
 impromptu, composed on the spot by the singer, who, as 
 his comrades laughed, twirled his mustache with the air 
 of an artist who is accustomed to that sort of success with 
 his audience. 
 
 " Go a-he-ead! " roared the contractor fiercely from the 
 summit of the pile-driver. — " Stop your neighing! . . ." 
 
 " Don't gape, Mitritch, — ^you'll burst! " — one of the 
 workmen warned him. 
 
 The voice was familiar to me, and somewhere or other 
 I had seen before that tall, broad-shouldered figure, with 
 the oval face, and large, blue eyes. Was it KonovalofE? 
 But Konovaloil had not the scar running from the right 
 temple to the bridge of the -nose, which intersected the 
 lofty brow of this young fellow; KonovalofE's hair was of 
 a lighter hue, and did not crisp in such small curls as this 
 fellow's; Konovaloff had a handsome, broad beard, but this 
 man was clean-shaven as to his chin, and wore a thick 
 mustache, whose ends drooped downward, in Little Russian 
 fashion. Yet, nevertheless, there was something about him 
 which I knew well. I made up my mind to enter into con- 
 versation with him, in particular, as the person to whom 
 I should apply, in order to "get a job," and assumed a 
 waiting attitude, until they should have finished driving 
 the pile. 
 
 " 0-o-ukh! 0-o-okh! " — ^the crowd heaved a mighty 
 fiigh as they squatted down, hauled away on the ropes, and 
 again swiftly straightened themselves up, as though on the 
 point of tearing themselves from the ground, and taking 
 flight through the air. The pile-driver steamed and 
 quivered, above the heads of the crowd rose their bare, 
 sun-burned, hairy arms, hauling in unison on the rope; 
 their muscles swelled out like wens, but the piece of cast- 
 iron, twenty puds in weight,* flew upwards to a constantly 
 * Seven hundred and twenty pounda. — Translator. 
 161 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 lessening height, and its blow upon the wood sounded more 
 and more faintly. Anyone watching this work might have 
 thought that this was a throng of idolaters, engaged in 
 prayer, uplifting their arms, in despair and ecstasy, to their 
 silent God, and bowing down before him. Their faces, 
 bathed in sweat, dirty, straiaed in expression, with 
 dishevelled hair, which clung to their damp brows, their 
 light-brown necks, their shoulders quivering with intensity 
 of eifort, — all those bodies, barely covered with tattered 
 shirts and trousers of motley hues, filled the air roundabout 
 them with their hot exhalations, and melting together in 
 one heavy mass of muscles, moved restlessly about in the 
 humid atmosphere, impregnated with the sultriness of the 
 southland, and the dense odor of sweat. 
 
 " Enough! " — shouted someone, in an angry, cracked 
 voice. 
 
 ' The hands of the workmen dropped the ropes, and they 
 hung limply down the sides of the pile-driver, while the 
 laborers sank down heavily, where they stood, upon the 
 ground, wiping away the sweat, breathing hard, feeling of 
 their shoulders, and filling the air with a dull murmur, 
 which resembled the roaring of a huge, irritated wild beast. 
 
 "Fellow-countryman!" — I addressed myself to the young 
 fellow whom I had picked out. 
 
 He turned indolently toward me, ran his eyes over my 
 face, and puckering them up, stared intently at me. 
 
 "KonovalofE!" 
 
 " Hold on . . ." he thrust my head backward with 
 his hand, exactly as though he were about to seize me by 
 the throat, and suddenly lighted up all over with a joyful, 
 kindly smile. 
 
 " Maxim! Akh — curse you! My friend . . . hey? 
 And so you have broken loose from your career? You 
 
 163 
 
Konovalofif 
 
 have enlisted in the barefoot brigade? Well, that's good! 
 Now, it's truly fine! A vagabond— and that's all there is 
 to it! Have you been so long? Where do you come from? 
 Bow you and I will tramp all over the earth! What a life 
 . . • that there behind us, isn't it? Downright misery, 
 long drawn out; you don't live, you rot! But I've been 
 roaming the fair world ever since then, my boy. What 
 places I've been in! What air I have breathed. . . . 
 No, you've improved cleverly . . . one wouldn't know 
 you again: from your clothing, one would think you a sol- 
 dier, from your phiz, a student! Well, what do you think 
 of it, isn't it fine to live so . . . moving from place 
 to place? For, you see, I remember Stenka . . . and 
 Taras, and Pil4 . . . everything." 
 
 He punched me in the ribs with his fist, slapped me on 
 the shoulder with his broad palm, exactly as though he 
 were preparing a beefsteak out of me. I could not interpose 
 a single word into the volley of his questions, and only 
 smiled, — very foolishly, in all probability, — as I gazed at 
 his kind face, which was radiant with satisfaction over our 
 meeting. I, also, was very glad to see him; this meeting 
 with him recalled to me the beginning of my life, which, 
 undoubtedly, was better than its continuation. 
 
 At last, I managed, somehow, to ask my old friend, 
 whence came that scar on his brow and those curls on his 
 head. 
 
 "Why that, you see . . . was a scrape. I under- 
 took, with a couple of my chums, to make my way across 
 the Eoumanian frontier; we wanted to take a look at things 
 in Eoumania. Well, so we set out from KaMga, — which 
 is a small place in Bessarabia, close to the frontier. We 
 went quietly on our way — by night, of coiirse. All of a 
 sudden: ' Halt! ' The custom-house cordon had crawled 
 
 163 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 straight down on it. Well, of course, we took to our heels! 
 Then one insignificant little soldier hit me a whack over 
 the pate. He didn't strike very hard, but, nevertheless, 
 I lay in hospital about a month. And what an affair it 
 was! It turned out that the soldier was from the same 
 part of the country as myself! We were both Murom men. 
 , . . He was brought to the hospital, too, not long 
 after — a smuggler had spoiled him by sticking a knife into 
 his belly. We made it up between us, and got things 
 straightened out. The soldier asks me: ' Did I slash you ? ' 
 — ' It must have been you, since you confess it.' — ' I had 
 to,' says he; ' don't you cherish a grudge,' says he, ' that's 
 part of our service. We thought you were travelling with 
 smuggled goods. Here,' says he, ' this is the way they 
 treated me — they ripped my belly open. It can't be helped; 
 life is a serious game.' — Well, and so he and I struck up a 
 friendship. He was a good little soldier — ^was Yashka 
 Mazin. . . . And my curls? Curls? The curls, my 
 boy, came after the typhoid fever. I've had the typhoid 
 fever. They put me in jail in Kishineff, with the inten- 
 tion of trying me for crossing the frontier illegally, and 
 there I developed typhoid fever. ... I lay there and 
 lay there with it, and came near never getting up from it. 
 And, in all probability, I shouldn't have recovered, only the 
 nurse took a great deal of pains with me. I was simply 
 astonished, my boy — she fussed over me as though I were 
 a baby, and what did she care about me? ' Marya Pe- 
 trovna,' I used to say to her, 'just drop that; I'm down- 
 right ashamed.' But she only kept laughing. She was a 
 nice girl. . . . She sometimes read me soul-saving 
 books. ' Well, now,' says I, ' aren't there any books,' says 
 I, ' like . . .' you know the sort. She brought a book 
 about an English sailor, who was saved from a shipwreck 
 
 161 
 
KonovalofF 
 
 on an uninhabited island, and created a new life for him- 
 self there. It was interesting, awfully interesting! That 
 book pleased me greatly; I'd have liked to go there, to 
 him. You understand, what sort of a life it was? An 
 island, the sea, the sky, — ^you live there alone by yourself, 
 and you have everything and you are entirely free! There 
 was a savage there, too. Well, I'd have drowned the savage 
 — what the devil should I want him for, hey? I don't get 
 bored all alone. Have you read any such book? " 
 
 " Wait. Well, and how did you get out of prison? " 
 
 " They let me out. They tried me, acquitted me, and 
 released me. It was very simple. . . . See here, I 
 won't work any more to-day, devil take it! It's all right, 
 I've rattled my arms round hard enough, and it's time to 
 stop. I have three rubles on hand, and for this half day's 
 work I shall get forty kopeks.* See what a big capital! 
 That means that you're to come home to where we live. 
 We're not in the barracks, but yonder, in the vicinity of 
 the town . . . there's a hole there, so very convenient 
 for human habitation. . . . Two of us have our quar- 
 ters in it, but my chum is ailing . . . he's bothered 
 with fever. . , . WeU, now, you sit here while I go 
 to the contractor . . . I'll be back soon! " 
 
 He rose swiftly, and walked off just at the moment when 
 the men who were driving piles took hold of the ropes, and 
 began their work. I remained sitting on a stone, looldng 
 at the noisy bustle which reigned around me, and at the 
 blue-green sea. Konovaloff's tall form, slipping swiftly 
 among the laborers, the heaps of stone, lumber, and bar- 
 rows, vanished in the distance. He walked, flourishing his 
 hands, clad in a blue creton blouse, which was too short 
 and too tight for him, crash drawers, and heavy boot-slippers. 
 
 " About half these amounts in dollars and cents. — Translator. 
 165 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 His cap of chestnut curls waved over his huge head. From 
 time to time he turned round, and made some sort of sig- 
 nals to me with his hands. He was so entirely new, some- 
 how, so animated, calmly confident, amiable, and powerful. 
 Everywhere around him men were at work, wood was crack- 
 ing, stone was being laid, barrows were screeching dolefully, 
 clouds of dust were rising, something fell with a roar, and 
 men were shouting and swearing, sighing and singing as 
 though they were groaning. Amid all this confusion of 
 sounds and movements, the handsome figure of my friend, 
 as it retreated from it with firm strides, constantly tacking 
 from side to side, stood out very sharply, and seemed to 
 present a hint of something which explained KonovalofE. 
 
 Three hours after we met, he and I were lying in the 
 " hole, very convenient for human habitation." As a mat- 
 ter of fact, the " hole " was extremely convenient — stone 
 had been taken out of the mountain at some distant period, 
 and a large, rectangular niche had been hewn out, in which 
 four persons could have lodged with perfect comfort. But 
 it was low-studded, and over its entrance hung a block of 
 stone, which formed a sort of pent-house, so that, in order 
 to get into the hole, one was forced to lie flat on the ground 
 in front of it, and then shove himself in. It was seven 
 feet in depth, but it was not necessary to crawl into 
 it head foremost, and, indeed, this was risky, for the block 
 of stone over the entrance might slide down, and com- 
 pletely bury us there. "We did not wish this to happen, 
 and managed in this way: we thrust our legs and bodies 
 into the hole, where it was very cool, but left our heads out 
 in the sun, in the opening of the hole, so that if the block 
 of stone should take a notion to fall, it would crush only 
 our skulls. 
 
 The sick tramp had got the whole of himself out into 
 
 166 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 the sun, and lay a couple of paces from us, so that we could 
 hear his teeth chattering in a paroxysm of fever. He was 
 a long, gaunt Little Kussian: " from Piltava, and, prehaps, 
 from Kieff . . ." he told me pensively.* 
 
 " A man lives so much in the world, that it's of no con- 
 sequence if he does forget where he was horn . . . and 
 what difference does it make, anyway? It's bad enough to 
 be born, and knowing where . . . doesn't make it any 
 the better!" 
 
 He roUed about on the ground, in the endeavor to wrap 
 himself as snugly as possible in a gray overcoat, patched 
 together out of nothing but holes, and swore very pictu- 
 resquely, when he perceived that all his efforts were futile 
 — ^he swore, but continued to wrap himself up. He had 
 small, black eyes, which were constantly puckered up, as 
 though he were inspecting something very intently. 
 
 The sun baked the backs of our necks intolerably, and 
 Konovaloff constructed from my military cloak something 
 in the nature of a screen, driving sticks into the ground, 
 and stretching my costume over them. Still, it was stifling. 
 From afar there was wafted to us the dull roar of toil on 
 the bay, but we did not see it ; to the right of us, on the 
 shore, lay the town in heavy masses of white houses, to 
 our left — was the sea, — ^in front of us, the sea again, ex- 
 tending off into immeasurable distance, where marvellous, 
 tender colors, never before beheld, which soothed the eye 
 and the soul by the indescribable beauty of their tints, were 
 intermingled, through soft half-tones, into a fantastic 
 mirage. 
 
 * " Piltaya," for Polt&Ta; and "prehaps" are respectively, actual 
 and approximated specimens of the Little Bussian pronunciation; 
 though this brief sentence contains a third not easily reproduced. — 
 Translator. 
 
 167 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 Konovaloff gazed in that direction, smiled blissfully, and 
 said to me: 
 
 " When the sun has set, we will light up a boniire, and 
 boil some water for tea: we have bread, and meat. But, in 
 the meanwhile, would you like a cantaloupe or a water- 
 melon?" 
 
 With his foot he rolled a watermelon out from a comer 
 of the hole, pulled a knife out of his pocket, and as he 
 operated upon the watermelon with it, he remarked: 
 " Every time that I am by the sea, I keep wondering why 
 so few people settle down near it. They would be the better 
 for it, because it is soothing and sort of . . . good 
 thoughts come from it into a man's soul. But come, tell 
 how you have been living yourself all these years." 
 
 I began to tell him. He listened; the ailing Little Eus- 
 sian paid no attention whatever to us, as he roasted himself 
 in the sun, which was already sinking into the sea. And 
 in the far distance, the sea was already covered with crim- 
 son and gold, and out of it, to meet the sun, rose clouds 
 of a pinkish-smoke color, with soft outlines. It seemed 
 as though mountains with white peaks, sumptuously 
 adorned with snow and rosy in the rays of the sunset, were 
 rising from the depths of the sea. From the bay floated 
 the mournful melody of " The Little Oaken Cudgel," and 
 the roar of blasts of dynamite, which were destroying the 
 mountain. . . . The rocks and inequalities of the soil 
 in front of us cast shadows on the ground, and these, as they 
 imperceptibly lengthened, crept over us. 
 
 "It's downright no good for you to haunt the towns, 
 Maxim," — said Konovaloif persuasively, after he had lis- 
 tened to my epic narrative. — " And what is it that draws 
 you to them? The life there is tainted and close. There's 
 neither air, nor space, nor anything else that a man needs. 
 
 168 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 People? What the devil do you want with them? You're 
 an intelligent man, you can read and write, what are peo- 
 ple to you? What do you need from them? And then, 
 there are people everywhere . . ." 
 
 " Ehe! " interposed the Little Eussian, as he writhed on 
 the ground like an adder. — "There are people everywhere 
 . . . lots of them; a man can't pass to his own place 
 without treading on their feet. Why, they are born in 
 countless numbers! They're like mushrooms after a shower 
 . . . and even the gentry eat them! " He spat philo- 
 sophically, and again began to chatter his teeth. 
 
 "Well, so far as you are concerned, I say it again," — 
 continued Konovaloff, — " don't you live in the towns. 
 What is there there? Nothing but ill-health and disorder. 
 Books? Well, I think you must have read books enough 
 by this time! You certainly weren't born for that. . . . 
 Yes, and books are — trash! Well, buy one, and put it in 
 your wallet, and start out. Do you want to go to Tashkent 
 with me? Or to Samarkand, or where? . . . And 
 then we'll have a try at the Amiir — is it a bargain? I, my 
 boy, have made up my mind to walk over the earth in vari- 
 ous directions — that's the very best thing to do. . . . 
 You walk along, and you're always seeing something new. 
 . . . And you don't think of anything. . . . The 
 breeze blows in your face, and it seems to drive all sorts 
 of dust out of the soul. You feel light-hearted and free. 
 . . . Nobody interferes with you: if you feel hungry, 
 you come to a halt, and earn half a ruble by some sort of 
 work; if there isn't any work, you ask for bread, and you'll 
 get it. In that way, you'll see a great deal of the world, at 
 any rate. . . . All sorts of beauty. . . . Come 
 on!" 
 
 The sun set. The clouds over the sea darkened, the sea 
 
 169 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 also grew dim, and wafted forth a refresMng coolness. 
 Here and there stars shone out, the hum of toil on the 
 bay ceased, and only now and then were exclamations of 
 the men, soft as sighs, home thence to us. And when the 
 light breeze breathed upon us, it brought with it the 
 melancholy sound of the breaking of the waves against the 
 shore. 
 
 The nocturnal gloom speedily grew more dense, and the 
 figure of the Little Eussian, which five minutes previously 
 had perfectly definite outlines, now looked like nothing but 
 an uncouth clod . . . 
 
 " We ought to have a fire . . ." he said, coughing. 
 
 " "We will . . ." 
 
 Konovaloff pulled out a pile of chips from somewhere or 
 other, set fire to them with a match, and thin tongues of 
 flame began caressingly to lick the yellow, resinous wood. 
 Slender streams of smoke curled through the night air, 
 filled with the moisture and freshness of the sea. And 
 everything grew quieter round about: . . . life seemed 
 to have withdrawn from us somewhither, and its sounds 
 melted and were extinguished in mist. The clouds dis- 
 persed, stars began to glitter in the dark-blue sky, and upon 
 the velvety surface of the sea, also, faintly flickered the 
 tiny lights of fishing-boats, and the reflections of the stars. 
 The fire in front of us blossomed out, like a huge, reddish- 
 yellow flower. . . . Konovaloff thrust the teapot into 
 it, and clasping his knees, began to stare thoughtfully into 
 the blaze. And the Little Eussian, like a big lizard, crawled 
 up, and lay down near it. 
 
 " People have built towns, houses, have assembled to- 
 gether there in heaps, and defile the earth, sigh, crowd one 
 another, ... A nice life that! N"o, this is life, this, 
 such as we . . ." 
 
 170 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 " Oho! " — ^the Little Eussian shook his head, — " if we 
 could only manage to get a fur coat, or a warm hut in it 
 for the winter, we'd live like lords . . ." He screwed up 
 one eye, and looked at Konovaloff, with a laugh. 
 
 " We-ell," said the latter abashed, — " winter — ^is . . . 
 a thrice-accursed time. Towns really are needed for the 
 winter . . . you can't get along without them. . . . 
 But the big towns are no good, all the same. . . . Why 
 cram people into such heaps, when two or three can't get 
 along together? — That's what I was talking about. Of 
 course, when you come to think of it, there's no room for 
 a man either in the town, or in the steppe, or anywhere 
 else. But it's better not to think of such things . . . 
 you can't think out anything, and you only harrow your 
 soul . . ." 
 
 Up to this point I had thought that KonovalofE had been 
 changed by his vagrant life, that the excrescences of sad- 
 ness which were on his heart during the first period of our 
 acquaintance had fallen away from him, like a husk, from 
 the action of the free air which he had breathed during 
 those years; but the tone of hislast phrase rehabilitated be- 
 fore me my friend as still the same man, seeking a point of 
 support for himself, whom I had known before. The same 
 rust of ignorance in the face of life, and venom of thoughts 
 about it, were still corroding that powerful form, which 
 had been bom, to its misfortune, with a sensitive heart. 
 There are many such " meditative " people in Eussian life, 
 and they are all more unhappy than anyone else, because 
 the heaviness of their meditations is augmented by the 
 blindness of their minds. I gazed with compassion on my 
 friend, but he, as though confirming my thought, ex- 
 claimed, sadly: 
 
 " I have recalled that life of ours, Maxim, and all that — 
 
 171 
 
Konovaloff 
 
 took place there. How much ground I hare covered since 
 then in my roamings, how much, of all sorts, I have seen 
 . . . No, for me there is nothing suitable on earth! I 
 have not found my place! " 
 
 " Then why were you bom with a neck that no yoke will 
 fit? " inquired the Little Eussian indifferently, taking the 
 boiling teapot out of the fire. 
 
 " No, do you tell me, . . ." inquired Konovaloff, — 
 why I can't be easy? Hey? Why do people live on, and feel 
 all right, busy themselves with their affairs, have wives, 
 children, and all the rest of it . . . they complain of 
 life, but they are easy. And they always want to do this, 
 that, or the other. But I — can't. "Why do things disgust 
 me?" 
 
 " There's that man jawing," — remarked the Little Eus- 
 sian in surprise. — " Well, will you feel any the easier for 
 your jawing? " 
 
 " That's so, . . ." assented Konovaloff sadly. 
 
 " I always say little, but I know what I'm talking about," 
 uttered the stoic, with a consciousness of his own dignity, 
 yet without ceasing to contend with his fever. 
 
 " Let's drop that subject. ... I was bom, well, 
 that means, live on, and don't argue . . ." said Ko- 
 novaloff, this time viciously. 
 
 The Little Eussian considered it necessary to add: 
 
 " And don't force yourself anywhere; the time will come 
 when, without your will, you must be dragged in and 
 ground to dust. . . Lie still, and hold your tongue. 
 . . . Neither our tongues nor our hands are of any help 
 tons . . ." 
 
 He articulated this, began to cough, wriggled about, and 
 took to spitting into the fire with exasperation. Around 
 us everything was obscure, curtained with a thick veil of 
 
 172 
 
Konov^Ioff 
 
 gloom. The sky above us was dark, also, the moon had not 
 yet risen. We felt rather than saw the sea — so dense was 
 the mist in front of us. It seemed as though a black fog 
 had been lowered over the earth. The fire went out . . . 
 
 " Let's lie down to sleep? " suggested the Little Eussian. 
 
 We made our way into the " hole," and lay down, with 
 our heads thrust out into the open air. We were silent. 
 Konovaloff remained motionless, as though turned to stone, 
 in the attitude in which he lay down. The Little Eussian 
 thrashed about incessantly, and his teeth kept chattering. 
 I stared, for a long while, at the smouldering coals of the 
 fire: at first brilliant and large, the coals gradually grew 
 smaller, became covered with ashes, and disappeared be- 
 neath them. And soon nothing was left of the fire, except 
 the warm odor. I gazed and thought: 
 
 " We are all of us like that. . . . The point is, to 
 blaze up as brightly as possible! " 
 
 Three days later I took leave of Konovaloff. I was going 
 to the Kuban, he did not wish to go. But we both parted 
 with the conviction that we should meet again on earth. 
 
 It has not come to pass. . . . 
 
 173 
 
THE KHAN AND HIS SON 
 
THE KHAN AND HIS SON 
 
 ". . . In the Crimea there was a Khan Mosolaima 
 el Asvabj and he had a son, Tolaiik Alhalla . . ." 
 
 "With his back propped against the brilliant light-brown 
 trunk of an arbutus-tree, a blind beggar, a Tatdr, began, 
 in these words, one of the ancient legends of the peninsula, 
 which is rich in its memories, and round about the story- 
 teller, on stone fragments of the palace of the khans, de- 
 stroyed by time, sat a group of Tatars in gay-colored 
 kaftans and flat caps embroidered with gold. It was even- 
 ing, and the sun was sinking softly into the sea; its red rays 
 penetrated the dark mass of verdure around the ruins, and 
 fell in brilliant spots upon the stones, overgrown with moss, 
 enmeshed in the clinging greenery of the ivy. The breeze 
 rustled in a clump of aged plane-trees, and their leaves flut- 
 tered as though brooks of water, invisible to the eye, were 
 rippling through the air. 
 
 The voice of the blind beggar was weak, and trembled, 
 but his stony face expressed in its wrinkles nothing except 
 repose; the words he had learned by heart flowed on, one 
 after the other, and before the hearers rose up a picture of 
 past days, rich in the power of emotion. 
 
 "The Khan was old," said the blind man, "but he 
 had a great many women in his harem. And they loved 
 the old man, because he still had a good deal of strength 
 and fire, and his caresses soothed and burned, and women 
 
 177 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 will always love those who know how to caress strongly, 
 be the man a gray-beard, or even if he have wrinkles on 
 his countenance — ^for there is beauty in strength, but not 
 in a soft skin and a ruddy cheek. 
 
 " They all loved the Khan, but he loved a kazak-prisoner 
 maid, from the steppes of the Dnyepr, and always liked 
 more to fondle her than the other women of his harem, 
 his great harem, where there were three hundred women 
 from divers lands, and they were all as beautiful as the 
 flowers of spring, and they all lived well. Many were the 
 sweet and dainty viands which the Khan ordered to be pre- 
 pared for them, and he always permitted them to dance 
 and play whenever they desired to do so . . . 
 
 " But his kazak he often summoned to his own quarters 
 in the tower, from which the sea was visible, and where he 
 had everything for the kazak girl that a woman can 
 want, that her life might be merry: sweet wine, and various 
 fabrics, and gold, and precious stones of all colors, and 
 music, and rare birds from distant countries, and the fiery 
 caresses of the amorous Khan. In this tower he amused 
 himself with her for whole days together, resting from the 
 cares of his life, and knowing that his son Alhalla would 
 not lower the glory of the Khan, as he galloped like a wolf 
 over the Eussian steppes, always returning thence with rich 
 booty, with fresh women, with fresh glory, leaving there, 
 behind him, terror and ashes, corpses and blood. 
 
 " Once he, Alhalla, returned from a raid on the Russians, 
 and many festivals were arranged in his honor; all the 
 > mWzas of the island assembled at them, and there were 
 banquets and games, and they fired arrows from their bows 
 into the eyes of the prisoners, testing their strength of arm, 
 and again they drank, lauding the valor of Alhalla, the 
 terror of enemies, the mainstay of the Khanate. And the 
 
 173 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 old Khan rejoiced exceedingly at the glory of his son. — It 
 was good for him, that old man, to hehold in his son such 
 a dashing warrior, and to know that when he, the old man, 
 came to die, the Kianate would be in stout hands. 
 
 " It was good for him to know that, and so, being de- 
 sirous to show his son the strength of hia loye, he said to 
 him, in the presence of all the murzas and'^Mysmere, at the 
 feast, beaker in hand, he said: 
 
 " ' Thou art a good son, Alhalla! Glory be to Allah, and 
 glorified be the name of his prophet! ' 
 
 " And all glorified the name of the prophet in a chorus 
 of mighty voices. Then the Khan said: 
 
 " ' Great is Allah! Already, during my lifetime, he has 
 renewed my youth in my gallant son, and now, with my 
 aged eyes, I perceive that when the sun shall be hidden 
 from them, — and when the worms shall devour my breast, 
 — I shall still live on in my son! Great is Allah, and 
 Mahomet is his true prophet! I have a good son, his arm 
 is strong, and his heart is bold, and his mind is clear. 
 . . . What wilt thou take from the hand of thy father, 
 Alhalla? Tell me, and I will give thee everything, accord- 
 ing to thy desire.' 
 
 " And the sound of the old Khan's voice had not yet 
 died away when Tolaik Alhalla rose to his feet, and said, 
 with flashing eyes, black as the sea by night and blazing 
 like the eyes of the mountain eagle: 
 
 " ' Give me the Russian prisoner, my sovereign father.' 
 
 " The Khan spake not — for a space he said no word, 
 for so long as was required to crush the shudder in his 
 heart, — and, after this pause, he said, boldly and firmly: 
 
 " ' Take her! Let us finish the feast, and then thou shalt 
 take her.' 
 
 " Gallant Alhalla flushed all over, his eagle eyes flashed 
 
 179 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 with the greatness of his joy; he rose to his full height, and 
 said to his father-Khan: 
 
 " ' I know what thon dost giTe me, sovereign father! I 
 know ... I am thy slave — ^thy son. Take my blood, 
 a drop an hour — twenty deaths will I die for thee! ' 
 
 " ' I require nothing! ' said the Khan, and bowed his gray 
 head, crowned with the glory of long years and many feats, 
 upon his breast. 
 
 " Speedily did they finish the feast, and the two went 
 silently, side by side, from the palace to the harem. 
 
 " The night was dark, and neither moon nor stars were 
 visible for the clouds which covered the heaven like a thick 
 carpet. 
 
 " Long did the father and son walk through the dark- 
 ness, and now the Khan el Asvab spake: 
 
 " ' Day by day my life is dying out, and my old heart 
 beats more and more feebly, and less and still ever less is 
 there of fire in my breast. The fervent caresses of the 
 kazak woman have been the light and warmth of my life. 
 . . . Tell me, Tolaik, tell me, is she so necessary to 
 thee? Take a hundred, take all my wives, save only 
 her! . . .' 
 
 " Tolaik Alhalla made no reply, but sighed. 
 
 " ' How many days are left to me? Few are my days on 
 earth. . . . She is the last joy of my life, — that Rus- 
 sian girl. She knows me, she loves me, — ^who will love 
 me now, when I no longer have her — me, an old man, who? 
 Not one among them all, not one, Alhalla! ' 
 
 " Alhalla said no word. 
 
 " ' How shall I live, knowing that thou art embracing 
 her, that she is kissing thee? To a woman, there is no such 
 thing as father or son, Tolaik! To a woman, we are all 
 men, my son. . . . Painful will it be for me to live 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 out my days. . . . Eather let all the ancient wounds 
 on my body open again, Tolaik, and let them shed my blood 
 — rather let me not survive this night, my son! ' 
 
 " His son remained silent. . . . They halted at the 
 door of the harem, and silently, bowing their heads on their 
 breasts, they stood long before it. Gloom was round about 
 them, and clouds raced across the sky, while the wind 
 shook the trees, as though it were singing some song to 
 them. 
 
 " ' I have loved her long, father! ' said Alhalla softly. 
 
 " ' I know . . . and I know that she does not love 
 thee,' said the Elhan. 
 
 " ' My heart is rent when I think of her.' 
 
 " * And with what is my aged heart filled now? ' 
 
 " And again they fell silent. Alhalla sighed. 
 
 " ' 'Tis plain that the wise mullah told me the truth — 
 a woman is always injurious to a man: when she is hand- 
 some, she arouses in others the desire to possess her, and 
 she delivers her husband over to the pangs of jealousy; 
 when she is ugly, her husband, envying others, suffers 
 from envy; but if she is neither handsome nor ugly, — a 
 man imagines her very handsome, and when he comes to 
 understand that he has made a mistake, he suffers again 
 through her, that woman.' 
 
 " ' Wisdom is not medicine for an aching heart . . .' 
 said the Khan. 
 
 " ' Let us have compassion on each other, father . . .' 
 
 " The Khan raised his head, and gazed sadly at his son. 
 
 " ' Let us kill her,' said Tolaik. 
 
 "'Thou lovest thyself more than her and me, — ' said 
 the Khan softly, after meditating for a space. 
 
 " ' Surely, it is the same with thee.' 
 
 " And again they fell silent. 
 
 181 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 " ' Yes! And I, also/ — said the Khan mournfully. He 
 had become a child through grief. 
 
 " ' "Well, shall we kill her? ' 
 
 " * I cannot give her up to thee, I cannot/ said the Khan. 
 
 " ' And I cannot endure it any longer — tear out my heart, 
 or give her to me . . .' 
 
 " The Kian made no reply. 
 
 " ' Or let us fling her into the sea from the mountain.' 
 
 " ' Let us fling her into the sea from the mountain,' the 
 Khan repeated his son's words, like the echo of his son's 
 voice. 
 
 "And then they entered the harem, where she already 
 lay asleep upon the floor, on a rich rug. They paused in 
 front of her and gazed; long did they gaze upon her. Tears 
 trickled from the old Khan's eyes upon his silvery heard 
 and gleamed in it like pearls, but his son stood with flash- 
 ing eyes, and gnashing his teeth, to restrain his passion. 
 He aroused the kazak girl. She awoke, and on her face, 
 tender and rosy as the dawn, her blue eyes blossomed like 
 corn-flowers. She did not perceive Alhalla, and stretched 
 out her scarlet lips to the Khan. 
 
 " * Kiss me, old eagle! ' 
 
 " ' Make ready . . . thou must come with us,' — 
 said the Khan softly. 
 
 " Then she saw Alhalla, and the tears in the eyes of her 
 eagle, and she understood all, for she was clever. 
 
 " ' I come,' she said, — ' I come. I am to belong neither 
 to the one nor to the other — ^is that what you have de- 
 cided? That is how the strong of heart should decide. I 
 come.' 
 
 "And silently they all three went toward the sea. 
 Through narrow ways they went, and the breeze rustled, 
 rustled sonorously. . . . 
 
 183 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 " She was tender, the girl, and wearied soon, hut she 
 was proud also — and would not tell them so. 
 
 " And when the Khan's son ohserved that she did not 
 keep pace with them, he said to her: 
 
 "'Art thou afraid?' 
 
 " She gave him a flashing glance, and showed him her 
 bleeding foot. 
 
 " ' Come, I will carry thee! ' — said Alhalla, reaching out 
 his arms to her. But she threw her arms around the neck 
 of her old eagle. The KLan raised her in his arms, like a 
 feather, and carried her; and she, as she sat in his arms, 
 thrust aside the boughs of the trees from his face, fearing 
 that they would strike his eyes. Long did they ioumey 
 thus, and lo! the roar of the sea could be heard in the dis- 
 tance. Then Tolaik — he walked behind them in the path 
 — said to his father: 
 
 " ' Let me go on ahead, for I want to stab thee in the 
 neck with my dagger.' 
 
 " * Pass on — Allah will take vengeance on thee for thy 
 desire, or forgive thee — as he wills, — ^but I, thy father, for- 
 give thee. I know what it means to love.' 
 
 " And lo! the sea lay before them, yonder below, black 
 and shoreless. Its waves chanted dully at the very base of 
 the cliff, and it was dark and cold and terrible there below. 
 
 " ' Farewell! ' said the Khan, as he kissed the girl. 
 
 "'Farewell!' said Alhalla, and bowed low before her. 
 
 " She glanced out afar, where the waves were singing, 
 and staggered back, pressing her hands to her breast . . . 
 
 " ' Throw me! ' she said to them. 
 
 "Alhalla stretched out his hands to her and groaned, 
 but the Khan took her in his arms, pressed her close to his 
 breast, kissed her, and raising her high over his head, — ^he 
 flung her from the cliff. 
 
 183 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 " There the waves were plashing and singing so noisily 
 that neither of them heard when she reached the water. 
 They heard no cry, nothing. The Khan sank down upon 
 a stone, and began to gaze downward in silence into the 
 darkness and distance, where the sea merged into the 
 clouds, whence noisily floated the dull beating of the bil- 
 lows, whence flew the wind which fluttered the Khan's gray 
 beard. Tolaik stood over him, covering his face with his 
 hands, motionless and silent as a stone. Time passed, and 
 athwart the sky the clouds floated past, one after another, 
 driven by the wind. Dark and heavy were they, as the 
 thoughts of the aged Khan, who lay on the lofty cliff above 
 the sea. 
 
 " ' Let us go, father,' said Tolaik. 
 
 " ' Wait,' — whispered the Khan, as though hstening to 
 something. 
 
 " And again much time elapsed, and still the waves beat 
 below, and the wind flew to the cliff, making a noise in the 
 trees. 
 
 " ' Let us go, father.' 
 
 " ' Wait a little longer . . .' 
 
 " More than once did Tolaik Alhalla say: 
 
 " ' Let us go, father.' 
 
 " But still the Khan stirred not from the place, where he 
 had lost the joy of his last days. 
 
 "But — all things have an end! — ^he rose, strong and 
 proud, rose, knitted his brows, and said in a dull tone: 
 
 " ' Let us go.' 
 
 " They went, but the Khan speedily halted. 
 
 " ' Why am I going and whither, Tolaik? ' — ^he asked his 
 son. — ' Why should I live now, when all my life was in her? 
 I am old, no one will love me more, and if no one loves thee 
 — ^it is senseless to live in the world.' 
 
 184 
 
The Khan and His Son 
 
 " ' Thou hast glory and riches, father . . .' 
 
 " ' Give me but one kiss of hers, and take all that to thy- 
 self as reward. All that is dead, the love of woman alone 
 is ahve. There is no such love, there is no life in a man, 
 a beggar is he, and pitiful are his days. Farewell, my son, 
 the blessing of Allah be on thy head, and remain there all 
 the days and nights of thy life.' And the Khan turned his 
 face seaward. 
 
 "' Father/— said Tolaik, 'father! . . .' He could 
 say no more, for there is nothing that one can say to a man 
 on whom death smiles, and nothing canst thou say to him 
 which shall restore to his so\il the love of life. 
 
 " ' Let me go . . .' 
 
 "'Allah . . .' 
 
 "'He knows . . .' 
 
 With swift strides the Khan approached the brink, and 
 hurled himself down. His son did not hold him back, 
 there was no time for that. And again nothing was audible 
 from the sea — ^neither shriek nor noise of the Khan's fall. 
 Only the waves plashed on there, and the wind hummed 
 wild songs. 
 
 " Long did TolaJQc Alhalla gaze below, and then he said 
 aloud: 
 
 " ' And grant me, also, as stout a heart, oh Allah! ' 
 
 " And then he went forth into the gloom of the night. 
 
 "... Thus perished Khan Mosolaima el Asvab, and 
 Tolaik AlhaUa became Khan of the Crimea." 
 
 185 
 
THE EXORCISM 
 
THE EXORCISM 
 
 Along the village sixeet, between rows of white-plastered 
 cottages, a strange procession is moving along, with wild 
 howls. 
 
 A crowd of people is walking along, walking slowly, in 
 dense ranks, — moving like a huge wave, and in front of 
 it strides a miserable little horse, a comically woolly little 
 nag, with head drooping low. As it lifts a fore foot, it 
 shakes its head strangely, as though it wanted to thrust its 
 woolly muzzle into the dust of the road, and when it moves 
 a hind foot, its crupper settles down toward the earth, and 
 it seems as though the horse were on the point of falling. 
 
 Bound to the front of the peasant cart, with a rope about 
 her wrists, is a small, entirely nude woman, almost a girl 
 in years. She walks rather strangely — sideways, her head, 
 with its thick, dishevelled hair of a dark chestnut hue, is 
 raised and thrown a little backward, her eyes are opened 
 widely and are gazing off into the distance with a dull, 
 imintelligent look, which has nothing human about it. 
 Her whole body is covered with blue and dark-red spots, 
 both circular and oblong; her left breast, elastic, maidenly, 
 is cleft, and from it the blood is dripping. ... It 
 forms a crimson streak on her body, and down along the 
 left leg to the knee, while on her lower leg it is concealed 
 by a light-brown coating of dust. It seems as though a 
 long, narrow strip of skin had been flayed from the woman's 
 body, which must have undergone a prolonged beating with 
 
 189 
 
The Exorcism 
 
 a club, — ^it is monstrously swollen and horribly blue all 
 over. 
 
 The woman's feet, small and well-shaped, hardly tread 
 the dust; her whole body is terribly bent over, and sways 
 from side to side, and it is impossible to understand how 
 she can still stand on her legs, thickly covered, like her 
 whole body, with bruises, why she does not fall to the 
 ground, and, suspended by her arms, is not dragged after 
 the cart along the hot, dusty road . . . 
 
 And in the cart stands a tall peasant in a white shirt, 
 a black lambskin cap, from beneath which, intersecting 
 his brow, hangs a lock of bright-red hair; in one hand he 
 grasps the reins, in the other, a whip, and methodically be- 
 stows one lash upon the back of the nag, and one upon the 
 body of the little woman, already beaten until it has lost 
 the semblance of a human being. The eyes of the red- 
 headed man are suffused with blood, and gleam with evil 
 triumph. His hair blends with their greenish hue. His 
 shirt-sleeves, stripped up to the elbow, display strong, 
 muscular arms, thickly overgrown with reddish hair; his 
 mouth, filled with sharp, white teeth, is open, and from 
 time to time the peasant shouts hoarsely: 
 
 " Gi-ive it to her ... the wi-itch! Heyl Gi-ive 
 it to her! Aha! Here goes! . , . Isn't that the thing, 
 comrades? ..." 
 
 And behind the cart and the woman bound to it, the 
 crowd surges on in billows, shouting, howling, whistling, 
 laughing, shouting the hunting cry . . . teasing . . . 
 Wretched little boys are running alongside. Now and 
 then one of them darts ahead, and shouts foul words in 
 the woman's ear. Then a burst of laughter from the 
 crowd drowns all other sounds, and the piercing whistle of 
 the whiplash through the air. . . . Women are walk- 
 
 190 
 
The Exorcism 
 
 ing there, with excited faces, and eyes sparkling with satis- 
 faction. . . . There are men, also, who shout some- 
 thing disgusting to the man in the cart. ... He turns 
 round toward them, and roars with laughter, opening his 
 mouth very wide, A hlow with the whip on the woman's 
 back. . . . The long, thin whip curls round her shoul- 
 ders, and now it lashes her under the armpit. Then the 
 peasant who is flogging her draws the lash strongly toward 
 him; the woman utters a shrill cry, and, throwing herself 
 backward, falls on her back in the dust. Many of the 
 crowd spring toward her, and hide her from sight with their 
 bodies, as they bend over her. 
 
 The horse stops short, but, a moment later, moves on 
 again, and the unmercifully beaten woman moves along 
 with the cart as before. And the wretched nag, as it paces 
 slowly onward, keeps shaking its woolly head, as though it 
 wanted to say: 
 
 " See how vile a thing it is to be a beast! They can force 
 you to take part in every sort of abominable thing! " 
 
 And the sky, the sky of the south, is perfectly clear, — 
 there is not a single cloud, and from it the summer sun 
 lavishly pours out its burning rays. 
 
 This, which I have written above, is not an allegorical 
 description of the persecution and torture of a prophet, 
 who has no honor in his own country, — no, unfortunately, 
 it is not that! It is called an " exorcism." Thus do hus- 
 bands punish their wives for infidehty; this is a picture from 
 life, a custom, — and I beheld it in the year 1891, on the 15th 
 of July, in the village of Kandyb6vko, Government of 
 Kherson. 
 
 191 
 
MEN WITH PASTS 
 
MEN WITH PASTS 
 
 Vy^zhaya (Entrance) Street consists of two rows of aged, 
 one-story hovels, squeezed closely one against the other, 
 with leaning walls and windows all awry; the hole-ridden 
 roofs of these human habitations, thus crippled by time, 
 are mottled with patches of the inner bark of the linden- 
 tree, and overgrown with moss; above them, here and there, 
 project tall poles surmounted by starUng-houses, and they 
 are shaded by the dusty verdure of elderberry bushes and 
 crooked willows, the scanty flora of the town suburbs in- 
 habited by poverty. 
 
 The window-panes of the tiny houses, of a turbid-green 
 hue through age, stare at each other with the glances of 
 cowardly sharpers. Up-hill, through the middle of the 
 street, crawls a winding cart-track, which tacks back and 
 forth among deep gullies, washed out by the rains. Here 
 and there lie heaps of broken bricks and other rubbish, 
 overgrown with high grass — representing the remnants or 
 the beginnings of the constructions, unsuccessfully under- 
 taken by the inhabitants in their fight with the floods of 
 rain-water, which flow like torrents from the town. Up 
 above, on the crest of the hill, handsome stone houses con- 
 ceal themselves amid the luxuriant verdure of thick gar- 
 dens, and the belfries of churches rise proudly into the 
 blue sky, their golden crosses glitter dazzlingly in the sun 
 
 During rains, the town sends its dirt down upon 
 
 195 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Vy&haya Street; in dry weather, it sprinkles it with dust, 
 — and all these deformed little houses look as though they, 
 also, had heen flung out of it, swept forth, like rubhish, 
 by some mighty hand. 
 
 Flattened down against the earth, they were sprinkled all 
 over the hill, half-decayed, infirm, decorated by sun, dust, 
 and rain with that dirty grayish hue which defies descrip- 
 tion that wood acquires with age. 
 
 At the extremity of this wretched street, flung out of 
 the town to the bottom of the hill, stood a long, two-story 
 deserted house, which had escheated to the town, and 
 had been purchased from the town by merchant Petunni- 
 koff. It was the last in the line, standing at the very foot 
 of the hill, and beyond it extended a wide plain, inter- 
 sected, half a verst from the house, by a steep declivity de- 
 scending to the river. 
 
 This large and very aged house possessed the most 
 gloomy aspect of all among its neighbors. It was all askew, 
 in its two rows of windows there was not a single one which 
 had preserved its regular shape, and the splinters of glass 
 in the shattered frames had the turbidly-greenish hue of 
 swamp water. 
 
 The walls between the windows were streaked with 
 cracks and dark spots of peeling stucco — as though time 
 had written its biography on the walls of the house in these 
 hieroglyphs. The "roof, which sloped toward the street, 
 still further increased its rueful aspect — it seemed as 
 though the house had bent down to the ground, and was 
 submissively awaiting from Fate the final blow which 
 should convert it into dust, into a shapeless heap of half- 
 .rotten fragments. 
 
 The gate stood open — one half of it, torn 'from its 
 •hinges, lay on the ground, and through the crevices be- 
 
 196 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 tween its planks had sprouted the grass, which thickly cov- 
 ered the desert courtyard of the house. At the far end of 
 this courtyard stood a low, smoke-hegrimed building with 
 an iron roof, of one slant. The house itself was, of course, 
 uninhabitable, but in this building, which had formerly 
 been the blacksmith's shop, there was now installed a 
 " night lodging-house," kept by Aristid Fomiteh Kuvalda,* 
 retired captain of cavalry. 
 
 The interior of the night lodging-house presented a 
 long, gloomy burrow, four fathoms by ten; it was lighted 
 on one side by four small, square windows, and a broad 
 door. Its unplastered brick walls were black with soot, 
 the ceiling, of barge-bottom wood,f was also smoked until 
 it was black; in the middle of the place stood a huge stove, 
 for which the forge served as foundation, and around the 
 stove, and along the walls, ran wide sleeping-shelves with 
 heaps of all sorts of stuff, which served the lodgers as beds. 
 The wall reeked with smoke, the earthen floor reeked with 
 dampness, from the sleeping-shelves proceeded an odor of 
 sweaty and decaying rags. 
 
 The quarters of the lodging-house's proprietor were on 
 the stove; the sleeping-shelves around the stove were the 
 places of honor, and upon them the night-lodgers who en- 
 joyed the favor and friendship of the proprietor disposed 
 themselves. 
 
 The cavalry captain always spent the day at the door of 
 the night lodging-house, seated in something after the like- 
 ness of an arm-chair, which he had put together, with his 
 
 * KvmbXda means a mallet ; or, figuratively, a clown. — Tramslator. 
 
 \ The barges for transporting wood, and so forth, on Russian rivers, 
 are put together with huge wooden pegs. After being unloaded, at their 
 destination, they are broken up, and the hole-riddled planks are sold 
 at a very low price. — Translator. 
 
 197 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 own hands, out of bricks; or in the eating-house of Eg6r 
 Vaviloff, which was situated slantwise opposite the Petiin- 
 nikofE house; there the captain dined and drank vodka. 
 
 Before he hired these quarters, Aristid Kuvalda had had 
 an employment office for servants in the town; if we were 
 to penetrate further back in his past, we should discover 
 that he had had a printing-office, and before the printing- 
 office he had — to use his own language — "simply lived. 
 And I lived magnificently, devil take it! I may say, that I 
 lived like a man who knows how! " 
 
 He was a broad-shouldered, tall man, fifty years of age, 
 with a pock-marked face which was bloated with intoxica- 
 tion, framed in a broad, dirty-yellow beard. His eyes were 
 gray, huge, audaciously jolly; he spoke in a bass voice, with 
 a rumbling in his throat, and from his lips a German porce- 
 lain pipe, with a curved stem, almost always projected. 
 When he was angry, the nostrils of his huge, hooked, 
 bright-red nose became widely inflated, and his lips quiv- 
 ered, revealing two rows of yellow teeth, as large as those 
 of a wolf. Long-armed, knock-kneed, always clad in a 
 dirty and tattered officer's cloak, a greasy cap with a red 
 band but without a visor, and in wretched felt boots, 
 which reached to his knees — he was always in a depressed 
 state of drunken headache in the morning, while in the 
 evening he was jolly drunk. Drink as he would, he could 
 not get dead drunk, and he never lost his merry mood. 
 
 In the evenings, as he sat in his brick arm-chair, with 
 his pipe in his teeth, he received lodgers. 
 
 "Who are you?" — he inquired of the man who ap- 
 proached him, a tattered, downtrodden individual who had 
 been ejected from the town for drunkenness, or who, for 
 some other, no less solid reason, had gone down hill. 
 
 The man replied. 
 
 108 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Present the legal document, in confirmation of yova 
 lies." 
 
 The document was presented, if there was one.* The 
 captain thrust it into his hreast, rarely interesting himself 
 in its contents, and said: 
 
 "Everything is in order. Two kopeks a night, ten 
 kopeks a week, by the month — ^thirty kopeks. Go and 
 occupy a place, but look out that it doesn't belong to some- 
 body else, or you'll get thrashed. The people who live in 
 my house are stern. . . ." 
 
 Novices asked him: 
 
 " And you don't deal in bread, tea or anything eatable? " 
 
 " I deal only in a wall and a roof, and for that I pay 
 my rascally landlord, Judas f Petunnikoff, merchant of the 
 second Guild, five rubles a month," — explained Kuvalda, 
 in a business-like tone; " the people who come to me are 
 not used to luxury . . . and if you are accustomed to 
 gobble every day, — there's the eating-house opposite. But 
 it would be better if you, you wreck, would break yourself 
 of that bad habit. You're not a nobleman, you know, — 
 so why should you eat? Eat yourself! " 
 
 For these and similar speeches, uttered in a tone of mock 
 severity, and always with laughing eyes, and for his cour- 
 teous behavior to his lodgers, the captain enjoyed wide 
 popularity among the poor people of the town. It often 
 happened that a former patron of the captain presented 
 himself to him in the courtyard, no longer tattered and 
 oppressed, but in a more or less decent guise, and with a 
 brisk countenance. 
 
 ♦ " Document " or (literally) " paper," here, as often, means the 
 passport. — Translator. 
 
 f As the reader will perceive, later on, Petunnikoff' s name was not 
 luda (Judas). This is Kuralda's sarcasm. — Translator. 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Good-day, your Well-Bom! How's your health?" 
 
 " I'm well. I'm alive. Speak further." 
 
 " Don't you recognize me? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But you remember, I lived about a month with you in 
 the winter . . . when that police round-up took place, 
 and they gathered in three men! " 
 
 " We-ell now, brother, the police are constantly visiting 
 my hospitable roof! " 
 
 " Akh, oh Lord! It was the time when you made that 
 insulting gesture at the police-captain! " 
 
 "Wait, spit on all memories, and say simply, what do 
 you want?" 
 
 "Won't you accept a little treat from me? When I 
 lived with you that time, you treated me, so. . . ." 
 
 " Gratitude ought to be encouraged, my friend, for it 
 is rarely met with among men. You must be a fine young 
 fellow, and although I don't remember you in the least, 
 I'll accompany you to the dram-shop with pleasure, and 
 drink to your success in life with delight." 
 
 " And you're just the same as ever . . . always jok- 
 ing?" 
 
 " But what else could I do, living among you unfortu- 
 nates?" 
 
 They went. Sometimes the captain's former patron re- 
 turned to the lodging-house completely unscrewed and 
 shaken lose by the treat; on the following day, they both 
 treated each other again, and one fine morning, the former 
 patron awoke with the consciousness that he had once more 
 drunk up his last penny. 
 
 " Your Well-Born! A misfortune has befallen me! I've 
 got into your squad again. What am I to do now? " 
 " A situation on which you are not to be congratulated, 
 
 SOO 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 but, since you are in it, it's not proper to be stingy," — 
 argued the captain. — " You must bear yourself with in- 
 difference toward everything, not spoiling your life with 
 philosophy, and not putting questions. It is always stupid 
 to philosophize, and to philosophize when one has a 
 drunken headache — is inexpressibly stupid. A drunken 
 headache demands vodka, and not gnawings of conscience 
 and gnashing of teeth. . . . spare your teeth, or there 
 won't be anything to beat you on. Here now, are twenty 
 kopeks for you, — go and bring a measure of vodka, five 
 kopek's worth of hot tripe or lights, a pound of bread, and 
 two cucumbers. When we get rid of our headache, we'll 
 consider the situation of affairs." 
 
 The situation of affairs was defined with entire clearness, 
 a couple of days later, when the captain had not a kopek 
 left out of the three-ruble or five-ruble bank-note which 
 he had had in his pocket on the day when his grateful 
 patron had made his appearance. 
 
 "We've arrived! Enough!" — said the cavalry captain. 
 " Now that you and I, you fool, have ruined ourselves with 
 drink, let us try to enter again upon the path of sobriety 
 and virtue. How just is the saying: If you don't sin, you 
 don't repent, and if you don't repent, you won't be saved. 
 We have performed the first, but repentance is useless, so 
 let's save ourselves at once. Take yourself off to the river 
 and work. If you can't trust yourself, tell the contractor to 
 retain your money, or give it to me. When we have 
 amassed a capital, I'll buy you some trousers and the other 
 things that are necessary to enable you to appear again 
 as a respectable and quiet toiler, persecuted by fate. In 
 new trousers you can go a long way! March! " 
 
 The patron took himself off to act as porter at the river- 
 side, laughing at the captain's long and wise speeches. He 
 
 201 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 only dimly understood their poignant wit, but he beheld 
 before him the merry eyes, felt the courageous spirit, and 
 knew, that in the eloquent cavalry-captain he had a hand 
 which could uphold him in case of need. 
 
 And, as a matter of fact, after a month or two of hard 
 labor the patron, thanks to stern supervision of his con- 
 duct on the part of the captain, was in possession of the 
 material possibility of rising again a step higher than the 
 place to which he had descended through the benevolent 
 sympathy of that same captain. 
 
 " We-ell, my friend," said Kuvalda, as he took a critical 
 survey of his restored patron, — "you have trousers and a 
 pea-jacket. These articles are of vast importance — trust 
 my experience. As long as I had decent trousers, I lived in 
 the town, in the character of a respectable man, but, devil 
 take it, as soon as my trousers dropped off, I fell in peo- 
 ple's estimation, and was obliged to drop down here my- 
 self, from the town. People, my very fine blockhead, judge 
 of everything by its form, but the essence of things is 
 inaccessible to them, because of men's inborn stupidity. 
 Carve that on your nose, and when you have paid me even 
 one half of your debt, go in peace, and seek, and thou shalt 
 find! " 
 
 "How much do I owe you, Aristid Fomitch?" inquired 
 the patron in confusion. 
 
 " One ruble and seventy kopeks . . . Now give me 
 a ruble or seventy kopeks, and I'll wait for the rest until 
 you have stolen or earned more than you have now." 
 
 " Thank you most sincerely for your kindness! " said the 
 patron, much affected. " What a good sort of fellow you 
 are, really! Ekh, life did wrong in treating you hardly. 
 ... I think you must have been a regular eagle in your 
 own place?! " 
 
 2oa 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 The captain could not exist without speeches of declama- 
 tory eloquence. 
 
 " What signifies ' in my own place? ' No one knows his 
 own place in life, and everyone of us gets his head into 
 someone else's harness. The place for merchant Judas 
 PetunnikofE is among the hard-labor exiles, but he walks 
 about in broad day through the streets, and even wants to 
 build some sort of a factory. The place for our teacher is 
 by the side of a good wife, and in the midst of half a dozen 
 children, but he is lying around at Vaviloff's, in the dram- 
 shop. And here are you — you're going off to seek a place 
 as a footman or a corridor-waiter,* but I see that your 
 place is among the soldiers, for you are stupid, you have 
 endurance, and you understand discipline. You see what 
 sort of affair it is? Life shuffles us like cards, and only 
 accidentally — and that not for long — do we fall into our 
 own places! " 
 
 Sometimes such conversations at parting served as 
 prefaces to a continuation of the acquaintance, which again 
 began with a good drinking-bout, and again reached the 
 point where the patron had drunk up his all, and was 
 amazed; the captain gave him his revenge, and . . . 
 both drank up their last penny. 
 
 Such repetitions of what had gone before, did not, in 
 the least, interfere with the kindly relations between the 
 parties. The teacher mentioned by the captain was pre- 
 cisely one of those patrons who had reformed only to ruin 
 himself again immediately. By his intellect, he was a man 
 
 * This " corridor-waiter " in Russian hotels, prepares the samoTar, 
 or makes coffee, in a small, np-stairs buffet, near the bedrooms of his 
 allotted section, and serves, with bread, butter and cream, or whatever 
 is ordered. It is also his duty to bring up all other meals which are 
 served in private rooms. — Translator. 
 
 203 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 who stood closer to the captain than all the rest, and, possi- 
 hly, it was precisely to this cause that he was indebted for 
 the fact that, after having descended to the night-lodging- 
 house, he could no longer raise himself. 
 
 With him alone could Aristid Kuvdlda philosophize with 
 the certainty of being understood. He prized this, and 
 when the reformed teacher prepared to leave the lodging- 
 house, after having earned a little money, and with the 
 intention of hiring a nook for himself in the town, — 
 Aristid Kuvalda escorted him with so much sorrow, 
 spouted so many melancholy tirades, that they both infalli- 
 bly set out on a spree, and drank up all they owned. In all 
 probability, Kuvalda deliberately arranged the matter so 
 that the teacher, despite all his desires, could not get away 
 from his lodging-house. Was it possible for Aristid Ku- 
 valda, a member of the gentry, with education, the rem- 
 nants of which even now glittered in his speech, from time 
 to time, with a habit of thinking developed by the vicissi- 
 tudes of fate, — was it possible for him not to desire and to 
 try to behold always by his side a man of the same sort 
 as himself? We know how to have compassion on our- 
 selves. 
 
 This teacher had once taught some branch in the Teach- 
 ers' Institute of some town on the "Volga, but, in conse- 
 quence of several scrapes, had been discharged from the 
 institute. Then he had been a counting-house clerk at a 
 tanning factory, and had been obliged to quit that also. 
 He had been a librarian in some private library, he had 
 tried a few more professions, and, finally, after passing an 
 examination as attorney-at-law, he took to drinking like a 
 fish, and hit upon the cavalry captain. He was tall, round- 
 shouldered, with a long, sharp nose, and a perfectly bald 
 head. In his bony, yellow face, with its small, pointed 
 
 204 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 beard, shone large, restlessly-melancholy eyes, deeply sunk 
 in their orbits, and the corners of his mouth drooped dole- 
 fully downward. He earned his means of livelihood, or 
 rather of drink, by acting as reporter to the local news- 
 papers. It did happen that he earned as much as fifteen 
 rubles a week. Then he gave the money to the captain, 
 and said: 
 
 "Enough! I'm going to return to the lap of culture. 
 One week more of work, — and I shall dress myself decently, 
 and addio, mio caro!" 
 
 "Very laudable! . . . As I, from my soul, sympathize 
 with your resolution, Philip, I shall not give you a single 
 glass during that entire week," — the captain gave him 
 friendly warning. 
 
 " I shall be grateful! — You won't give even a single 
 drop?" 
 
 The captain detected in his words something approach- 
 ing a timid entreaty for relaxation, and said, still more 
 sternly: 
 
 " Even if you roar for it — I won't give it! " 
 
 " Well, that settles it " — sighed the teacher, and set off 
 about his reporting. A day later, or, at most, two days, 
 defeated, weary and thirsty he was staring at the captain 
 from some nook, with mournful, beseeching eyes, and 
 waiting in trepidation, for the heart of his friend to soften. 
 The captain assumed a surly aspect, and uttered speeches 
 impregnated with deadly irony, on the theme of the dis- 
 grace of having a weak character, about the beastly de- 
 light of drunkenness, and on all other themes appropriate 
 to the occasion. To do him justice — ^he was sincerely car- 
 ried away with his role as mentor and moralist; but his 
 steady customers at the night-lodging-house, being of a 
 sceptical cast of mind, said one to another, winking in the 
 
 205 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 direction of the captain, as they watched him and listened 
 to his croaking speeches: 
 
 " The sly dog! He puts him off cleverly! * I told you 
 so/ says he, ' and you wouldn't listen to me — now you maj 
 thank yourself! ' " 
 
 But the teacher caught his friend somewhere in a dark 
 corner, and tightly clutching his dirty cloak, trembling all 
 over, licking his dry lips, he gazed in his face with a deeply- 
 tragic glance inexpressible in words. 
 
 "You can't?" — ^inquired the captain morosely. 
 
 The teacher nodded, in silent assent, and then dropped 
 his head dejectedly on his breast, trembling all over his 
 long, gaunt body. 
 
 "Hold out one day more . . . perhaps you'll re- 
 form? " suggested Kuvalda. 
 
 The teacher sighed, and shook his head negatively, hope- 
 lessly. The captain saw that his friend's gaunt body was 
 all quivering with thirst for the poison, and pulled the 
 money out of his pocket. 
 
 " In the majority of cases, it is useless to contend with 
 destiny," — ^he remarked as he did so, as though desirous 
 of justifying himself to someone. 
 
 But if the teacher did hold out the entire week, a touch- 
 ing scene of the farewell of friends was enacted between 
 him and the captain, and its final act usually took place in 
 Vavlloff's eating-house. 
 
 The teacher did not drink up the whole of his money: 
 
 he spent at least half of it on the children in Vyezhaya 
 
 1 Street. Poor people are always rich in children, and in 
 
 \this street, in its dust and holes, swarms of dirty, tattered 
 
 land half-starved little brats moved restlessly and noisily 
 
 jabout, all day long, from morning till night. 
 
 Children are the living flowers of earth, but in Vyezhaya 
 
 206 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 street they had the appearance of flowers which had with- 
 ered prematurely; it must have heen because they grew on 
 soil which was poor in healthy juices. 
 
 So the teacher often collected them about him, and hav- 
 ing purchased rolls, eggs, apples and nuts, he walked with 
 them into the fields, to the river. There they disposed 
 themselves on the ground, and, first of all, hungrily de- 
 voured everything the teacher ofEered them, and then be- 
 gan to play, filling the air for a whole verst * round about 
 with their careless noise and laughter. The long, gaunt 
 figure of the drunkard somehow shrunk together in the 
 midst of these little folks, who treated him with entire 
 familiarity, as one of their own age. They even addressed 
 him simply as Philip, without adding to his name " uncle " 
 or " little uncle." As they flitted swiftly around him, they 
 jostled him, sprang upon his back, slapped him on his bald 
 head, seized him by the nose. All this must have delighted 
 him, for he did not protest against such liberties. On the 
 whole, he talked very little with them, and if he did speak, 
 he did it as cautiously and even timidly as though his words 
 might spot them, or, in general, do them harm. He passed 
 several hours at a time, in the role of their plaything and 
 comrade, surveying their animated little faces with his 
 mournfully-sad eyes, and then, thoughtfully and slowly, he 
 went away from them to VavilofE's tavern, and there, 
 quickly and silently, he drank himself into a state of uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 Almost every day, on his return from his reportorial 
 
 work, the teacher brought with him a newspaper, and a 
 
 general assembly of all the men with pasts formed around 
 
 him. On catching sight of him, they moved toward him 
 
 * A. verst is two-thirds of a nu\.e.-^Translator. 
 
 307 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 from the various nooks of the courtyard, in an intoxicated 
 condition, or suffering from drunken headaches, diversely 
 dishevelled, but all equally wretched and dirty. 
 
 Alex6i Maximovitch Simtzoff came: he was as fat as a 
 cask, had been a forester in the service of the Crown 
 Estates, but was now a peddler of matches, ink, blacking, 
 and refuse lemons. He was an old man of fifty, clad in a 
 sail-cloth great-coat, and a broad-brimmed hat, which shel- 
 tered his fat, red face, with its thick, white beard, from 
 amid which his tiny, crimson nose and his thick lips of the 
 same color, and his tearful, cynical little eyes peered forth 
 upon God's world. They called him " The Peg-top "; and 
 this nickname accurately described his round figure, and 
 his speech, which resembled the humming of a top. 
 
 From somewhere in a corner, " The End " crawled forth, 
 — a gloomy, taciturn and desperate drunkard, formerly 
 prison-superintendent Luk4 Antonovitch Marty4noff, a 
 man who subsisted by gambling at "Little Belt," at 
 " Three Little Leaves," at " Little Bank," and by other 
 arts, equally witty, and equally disliked by the police. He 
 lowered his heavy body, which had been more than once 
 soundly beaten, heavily upon the grass, alongside the 
 teacher, flashed his black eyes, and stretching out his hand 
 for the bottle, inquired in a hoarse bass voice: 
 
 "May I?" 
 
 Mechanician P4vel Solntzeff made his appearance, a con- 
 sumptive man, thirty years of age. His left side had been 
 smashed in a fight, and his yellow, sharp face, like that 
 of a fox, was constantly contorted by a venomous smile. 
 His thin lips disclosed two rows of yellow teeth, which had 
 been ruined by illness, and the rags on his narrow^ bony 
 shoulders fluttered as though from a clothes-rack. His 
 nickname was "The Gnawed Bone." His business con- 
 
 208 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 sisted in peddling linden-bast brushes, of his own manu- 
 facture, and switches made of a certaia sort of grass, which 
 were very convenient for cleaning clothes. 
 
 There came, also, a tall, bony man, of unknown extrac- 
 tion, with a frightened expression in his large, round 
 eyes, the left of which squinted, — a taciturn, timid fellow, 
 who had thrice been incarcerated for theft, on the sen- 
 tence of the judge of the peace, and the district judge. 
 His surname was Kis61niko£E, but he was called Taras-and- 
 a-Half, because he was exactly one half taller than his in- 
 separable friend. Deacon Taras, who had been unfrocked 
 for drunkenness and depraved conduct. The deacon was 
 a short, thick man, with the chest of an epic hero, and a 
 round, shaggy head. He danced wonderfully well, and was 
 even more wonderful in his use of ribald language. He, 
 in company with Taras-and-a-Half, had selected for his 
 specialty wood-sawing on the bank of the river, and in his 
 leisure hours the deacon was wont to narrate to his friend, 
 and to anyone who cared to listen, tales " of his own com- 
 position," as he announced. As they listened to these tales, 
 the heroes of which were always saints, kings, priests, and 
 generals, even the inhabitants of the night lodging-house 
 spat with squeamishness, and opened their eyes to their 
 full extent in amazement at the fantasies of the deacon, 
 who narrated, with his eyes screwed up, and with a dispas- 
 sionate countenance, astonishingly shameless things, and 
 foully-fantastic adventures. The imagination of this man 
 was inexhaustible, — ^he could invent and talk all day long, 
 from morning till night, and never repeated himself. In 
 his person a great poet may have perished, possibly, or, at 
 any rate, a remarkable story-teller, who knew how to ani- 
 mate everything, and even invested the stones with a soul 
 by his vile but picturesque and powerful words. 
 
 209 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 There was also an awkward sort of youth, whom Ku- 
 valda called The Meteor. One day he had made his ap- 
 pearance to spend the night, and from that day forth he 
 had remained among these men, to their astonishment. 
 At first they did not notice him, — ^by day, like the rest of 
 them, he went off to seek his livelihood, but in the evening 
 he clung about this amicable company, and at last the 
 captain noticed him. 
 
 " Little boy! What are you doing in this land? " 
 
 The little boy answered boldly and briefly: 
 
 " I'm ... a tramp . . ." 
 
 The captain eyed him over critically. He was a long- 
 haired young fellow, with a rather foolish face, with high 
 cheek-bones, adorned with a snub nose. He wore a blue 
 blouse without a belt, and on his head was stuck the re- 
 mains of a straw hat. His feet were bare. 
 
 "You're — a fool!" Aristid Kuvalda pronounced his 
 decision. — "What are you knocking about here for? 
 You're of no use to us. . . . Do you drink vodka? 
 No . . . Well, and do you know how to steal? No, 
 again. ' Go and learn, and then come back when you have 
 become a man . . ." 
 
 The young fellow laughed. 
 
 " No, I think I'll go on living with you." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Oh, because . . ." 
 
 " Akh, you . . . Meteor! " said the captain. 
 
 " Come, now, I'll knock his teeth out for him, in a min- 
 ute," suggested Martyanoff. 
 
 " And what for? " inquired the captain. 
 
 "Nothing . ,, ." 
 
 " And I'll take a stone and smash you over the head," — 
 announced the young fellow deferentially. 
 
 210 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Marty4noff would have given him a drubbing, had not 
 Kuvalda intervened. 
 
 " Let him alone. . . . He's a sort of relation to 
 you, and to all of us, I think. You want to knock his 
 teeth out without sufficient foundation; he, like your- 
 self, wants to live with us, without sufficient founda- 
 tion. Well, and devil take him. . . . We all Hve 
 without sufficient foundation for it. . . . We live, 
 but what for? Because! And he, also, because . . . 
 let him alone." 
 
 " But you'd better go away from us, young man," ad- 
 vised the teacher, surveying the young fellow with his 
 mournful eyes. 
 
 The latter made no reply, and remained. Later on, they 
 got used to him, and ceased to notice him. But he lived 
 among them, and observed everything. 
 
 All the individuals enumerated above constituted the 
 captain's General Staff, and he, with good-humored irony, 
 called them " the have-beens." In addition to them, five 
 or six men constantly inhabited the night lodging-house 
 — ordinary tramps. They were men from the country, 
 they could not boast of any such pasts as " the have-beens," 
 and although they, no less than the rest, had experienced 
 the vicissitudes of fate, yet they were more unadulterated 
 folks than those, not so horribly shattered. It is possible 
 that a respectable man of the cultured class is higher than 
 the same sort of man of the peasant class, but the de- 
 praved man from a town is always immeasurably more foul 
 and disgusting than a depraved man from the country. 
 This rule was made sharply apparent by comparing the 
 former educated men with the former peasants who in- 
 habited Kuvalda's refuge. 
 
 An old rag-gatherer, Tyapa by name, was a conspicuous 
 
 211 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 representative of the former peasants. Long, and thin to 
 deformity, he held his head in such a manner that his chin 
 rested on his chest, so that his shadow reminded one, by its 
 shape, of an oven-fork. From the front, his face was not 
 visible, in profile, nothing was to be seen except an aqui- 
 line nose, a pendulous lower lip, and shaggy, gray eye- 
 brows. He was the captain's first lodger, in point of time, 
 and they said of him that he had a lot of money concealed 
 somewhere. Precisely on account of this money they had 
 " scraped " his throat with a knife two years before, and 
 from that day forth he had hung his head in that strange 
 manner. He denied the existence of the money, he said 
 that " they had scratched him simply for nothing, out of 
 impudence," and that since then he had found it very con- 
 venient to gather rags and bones — ^his head was constantly 
 bent earthward. As he walked along, with a swaying, un- 
 certain gait, without a stick in his hand or a sack on his 
 back — the insignia of his profession — he looked like a man 
 who was meditative to the point of losing consciousness, 
 but Kuvalda was wont to say, at such moments, pointing 
 his finger at him: 
 
 " See there, it's the conscience of merchant Judas Pettin- 
 nikofE, which has run away from him, and is seeking a 
 refuge for itself! See how frayed, and vile, and filthy that 
 runaway conscience is! " 
 
 TyApa spoke in a harsh voice, which hardly permitted 
 one to understand his remarks, and it must have been for 
 that reason that he rarely talked, and was very fond of 
 solitude. But every time that some fresh example of a 
 man, who had been forced out of the country by poverty, 
 made his appearance in the night lodging-house, Tyapa, at 
 the sight of him, fell into melancholy ire and uneasiness. 
 He persecuted the unfortunate man with caustic jeers, 
 
 312 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 which emerged from his throat in a vicious rattle; he set 
 some malicious tramp on him, and, in conclusion, he 
 threatened to thrash him with his own hands, and rob him 
 by night, and he almost always managed to make the 
 frightened and disconcerted peasant disappear from the 
 lodging-house and never appear there again. 
 
 Then Tyapa calmed down, and tucked himself away in 
 a corner, where he mended his rags, or read a Bible, which 
 was as old, dirty, and tattered as himself. He crawled out 
 of his nook again when the teacher brought the news- 
 paper and read it aloud. Generally, Tyapa listened to all 
 that was read in silence, and sighed deeply, asking no ques- 
 tions about anything. But when the teacher folded up the 
 paper, after he had finished reading it, Tyapa extended his 
 bony hand, and said: 
 
 "Give it to me . . ." 
 
 " What do you want with it? " 
 
 " Give it . . . perhaps there's something about us 
 in ilj . . ." 
 
 "About whom?" 
 
 "About the village . . ." 
 
 They laughed at him, and flung the paper at him. He 
 took it, and read that in such and such a village the grain 
 had been beaten down by hail, and in another thirty houses 
 had been burned, and in a third a woman had poisoned 
 her family — everything which it is customary to write 
 about the country, and which depicts it as merely imfortu- 
 nate, silly, and evil. T^yapa read all this in a dull tone, 
 and bellowed, expressing by this sound, possibly compas- 
 sion, possibly satisfaction. 
 
 He spent the greater part of Sunday, on which day he 
 never went out to gather rags, in reading his Bible. As 
 he read, he bellowed and sighed. He held the book sup- 
 
 213 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 ported on his chest, and was angry when anyone touched 
 it, or interfered with his reading. 
 
 " Hey, there, you necromancer," — ^Kuvdlda said to him, 
 — " what do you understand? Drop it! " 
 
 "And what do you understand?" 
 
 "Just so, you sorcerer! Neither do I understand any- 
 thing; but then, I don't read books . . ." 
 
 " But I do read them . . ." 
 
 " Well, and you're stupid," . . . — declared the cap- 
 tain. — " When insects breed in the head, it's uncomfortable, 
 but if thoughts crawl in it also, — ^how will you live, you old 
 toad? " 
 
 " Well, my time isn't very long," — said Tyapa calmly. 
 
 One day the teacher tried to find out where he had 
 learned to read and write. Tydpa answered him curtly: 
 
 " In jail." 
 
 "Have you been there?" 
 
 "Yes . . ." 
 
 " What for? "■ 
 
 " Nothing. ... I made a mistake. . . . And I 
 brought this Bible from there. A lady gave it to me. 
 . . . The jail is a nice place, brother . . ." 
 
 " You don't say so? How's that? " 
 
 "It teaches you. . . . You see, I learned to read 
 and write there. < . . I got a book. . . . Every- 
 thing ... is gratis. . . ." 
 
 When the teacher made his appearance in the lodging- 
 house, Tyapa had already been living in it a long time. He 
 stared long at the teacher, — ^in order to look in a man's 
 face Tyapa bent his whole body to one side, — ^listened long 
 to his, remarks, and one day he sat down beside him. 
 
 " Now, you're one of those . . . you've been learned. 
 . . . Have you read the Bible? " 
 
 314 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Yes . . ." 
 
 " Exactly so. . . . Do you remember it? " 
 
 "Well ... yes . . ." 
 
 The old man bent his body on one side, and gazed at 
 the teacher with his gray, sullen, distrustful eyes. 
 
 " And do you remember whether there were Amalekites 
 there? " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Where are they now? " 
 
 " They have disappeared, Ty^pa . . . died out . , ." 
 
 The old man said nothing for a while, then asked an- 
 other question: 
 
 "And the Philistines?" 
 
 " It's the same with them." 
 
 "Have they all died ofE?" 
 
 "Yes ... all . . ." 
 
 " Exactly. . . . And we shall all die off? " 
 
 " The time will come when we, also, shall die off," — ^the 
 teacher predicted with indifference. 
 
 " And from which of the tribes of Israel do we come? " 
 
 The teacher looked at him, reflected, and then began to 
 tell him about the Cimmerians, the Scythians, the Huns, 
 the Slavs. . . . The old man curved himself still 
 more on one side, and stared at him with terrified eyes. 
 
 " You're inventing all that! " — ^he said hoarsely, when 
 the teacher had finished. 
 
 " Wihy am I inventing? " — asked the other, in surprise. 
 
 " What did you tell me the names of those people were? 
 They're not in the Bible." 
 
 He rose and went away, deeply offended, and muttering 
 angrily. 
 
 " You've outlived your mind, Tyapa," the teacher called 
 after him, with conviction. 
 
 ai5 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Then the old man turned again toward him, and stretch- 
 ing out his arm, he menaced him with his hooked and 
 dirty finger: 
 
 "Adam came from the Lord, and the Hebrews de- 
 scended from Adam, which signifies that all men are 
 descended from the Hebrews. . . . And we, also . . ." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " The Tatars came from Ishmael . . . and he came 
 from a Hebrew . . ." 
 
 " Yes, but what do you want? " 
 
 " Nothing! Why did you lie? " 
 
 And he went away, leaving his interlocutor dumfounded. 
 But a couple of days later he again sat down beside him. 
 
 "You've had education . . . well, and you ought 
 to know — who are we? " 
 
 " Slavonians, Tyapa," — ^replied the teacher, and began 
 attentively to await Tyapa's words, being desirous of un- 
 derstanding him. 
 
 " Speak according to the Bible — there are no such folks 
 there. Who are we — Babylonians? Or from Edom?" 
 
 The teacher launched out upon a criticism of the Bible. 
 The old man listened to him long and attentively, and in- 
 terrupted: 
 
 " Hold on . . . stop that! You mean to say, that 
 among the people known to God, there aren't any Eus- 
 sians? Are we people who aren't known to God? Is that it? 
 Those who are inscribed in the Bible — ^those the Lord knew. 
 . . . He annihilated them with fire and sword, he de- 
 stroyed their towns and villages, but he also sent the 
 prophets to them, for their instruction . . . that is to 
 say, he had pity on them. He dispersed the Hebrews and 
 the Tatars, but he preserved them. . . . But how 
 about us? Why haven't we any prophets? '* 
 
 216 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "I — I don't know!" — said the teacher slowly, trying 
 to understand the old man. But the latter laid his hand 
 on the teacher's shoulder, began to push him gently to and 
 fro, and said hoarsely, as though he were endeavoring to 
 swallow something: 
 
 "Tell me, now! . . . You talk a great deal, as 
 though you knew everything. It disgusts me to listen to 
 you . . . you muddle my soul. . . . You'd bet- 
 ter have held your tongue! . . . Who are we? Ex- 
 actly! Why haven't we any prophets? Aha! — And where 
 were we when Christ walked the earth? You see! Ekh, 
 you stupid! And you keep on lying . . . could a 
 whole nation die out? The Russian people can't disappear 
 — ^you're lying . . . it's written down in the Bible, 
 only it isn't known under what word. . . . You know 
 the nation, what it's like? It's huge. . . . How many 
 villages are there on the earth? The whole nation lives 
 there ... a genuine, great nation. . . . And 
 you say — ^it will die out. ... A nation can't die out, 
 a man may . . . but a nation is necessary to God, he 
 is the creator of the earth. The Amalekites didn't die — 
 they're the Germans or the French . . . but you 
 . . . ekh, you liar! . . . Come, now, tell me why 
 God has passed us over? Haven't we any treasure or 
 prophets from the Lord? Who teaches us? . . ." 
 
 Tyapa's speech was strangely forceful; ridicule, and re- 
 proach, and profound faith resounded in it. He talked 
 for a long time, and. the teacher, who was, as usual, the 
 worse for liquor, and in a peaceable mood, finally felt as 
 uncomfortable in listening to him as though he were be- 
 ing sawed in twain with a wooden saw. He listened to the 
 old man, watched his distorted countenance, felt this 
 strange, crushing power of words, and, all of a sudden, he 
 
 217 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 felt sorry to the verge of pain, for himself, and sad over 
 something. He, also, felt a desire to say something power- 
 ful, something confident, to the old man, something which 
 would interest Tyapa in his favor, would make him talk 
 not in that reproachfully-surly tone, but in a different, — 
 a soft, paternally-affectionate one. And the teacher felt 
 something gurgling in his breast, rising in his throat . . . 
 but he could find in himself no powerful words. 
 
 " What sort of a man are you? . . . your soul is 
 torn to rags . . . and you have said various words. 
 ... As though you knew. . . . You'd better have 
 held your tongue. . . ." 
 
 "Ekh, Tyapa," — exclaimed the teacher sadly, — "what 
 you say is true. . . . And it's true . . . about 
 the nation! . . . It's huge . . . but I am a stranger 
 to it . . . and it's strange to me. . . . That's 
 where the tragedy of my life lies . . . But — let me 
 go! I shall suffer. . . . And there are no prophets 
 . . none! ... I really do talk a great deal 
 . . . and that's of no use to anybody . . . But I 
 will hold my tongue . . . only, don't talk to me like 
 that. . . . Ekh, old man! you don't know . . . 
 you don't know . . . you can't understand . . ." 
 
 The teacher began to weep at last. He wept so easily 
 and freely, with such an abundance of tears, that he felt 
 terribly pleased at the tears. 
 
 "You ought to go into a village . . . you might 
 ask for the place of teacher or scribe there . . . and 
 you'd get enough to eat, and you'd get aired. Why do you 
 tarry? '' — croaked Tyapa surlily. 
 
 But the teacher continued to weep, enjoying his tears. 
 
 From that time forth they became friends, and when the 
 Men with Pasts saw them together they said: 
 
 218 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " The teacher's running after Tyapa . . . he's 
 steering his course to the money." 
 
 " Kuvalda put him up to that. ... * Find out,' 
 says he, ' where the old fellow's capital is . . .' " 
 
 It is possible that, when they talked thus, they thought 
 otherwise. There was one absurd characteristic about 
 these men: they were fond of displaying themselves, one 
 to another, as worse than they were in reality. 
 
 A man who has nothing good in him sometimes is not 
 averse to strutting in his bad qualities. 
 
 "WJien all these men had assembled around the teacher 
 with his newspaper, the reading began. 
 
 " Well, sir," said the captain, " what does that nasty lit- 
 tle newspaper discuss to-day? Is there a feuilleton? " 
 
 " No," answered the teacher. 
 
 "Your publisher is getting grasping. . . . And is 
 there a leading article?" 
 
 "Yes, there is one to-day . . . Gulyaeff's, appar- 
 ently." 
 
 "Aha! Let's have it; that rascal writes sensibly; he has 
 an eye as sharp as a nail." 
 
 " Assessment of real estate," reads the teacher. 
 
 " The appraisal of real estate," — ^reads the teacher, — • 
 " which was made more than fifteen years ago, and continues 
 to serve at the present time as the basis for the collection 
 of an assessment, for the benefit of the town . . ." 
 
 " That's ingenious," — comments Captain Kuvilda; — 
 "'continues to serve'! That's ridiculous. It's profitable 
 for the merchant wlio runs the town to have it continue to 
 serve; well, and so it does continue to serve . . ." 
 
 " The article is written on that theme," — says the 
 teacher. 
 
 31« 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Yes? Strange! That's the theme for a feuilleton 
 . . . it must be written about in a peppery way." 
 
 A small dispute blazes up. The audience listens atten- 
 tively to him, for only one bottle of vodka has been drunk 
 thus far. After the leading article, the city items and the 
 court record are read. If a merchant appears in these 
 criminal sections either as an active or a suffering per- 
 sonality — ^Aristld Kuvalda sincerely exults. If the mer- 
 chant has been plundered — very fine, only, it's a pity that 
 he was robbed of so little. If his horses have smashed him 
 up, — it's delightful news, only it's a great shame that he 
 is still alive. If a merchant has lost his suit in court, — 
 magnificent, but it's sad that the court costs were not im- 
 posed upon him in double measure. 
 
 " That would have been illegal," — ^remarks the teacher. 
 
 "Illegal? But is the merchant himself legal?" — in- 
 quires Kuvalda bitterly. — "What's a merchant? Let us 
 examine that coarse and awkward phenomenon: first of 
 all, every merchant is a peasant. He makes his appear- 
 ance from the village, and, after the lapse of a certain 
 time, he becomes a merchant. In order to become a mer- 
 chant, he must have money. Where can the peasant get 
 money? It is well known that money is not the reward 
 of the labors of the upright. Hence, the peasant has 
 played the scoundrel, in one way or another. Hence, a 
 merchant is a scoundrelly-peasant! " 
 
 "Thafs clever!" — ^the audience expresses its approval 
 of the orator's deduction. 
 
 But Tyapa roars, as he rubs his chest. He roars in ex- 
 actly the same way when he drinks his first glass of vodka 
 to cure his drunken headache. The captain is radiant. 
 The letters from correspondents are read. These contain, 
 for the captain, "an overfiowing sea," to use his own 
 
 230 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 words. Everywhere he sees how evil a thing the merchant 
 is making of life, and how cleverly he crushes and spoils it. 
 His speeches thunder out, and annihilate the merchant. 
 They listen to him with satisfaction in their eyes, because 
 he swears viciously. 
 
 " If only I wrote for the newspapers! " — ^he exclaims. — 
 " Oh, I'd show up the merchant in his true light . . . 
 I'd demonstrate that he's only an animal, temporarily dis- 
 charging the functions of a man. I understand him! He? 
 He's rough, he's stupid, he has no taste in life, he has no 
 idea of the fatherland, and knows nothing more elevated 
 than a five-kopek coin." 
 
 The Gnawed Bone, who knew the captain's weak side, 
 and was fond of exasperating people, put in venomously: 
 
 " Yes, ever since the time when noblemen began unani- 
 mously to die of starvation — real men are disappearing 
 from life . . ." 
 
 " You're right, you son of a spider and a toad; yes, ever 
 since the nobles fell, there are no people! There are only 
 merchants . . . and I ha-a-ate them! " 
 
 " That's easily understood, because you, brother, also 
 have been trodden into dust by them . . ." 
 
 "I? I was ruined through my love of life . . . you 
 fool! I loved life . ^ . but the merchant plunders it. 
 I can't endure him, for precisely that reason . . . and 
 not because I'm a nobleman. I'm not a nobleman, if you 
 want to know it, but simply a man who has seen better 
 days. I don't care a fig now for anything or anybody 
 . , . and all life is to me a mistress who has abandoned 
 me . . . for which I despise her, and am profoundly 
 indifferent to her." 
 
 "You lie!" — says The Gnawed Bone. 
 
 "I lie?" — ^yells Aristid Kuvalda, red with wrath. 
 
 231 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Why shout?" — wrings out Martyanofl's cold, gloomy 
 ba^s. — "Why dispute? What do we care for either mer- 
 chant or nobleman?" 
 
 " Inasmuch as we are neither one thing nor the other," 
 interpolates the deacon. 
 
 " Stop it. Gnawed Bone," — says the teacher pacifically. 
 — " Why salt a herring? " 
 
 He did not like quarrels, and, in general, did not like 
 noise. When passions flared up around him, his lips were 
 contorted in a painful grimace, and he calmly and persua- 
 sively endeavored to reconcile everybody with everybody 
 else, and if he did not succeed in this, he left the company. 
 Knowing this, the captain, if he was not particularly drunk, 
 would restrain himself, as he was not desirous of losing, in 
 the person of the teacher, the best listener to his speeches. 
 
 " I repeat," — he continues, more quietly, — " I behold 
 life in the hands of enemies, enemies not only of the noble- 
 men, but enemies of every well-born man, greedy enemies, 
 incapable of adorning life in any way . . ." 
 
 " Nevertheless, brother," — says the teacher, — " the mer- 
 chants created Genoa, Venice, Holland, — ^it was merchants, 
 the merchants of England who won India for their country, 
 the Counts StroganofE . . ." * 
 
 "What have I to do with those merchants? I have in 
 view Judas Petiinnikoff, and along with him . . ." 
 
 " And what have you to do with them? " asks the teacher 
 softly. 
 
 "Am not I alive? Aha! I am — Whence I must feel in- 
 dignant at the sight of the way in which the savage people 
 who fill it are spoiling it." 
 
 " And they laugh at the noble indignation of the cavalry 
 
 * Yermak Timof 6evitch, the conqueror of Siberia, wa8 in the ser- 
 vice of the Counts Str6ganoff. — Translator. 
 
 233 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 captain, and of the man on the retired list," teased The 
 Gnawed Bone. 
 
 " Good! It's" stupid, I agree. ... As a man who 
 has seen better days, I am bound to obliterate in myself all 
 the feelings and thoughts which were formerly mine. 
 That's true, I admit. . . . But wherewith shall I and 
 all of you — ^wherewith shall we arm ourselves, if we dis- 
 card these feelings? " 
 
 " Now you're beginning to talk sensibly," the teacher en- 
 courages him.. 
 
 " We require something else, different views of life, dif- 
 ferent feelings ... we require something new . . . 
 for we ourselves are a novelty in life . . ." 
 
 " Wle undoubtedly do require that," — says the teacher. 
 
 " Why? "—inquires The End.— "Isn't it all the same 
 what we say or think? We haven't long to live . . . 
 I'm forty years old, you're fifty . . . not one among 
 us is under thirty. And even at twenty, you wouldn't live 
 long such a life." 
 
 "And how are we a novelty? "-r-grins The Gnawed 
 Bone. — " The naked brigade has always existed." 
 
 " And it founded Eome," — says the teacher. 
 
 "Yes, of course," — exults the captain. — "Eomulus and 
 Eemus, — weren't they members of the Golden Squad of 
 robbers? And we, also, when our hour comes, will 
 found . . ." 
 
 " A breach of the public tranquillity and peace," inter- 
 polates The Gnawed Bone. He laughs loudly, pleased with 
 himself. His laugh is evil, and soul-rending. Simtzoff, 
 the deacon, and Taras-and-a-Half join in. The ingenuous 
 eyes of the dirty little lad Meteor burn with clear flame, 
 and his cheeks flush. The End says, exactly as though he 
 were pounding on their heads with a hammer: 
 
 233 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "All that's nonsense . . . dreams . . . rub- 
 bish! " 
 
 It was strange to see these people, driyen out of life, tat- 
 tered, impregnated with vodka and wrath, irony and dirt, 
 thus engaged in discussion. 
 
 To the captain such conversations were decidedly a feast 
 for the heart. He talked more than anybody else, and this 
 afforded him the opportunity of thinking himself better 
 than all the rest. But, no matter how low a man has fall- 
 en, — he will never deny himself the delight of feeling 
 himself stronger, more sensible, although even better fed 
 than his neighbor. Aristid Kuvalda abused this delight, 
 but did not get surfeited with it, to the dissatisfaction of 
 The Gnawed Bone, The Peg-top, and other " Have-beens," 
 who took very little interest in such questions. 
 
 But, on the other hand, politics was a universal favorite. 
 A conversation on the theme of the imperative necessity 
 that India should be conquered, or about the repression of 
 England, might go on interminably. With no less passion 
 did they discuss the means for radically exterminating the 
 Hebrews from the face of the earth, but in this question 
 The Gnawed Bone always got the upper hand, and had 
 concocted wonderfully harsh projects, and the captain, who 
 always wished to be the leading personage, avoided this 
 theme. They talked readily, much, and evilly of women, 
 but the teacher always came to their rescue, and got angry 
 if they smeared it on too thickly. They yielded to him, 
 for they all regarded him as an extraordinary man, and 
 they borrowed from him, on Saturdays, the money which 
 he had earned during the week. 
 
 Altogether, he enjoyed many privileges: for example, 
 they did not beat him on those rare occasions when the 
 discussion wound up in a universal thrashing match. He 
 
 224 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 was permitted to bring women to the night lodging-house; 
 no one else enjoyed that right, for the captain warned 
 everyone: 
 
 " Don't you bring any women to my house. . . . 
 Women, merchants, and philosophy are the three causes 
 of my bad luck. I'll give any man a sound drubbing whom 
 I see making his appearance with a woman . . . and 
 I'll thrash the woman too. . . . For indulging in 
 philosophy, I'll tear ofE the offender's head. . . ." 
 
 He could tear off a head: in spite of his age, he pos- 
 sessed astonishing strength. Moreover, every time that he 
 fought, he was aided by Martyanoff. Gloomy and taciturn 
 as a grave-stone, when a general fight was in progress the 
 latter always placed himself back to back with Kuvalda, 
 and then they formed an all-destroying and indestructible 
 machine. 
 
 One day, drunken Simtzoff, without rhyme or reason, 
 wound his talons in the teacher's hair and pulled out a 
 lock of it. Kuvalda, with one blow of his fist, laid him 
 out senseless for half an hour, and when he came to him- 
 self he made him eat the teacher's hair. The man ate it, 
 fearing that he would be beaten to death. 
 
 In addition to reading the newspaper, discussions, and 
 fighting, card-playing formed one of their diversions. They 
 played without Martyanoff, because he could not play hon- 
 estly, which he announced himself, after he had been 
 caught several times cheating. 
 
 "I can't help smuggling a card. . . . Ifs my 
 habit. . . ." 
 
 " That does happen," — deacon Taras confirmed his state- 
 ment. — "I got into the habit of beating my wife after 
 the Liturgy on Sundays; so, you know, when she died, 
 such sadness overpowered me on Sundays as is even in- 
 
 225 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 credible. I lived through one Sunday, and I saw that 
 things were bad! Another — I bore it. On the third — I 
 hit my cook one blow. . . . She took offence. . . . 
 ' 111 hand you over to the justice of the peace/ says she. 
 Imagine my position! On the fourth Sunday I thrashed 
 her as though she were my wife! Then I paid her ten 
 rubles, and went on beating her after the plan I had es- 
 tablished until I got married . . ." * 
 
 "Deacon, — ^you lie! How could you marry a second 
 time? " — The Gnawed Bone interrupted him. 
 
 "Hey? Why I did it so . . . she looked after my 
 household affairs . . ." 
 
 "Did you have any children?" — ^the teacher asked him. 
 
 "Five. . . . One was drowned. . . . The eldest, 
 . . . he was an amusing little boy! Two died of diph- 
 theria. . . . One daughter married some student or 
 other, and went with him to Siberia, and the other wanted 
 to educate herself, and died in Peter f ... of con- 
 sumption, they say. . . . Ye-es . . . there were 
 five of them ... of course! "We ecclesiastics are 
 fruitful . . ." 
 
 He began to explain precisely why this was so, arousing 
 homeric laughter by his narration. When they had laughed 
 until they were tired, Alezei Maximovitch Simtzoff remem- 
 bered that he, also, had a daughter. 
 
 "Her name was Lidka. . . . She was such a fat 
 girl . . ." 
 
 * The Parish (or White) Clergy, in the Holy Orthodox Church of 
 the East, beginning with the rank of Sub-Deacon, must be married — 
 and must be married before they are ordained. They cannot marry 
 again. This rule ceases with an Arch-Priest, which is the highest rank 
 attainable by the White Clergy. Bishops must be celibates. — Trans- 
 lator. 
 
 tThe colloquial abbreyiation for St, Petersburg. — Translator. 
 
 226 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 And it must have been that he could recall nothing 
 further, for he stared at them all, smiled apologetically 
 . . . and stopped talking. 
 
 These people talked little with one another ahout their 
 pasts, referred to them very rarely, and always in general 
 terms, and in a more or less sneering tone. Possibly, such 
 an attitude toward the past was wise, for, to the majority 
 of people, the memory of the past relaxes energy in the 
 present, and undermines hope for the future. 
 
 But on rainy, overcast, cold days of autumn, these peo- 
 ple with pasts assembled in VavilofE's tavern. There they 
 were known, somewhat feared, as thieves and bullies, 
 rather despised as desperate drunkards, but, at the same 
 time, they were respected and listened to, being regarded 
 as very clever people. Vaviloff's tavern was the Club of 
 Vy6zhaya Street, and the men with pasts were the intel- 
 ligent portion of the Club. 
 
 On Saturday evenings, on Sundays from morning until 
 night, the tavern was full, and the people with a past 
 were welcome guests there. They brought with them, 
 into the midst of the inhabitants of the street, ground down 
 with poverty and woe, their spirit, which contained some 
 element that lightened the lives of these people, exhausted 
 and distracted in their pursuit of a morsel of bread, 
 drunkards of the same stamp as the denizens of Kuvalda's 
 refuge, and outcasts from the town equally with them. 
 Skill in talking about everything and ridiculing everything, 
 fearlessness of opinion, harshness of speech, the absence of 
 fear in the presence of that which the entire street feared, 
 the challenging audacity of these men — could not fail to 
 please the street. Moreover, nearly all of them knew the 
 laws, were able to give any bit of advice, write a petition, 
 
 227 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 help in cheating with impunity. For all this they were 
 paid with v6dka, and ilattering amazement at their talents. 
 
 In their sympathies, the street was divided into two 
 nearly equal parties: one asserted that the " captain was 
 a lot more of a man than the teacher, a real warrior! His 
 bravery and brains were huge! " The other party was 
 convinced that the teacher, in every respect, " tipped the 
 scales" over Kuvalda. Kuvalda's admirers were those 
 petty burghers who were known to the street as thorough- 
 going drunkards, thieves, and hair-brained fellows, to 
 whom the path from the beggar's wallet to the prison did 
 not seem a dangerous road. The teacher was admired by 
 the more steady-going people, who cherished hopes of 
 something, who expected something, who were eternally 
 busy about something, and were rarely full-fed. The char- 
 acter of the relations of Kuvalda and the teacher toward 
 the street is accurately defined by the following example. 
 One day, the subject under discussion in the tavern was 
 an ordinance of the city council, by which the inhabitants 
 of Vyezhaya Street were bound: to fill up the ruts and 
 holes in their street, but not to employ manure and the 
 corpses of domestic animals for that purpose, but to apply 
 to that end only broken bricks and rubbish from the place 
 where some buildings were in process of erection. 
 
 " Where am I to get those same broken bricks, if, during 
 the whole course of my life I never have wanted to build 
 anything but a starling-house, and haven't yet got ready 
 even for that? " — plaintively remarked Mokei Anisimoil, 
 a man who peddled rusks, which his wife baked for him. 
 
 The captain felt himself called upon to express his opin- 
 ion upon the matter in hand, and banged his fist down 
 upon the table, thereby attracting attention to himself. 
 
 " Where are you to get broken bricks and rubbish? Go, 
 
 238 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 my lads, the whole street-full of you, into town, and pull 
 down the city hall. It's so old that it's not fit for any- 
 thing. Thus you will render double service in beautifying 
 the town — ^you will make Vyezhaya Street decent, and you 
 will force them to build a new city hall. Take the Mayor's 
 horses to cart the stuff, and seize his three daughters — 
 they're girls thoroughly suited to harness. Or tear down 
 the house of Judas Petiinnikofl, and pave the street with 
 wood. By the way, Mokei, I know what your wife used to- 
 day to bake your rolls: — the shutters from the third win- 
 dow, and two steps from the porch of Judas' house." 
 
 When the audience had laughed their fill and had exer- 
 cised their wits on the captain's proposition, staid market- 
 gardener Pavliugin inquired: 
 
 " But what are we to do, anyway. Your Well-Born? 
 . . . Hey? What do you think? . . ." 
 
 "I? Don't move hand or foot! If the street gets washed 
 away — well, let it! " 
 
 " Several houses are about to tumble down . . ." 
 
 "Don't hinder them, let them tumble down! If they 
 do — squeeze a contribution out of the town; if it won't 
 give it, — go ahead and sue it! Whence does the water 
 flow? From the town? Well, then the town is responsible 
 for the destruction of the houses . . ." 
 
 " They say the water comes from the rains . . ." 
 
 " But the houses in the town don't tumble down on ac- 
 count of that? Hey? It extorts taxes from you, and gives 
 you no voice in discussing your rights! It ruins your lives 
 and your property, and then makes you do the repairs! 
 Thrash it from the front and the rear! " 
 
 And one half of the street, convinced by the radical 
 Kuvalda, decided to wait until their wretched hovels should 
 be washed away by rain-water from the town. 
 
 239 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 The more sedate persons found in the teacher a man 
 who drew up a capital and convincing statement to the city 
 council on their behalf. 
 
 In this statement the refusal of the street to comply with 
 the city council's ordinance was so solidly founded that 
 the council granted it. The street was permitted to use 
 the rubhish which was left over from repairs to the bar- 
 racks, and five horses from the fire-wagon were assigned 
 to them to cart it.* More than this — ^it was recognized cs 
 indispensable that, in due course, a drain-pipe should be 
 laid through the street. This, and many other things, 
 created great popularity in the street for the teacher. He 
 wrote petitions, printed remarks in the newspapers. Thus, 
 for example, one day VavilofE's patrons noticed that the 
 herrings and other victuals in Vaviloff's tavern were en- 
 tirely unsuited to their purpose. And so, two days later, 
 as Vaviloff stood at his lunch-counter, newspaper in hand, 
 he publicly repented. 
 
 " It's Just — that's the only thing I can say! It's a fact 
 that I did buy rusty herrings, herrings that weren't quite 
 good. And the cabbage — had rather forgotten itself 
 . . . that's so! Everybody knows that every man 
 wants to chase as many five-kopek pieces into his pocket 
 as possible. Well, and what of that? It has turned out 
 exactly the other way; I made the attempt, and a clever 
 man has held me up to public scorn for my greed. . . . 
 Quits! " 
 
 This repentance produced a very good impression on the 
 public, and furnished Vaviloff with the opportunity of 
 
 * The reference here, is to the flattened barrels, mounted on wheels, 
 into which water is drawn from the street-hydrants, and from which it 
 is pumped on a conflagration by means of hand-engines. There are, 
 also, a certain number of steam fire-engines in some of the large 
 towns, — Translator. 
 
 230 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 feeding the public with the herrings and the cabbage, and 
 all this the public devoured unheeding to the sauce of their 
 own impressions. A very significant fact, for it not only 
 augmented the prestige of the teacher, but it made the 
 residents acquainted with the power of the printed word. 
 It happened that the teacher was reading a lecture on 
 practical morals in the tavern. " I saw you," — said he, ad- 
 dressing the painter Ydshka Tiurin, — " I saw you, YakofE, 
 beating your wife . . ." 
 
 Yashka had already " touched himself up " with two 
 glasses of vodka, and was in an audaciously free-and-easy 
 mood. The public looked at him, in the expectation that 
 he would immediately surprise them with some wild trick, 
 and silence reigned in the tavern. 
 
 " You saw me, did you? And were you pleased? " — ^in- 
 quired Yashka. 
 
 The audience laughed discreetly. 
 
 " No, I wasn't," — replied the teacher. His tone was so 
 impressively serious that the audience kept quiet. 
 
 " It struck me that I was doing my best," — Ydshka 
 braved it out, foreseeing that the teacher would "floor" 
 him. — " My wife was satisfied . . . she can't get up 
 to-day . . ." 
 
 The teacher thoughtfully traced some figures on the 
 table with his finger, and as he inspected them he said: 
 
 "You see, Yakoff, the reason I'm not pleased is this. 
 . . . Let's make a thorough examination into what you 
 are doing, and what you may expect from it. Your wife 
 is with child: you beat her, yesterday, on her body and on 
 her sides — which means, that you beat not only her, but 
 the baby also. You might have killed him, and your wife 
 would have died in childbed, or from this, or have fallen 
 into very bad health. It's unpleasant and troublesome to 
 
 281 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 worry over a sick wife, and it will cost you dear, for ill- 
 ness requires medicines, and medicines require money. 
 But if you haven't yet killed the child, you certainly have 
 crippled it, and perhaps it will be bom deformed; lop- 
 sided, or hunchbacked. That means, that it will not be 
 fit to work, but it is important for you that he should be 
 a worker. Even if he is born merely ailing, — and that's 
 bad — he will tie his mother down, and require doctoring. 
 Do you see what you have prepared for yourself? People 
 who live by the toil of their hands ought to be born healthy, 
 and ought to bring forth healthy children. . . . Am I 
 speaking the truth? " 
 
 " Yes," — ^the audience backed him up. 
 
 "Well, I don't think . . . that will happen,"— 
 said Yashka, somewhat abashed at the prospect as depicted 
 by the teacher. — " She's healthy . . . you can't get 
 through her to the child, can you now? For she, the devil, 
 is an awful witch!" — ^he exclaimed bitterly. "As soon as 
 I do anything . . . she starts in to nag at me, as rust 
 gnaws iron! " 
 
 " I understand, YakofE, that you can't help beating your 
 wife," — the teacher's calm, thoughtful voice made itself 
 heard again; — "you have many causes for that. . . . 
 It's not your wife's character that is to blame for your 
 beating her so incautiously . . . but your whole sad 
 and gloomy Ufe. . . ." 
 
 "There, now, that's so," — ejaculated Ydkoff, — "we really 
 do live in darkness like that in the bosom of a chimney- 
 sweep." 
 
 " You're enraged at life in general, but your wife suf- 
 fers . . . your wife, the person who is nearest to you 
 — and suffers without being to blame toward you, simply 
 because you are stronger than she is; she is always at your 
 
 233 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 elbow, she has no place to go to get away from you. You 
 see how . . . foolish . . . it is! " 
 
 " So it is . . . devil take her! And what am I to 
 do? Ain't I a man?" 
 
 " Exactly so, you are a man! . . . Well, this is what 
 I want to say to you: beat her, if you must, if you can't 
 get along without it, but beat her cautiously: remember, 
 that you may injure her health, or the health of the child. 
 In general, it is never right to beat women who are with 
 child ... on the body, the breast, or the sides 
 . . . beat her on the neck, or take a rope, and . . . 
 strike on the soft places. . . ." 
 
 The orator finished his speech, and his deeply-sunken, 
 dark eyes gazed at his audience, and seemed to be apolo- 
 gizing to them or guiltily asking them about something. 
 
 And the audience rustled with animation. This morality 
 of a man who had seen better days, the morality of the 
 dram-shop and of misery, was comprehensible to it. 
 
 "Well, brother Yashka, do you understand?" 
 
 « That's what the truth is like! " 
 
 Ydkoff understood: to beat his wife incautiously was — 
 injurious to himself. 
 
 He said nothing, replying to his comrades' jeers with an 
 abashed smile. 
 
 "And then again — what is a wife?" — philosophized 
 rusk-peddler Mokei AnisimofE: — "A wife's a friend, if 
 you get rightly at the root of the matter. She's in the 
 nature of a chain, that has been riveted on you for life 
 . . . and both you and she are, after a fashion, hard- 
 labor convicts. So try to walk evenly, in step with her 
 . . . and if you can't, you will feel the chain . . ." 
 
 " Hold on," — said Yakoff, — " you beat your wife, too, 
 don't you? " 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "And did I say that I didn't? I do. . . . One can't 
 get along otherwise. . . . Whom have I to thump my 
 fists against — the wall? — ^when I can't endure things any 
 longer?" 
 
 " Well, there then, it's the same way with me . . ." 
 said Yakoff. 
 
 "Well, what a cramped and doleful life is ours, my 
 brethren! We haven't space anywhere for a regular good 
 swing of our arms! " 
 
 "And you must even beat your wife with care!" — 
 moaned someone humorously. And thus they went on 
 talking until late at night, or until they fell into a fight, 
 which arose on the basis of intoxication, or of the moods 
 which these discussions inspired. 
 
 The rain dashed against the windows of the tavern, and 
 the cold wind howled wildly. Inside the tavern the air 
 was close, impregnated with smoke, but warm; outside all 
 was damp, cold, and dark. The wind beat upon the win- 
 dows, as though it were impudently summoning all these 
 men forth from the tavern, and threatening to disperse 
 them over the earth, like dust. Sometimes, amid its roar, 
 a repressed, hopeless groan became audible, and then a 
 cold, cruel laugh rang out. This music prompted to 
 melancholy thoughts about the close approach of winter, 
 the accursed short days without sunshine, the long nights, 
 and the indispensable necessity of having warm clothing 
 and plenty to eat. One sleeps so badly on an empty 
 stomach during the endless winter nights. Winter was 
 coming, coming. . . How were they to live? 
 
 These sorrowful meditations evoked in the inhabitants 
 of Vyezhaya Street an augmented thirst, and in the 
 speeches of the men with pasts the quantity of sighs in- 
 creased and the number of wrinkles on their foreheads, 
 
 334 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 their voices became duller, their relations to one another 
 more blunt. And all of a sudden, savage wrath blazed up 
 among them, the exasperation of outcasts, tortured by their 
 harsh fate, awoke. Or they were conscious of the approach 
 of that implacable enemy, which converted their whole life 
 into one cruel piece of stupidity. But this enemy was in- 
 tangible, for it was invisible. 
 
 And so they thrashed one another; they thrashed merci- 
 lessly, they thrashed savagely, and again, having made 
 peace, they began to drink, drinking up everything that 
 VavilofE, who was not very exacting, would accept as a 
 pledge. 
 
 Thus, in dull wrath, in sadness which clutched at their 
 hearts, in ignorance as to the outcome of their wretched 
 existence, they passed the autumnal days, in anticipation 
 of the still more inclement days of winter. 
 
 At such times, Kuvalda came to their aid with philos- 
 ophy. 
 
 " Don't get down in the mouth, my boys! There's an 
 end to everything — ^that's the merit of life. — The winter 
 will pass, and summer will come again ... a splen- 
 did season, when, they say, the sparrows have beer." — But 
 his harangues had no effect — a starving man cannot be 
 fed to satiety with a swallow of water. 
 
 Deacon Taras also tried to divert the public, by singing 
 songs and narrating his stories. He was more successful. 
 Sometimes his efforts led to the result that desperate, au- 
 dacious mirth bubbled up in the tavern; they sang, danced, 
 roared with laughter, and, for the space of several hours, 
 resembled madmen. Only . . . 
 
 And then again they fell back into dull, indifferent de- 
 spair, and sat around the tavern tables, in the soot of the 
 lamps and tobacco-smoke, morose, tattered, languidly chat- 
 
 235 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 ting together, listening to the triumphant howl of the gale, 
 and meditating as to how they might get a drink of vodka, 
 and drink until they lost their senses. 
 
 And all of them were profoundly opposed to each, and 
 each concealed within himself unreasonable wrath against 
 all. 
 
 II. 
 
 Everything is comparative in this world, and there is 
 for man no situation so utterly bad that nothing could be 
 worse. 
 
 On a bright day, toward the end of September, Cap- 
 tain Aristid Kuvalda was sitting, as was his wont, in his 
 arm-chair at the door of the night lodging-house, and as 
 he gazed at the stone* building erected by merchant Petun- 
 nikofE, next door to VavilofE's tavern, he meditated. 
 
 The building, which was still surrounded by scaffolding, 
 was intended for a candle-factory, and had long been an 
 eye-sore to the captain, with the empty and dark hollows of 
 its long row of windows, and that spider's web of wood, 
 which surrounded it, from foundation to roof. Eed, as 
 though it were smeared with blood, it resembled some 
 cruel machine, which was not yet in working-order, but 
 which had already opened a row of deep, yawning maws, 
 and was ready to engulf, masticate, and devour. Vaviloff's 
 gray wooden tavern, with its crooked roof, overgrown with 
 moss, leaned against one of the brick walls of the factory, 
 and looked like some huge parasite, which was driving its 
 suckers into it. 
 
 * " A stone building" does not mean literally stone in Russia, as it 
 does elsewhere. " Stone," in this connection, means brick, rubble, or 
 any other substance, with an external dressing of mastic, washed with 
 white or any gay hue. Briefly, not of wood. — Translator. 
 
 236 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 The captain reflected, that they would soon begin to 
 build on the site of the old house also. They would tear 
 down the lodging-house, too. He would be compelled to 
 seek other quarters, and no others, so convenient and so 
 cheap, could be found. It was a pity, it was rather sad, 
 to move away from a place where he had been so long. But 
 move he must, merely because a certain merchant had 
 taken it into his head to manufacture candles and soap. 
 And the captain felt, that if any opportunity should pre- 
 sent itself to him, of ruining the life of that enemy, even 
 temporarily — oh! with what delight would he ruin it! 
 
 On the previous evening, merchant Ivan Andreevitch 
 PetiinnikofE had been in the courtyard of the night lodg- 
 ing-house with the architect and his son. They had meas- 
 ured the courtyard, and had stuck little sticks everywhere 
 in the ground, which, after Petunnikoff had departed, the 
 captain ordered The Meteor to pull out of the ground and 
 throw away. 
 
 Before the captain's eyes stood that merchant — small, 
 gaunt, in a long garment which simultaneously resembled 
 both an overcoat and an undercoat, in a velvet cap, and 
 tall, brilliantly-polished boots. His bony face, with high 
 cheek-bones, with its gray, wedge-shaped beard, with a 
 lofty brow furrowed with wrinkles, from beneath which 
 sparkled small, narrow, gray eyes, which always appeared 
 to be on the watch for something. . . A pointed, carti- 
 laginous nose, a small mouth, with thin lips. . . . Al- 
 together, the merchant's aspect was piously-rapacious, and 
 respectably-evil. 
 
 "A damned mixture of fox and hog! " — swore the cap- 
 tain to himself, and recalled to mind Petiinnikoff's first 
 phrase with regard to himself. The merchant had come 
 with a member of the town court to purchase the house, 
 
 237 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 and, catching sight of the captain, he had asked of his 
 guide, in alert Kostroma dialect: 
 
 " Isn't he a candle-end himself . . . that lodger of 
 yours?" 
 
 And from that day forth — now eighteen months gone 
 by — they had vied with one another in their cleverness at 
 insulting man. 
 
 And on the preceding evening, a little " drill in vitupera- 
 tion," as the captain designated his conversation with the 
 merchant, had taken place between them. After he had 
 seen the architect off, the merchant had stepped up to the 
 captain. 
 
 " You're sitting? " — ^he asked, tugging with his hand at 
 the visor of his cap so that it was not possible to under- 
 stand whether he was adjusting it or intended to express a 
 salutation. 
 
 "You're trotting about?" — said the captain, imitating 
 his tone, and made a movement with his lower jaw, which 
 caused his beard to waggle, and which a person who was 
 not exacting might take for a bow, or for a desire on the 
 part of the captain to shift his pipe from one corner of his 
 mouth to the other. 
 
 " I have a great deal of money — so I trot about. Money 
 demands that it shall be put out in life, so I'm giving it 
 circulation . . ." the merchant mocked the captain a 
 little, cunningly narrowing his little eyes. 
 
 "The ruble doesn't serve you, that is to say, but you 
 serve the ruble," — commented Kuvalda, contending with a 
 desire to give the merchant a kick in the belly. 
 
 "Isn't it all the same thing? With it, with money, 
 everything is agreeable. . . . But if you haven't 
 any . . ." 
 
 And the merchant eyed the captain over, with shame- 
 
 238 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 lessly-coTinterfeit compassion. The captain's upper lip 
 twitched, disclosing his large, wolfish teeth. 
 
 "A man who has brains and conscience can get along 
 without it. . . It generally makes its appearance pre- 
 cisely at the time when a man's conscience begins to dry 
 up. . . The less conscience, the more money . . ." 
 
 " That's true. . . . But, on the other hand, there 
 are people who have neither money, nor conscience . . ." 
 
 " Were you just the same when you were young? " — ^in- 
 quired Kuvalda innocently. It was now the turn of Petiin- 
 nikofE's nose to twitch. Ivan Andreevitch sighed, screwed 
 up his little eyes, and said: 
 
 " In my youth, o-okh! I was forced to raise great 
 weights! " 
 
 "I think . . ." 
 
 " I worked, okh, how I worked! " 
 
 "And you worked up a good many people!" 
 
 " Such as you? Noblemen? Never mind . . . 
 they learned plenty of prayers to Christ from me . . ." 
 
 " You didn't murder, you merely stole? " — said the cap- 
 tain sharply. Petunnikoff turned green, and found it ex- 
 pedient to change the subject. 
 
 " You're a bad host, you sit, while your guest stands." 
 
 " Let him sit down, too," Kuvalda gave permission. 
 
 " But there's nothing to sit on, you see . . ." 
 
 " Sit on the earth . . . the earth accepts all sorts 
 of rubbish . . ." 
 
 " I see that, from you. . . . But I shall leave you, 
 you scold," said Petunnikoff, in a calm, equable voice, but 
 his eyes poured forth cold poison on the captain. 
 
 And he took his departure, leaving Kuvalda with the 
 pleasing consciousness that the merchant was afraid of 
 him. If he had not been afraid of him, he would long 
 
 239 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 ago have driven him out of the night lodging-house. He 
 would not have refrained from expelling him for those 
 five rubles a month! And the captain found it pleasant to 
 stare at PetunnikofE's hack, as he slowly left the court-' 
 yard. Then the captain watched the merchant walk around 
 his factory, walk over the scaffoldings, upstairs and down. 
 And he longed greatly to have the merchant fall and break 
 his bones. How many clever combinations he had made 
 of the fall, and the injuries, as he gazed at Petunnikoff 
 climbing over the scaffoldings of his factory, like a spider 
 over his web! On the preceding evening, it had even 
 seemed to him that one plank trembled under the mer- 
 chant's feet, and the captain sprang from his seat in ex- 
 citement. . . . But nothing happened. 
 
 And to-day, as always, before the eyes of Aristid Ku- 
 valda rose aloft that red building, so well-built, and soUd, 
 which had laid as iirm a hold upon the earth as though 
 it were already sucking the juices out of it. And it seemed 
 to be laughing coldly and gloomily at the captain, with 
 the yawning holes of its walls. The sun poured its au- 
 tumnal rays upon it as lavishly as upon the wretched hovels 
 of Vyezhaya Street. 
 
 " Is it really going to happen! " — exclaimed the captain 
 mentally, as he measured the wall of the factory with his 
 eye. — "Akh, you rascal, devil take you! If . . ."and 
 all startled and excited by his thought, Aristid Kuvalda 
 sprang up, and went hastily into Vaviloff's tavern, smiling 
 and muttering something to himself. 
 
 Vaviloff met him at the lunch-counter, with the friendly 
 exclamation: 
 
 " We wish health to Your Well-Born! " 
 
 Of medium height, with a, bald head surrounded by s 
 wreath of curly gray hair, with smoothly-shaven cheeks, 
 
 240 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 and a mustache which bristled straight up, clad in a 
 greasy leather jacket, by his every movement he permitted 
 one to discern in him the former non-commissioned 
 officer. 
 
 " Egor! Have you the deed of sale and the plan of the 
 house? " inquired Kuv^lda hastily. 
 
 « I have." 
 
 Vaviloff suspiciously narrowed his knavish eyes, and 
 rivetted them intently on the face of the captain, in which 
 he perceived something particular. 
 
 "Show them to me!" — cried the captain, banging the 
 counter with his fist, and dropping upon a stool along- 
 side it. 
 
 "Why?" — asked Vaviloff, who had made up his mind, 
 on beholding Kuvdlda's excitement, that he would be on 
 his guard. 
 
 " Bring them here quick, you blockhead! " 
 
 VavilofE wrinkled up his brow, and raised his eyes 
 scrutinizingly to the ceiling. 
 
 " Where have I put them, those same papers? " 
 
 He found on the ceiling no information on that point; 
 then the non-commissioned officer fixed his eyes on his 
 stomach, and with an aspect of anxious meditation, began 
 to drum on the bar with his fingers. 
 
 "Stop making faces!" shouted the captain at him, for 
 he did not like the man, considering the former soldier to 
 be more adapted for a thief than for a tavern-keeper. 
 
 " Well, I've just called it to mind, 'Eistid Fomiteh. It 
 appears that they were left in the district court. When I 
 entered into possession . . ." 
 
 " Drop that, Egorka! * In view of your own profit, 
 show me immediately the plan, the deed of purchase, and 
 * DiminutiTe of Egor (George). — Translator. 
 241 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 everything there is! Perhaps you'll make several hundred 
 rubles out of this — do you understand?" 
 
 VavilofE understood nothing, but the captain spoke so 
 impressively, with such a serious mien, that the under- 
 officer's eyes began to blaze with burning curiosity, and, 
 saying that he would look and see whether he had not the 
 documents packed away in the house, he went out of the 
 door behind the lunch-counter. Two minutes later, he re- 
 turned with the documents in his hands, and with an ex- 
 pression of extreme amazement on his face. 
 
 " On the contrary, the cursed things were in the house! " 
 
 "Ekh, you . . . clown from a show-booth! And 
 yet he used to be a soldier. . . ." Kuvalda did not let 
 slip the opportunity to reproach him, as he snatched from 
 his hands a calico-covered pasteboard box, with the blue 
 title-deed. Then, unfolding the papers in front of him and 
 still further exciting the curiosity of Vaviloff, the captain 
 began to read, scrutinize, and at the same time to bellow 
 in a very significant manner. At last he rose with de- 
 cision, and went to the door, leaving the documents on the 
 bar, and nodded to Vaviloff. 
 
 " Hold on . . . don't put them away. . . ." 
 
 Vaviloff gathered up the documents, laid them in the 
 drawer of the counter, locked it and gave it a jerk with his 
 hand, — to make sure that it was locked. Then, thought- 
 fully rubbing his bald spot, he emerged on the porch of the 
 tavern. There he beheld the captain, after pacing off the 
 front of the building, snap his fingers and again begin to 
 measure off the same line, anxious but not satisfied. 
 
 Vavlloff's face assumed a rather strained expression, then 
 relaxed, then suddenly beamed with joy. 
 
 "'Eistid Fomitch! Is it possible?" — ^he exclaimed, 
 when the captain came opposite him. 
 
 242 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "There's no 'is it possible' about it! More than an 
 arshm * has been cut off. That's on the front line, and 
 as to the depth, I'll find that out directly. . . ." 
 
 " The depth? ... ten fathoms, twenty-eight 
 inches! " 
 
 "So you've caught the idea, you shaven-face?" 
 
 "Certainly, 'Eistid Pomitch! Well, what an eye you 
 have — you can see three arshlns into the earth! " cried Va- 
 viloff in ecstasy. 
 
 A few minutes later, they were sitting opposite each 
 other in Vaviloff's room, and the captain, as he annihilated 
 beer in huge gulps, said to the tavern-keeper: 
 
 " So, all the walls of the factory stand on your land. 
 Act without any mercy. The teacher will come, and we'll 
 draw up a petition in haste to the district judge. In order 
 not to waste money on stamped paper, we'll fix the value 
 of the suit at the most modest figure, and we'll ask to 
 have the building torn down. This, you fool, is infringing 
 on the boundaries of another man's property ... a 
 very pleasant event for you! Tear away! And to tear 
 down and remove such a huge thing is an expensive job. 
 Effect a compromise! You just squeeze Judas! We'll 
 reckon up, in the most accurate manner, how much it will 
 cost to tear it down — with the pressed brick, and the pit 
 under the new foundation . . . we'll reckon it all up! 
 We'll even take our time into account! And — please to 
 hand over two tho-ou-sand rubles, pious Judas! " 
 
 "He won't give it!" — said Vaviloff slowly, anxiously, 
 winking his eyes, which were sparkling with greedy fire. 
 
 " You're mistaken! He will give it! Stir up your brains 
 — what can he do? Tear it down? But — see here, Eg6rka, 
 
 * An arsbin (the Buesian equiyalent of the yard) is twenty-eight 
 inches . — Translator. 
 
 243 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 don't you lower your price! They'll buy you — don't sell 
 yourself cheap! They'll try to frighten you — don't be 
 afraid! Trust in us . . ." 
 
 The captain's eyes blazed with savage joy, and his face, 
 crimson with excitement, twitched convulsively. He had 
 kindled the tavern-keeper's greed, and exhorting him to 
 act as promptly as possible, he went away, triumphant and 
 implacably-ferocious. 
 
 In the evening, all the men with pasts learned of the 
 captain's discovery, and, as they hotly discussed the future 
 actions of PetunnikofE, they depicted, in vivid colors, his 
 amazement and wrath on the day when the messenger of 
 the court should hand him a copy of the complaint. The 
 captain felt himself a hero. He was happy, and everyone 
 around him was contented. The big throng of dark figures, 
 clad in rags, lay in the courtyard, and buzzed, and exulted, 
 being enlivened by the event. They all knew merchant 
 Petunnikoff, who had passed before them many a time. 
 Scornfully screwing up his eyes, he bestowed upon them 
 the same sort of attention that he did on any other sort 
 of rubbish, strewn about the courtyard. He reeked with 
 good living, which irritated them, and even his boots shone 
 with scorn for them all. And now, one of them was about 
 to deal this merchant a severe blow in his pocket and his 
 self-conceit. Wasn't that good? 
 
 Mischief, in the eyes of these people, had much that 
 was attractive about it. It was the sole weapon which 
 fitted their hand and their strength. Each one of them 
 had long ago reared up within him a half-conscious, con- 
 fused sentiment of keen hostility toward all people who 
 were well-fed and were not clad in rags, and in each one of 
 them this sentiment was in a different stage of its develop- 
 
 344 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 ment. This it was, whicli evoked in all the men with 
 pasts a burning interest in the war that Kuvalda had de- 
 clared against merchant Petunnikoff. 
 
 For two weeks the night lodging-house lived in expecta- 
 tion of fresh occurrences, and during that whole period 
 Petunnikoff never once made his appearance at the new 
 building. They found out that he was not in town, and 
 that the copy of the petition had not yet been served on 
 him. Kuvalda battered away at the practice of the town 
 court procedure. It is not probable that that merchant 
 has been ever, or by anyone awaited with such strained im- 
 patience as that with which the vagrants awaited him. 
 
 " He Cometh not, he cometh not, my da-ar-ling . . ." 
 
 "Ekh, it means that he lo-o-oves me not! " — sang Dea- 
 con Taras, thrusting out his cheek in humorously-afflicted 
 fashion, as he gazed up the hill. 
 
 And lo! one day, toward evening, Petunnikoff made his 
 appearance. He arrived in a well-built little cart, with his 
 son in the r61e of coachman — a rosy-cheeked young fellow, 
 in a long, checked overcoat, and dark glasses. They tied 
 their horse to the scaffolding; — the son took from his 
 pocket a tape-measure in a case, gave the end to his father, 
 and they began to measure off the land, both silent and 
 anxious. 
 
 " Aha-a! " ejaculated the captain triumphantly. 
 
 All who were present in the lodging-house poured out 
 to the gate, and looked on, audibly expressing their opin- 
 ions as to what was taking place. 
 
 " That's the result of being in the habit of stealing — a 
 man steals even by mistake, without any desire to steal, at 
 the risk of losing more than he steals '. . ." condoled 
 
 245 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 the captain, calling forth laughter and a series of similar 
 remarks from his staff. 
 
 " Oi, young fellow! " — exclaimed PetiinnikofE, at last, 
 irritated by the sneers, — " look out that I don't drag you 
 before the judge of the peace for your words! " 
 
 " Nothing will come of that without witnesses . . . 
 your own son can't testify on behalf of his father . . ." 
 said the captain warningly. 
 
 " Well, look out, all the same! You're a gallant bandit- 
 chief, but we'll manage to get satisfaction from you, never- 
 theless!" 
 
 And Petlinnikofl made a menacing gesture with his 
 finger. . . . His son, composed and absorbed in his 
 calculations, paid no heed to this pack of shady individuals, 
 who were maliciously amusing themselves at his father's ex- 
 pense. He did not so much as once glance in their direc- 
 tion. 
 
 " The young spider has had good training," — ^remarked 
 The Gnawed Bone, who was minutely watching all the 
 actions and movements of the younger Petunnikoff. 
 
 After taking the measurements of everything that was 
 required, Ivan Andreevitch scowled, seated himself in si- 
 lence in his cart, and drove off, but his son went, with firm 
 tread, toward Vaviloff's tavern, and disappeared inside it. 
 
 "Oho! He's a resolute young thief . . . yes! Come 
 now, what will happen next?" asked Kuvalda. 
 
 " The next thing is, that PetiinnikofE junior will buy 
 Egor VavilofE . . ." said The Gnawed Bone confi- 
 dently, and he smacked his lips delicately, expressing com- 
 plete satisfaction on his sharp face. 
 
 "You're glad of that, are you?" — inquired Kuvalda 
 harshly. 
 
 "It pleases me to see how folks are deceived in their 
 
 246 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 reckoning," explained The Gnawed Bone with delight, 
 screwing up his eyes and rubbing his hands. 
 
 The captain spat angrily, and made no reply. And all 
 of them, as they stood at the gateway of the half-ruined 
 house, maintained silence, and stared at the door of the 
 tavern. An hour and more passed in this expectant silence. 
 Then the door of the tavern opened, and PetunnikofE 
 emerged from it, as calm as when he had entered it. He 
 halted for a minute, coughed, turned up his coat-collar, 
 glanced at the men who were watching him, and went up 
 the street toward the town. 
 
 The captain followed him with his eyes, and, turning to 
 The Gnawed Bone, he grinned. 
 
 " I guess you were right, you son of a scorpion and a 
 wood-louse. . . . You have a good nose for every- 
 thing rascally . . . that you have. . . . It's evi- 
 dent, from the ugly phiz of that young sharper alone, that 
 he has got his own way. . . . How much did Egorka 
 get out of them? He got something. . . . He's a bird 
 of the same feather as they. He took something, may I be 
 thrice damned if he didn't! I arranged things for him. 
 'Tis bitter for me to realize my stupidity. Yes, life is all 
 against us, my brethren, scoundrels! And even when you 
 spit in your neighbor's eye, the spittle flies back into your 
 own eyes." 
 
 Comforting himself with this sentiment, the worthy 
 captain inspected his staff. All were disenchanted, for all 
 felt that what had taken place between Vaviloff and Pe- 
 tlinnikoff had not been what they had anticipated. And 
 all were incensed at this. The consciousness of inability to 
 cause evil is more offensive to a man than the conscious- 
 ness of the impossibility to do good, because it is so easy 
 and simple to do evil. 
 
 247 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " So, — ^what are we staying here for? There's nothing 
 more for us to expect . . . except the bargain-treat, 
 which I'm going to get out of Egorka . . ." said the 
 captain, staring at the tavern with a scowl. ..." The 
 end has come to our prosperous and peaceful life * under 
 the roof of Judas. Judas will trample us under foot. 
 . . . Of which I make announcement to the depart- 
 ment of the unclad vagabonds entrusted to my care . . ." 
 
 The End laughed gloomily. 
 
 " What are you laughing at, you jail- warden? " — inquired 
 Kuvalda. 
 
 '''Where am I to go?" 
 
 "That's a big question, my dear soul. . . . Your 
 fate will answer it for you, don't be uneasy," — said the 
 captain thoughtfully, as he went toward the lodging-house. 
 The men with pasts moved slowly after him. 
 
 " We will await the critical moment," said the captain, 
 as he walked along among them. — "When they pitch us 
 out of this, we'll hunt up another den for ourselves. But, 
 in the meanwhile, it doesn^t pay to spoil life with such 
 thoughts. ... At critical moments, a man becomes 
 more energetic . . . and if life, with all its combina- 
 tions, would make the critical moment more frequent, if 
 a man were force'd every second to tremble for the safety 
 of his sound pate . ... by God, life would be more 
 lively, and people would be more interesting! " 
 
 "That is to say, they would gnaw at one another's 
 throats with more fury," — explained The Gnawed Bone, 
 with a smile. 
 
 * " Prosperous and peacefuljife " is a (sarcastic) quotation from the 
 "Many Years" (Long Life), whicli is proclaimed in church, at the 
 end of the service, on special, occasions, in honor of royal or distin- 
 guished persons, — Translator. 
 
 348 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Well, and what if they did? " — angrily exclaimed the 
 captain, who was not fond of having his ideas explained. 
 
 " Why, nothing . . . that's good. When people 
 want to get anywhere more quickly, they lash the horses 
 with the whip, and exasperate machines with iire." 
 
 "Well, that's it! Let everything gallop to the devil far 
 away! It would please me if the earth were suddenly to 
 blaze up, and burn to ashes, or explode into fragments 
 . . . on condition that I was the last to perish, and 
 might look on at the others first . . ." 
 
 " That's savage! " grinned The Gnawed Bone. 
 
 "What of it? I'm a man who has seen better days 
 . . . isn't that so? I'm an outcast — which means, that 
 I'm free from all beaten paths and fetters. ... It 
 means, that I don't care a fig for anything! By the man- 
 ner of my life, , I'm bound to fling aside everything old 
 . . . all manners and modes of relations to folks who 
 exist well-fed, and finely dressed, and who despise me be- 
 cause I've fallen behind them in the matter of enough 
 food and of costume . . . and I'm bound to breed 
 within me something new — ^understand? The sort of thing, 
 you know, which will make the lords of life, after the pat- 
 tern of Judas PetiinnikofE, who pass me, feel a cold chill 
 in their livers at the sight of my imposing form! " 
 
 " What a brave tongue you've got! " — ^laughed The 
 Gnawed Bone. 
 
 " Ekh, you . . . paltry creature . . ." Kuvalda 
 eyed him over disdainfully. "What do you understand? 
 What do you know? Do you know how to think? But I 
 have thought . . . and I've read books, in which you 
 wouldn't be able to understand a single word." 
 
 "I should think so! I couldn't sup cabbage-soup with 
 a bast-slipper. . . . But though you have read books 
 
 249 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 and thought, and I haven't done either, we've eome out 
 pretty close' together . . ." 
 
 " Go to the devil! "—shouted Kuvalda. 
 
 His conversations with The Gnawed Bone always wound 
 up in this manner. On the whole, without the teacher — 
 and he was aware of this himself — his speeches only spoiled 
 the air, and were dispersed on it without bringing him 
 either appreciation or attention; but he could not refrain 
 from talking. And now, after swearing at his interlocutor, 
 he felt himself alone among his own people. But he 
 wanted to talk, and therefore he turned to SimtzofE with 
 the question: 
 
 " Well, and you, Alex6i Maximovitch — ^where shall you 
 lay your gray head? " 
 
 The old man smiled good-naturedly, rubbed his nose 
 with his hand, and said: 
 
 "I don't know . . . I'll see about it! I'm of no 
 great importance: I've had a good time, and I shall again! " 
 
 "A worthy, though simple problem," — the captain 
 lauded him. 
 
 Simtzoff added, after a pause, that he would get settled 
 more promptly than the rest, because the women were 
 very fond of him. This was true: the old man always had 
 two or three mistresses among the women of the town, 
 who supported him, for two or three days at a stretch, on 
 their scanty earnings. They frequently beat him, but he 
 bore it stoically; for some reason or other, they could not 
 hurt him much — perhaps, because they were sorry for him. 
 He was a passionate lover of women, and was wont to re- 
 late, that women were the cause of all his misfortunes in 
 life. The intimacy of his relations to women, and the 
 character of their relations to him were confirmed, both 
 by his frequent illnesses, and by his clothing, which was 
 
 350 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 always well mended, and cleaner than the clothing of his 
 comrades. And now, as he sat on the ground, at the door 
 of the lodging-house, in a circle of his comrades, he hegan 
 boastfully to relate, that he had long since been invited by 
 The Eadish to live with her, but he would not go to her, 
 he did not wish to desert the company. 
 
 He was listened to with interest, and not without envy. 
 They all knew The Eadish — she lived not far away, under 
 the hill, and only a short time before this had spent sev- 
 eral months in prison for her second case of theft. She 
 was a wet-nurse, who " had seen better days," a tall, plump 
 country woman, with a pock-marked face, and very hand- 
 some, though always drunken, eyes. 
 
 " You don't say so, you old devil! " — swore The Gnawed 
 Bone, as he gazed at Simtzoff, who was smiling conceitedly. 
 
 " And why do they love me? Because I know what their 
 souls delight in . . ." 
 
 " We-ell? " — exclaimed Kuvdlda, interrogatively. 
 
 " I know how to make them feel sorry for me. . . . 
 And when a woman feels compassion — she'll even go so 
 far as to cut a throat out of compassion. Weep before her, 
 beg her to kill you, she'll take compassion on you and kill 
 you . . ." 
 
 "I'll kill!" declared MartyanofE, resolutely, grinning in 
 his gloomy style. 
 
 " Whom? " — ^inquired The Gnawed Bone, moving away 
 from him. 
 
 "It doesn't matter . . . Petunnikoff . . . Egorka 
 . . . even you'd do! " 
 
 "Why?" — queried Kuvalda, with great interest. 
 
 "I want to go to Siberia . . . I'm tired of this 
 . . . mean life. . . . But there a fellow will find 
 out how he ought to live ■ • ■" 
 
 ?51 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Ye-es, they'll show you there, in detail," — assented the 
 captain in a melancholy way. 
 
 Nothing more was said ahout Petunnikoff, and their ap- 
 proaching expulsion from the night lodging-house. All 
 of them were already convinced that this expulsion was 
 near at hand — at a distance of two or three days, perhaps, 
 and they regarded it as superfluous to bother themselves 
 with discussions on that subject. Discussing the matter 
 would not improve the situation, and, in conclusion, the 
 weather was not cold yet, although the rains were begin- 
 ning — ^it was still possible to sleep on any clod of earth, 
 outside the town. 
 
 Arranging themselves in a circle on the grass, these men 
 idly conducted a long conversation on various subjects, 
 passing freely from one theme to another, and wasting 
 just so much attention on the other man's words as was re- 
 quired to keep up the conversation without a break. It 
 was tiresome to remain silent, but it was also tiresome to 
 listen attentively. This company of men with pasts had 
 one great merit: in it no one put any constraint upon him- 
 self, in the effort to appear better than he was, and no one 
 incited the others to exercise such constraint over himself. 
 
 The August sun assiduously warmed the rags of these 
 men, who had turned to it their backs and their uncombed 
 heads — a chaotic combination of the vegetable kingdom 
 with the mineral and the animal. In the corners of the 
 courtyard the grass grew luxuriantly, — ^tall burdocks sown, 
 with clinging burs, and some other plants, which were of 
 no use to anybody, delighted the eyes of the men who were 
 of no use to anybody. — -— 
 
 But in VavilofiE's tavern the following scene had been 
 enacted. 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Petunnikoff junior had entered it, in a leisurely man- 
 ner, had looked about him, frowned fastidiously, and 
 slowly removing from his head his gray hat, he had in- 
 quired of the tavern-keeper, who greeted him with a re- 
 spectful bow, and an amiable grin: 
 
 " Egor Terentievitch Vaviloff — are you he? " 
 
 "Exactly so!"* replied the non-commissioned officer, 
 resting both hands on the counter, as though preparing to 
 leap over it. 
 
 " I have some business with you," — announced Petiin- 
 nikoif. 
 
 "Perfectly delighted. . . . Please come to my 
 rooms! " 
 
 They entered his rooms, and seated themselves — ^the vis- 
 itor on the waxed-cloth divan in front of the round table, 
 the host on a chair facing him. In one corner of the room 
 burned a shrine-lamp in front of a huge, treble-panelled 
 image-case, around which, on the wall, more holy pictures 
 were also suspended. Their vestments were brilliantly 
 polished, and shone like new ones. In the room, closely 
 set with trunks, and ancient furniture of various sorts, 
 there was an odor of olive oil, tobacco, and sour cabbage. 
 PetunnikofE surveyed things, and again made a grimace. 
 Vaviloff, with a sigh, glanced at the holy pictures, and 
 then they fixedly regarded each other, and both made a 
 mutually good impression. Vaviloff's frankly-knavish eyes 
 pleased Petiinnikoff. Petunnikoff's open, cold, resolute 
 face, with its broad, strong cheek-bones, and closely set white 
 teeth, pleased Vaviloff. 
 
 " Well, sir, you know me, of course, and you can guess 
 
 * The regulation reply, in tlie army, to a superior, is not plain " da " 
 (yes), but " totchno tak ! " The negative is correspondingly regulated. 
 — Translator. 
 
 253 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 what I am going to talk to you about!" began Petun- 
 nikoff. 
 
 "About the suit ... I assume," — said the non- 
 commissioned oifieer deferentially. 
 
 " Precisely. It is pleasant to see that you make no pre- 
 tences, but go straight to the point, like a man with a 
 straight-forward soul," — Petiinnikoff encouraged his inter- 
 locutor. 
 
 " Fm a soldier, sir . . ." said the latter, modestly. 
 
 " That's evident. So, we will conduct the business in a 
 simple, straight-forward manner, in order to get through 
 with it the more promptly." 
 
 "Just so . . ." 
 
 " Very good. . . . Your suit is entirely legal, and, 
 as a matter of course, you will win it — that is the first 
 thing which I consider it necessary to state to you." 
 
 " I thank you sincerely," — said the non-commissioned 
 officer, winking his eyes, in order to conceal the smile in 
 them. 
 
 " But, tell me, why was it necessary for you to make ac- 
 quaintance with us, your future neighbors, in so harsh a 
 manner . . . straight from the courts? . . ." 
 
 VaviloS shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. 
 
 " It would have been simpler to come to us, and arrange 
 everything peaceably . . . wouldn't it? What do you 
 think about it? " 
 
 " Of course, that would be more agreeable. But, you 
 see . . . there's one hitch about it. ... I did 
 not act of my own free will . . . but I was instigated 
 to do it. . . . Afterward, when I understood what 
 would have been the better way, it was already too late." 
 
 " Just so. ... I assume that some lawyer or other 
 put you up to it? " 
 
 254 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Something of that sort . . ." 
 
 " Aha! Well, sir, and so you wish to conclude the afEair 
 peaceably? " 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure! " exclaimed the soldier. 
 
 PetunnikojBE paused, looked at him, and then inquired, 
 coldly and dryly: 
 
 " And why do you wish that? " 
 
 Vaviloff had not expected such a question, and could not 
 reply at once. In his opinion, it was an absurd question, 
 and the soldier, with a consciousness of his superiority, 
 laughed in Petunnikoff's face. 
 
 " It's plain enough why . . . one must try to live at 
 peace with people." 
 
 " Come," — PetunnikofE interrupted him, — " that's not 
 precisely the fact. I perceive that you do not clearly un- 
 derstand why you wished to make peace with us. . . . 
 I will tell you why." 
 
 The soldier was somewhat astonished. This young fel- 
 low, all clad in checked material, and presenting a rather 
 ridiculous figure in it, talked just as company commander 
 Eakshin had been wont to talk, after he had, with angry 
 hand, knocked out the soldiers' teeth, three at a time. 
 
 " You want to make peace with us, because our vicinity 
 is very profitable to you! And it is profitable because we 
 shall have not less than one hundred and fifty workmen in 
 our factory, — in course of time, more. If one hundred of 
 them drink a glass apiece after each weekly pay-day, you 
 will sell, in the course of a month, four hundred glasses 
 more than you are selling now. I have put it at the lowest 
 figure. Moreover, you have your eating-house. Appar- 
 ently, you are anything but stupid, and you are a man of 
 experience; consider for yourself the advantages of our 
 proximity." 
 
 255 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Thaf s true, sir . . ." Vavlloff nodded assent,—" I 
 knew that." 
 
 "And what then?" — the merchant inquired loudly. 
 
 " Nothing, sir. . . Let's make peace." 
 
 "I am very glad that you make up your mind so 
 promptly. Here, I have furnished myself with a notifica- 
 tion to the courts of the withdrawal of your claims against 
 my father. Eead it over, and sign it." 
 
 Vaviloff stared, with round eyes, at his interlocutor, 
 and trembled, foreseeing something very bad indeed. 
 
 " Excuse me . . . I am to sign it? What does that 
 mean?" 
 
 " Simply, you are to write your baptismal name and your 
 surname, and nothing more," — explained Petiinnikoff, 
 obligingly pointing out with his finger the place where he 
 was to sign. 
 
 "No — ^what's the meaning of tha-at! I wasn't talking 
 about that. ... I meant to say — what compensation 
 are you going to give me for my land? " 
 
 " But the land is of no use to you! " said Petunnikoff, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Nevertheless, it's mine!" exclaimed the soldier. 
 
 " Of course. . . . How much do you want? " 
 
 " Why . . . what is stated in the complaint. . . ." 
 
 " What is written there," — said Vavilofi timidly. 
 
 "Six hundred?"— PetunnikofE laughed sof tly.— " Akh, 
 you comical fellow! " 
 
 " I have the right ... I might even demand two 
 thousand ... I can insist on your tearing down. 
 . . . That's what I will do. . . . For the value of 
 the suit is so small. I demand — that you shall tear the 
 building down! " 
 
 " Go ahead. . . . Perhaps we will tear it down 
 
 256 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 . . . three years hence, after having involved you in 
 great expense for the suit. And after we have paid, we'll 
 open our own little dram-shop and eating-house, — better 
 ones than yours — and you'll be ruined, like the Swede at 
 Poltava.* You shall be ruined, my good man, we'll take 
 care of that. We might begin to take steps about the dram- 
 shop now, only it's a bother, and time is valuable to us. 
 And we're sorry for you — why take the bread away from a 
 man, for no cause whatever? " 
 
 Egor Terentievitch set his teeth firmly, stared at his visi- 
 tor, and felt conscious that the visitor was the master of 
 his fate. Vaviloff commiserated himself, in the presence 
 of this coldly-composed, implacable figure in the ridiculous 
 cheeked costume. 
 
 " Being in such close vicinity to us, and living in peace 
 with us, my old soldier, you might do a fine business. We 
 would take care of that, also. For example, I will even 
 recommend you on the spot, to open a little shop . . . 
 you know — cheap tobacco, matches, bread, cucumbers, and 
 so on. . . . All that would have a ready sale." 
 
 Vaviloff listened, and being anything but a stupid young 
 fellow, he comprehended that the very best thing he could 
 do would be to yield to his magnanimous enemy. He 
 ought, properly, to have begun with that. And, not know- 
 ing how to get rid of his wrath and sense of injury, he 
 swore aloud at Kuvalda: 
 
 "You drunkard, an-athema, may the devil give it to 
 you! " 
 
 " You're swearing at the lawyer who drew up your peti- 
 tion?" — calmly inquired Petunnikoff, and added, with a 
 sigh: — " as a matter of fact, he might have played you a 
 
 * Cliarles XII. of Sweden, defeated at Poltava by Peter the Great. 
 — Translator. 
 
 257 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 sorry trick ... if we had not taken pity on 
 you." 
 
 "Ekh!" and the mortified soldier waved his hand in 
 despair. " There are two of them. . . . One planned, 
 the other wrote. . . . The damned correspond- 
 ent! " 
 
 "And why do you call him a correspondent?" 
 
 "He writes in the newspapers. . . . They're your 
 lodgers. . . . Nice people, truly! Get rid of them, 
 drive them away, for Christ's sake! Eobbers! They stir 
 up everybody here in this street, they urge them on. 
 There's no living for them . . . they're desperatK 
 men — the first you know, they'll rob you or set fire to yout 
 house! " 1 
 
 "And that correspondent — ^who is he?" Petunniko^ 
 asked with interest. 
 
 "He? A drunkard! He used to be a teacher— thejj 
 turned him out. He drank up all he owned, . . . and 
 now he writes for the papers, and composes petitions. He'^ 
 a very mean man! " -^ 
 
 "Hm! And so he wrote your petition for you? Ex- 
 actly so! Evidently, it was he, also, who wrote about the 
 disorders in construction — ^he found that the scaffolding 
 was not properly placed, or something of that sort." 
 
 " It was he! I know it, it was he, the dog! He read it 
 here, himself, and bragged — ' Here, I've caused Petunni- 
 koff a loss,' says he." 
 
 "We-ell. . . . Come, sir, so we intend to make 
 peace?" 
 
 " I make peace? " 
 
 The soldier hung his head and meditated. 
 
 "Ekh, thou gloomy life of ours! " — he exclaimed, in an 
 injured tone, as he scratched the nape of his neck. 
 
 258 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "You must get some education," Petiinnikoff advised 
 him, as he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 " Get some education? That's not the point, my good 
 sir! There's no hberty, that's what's the trouble! No, look 
 here, what sort of a life do I lead? I live in trepidation, 
 . . . continually looking around me . . . com- 
 pletely deprived of freedom in the movements I wish to 
 make! And why? I'm afraid . . . that spectre of a 
 teacher writes about me in the newspapers ... he 
 brings the sanitary inspectors down on me, I have to 
 pay fines. . . . The first you know, those lodgers of 
 yours will burn down, murder, rob. . . . What can I 
 do against them? They're not afraid of the police. . . . 
 If the police locked them up, they'd even be glad of it — 
 they'd get their bread for nothing . . ." 
 
 " We'll get rid of them . . . if we unite with you," 
 promised Petunnikofl. 
 
 "How are we to unite?" asked VavilofE sadly and sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 " Name your terms." 
 
 "But why? Give ... six hundred, as stated in 
 the claim . . ." 
 
 "Won't you take one hundred?" — inquired the mer- 
 chant calmly, carefully scrutinizing his interlocutor, and 
 smiling gently, he added: — " I won't give a ruble more." 
 
 After that, he removed his glasses, and began slowly to 
 wipe them, with a handkerchief which he took from his 
 pocket. Vavlloff gazed at him with grief in his heart, and, 
 at the same time, was impressed with respect for him. In 
 the calm countenance of young Petunnikoil, in his gray 
 eyes, in his broad cheek-bones, in the whole of his well- 
 built figure, there was a great deal of strength, self-reliant 
 and well disciplined by his brain. The way Petunnikoff 
 
 259 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 had talked to him also pleased Vaviloff: simply with 
 friendly tones in his voice, without any pretensions to su- 
 periority, as though with his own brother, although VavilofE 
 understood that he, a soldier, was not the peer of that man. 
 As he scrutinized him, almost admired him, the soldier, at 
 last, could not hold out, and feeling within him an impulse 
 of curiosity, which, for the moment, smothered all his sen- 
 timents, he deferentially asked PetunnikofE: 
 
 "Where were you pleased to be educated?" 
 
 " In the technological institute. Why? " and the latter 
 turned smiling eyes upon him. 
 
 "Nothing, sir, I only . . . excuse me!" — The sol- 
 dier dropped his head, and suddenly, with ecstasy, envy, 
 and even inspiration, he exclaimed: — "We-ell! Here's 
 education for you! In one word — science — light! But 
 people of my sort are like owls in the sunlight in this 
 world. . . . Ekh-ma! Your Well-Born! Come on, 
 let's finish that business! " 
 
 With a resolute gesture, he ofiEered his hand to Petun- 
 nikoff, and said in a suppressed way: 
 
 "Well . . . five hundred?" 
 
 " Not more than one hundred, Egor Terentievitch," — as 
 though regretting that he could not give more. Petun- 
 nikofE shrugged his shoulders, as he slapped his large, white 
 hand into the hairy hand of the soldier. 
 
 They soon concluded the business, for the soldier sud- 
 denly advanced to meet PetunnikofE's wishes in great leaps, 
 and the latter was immovably firm. And when VavilofiE 
 had received one hundred rubles, and had signed the docu- 
 ment, he flung the pen on the table, in exasperation, and 
 exclaimed: 
 
 " W«ll, now it remains for me to deal with that golden 
 
 horde! They'll ridicule me, and put me to shame, the 
 
 devils! " 
 
 260 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Tell them that I have paid you the full sum men- 
 tioned in the suit," — suggested Petunnikoff, calmly emit- 
 ting from his mouth slender streams of smoke and watch- 
 ing them. 
 
 " But will they believe that? They're clever scoundrels, 
 also, just as bad as . . ." Vaviloff halted in time, discon- 
 certed by the comparison which he had almost uttered, and 
 glanced in alarm at the merchant's son. The latter smoked 
 on, and was entirely absorbed in that occupation. He soon 
 took his departure, after promising Vaviloff, as he said 
 farewell, that he would destroy the nest of those restless 
 people. Vaviloil looked after him, and sighed, feeling 
 strongly inclined to shout something spiteful and insult- 
 ing at the back of this man, who, with firm steps, was 
 mounting the hill along the road filled with pits and ob- 
 structed with rubbish. 
 
 In the evening, the captain presented himself in the 
 tavern. His brows were severely contracted, and his right 
 hand was energetically clenched into a fist. Vaviloff 
 smiled apologetically as he greeted him. 
 
 " We-ell, you worthy descendant of Cain and Judas, tell 
 me . . ." 
 
 "We've come to a settlement . . ." said Vaviloff, 
 sighing and lowering his eyes. 
 
 " I don't doubt it. How many rubles did you get? " 
 
 " Four hundred . . ." 
 
 " You're certainly lying. . . . But that's all the bet- 
 ter for me. . . . Without further words, Egorka, pay 
 me ten per cent for the discovery, four rubles to the teacher 
 for writing your petition, a bucket of vodka to all of us, 
 and a decent amount of luncheon. Hand over the money 
 instantly, the vodka and the rest at eight o'clock." 
 
 261 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Vaviloff turned green, and stared at Kuvalda with 
 widely-opened eyes. 
 
 "That's nonsense! That's robhery! I won't give it. 
 . . . What are you thinking of, Aristid Fomitch! No, 
 you'd better restrain your appetite until the next feast- 
 day! What a man you are! No, now I'm in a position not 
 to fear you. Now I'm . . ." 
 
 Kuvalda looked at his watch. 
 
 " I'll give you, Bgorka, ten minutes for your dirty con- 
 versation. Put an end to the wanderings of your tongue 
 in that time, and give what I demand. If you don't give 
 it — I'll eat you alive! Did The End sell you something? 
 Did you read in the newspaper about the robbery at 
 BasofE's? You understand? You won't succeed in hiding 
 anything — we'll prevent that. And this very night. . . . 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 "Aristid F6mitch! What is this for?" — wailed the re- 
 tired non-commissioned ofl&cer. 
 
 " No words! Do you understand or not? " 
 
 Tall, gray-haired Kuvalda, with his brows impressively 
 knit, spoke in an undertone, and his hoarse bass hummed 
 ominously in the empty tavern. VavilofE had always been 
 a little afraid of him, both as a former miUtary man and 
 as a man who had nothing to lose. But now Kuvalda 
 presented himself in a new light to him: he did not talk 
 much and hurriedly, as usual, and in what he did say in 
 the tone of a commander, who is confident that he will 
 be obeyed, there resounded a threat not uttered in jest. 
 And VavilofE felt that the captain would ruin him, if he 
 chose, would ruin him with pleasure. He must yield to 
 force. But, with a fierce trepidation in his heart, the sol- 
 dier made one more effort to escape punishment. He 
 heaved a deep sigh, and began submissively: 
 
 S63 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Evidently, the saying is true: 'The peasant woman 
 beats herself if she doesn't reap clean . . .' I told you 
 a lie about myself, Aristid Pomitch. ... I wanted to 
 appear cleverer than I am. ... I received only one 
 hundred rubles . . ." 
 
 " Go on . . ." Kuvalda flung at him. 
 
 " And not four hundred, as I told you. . . . Which 
 isignifies . . ." 
 
 " Which signifies nothing. I don't know when you were 
 lying — a while ago, or now. I get sixty-five rubles from 
 you. That's moderate. . . . Well? . . ." 
 
 "Ekh, oh Lord my God! Aristid Fomitch! I have al- 
 ways shown regard for Your Weil-Born, as far as was in 
 my power." 
 
 "Well? Drop your talk, Eg6rka, grandson of Judas!" 
 
 " Very well. . . . I'll give it. . . . Only, God 
 will punish you for this." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you rotten pimple on the face of 
 the earth! " — bawled the captain, rolling his eyes fero- 
 ciously. — " I am chastised by God. . . . He has placed 
 me under the necessity of seeing you, of talking with you. 
 . . . I'll mash you on the spot, like a fiy! " He shook 
 his fist under Vaviloff's nose, and gnashed his teeth, dis- 
 playing them in a snarl. 
 
 When he went away, Vaviloff began to grin awry, and 
 wink his eyes at frequent intervals. Then, down his cheeks 
 trickled two big tears. They were of a grayish hue, and 
 when they disappeared in his mustache, two others made 
 their appearance to replace them. Then Vaviloff went off 
 to his own room, took up his stand there in front of the 
 holy pictures, and there he stood for a long time, without 
 moving or wiping away the tears from his wrinkled, cinna- 
 mon-brown cheeks. 
 
 S63 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Deacon Taras, who was always drawn to the forests and 
 fields, proposed to the men with pasts that they should 
 go out on the plain, to a certain ravine, and there, in the 
 lap of Nature, drink up VavilofE's vodka. But the cap- 
 tain and all the others unanimously cursed the deacon and 
 Nature, and decided to drink it at home, in their own 
 courtyard. 
 
 " One, two, three . . ." counted Aristid Fomitch, — 
 " our sum total is thirteen; the teacher isn't here . . . 
 well, and several jolly dogs will join us. We'll reckon it at 
 twenty persons. At two cucumbers and a half per brother, 
 and a pound of bread and meat apiece — it won't be so bad! 
 We must have a bottle of vodka apiece . . . there's 
 sour cabbage, and apples, and three watermelons. The 
 question is, what the devil more do we need, my fellow- 
 scoundrels? So we'll make ready to devour Egorka Va- 
 viloff, for all this is his flesh and blood! " 
 
 They spread out the remains of some garments or other 
 on the ground, on them laid out the viands and liquor, and 
 seated themselves around them, — seated themselves se- 
 dately and in silence, with difficulty restraining their 
 greedy desire to drink which beamed in their eyes. 
 
 Evening drew near, its shadows descended upon the 
 ground in the courtyard of the lodging-house, disfigured 
 with scraps, and the last rays of the sun lighted up the roof 
 of the half -ruined edifice. It was cool and still. 
 
 "Let's start in, brothers!" — ^the captain gave the word 
 of command. — "How many cups have we? Six . . . 
 and there are thirteen of us. . . . Alexei Maximo- 
 vitch! Pour! Eeady? Co-ome on, first platoon . . . 
 fire!" 
 
 They drank, grunted, and began to eat. 
 
 " And the teacher isn't here . . . this is the third 
 
 264 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 day that I haven't seen him. Has anybody seen him? " — 
 inquired Kuvalda. 
 
 "ISTobody . . ." 
 
 " That's not like him! Well, no matter. Let's have an- 
 other drink! . . . Let's drink to the health of Aristid 
 Kuvalda, my only friend, who, all my life long, has never 
 left me alone for a minute. Although, devil take him, I 
 should have been the gainer if he had deprived me of his 
 society for a while! " 
 
 " That's witty," — said The Gnawed Bone, and coughed. 
 
 The captain, with a consciousness of his superiority, 
 gazed at his comrade, but said nothing, for he was eating. 
 
 After taking two drinks, the company grew lively all 
 of a sudden — the portions were inspiring. Taras-and-a- 
 Half expressed a desire to listen to a story, but the deacon 
 had got into a dispute with The Peg-top about the advan- 
 tages of thin women over fat ones, and paid no attention 
 to the other man's words, but demonstrated his views to 
 The Peg-top with the obduracy and heat of a man who 
 is profoundly convinced of the justice of his views. The 
 ingenuous face of The Meteor, who was lying on his 
 stomach beside him, expressed emotion, as he relished the 
 heady little words of the deacon. Martyanoff, clasping his 
 knees with his huge hands, overgrown with black hair, 
 stared silently and gloomily at a bottle of vodka, and fished 
 for his mustache with his tongue, in the endeavor to 
 bite it with his teeth. The Gnawed Bone was teasing 
 Tyapa. 
 
 "I've already observed, you sorcerer, where you hide 
 your money! " 
 
 " You're lucky . . ." said Tydpa hoarsely. 
 
 " I'm going to snatch it away . . ." 
 
 "Take it . . ." 
 
 265 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 These people bored Kuvalda: there was not among them 
 a single companion worthy to listen to his eloquence and 
 capable of comprehending him. 
 
 "Where can the teacher be?" — he meditated aloud. 
 Martyanoff looked at him, and said: 
 
 " He'll come . . ." 
 
 " I'm convinced that he'll come — but he won't drive up 
 in a carriage. Future convict, let's drink to your future. 
 If you murder a man with money, share it with me. 
 . . . Then, my dear fellow, I'll go to America, to those 
 . . . what's their name? Lampas? . . . Pampas! 
 I'll go there, and I'll wind up as president of the states. 
 Then I'll declare war on all Europe, and give it a sound 
 drubbing. I'll buy an army ... in Europe, also 
 . . . I'll invite the French, the Germans, the Turks, 
 and so forth, and with them I'll beat their own relatives 
 . . . as Ilya of Murom beat the Tatar with a Tatar. 
 . . . With money, one can be an Ilya also . . . 
 and annihilate Europe, and hire Judas PetunnikofE as a 
 lackey. . . . He'll do it . . . give him a hundred 
 rubles a month, and he'll do it! But he'll make a bad 
 lackey, for he'll begin to steal . . ." 
 
 " And a thin woman is better than a fat one in this re- 
 spect also, she comes cheaper," — said the deacon argu- 
 mentatively. "My first wife used to buy twelve arshins 
 for a dress, the second bought ten. . . . And so it was 
 with the food, also . . ." 
 
 Taras-and-a-Half laughed apologetically, turned his head 
 toward the deacon, fixed his eyes on the latter's face, and 
 said, in confusion: 
 
 " I, also, had a wife . . ." 
 
 " That may happen to anybody," — remarked Kuvalda. — 
 " Continue your lies . . ." 
 
 266 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " She was thin, but she ate a great deal. . . . And 
 she even died of that . . ." 
 
 " You poisoned her, cock-eye! " — said The Gnawed 
 Bone, with conviction. 
 
 " No, by God I didn't! She overate herself on stur- 
 geon," — said Taras-and-a-Half. 
 
 " And I tell you — that you poisoned her! " — reiterated 
 The Gnawed Bone, decisively. 
 
 It often happened thus with him: when he had once ut- 
 tered some piece of folly, he began to reiterate it, without 
 quoting any grounds in confirmation, and though he 
 talked, at first, in a capriciously-childish tone, he gradually 
 worked up almost to a state of frenzy. 
 
 The deacon stood up for his friend. 
 
 "No, he is incapable of poisoning . . . there was 
 no cause . . ." 
 
 "And I say that he did poison her!" — squealed The 
 Gnawed Bone. 
 
 "Hold your tongues!" — shouted the captain men- 
 acingly. His ill-humor had been converted into morose 
 wrath. He stared at his friends with savage eyes, and not 
 descrying in their ugly physiognomies, already half -drunk, 
 anything which could supply further food for his wrath, 
 he hung his head on his breast, sat thus for a few minutes, 
 and then lay down on the ground, face upward. The 
 Meteor was nibbling at a cucumber. He had taken the 
 cucumber into his hand, without looking at it, thrust it 
 up to the middle in his mouth, and immediately began to 
 chew it with his large, yellow teeth, so that the brine from 
 the cucumber spattered in all directions, bedewing his 
 cheeks. Evidently, he was not hungry, but this process of 
 eating diverted him. Martyanoff sat motionless as a statue, 
 in the same attitude in which he had seated himself on the 
 
 267 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 ground, and he, also, was staring in a concentrated, gloomy 
 way, at a six-quart bottle of vodka, which was already 
 half empty. Tyapa was staring at the ground, and noisily 
 chewing meat, which did not yield to his aged teeth. The 
 Gnawed Bone lay on his stomach, and coughed, with his 
 whole tiny body curled up in a ball. The rest — all taciturn, 
 obscure figures — were sitting and lying in various atti- 
 tudes, and all these men together, clad in their rags and 
 the evening twilight, were hardly distinguishable from the 
 heaps of rubbish scattered over the courtyard and over- 
 grown with tall grass. Their ungainly attitudes and their 
 rags made them resemble deformed animals, created by a 
 rough, fantastic power, as a travesty on man. 
 
 " There lived and dwelt in Suzdal town 
 A gentlewoman of no account. 
 And she waa seized with a fit of cramps, 
 Of mo-st unpleasant cramps ! " 
 
 the deacon began to hum, in an undertone, as he embraced 
 Alexei Maximovitch, smiling beatifically into the latter's 
 face. Taras-and-a-Half giggled voluptuously. 
 
 Night was at hand. In the sky, the stars were quietly 
 kindling — ^up on the hill, in the town, the lights in the 
 street-lamps. The mournful whistles of the steamers were 
 wafted from the river, the door of Vaviloff's tavern opened 
 with a creaking and crashing of glass. Two dark figures 
 entered the courtyard, approached the group of men gath- 
 ered round the bottle, and one of them asked, hoarsely: 
 
 " Are you drinking? " 
 
 And the other, in an undertone, with envy and joy, said: 
 
 "Oh, what devils!" 
 
 Then a hand was extended across the head of the deacon, 
 and grasped the bottle, and the characteristic gurgling of 
 
 268 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 vodka became audible, as it was poured from the bottle into 
 a cup. Then there was a loud grunting noise . . . 
 
 "Well, this is melancholy!" — ejaculated the deacon. — 
 " Cock-eye! Let's call to mind days of yore, let's sing ' By 
 the rivers of Babylon! ' " 
 
 "Does he know how?" inquired SimtzofE. 
 
 " He? He used to be a soloist in the Bishop's choir, my 
 good fellow. . . . Come on. Cock-eye. . . . 0- 
 on-the-e-ri-i-iv-ers . . ." 
 
 The deacon's voice was wild, hoarse, cracked, and his 
 friend sang in a squeaking falsetto. 
 
 Enveloped in the gloom, the empty house seemed to have 
 increased in size, or to have moved its whole mass of half- 
 decayed wood nearer to these men, who were awaking in 
 it a dull echo by their wild singing. A cloud, magnificent 
 and dark, was slowly floating across the sky above it. 
 Some one of the men with pasts was snoring, the rest, 
 still not sufficiently intoxicated, were either eating and 
 drinking in silence, or chatting in an undertone, broken 
 with prolonged pauses. None of them were accustomed to 
 this dejected mood at a banquet, which was rare as to the 
 abundance of vodka and of viands. For some reason or 
 other, the boisterous animation characteristic of the lodg- 
 ing-house's inhabitants over a bottle did not flare up for a 
 long time. 
 
 "You're . . . dogs! Stop your howling," said the 
 captain to the singers, raising his head from the ground, 
 and listening. — " Someone is driving in this direction 
 . . . in a drozhky . . ." 
 
 A drozhky at that hour in Vyezhaya Street could not 
 fail to arouse general attention. Who from the town would 
 run the risk of driving over the ruts and pit-holes of the 
 street — who was it, and why? All raised their heads and 
 
 269 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 listened. In the nocturnal silence the rumbling of the 
 wheels, as they came in contact with the splashers, was 
 plainly audible. It grew nearer and nearer. A voice rang 
 out, roughly inquiring: 
 
 " Well, where is it? " 
 
 Someone answered: 
 
 " It must be that house, yonder." 
 
 " I won't go any further . . ." 
 
 " They're coming here! " exclaimed the captain. 
 
 ''The police!" a tremulous murmur ran round. 
 
 "In a carriage! The fool! " — said Martyanoff in a dull 
 tone. 
 
 Kuvalda rose, and went to the gate. 
 
 The Gnawed Bone, stretching his head after him, began 
 to listen. 
 
 " Is this the night lodging-house? " inquired someone, in 
 a shaking voice. 
 
 " Yes, Aristid Kuvalda's . . ." boomed the dissatis- 
 fied bass voice of the captain. 
 
 " There, there now . . . has Titoff the reporter 
 been living here? " 
 
 " Aha! Have you brought him? " 
 
 "Yes . . ." 
 
 " Drunk? " 
 
 " 111! " 
 
 " That means, that he's very drunk. Hey there, teacher! 
 get up!" 
 
 "Wait! I'll help you . . . he's very ill. He has 
 been lying ill in my house for two days. Grasp him under 
 the arm-pits. . . . The doctor has been. He's in a 
 very bad way . . ." 
 
 Ty4pa rose, and slowly walked to the gate, but The 
 Gnawed Bone grinned and took a drink. 
 
 270 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "Light up, there! " shouted the captain. 
 
 The Meteor went into the lodging-house and lighted the 
 lamp. Then from the door of the house a broad streak 
 of light streamed across the courtyard, and the captain, in 
 company with a small man, led the teacher along it to the 
 lodging-house. His head hung flabbily on his breast, his 
 legs dragged along the ground, and his arms dangled in 
 the air, as though they were broken. With the aid of 
 Tyapa, they laid him in a heap on the sleeping-shelf, and 
 he, trembling all over, stretched himself out on it, with a 
 quiet groan. 
 
 " He and I have been working on the same newspaper. 
 . . . He's very unfortunate. I said: — 'Pray lie at my 
 house, you will not incommode me . . .' But he en- 
 treated me — 'Take me home!' He got excited. . . . 
 I thought that was injurious to him, and so I have brought 
 him . . . home! He really belongs here, does he?" 
 
 " And, in your opinion, has he a home somewhere else? " 
 asked Kuvalda roughly, as he stared intently at his friend. 
 " Ty4pa, go and fetch some cold water! " 
 
 " So now . . ." hesitated the little man. . . . 
 "I suppose . . . he does not need me? " 
 
 "You?" — and the captain examined him critically. 
 
 The little man was dressed in a sack-coat, much the 
 worse for wear, and carefully buttoned clear up to the 
 chin. There was fringe on the edges of his trousers, 
 his hat was red with age and crumpled, as was also his 
 gaunt, hungry face. 
 
 "No, he doesn't need you . . . there are a great 
 many of your sort here . . ." said the captain, turning 
 away from the little man. 
 
 " Farewell for the present, then! " — The little man went 
 to the door, and from that spot he quietly asked: 
 
 271 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 "If anything should happen . . . please give no- 
 tice at the editorial office. . . . My name is B.fzh.oS. 
 I should like to write a brief obituary . . . for, after 
 all, you know, he was a worker on the press . . ." 
 
 "Hm! An obituary, you say? Twenty lines — ^twenty 
 kopeks? I'll do better: when he dies, I'll cut off one of 
 his legs and send it to the editorial office, addressed to 
 you. That will be more profitable to you than an obituary, 
 it'll last you for two or three days ... his legs are 
 thick. . . . You've all been devouring him alive, 
 surely you will eat him when he's dead . . . also, . . ." 
 
 The man gave a queer sort of snort, and vanished. The 
 captain sat down on the sleeping-shelf beside the teacher, 
 felt the letter's brow and breast with his hand, and called 
 him by name: 
 
 « Philip! " 
 
 The dull sound re-echoed from the dirty walls of the 
 night lodging-house, and died away. 
 
 " This is awkward, brother! " — said the captain, softly 
 smoothing the dishevelled hair of the teacher with his 
 hand. Then the captain listened to his breathing, which 
 was hot and spasmodic, scrutinized his face, which was 
 sunken and earthy in hue, sighed, and frowning harshly, 
 glanced around. The lamp was a bad one: its flame 
 flickered, and black shadows danced silently over the walls 
 of the lodging-house. The captain began to stare stub- 
 bornly at their silent play, and to stroke his beard. 
 
 Ty4pa arrived with a bucket of water, set it on the sleep- 
 ing-shelf by the teacher's head, and, taking his hand, he 
 raised it on his own hand, as though weighing it. 
 
 " The water is not needed," and the captain waved his 
 hand. 
 
 " The priest is needed," announced the old rag-picker 
 confidently. 
 
 373 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Nothing is needed," decided the captain. 
 
 They fell silent, gazing at the teacher. 
 
 " Let's go and have a drink, you old devil! " 
 
 "And he?" 
 
 " Can you help him? " 
 
 Tyapa turned his back on the teacher, and both of them 
 went out into the courtyard, to their company. 
 
 "What's going on there?" — ^inquired The Gnawed 
 Bone, turning his sharp face to the captain. 
 
 "Nothing in particular. . . . The man is dying 
 . . ." the captain curtly informed him. 
 
 "Have they been beating him?" asked The Gnawed 
 Bone, with interest. 
 
 The captain made no reply, for he was drinking vodka 
 at the moment. 
 
 " It seems as though he knew that we have something 
 wherewith to hold a feast in commemoration of him," said 
 The Gnawed Bone, as he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 Someone laughed, someone else sighed deeply. But, on 
 the whole, the conversation between the captain and The 
 Gnawed Bone did not produce upon these men any per- 
 ceptible impression; at all events, it could not be seen that 
 it had disturbed anyone, interested anyone, or set anyone 
 to thinking. All of them had treated the teacher as though 
 he were a remarkable man, but now many were already 
 drunk, while others still remained calm outwardly. The 
 deacon alone suddenly straightened himself up, made a 
 noise with his lips, rubbed his forehead, and howled wildly: 
 
 " Whe-ere the just re-po-o-ose! " * 
 
 "Here, you! "—hissed The Gnawed Bone,— " what's 
 that you're roaring? " 
 
 " Give him a whack in his ugly face! " — counselled the 
 captain. 
 
 * A quotation from the Funeral and Requiem Services. — Translator. 
 
 273 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Fool! " rang out Tyapa's hoarse voice: " When a man 
 is dying, one should hold his tongue . . . there should 
 be quiet . . ." 
 
 It was quiet enough: hoth in heaven, which was covered 
 with storm-clouds and threatened rain, and on earth, en- 
 veloped in the gloomy darkness of the autumnal night. 
 From time to time the snores of those who had fallen asleep, 
 the gurgling of the vodka as it was poured out, and munch- 
 ing were audible. The deacon kept muttering something. 
 The storm-clouds floated low, as though they were on the 
 point of striking the roof of the old house and overturn- 
 ing it on top of the group of men. 
 
 " Ah . . . one's soul feels badly when a man whom 
 he knows is dying," remarked the captain, with a hiccough, 
 and bowed his head upon his breast. 
 
 No one answered him. 
 
 "He was the best . . . among us . . . the 
 cleverest, . . . the most decent. . . . I'm sorry 
 for him . . ." 
 
 " Gi-i-ive re-est wi-i-ith the Sa-a-aints * . . . sing, 
 you cock-eyed rogue! " — blustered the deacon, punching 
 the ribs of his friend who was slumbering by his side. 
 
 " Shut up! . . . you! " — exclaimed The Gnawed 
 Bone in a whisper, as he sprang to his feet. 
 
 " I'll hit him over the noddle," — suggested Marty4nofE, 
 raising his head from the ground. 
 
 "Aren't you asleep?" — said Aristid Fomitch, with 
 unusual amiability. — "Did you hear? The teacher's 
 here ..." 
 
 Martyanoff fidgeted heavily about on the ground, rose, 
 looked at the strip of light which proceeded from the door 
 and windows of the lodging-house, waggled his head, and 
 sat down in silence by the captain's side. 
 
 *From the Puneral and Eequiera Services. — Translator. 
 274 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Shall we take a drink? " suggested the latter. 
 
 Having found some glasses by the sense of feeling, they 
 took a drink. 
 
 " I'll go and take a look . . ." said Tyapa; " perhaps 
 he needs something . . ." 
 
 " He needs a coffin . . ." grinned the captain. 
 
 "Don't you talk about that/' entreated The Gnawed 
 Bone, in a low voice. 
 
 After Tyapa, The Meteor rose from the ground. The 
 deacon, also, attempted to rise, but rolled over on his side, 
 and swore loudly. 
 
 When Tyapa went away the captain slapped MartyanofE 
 on the shoulder, and said in a low voice: 
 
 " So now, Martydnoff. . . . You ought to feel it 
 more than the others. . . . You were . . . how- 
 ever, devil take it. Are you sorry for Philip? " 
 
 "No," — ^replied the former jail-warden, after a pause. 
 — "I don't feel anything of that sort, brother. . . . 
 I've got out of the habit. . . . It's abominable to live 
 so. I'm speaking seriously when I say that I'll murder 
 somebody . . ." 
 
 " Yes? " — said the captain vaguely. " Well . . . 
 what of that? Let's have another drink! " 
 
 " W-we are in-in-sig-ni-fi-cant f o-olks. I've had a drink 
 — but I'll take ano-therrr! " 
 
 SimtzofE now awoke, and began to sing in a blissful 
 voice. 
 
 " Brethren! Who's there? Pour out a cupful for the 
 old man! " 
 
 They poured it and handed it to him. After drinking it, 
 he again rolled over in a heap, knocking his head against 
 someone's side. 
 
 The silence lasted for a couple of minutes — a silence as 
 
 275 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 gloomy and painful as the autumnal night. Then someone 
 whispered . . . 
 
 "What?" the question rang out. 
 
 "I say, that he was a splendid fellow. Such a quiet 
 head . . ." they said in an undertone. 
 
 " And he had money, too, . . . and he didn't spare 
 it for the fellows . . ." and again silence reigned. 
 
 " He's dying! " Tyapa's shout resounded over the cap- 
 tain's head. 
 
 Aristld Fomiteh rose, and moving his feet with forced 
 steadiness, he went to the lodging-house. 
 
 "What are you going for?" Tyapa stopped him. — 
 "Don't go. For you're drunk . . . and it isn't a 
 good thing . . ." 
 
 The captain halted and meditated. 
 
 " What is good on this earth? Go to the devil! " And 
 he gave Tyapa a shove. 
 
 The shadows were still leaping along the walls of the 
 night lodging-house, as though engaged in mute conflict 
 with one another. On the sleeping-shelf, stretched out at 
 full length, lay the teacher, rattling in the throat. His 
 eyes were wide open, his bare chest heaved violently, froth 
 was oozing from the corners of his mouth, and on his face 
 there was a strained expression, as though he were making 
 an effort to say something great, difficult — and was not 
 able, and was suffering inexpressibly in consequence. 
 
 The captain stood in front of him, with his hands 
 clasped behind his back, and stared at him for about a 
 minute. Then he began to speak, painfully contracting his 
 brows: 
 
 "Philip! Say something to me . . . throw a word 
 of comfort to your friend! ... I love you, brother. 
 . . . All men are beasts, but you were for me — a man 
 
 276 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 . . . although you were a drunkard. Akh, how you did 
 drink vodka! Philip! It was exactly that which has ruined 
 you. . . . And why? You ought to have known how 
 to control yourself . . . and listen to me. D-didn't I 
 use to tell you . . ." 
 
 The mysterious, all-annihilating power called Death, as 
 though insulted by the presence of this intoxicated man at 
 the gloomy and solemn scene of its conflict with life, de- 
 cided to make as speedy an end as possible of its business, 
 and the teacher, heaving a deep sigh, moaned softly, shud- 
 dered, stretched himself out, and died. 
 
 The captain reeled on his legs, as he continued his 
 speech. 
 
 " What's the matter with you? Do you want me to bring 
 you some v6dka? But better not drink it, Philip. . . . 
 Eestrain yourself, conquer yourself. ... If you can't 
 — drink! Why restrain yourself, to speak plainly. . . . 
 For whose sake, Philip? Isn't that so? For whose 
 sake? . . ." 
 
 He grasped his foot, and drew him toward him. 
 
 "Ah, you are asleep, Philip? Well . . . sleep on. 
 . . . A quiet night to you . . . to-morrow I'll ex- 
 plain it all to you, and you'll be convinced that it isn't nec- 
 essary to deny yourself anything. . . . But now — 
 sleep ... if you are not dead . . ." 
 
 He went out, accompanied by silence, and when he came 
 to his men he announced: 
 
 "He's asleep ... or dead ... I don't know 
 . . . I'm a 1-lit-tle drunk . . ." 
 
 Tydpa bent over still further, making the sign of the 
 cross on his breast. MartyanofE writhed quietly, and lay 
 down on the ground. The Meteor, that stupid lad, began 
 to whimper, softly and plaintively, like an affronted woman, 
 
 377 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 The Gnawed Bone began to wriggle swiftly over the 
 ground, saying in a low, spitefid, and sorrowful 
 tone: 
 
 "The devil take the whole lot of you! Tormentors. 
 . . . Well, he's dead! Come, what of that? I . . . 
 why need I know that? Why must I be told about that? 
 The time will come . . . when I shall die myself 
 . . . just as much as he . . . -I, as much as the 
 rest." 
 
 "That's true!" said the captain loudly, dropping 
 heavily to the ground. — " The time will come, and we shall 
 all die, like the rest . . . ha-ha! How we pass our 
 lives ... is a trifling matter! But we shall die — 
 like everybody. Therein lies the goal of life, believe my 
 words. For a man lives in order that he may die. . . . 
 And he dies. . . . And if that is so, what difference 
 does it make why and how he dies, and how he has lived? 
 Am Iright, Martyanoff? Let's have another drink . . . 
 and another, as long as we are alive . . ." 
 
 The rain began to fall. Dense, stifling gloom covered 
 the forms of the men, as they wallowed on the earth, curled 
 up in slumber or intoxication. The streak of light pro- 
 ceeding from the lodging-house paled, flickered, and sud- 
 denly vanished. Evidently, the wind had blown out the 
 lamp or the kerosene in it had burned down. The rain- 
 drops tapped timidly, irresolutely, as they fell upon the 
 iron roof of the lodging-house. From the town, at the top 
 of the hill, melancholy, occasional strokes of a bell were 
 wafted — ^it was the churches being guarded. 
 
 The brazen sound, floating from the belfry, floated softly 
 through the darkness, and slowly died away in it, but before 
 the darkness could engulf its last, tremulously-sobbing 
 note, another stroke began, and again, through the silence 
 
 378 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 of the night, the melancholy sigh of the metal was home 
 forth. 
 
 Tyapa was the first to awaken in the morning. 
 
 Turning over on his back, he stared at the sky — only in 
 this posture did his deformed neck permit him to see the 
 heaven overhead. 
 
 On that morning the sky was uniformly gray. There, 
 on high, the dark, cold gloom had thickened, it had ex- 
 tinguished the sun, and covering the blue infinity, poured 
 forth melancholy upon the earth. Tyapa crossed himself, 
 and raised himself on his elbow, in order to see whether 
 any of the vodka anywhere remained. The bottle was 
 there, but it was empty. Crawling across his comrades, 
 Tyapa began to inspect the cups from which they had 
 drunk. He found one of them almost full, drank it down, 
 wiped his lips with his sleeve, and began to shake the cap- 
 tain by the shoulder. 
 
 "Get up . . . hey there! Do you hear?" 
 
 The captain raised his head, gazing at him with dim eyes. 
 
 "We must inform the police . . . come, then, get 
 up!" 
 
 "Whafs the matter?" — asked the captain, sleepily and 
 angrily. 
 
 " The matter is, that he's dead . . ." 
 
 "Who's dead?" 
 
 " The learned man . . ." 
 
 "Philip? Ye-es!" 
 
 " And you've forgotten — ekhma! " — ^grunted Tyapa re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 The captain rose to his feet, yawned with a whizzing 
 noise, and stretched himself so hard that his bones creaked. 
 
 " Then, you go and report . . ." 
 
 279 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " I won't go ... I don't like them," — said Tyapa 
 in a surly tone. 
 
 " Well, then, wake up the deacon yonder. . . . And 
 I'll go and see about things . . ." 
 
 " All right . . . get up, deacon! " 
 
 The captain went into the lodging-house, and stood at 
 the teacher's feet. The dead man was lying stretched out 
 at full length: his left hand was on his breast, his right 
 was flung back in such a manner as though he had been 
 flourishing it preparatory to dealing someone a blow. The 
 captain reflected, that if the teacher were to rise now, he 
 would be as tall as Taras-and-a-Half . Then he seated him- 
 self on the sleeping-shelf, at the feet of his friend, and 
 calling to mind that they had lived together for three years, 
 he sighed. Tyapa entered, holding his head, as a goat 
 does, when he is about to butt. He sat down on the 
 other side of the teacher's feet, gazed at the latter's dark, 
 calm, serious face, with its tightly closed eyes, and said 
 hoarsely: 
 
 " Yes . . . there he is dead. . . . And I shall 
 die soon . . ." 
 
 " If s time you did," — said the captain morosely. 
 
 "It is time!" — assented Tyapa. — "And you must die 
 also. . . . Anyhow, it's better than . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps it's worse? How do you know? " 
 
 " It can't be worse. You'll die, you'll have to deal with 
 God. . . . But with the people here. . . . But 
 what do people signify? " 
 
 "Well, all right, don't rattle in your throat like that 
 . . ." Kuvalda angrily interrupted him. 
 
 And in the gloom which filled the night lodging-house 
 an impressive silence reigned. 
 
 For a long time they sat there in silence, at the feet of 
 
 280 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 their dead comrade, and glanced at him, now and then, 
 both absorbed in thought. Then Tyapa inquired: 
 "Shall you bury him?" 
 "I? No! Let the police bury him." 
 "Well! You'd better bury him, I think . . . you 
 know, you took his money from Vaviloff for writing 
 that petition. . . . I'll contribute, if there isn't 
 enough . . ." 
 
 " I have his money . . . but I won't bury him." 
 " That's not well. You're robbing a corpse. I'll just 
 tell everybody that you want to devour his money . . /' 
 menaced Tyipa. 
 
 "You're stupid, you old devil!" — said Kuvalda scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " I'm not stupid. . . . Only, that isn't good, I say, 
 not a friendly thing to do." 
 
 " Well, it's all right, anyway. Get away with you! " 
 "You don't say so! And how much money is there?" 
 " Four rubles . . ." said Kuvalda abstractedly. 
 " There, now! You might give me five rubles . . ." 
 " What a rascally old fellow you are . . ." and the 
 captain swore at Tydpa, looking him indifferently in the 
 face. 
 
 " What of that? Eeally, now, give it . . ." 
 " Go to the devil! . . . I'm going to build him a 
 monument with the money." 
 
 " What's the good of that to him? " 
 " I'll buy a mill-stone and an anchor. I'll put the mill- 
 stone on the grave, and I'll fasten the anchor to it with a 
 chain. ... It will be very heavy . . ." 
 " What for? You're getting whimsical . . ." 
 " Well . . . it's no business of yours." 
 " I'll tell, see if I don't . . ." threatened Tyapa again. 
 
 281 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Aristid Fomitch gazed dully at him and made no reply. 
 And again, for a long time, they sat in silence, which al- 
 ways assumes an impressive and mysterious coloring in the 
 presence of the dead. 
 
 "Hark, there . . . somebody's driving up!" — said 
 Tyapa, as he rose, and left the lodging-house. 
 
 The police captain of the district, the coroner, and the 
 doctor soon made their appearance at the door. All three, 
 one after the other, approached the teacher, and after 
 taking a look at him went out, rewarding Kuvalda with 
 sidelong and suspicious glances. He sat there, paying no 
 ' attention to them, until the police captain asked him, nod- 
 ding toward the teacher: 
 
 "What did he die of?" 
 
 " Ask him ... I think, from lack of practice . . ." 
 
 " What's that you say? " — inquired the police cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " I say — he died, in my opinion, from lack of practice, 
 because he wasn't used to the illness that seized upon 
 him . . ." 
 
 "Hm . . . yes! And was he ill long? " 
 
 " We might drag him out here, we can't see anything in 
 there," suggested the doctor, in a bored tone. — " Perhaps 
 there are traces . . ." 
 
 "Here, you, there, call someone to carry him out," — 
 the police captain ordered Kuvalda. 
 
 "Call them yourself. '" . . . He doesn't bother me 
 where he is . . ." retorted Kuvalda indifferently. 
 
 "Get along, there! "—shouted the policeman, with a 
 savage face. 
 
 " Whoa! " parried Kuvalda, not stirring from the spot 
 and calmly disclosing his teeth in a vicious snarl. 
 
 " I'll give it to you, devil take you! " — shouted the police 
 
 283 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 captain, enraged to such a degree that his face became suf- 
 fused with blood. — " I won't overlook this! I . . ." 
 
 " A very good-morning, honored sirs! " — said merchant 
 Petlinnikoff, in a sweet voice, as he made his appearance 
 in the doorway. 
 
 Taking them all in with one sharp glance, he shuddered, 
 retreated a pace, and removing his cap, began to cross him- 
 self vehemently. Then a smile of malevolent triumph flit- 
 ted across his countenance, and staring point-blank at 
 Kuvalda he inquired respectfully: 
 
 "What's this here? — Can they have murdered the 
 man? " 
 
 " Why, something of that sort," the coroner replied. 
 
 PetilnnikofI heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself 
 again, and said, in a tone of distress: 
 
 " Ah, Lord my God! This is just what I was afraid of! 
 Every time I dropped in here to take a look . . . ai, 
 di, 4i! And when I got home, I kept having such visions 
 — 'God preserve everyone from such an experience! — Many 
 a time I have felt like turning that gentleman yonder 
 . . . the commander-in-chief of the golden horde, out 
 of his quarters, but I was always afraid to . . . you 
 know . . . it's better to yield to that sort of people 
 . . . I said to myself, . . . otherwise . . ." 
 
 He made an easy gesture with his hand in the air, then 
 drew it across his face, gathered his beard in his fist, and 
 sighed again. 
 
 " Dangerous people. And that gentleman there is a sort 
 of commander over them ... a regular bandit chief- 
 tain." 
 
 " And we're going to examine him," said the police cap- 
 tain in an extremely significant tone, as he gazed at the 
 cavalry captain with revengeful eyes. " He is well known 
 
 to me! . . ." 
 
 283 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " Yes, brother, you and I are old acquaintances . . ." 
 assented Kuvalda, in a familiar tone. — "What a lot of 
 bribes I've paid to you and to your sprouts of under-ofl&cials 
 to hold your tongues! " 
 
 "Gentlemen!" — cried the police captain, — "you hear 
 him? I request that you will bear this in mind! I won't 
 overlook this. ... Ah ... ah! So that's it? 
 "Well, I'll give you cause to remember me! I'll . . . 
 put an end to you, my friend! " 
 
 " Don't brag when you set out for the wars . . . my 
 friend," — said Aristid Fomitch coolly. 
 
 The doctor, a young man in spectacles, stared at him 
 with curiosity, the coroner with ominous attention, Petun- 
 nikoff with triumph, but the police captain shouted and 
 dashed about, as he flung himself on him. 
 
 The sinister form of Martyanoff made its appearance in 
 the doorway of the lodging-house. He stepped up quietly 
 and stood behind PetunnikofE, so that his chin was just 
 over the merchant's crown. On one side, from behind 
 him, peered the deacon, his small, swollen, red eyes opened 
 to their fullest extent. 
 
 " Come on, let's do something, gentlemen," suggested 
 the doctor. 
 
 MartyanofE made a terrible grimace, and suddenly 
 sneezed straight on Petunnikofl's head. The latter 
 shrieked, squatted down, and sprang to one side, almost 
 knocking the police captain ofE his feet, as the latter sup- 
 ported him, having opened his arms wide to receive him. 
 
 "You see?" — said the merchant, pointing at Mar- 
 tyanoff. " That's the sort of people they are! Hey? " 
 
 Kuvalda broke out into a roar of laughter. The doctor 
 and the coroner laughed, and new forms kept constantly 
 approaching the door of the night lodging-house. The 
 
 284 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 half -awake, bloated physiognomies, with red, swollen eyes, 
 with dishevelled heads, unceremoniously scrutinized the 
 doctor, the coroner, and the police captain. 
 
 " Where are you crawling to! " — the policeman exhorted 
 them, tugging at their rags and pushing them away from 
 the door. But he was one, and they were many, and pay- 
 ing no heed to him, silent and threatening they continued 
 to advance, exhaling an odor of stale v6dka. Kuvdlda 
 looked at them, then at the authorities, who were some- 
 what disconcerted by the size of this ugly audience, and, 
 with a grin, he remarked to the authorities: 
 
 "Gentlemen! Perhaps you would like to make the ac- 
 quaintance of my lodgers and friends? You would? Never 
 mind . . . sooner or later, you'll be forced to make 
 acquaintance with them, in the discharge of your 
 duties . . ." 
 
 The doctor laughed in an embarrassed way. The coroner 
 pressed his lips tightly together, and the police captain saw 
 what it was necessary to do, and shouted outside: 
 
 " SidorofE! Whistle . . . when the men arrive, tell 
 them to get a cart ..." 
 
 "Well, I must be going!" — said PetunnikofE, moving 
 forward from somewhere in the corner. — " You will vacate 
 my quarters to-day, sir. . . . I'm going to have this 
 old shanty torn down. . . . Look out, or I'll apply to 
 the police . . ." 
 
 The shrill whistle of the policeman rang out in the court- 
 yard. At the door of the night lodging-house its denizens 
 stood in a dense mass, yawning and scratching their 
 heads. 
 
 " So, you don't want to make acquaintance? . . . 
 That's impolite! . . ." laughed Aristid Kuvalda. 
 
 PetunnikofE took his purse out of his pocket, fumbled in 
 
 285 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 it, pulled out two five-kopek pieces, and, crossing himself, 
 laid them at the feet of the corpse. 
 
 " Bless, oh Lord ... for the hurial of the sinner's 
 dust . . ." 
 
 "Wha-at!" bawled the cavalry captain. — "You? For 
 his burial? Take it away! Take it away, I tell you . . . 
 you scou-oundrel! You dare to contribute your stolen 
 pennies to the burial of an honest man. . . . I'll tear 
 you to bits! " 
 
 "Your Well-Born!" shouted the merchant in alarm, 
 seizing the police captain by the elbow. The doctor 
 and the coroner rushed out, the police captain shouted 
 loudly: 
 
 " Sidoroff, come here! " 
 
 The men with pasts formed a wall across the door, and 
 with iaterest lighting up their rumpled faces they watched 
 and listened. 
 
 Kuvalda shook his fist over Pettinnikofl's head, and 
 roared, rolling his blood-shot eyes ferociously. 
 
 " Scoundrel and thief! Take your money! You dirty 
 creature . . . take it, I say ... if you don't, 
 I'll ram those five-kopek pieces into your eyeballs — take 
 it!" 
 
 Petunnikoff stretched out a trembling hand toward his 
 mite, and fending off Kuvalda's fist with the other hand, 
 he said: ■ 
 
 I " Bear witness, Mr. Police Captain, and you, my good 
 people." 
 
 "We're bad people, merchant," rang out The Gnawed 
 Bone's trembling voice. 
 
 The police captain, puffing out his face like a bladder, 
 whistled desperately, and held his other hand in the air 
 over the head of Petunnikoff, who was wriggling about in 
 
 386 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 front of him exactly as though he were about to jump upon 
 his body. 
 
 " If you like, I'll make you kiss the feet of this corpse, 
 you base viper? D-do you want to? " 
 
 And grasping Petiinnikoff by the collar, Kuvalda hurled 
 him to the door, as though he had been a kitten. 
 
 The men with pasts hastily stepped aside, to make room 
 for Petunnikoffi to fall. And he sprawled at their feet, 
 howling in rage and terror: 
 
 " Murder! Police ... I'm killed! " 
 
 Martyinoff slowly raised his foot, and took aim with it 
 at the merchant's head. The Gnawed Bone, with a volupt- 
 uous expression on his countenance, spat in PetunnikofE's 
 face. The merchant contracted himself into a small ball, 
 and rolled, on all fours, into the courtyard, encouraged by 
 a roar of laughter. But two policemen had already made 
 their appearance in the courtyard, and the police captain, 
 pointing at Kuvalda, shouted triumphantly: 
 
 " Arrest him! Bind him! " 
 
 "Bind him, my dear men!" — entreated PetunnikofE. 
 
 "Don't you dare! I won't run away . . . I'll go 
 of myself, wherever it's necessary . . . ." said Ku- 
 valda, waving aside the policemen, who had run up to 
 him. 
 
 The men with pasts vanished, one by one. A cart drove 
 into the courtyard. Several dejected tatterdemalions had 
 already carried the teacher out of the lodging-house. 
 
 " I'll g-give it to you, my dear fellow . . . just 
 wait! " — the police captain menaced Kuvalda. 
 
 " Well, you bandit chief! " — inquired PetunnikofE ven- 
 omously, excited and happy at the sight of his enemy, 
 whose hands had been bound. 
 
 " Lead him off! " said the police captain, pointing at the 
 
 cavalry captain. 
 
 387 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 Kuvalda, making no protest, silent and with knitted 
 brows, moved from the yard, and as he passed the teacher 
 he bowed his head, but did not look at him. MartyanofE, 
 with his stony face, followed him. Merchant Pettinni- 
 koff's courtyard was speedily emptied. 
 
 " Go on, now! " and the cab-driver shook his reins over 
 his horse's crupper. 
 
 The cart moved off, jolting over the uneven ground of 
 the courtyard. The teacher, covered with some rag or 
 other, lay stretched out in it, face upward, and his belly 
 quivered. It seemed as though the teacher were laughing, 
 in a quiet, satisfied way, delighted that, at last, he was to 
 leave the night lodging-house, never to return there again. 
 . . . Petunnikoff, as he accompanied him with a glance, 
 crossed himself piously, and then began with his cap to 
 beat off the dust and rubbish which had clung to his 
 clothing. And, in proportion as the dust disappeared from 
 his coat, a calm expression of satisfaction with himself and 
 confidence in himself made its appearance on his counte- 
 nance. From the courtyard he could see Aristid Fomitch 
 Kuvalda walking along the street, up the hill, with his 
 hands bound behind him, tall, gray-haired, in a cap with a 
 red band, which resembled a streak of blood. 
 
 Petunnikoff smiled the smile of the conqueror, and went 
 into the night lodging-house, but suddenly halted, shud- 
 dering. In the door, facing him, with a stick in his hand 
 and a huge sack on his shoulder, stood a terrible old man, 
 bristling like a hedgehog with the rags which covered his 
 long body, bent beneath the weight of his burden, and with 
 his head bowed upon his breast exactly as though he were 
 about to hurl himself at the merchant. 
 
 "What do you want?" shouted Petunnikoff. — "Who 
 are you?" 
 
 288 
 
Men with Pasts 
 
 " A man . . ." rang out a dull, hoarse voice. 
 
 This hoarse rattle rejoiced and reassured PetunnikofE. 
 He even smiled. 
 
 "A man I Akh, you queer fellow . . . do such men 
 exist? " 
 
 And stepping aside, he let the old man pass him, as the 
 latter marched straight at him, and muttered dully: 
 
 " There are various sorts of men ... as God wills. 
 . . . There are worse men than I . . . worse than 
 I . . . yes!" 
 
 The overcast sky gazed silently into the dirty court- 
 yard, and at the clean man, with the small, pointed, gray 
 beard, who was walking over the ground, measuring some- 
 thing with his footsteps and with his sharp little eyes. On 
 the roof of the old house a crow sat and croaked triumph- 
 antly, as it stretched out its neck, and rocked to and fro. 
 
 In the stern, gray storm-clouds, which thickly covered 
 the sky, there was something strained and implacable, as 
 though they, in preparing to discharge a downpour of rain, 
 were firmly resolved to wash away all the filth from this 
 unhappy, tortured, melancholy earth. 
 
 289 
 
THE INSOLENT MAN 
 
THE INSOLENT MAN 
 
 The irritated, angry editor was running to and fro in 
 
 the large, light editorial office of the "N Gazette," 
 
 crumpling in his hand a copy of the publication, spas- 
 modically shouting and swearing. It was a tiny figure, 
 with a sharp, thin face, decorated with a little beard and 
 gold eyeglasses. Stamping loudly with his thin legs, en- 
 cased in gray trousers, he fairly whirled about the long 
 table, which stood in the middle of the room, and was 
 loaded down with crumpled newspapers, galley-proofs, and 
 fragments of manuscript. At the table, with one hand 
 resting upon it, while with the other he wiped his brow, 
 stood the publisher — a tall, stout, fair-haired man, of mid- 
 dle age, and with a faint grin on his white, well-fed face, 
 he watched the editor with merry, brilliant eyes. The 
 maker-up, an angular man, with a yellow face and a 
 sunken chest, in a light-brown coat, which was very dirty 
 and far too long for him, was shrinking closely against 
 the wall. He raised his brows, and gazed at the ceiling 
 with staring eyes, as though trying to recall something, 
 or in meditation, but a moment later, wrinkled up his nose 
 in a disenchanted way, and dropped his head dejectedly 
 on his breast. In the doorway stood the form of the office 
 boy; men with anxious, dissatisfied countenances kept enter- 
 ing and disappearing, jostling him on their way. The voice 
 of the editor, cross, irritated, and ringing, sometimes rose to 
 a squeal, and made the publisher frown and the maker-up 
 shudder in affright. 
 
 S93 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 « ■ 
 
 'No . . . this is such a rascally piece of business! 
 I'll start a criminal suit against this scoundrel. . . . 
 Has the proof-reader arrived? Devil take it, — I ask — ^has 
 the proof-reader arrived? Call all the compositors here! 
 Have you told them? No, just imagine, what will happen 
 now! All the newspapers will take it up. . . . Dis- 
 grrrace! All Eussia will hear of it. . . . I won't let 
 that scoundrel off! " 
 
 And raising his hands which held the newspaper to his 
 head, the editor stood rooted to the spot, as though en- 
 deavoring to wrap his head in the paper, and thus protect 
 it from the anticipated disgrace. 
 
 "Find him first, . . ." advised the publisher, with 
 a dry laugh. 
 
 "I'll f-find him, sir! I'll f-find him!"— the editor's 
 eyes blazed, and starting on his gallop once more, and 
 pressing the newspaper to his breast, he began to tousle it 
 fiercely. — " I'll find him, and I'll roast him. . . . And 
 Where's that proof-reader? . . . Aha! . . . Here. 
 . . . Now, sir, I beg that you will favor me with your 
 company, my dear sirs! Hm! . . . 'The peaceful 
 commanders of the leaden armies . . .' ha, ha! Pass 
 in . . . there, that's it! " 
 
 One after another the compositors entered the room. 
 They already knew what the trouble was, and each one of 
 them had prepared himself to play the part of the culprit, 
 in view of which fact, they all unanimously expressed in 
 their grimy faces, impregnated with lead dust, complete 
 immobility and a sort of wooden composure. They hud- 
 dled together, in the corner of the room, in a dense group. 
 The editor halted in front of them, with his hands, clutch- 
 ing the newspaper, thrown behind his back. He was 
 shorter in stature than they, and he was obliged to hold 
 
 294 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 back his head, in order to look them in the face. He made 
 this movement too quickly, and his spectacles flew up on 
 his forehead; thinking that they were about to fall, he 
 flung his hand into the air to catch them, but, at that mo- 
 ment, they fell back again on the bridge of his nose. 
 
 " Devil take you . . ." he gritted his teeth. 
 
 Happy smiles beamed on the grimy countenances of the 
 compositors. Someone uttered a suppressed laugh. 
 
 " I have not summoned you hither that you may show 
 your teeth at me!" — shouted the editor viciously, turning 
 livid. — " I should think you had disgraced the newspaper 
 enough already. ... If there be an honest man 
 among you, who understands what a newspaper is, what 
 the press is, let him tell who was the author of this. . . . 
 Ini the leading article . . ." The editor began ner- 
 vously to unfold the paper. 
 
 " But what's it all about? " said a voice, in which noth- 
 ing but simple curiosity was audible. 
 
 "Ah! You don't know? Well, then . . . here 
 . . . ' Our factory legislation has always served the 
 press as a subject for hot discussion . . . that is to 
 say, for the talking of stupid trash and nonsense! . . .' 
 There, now! Are you satisfied? Will the man who added 
 that ' talking ' be pleased . . . and, particularly — the 
 word 'talking'! how grammatical and witty! — well, sirs, 
 which of you is the author of that ' stupid trash and non- 
 sense'?" 
 
 "Whose article is it? Yours? Well, and you are the 
 author of all the nonsense that is said in it," — rang out 
 the same calm voice which had previously put the_ques- 
 tion to the editor. 
 
 This was insolent, and all involuntarily assumed that 
 the person who was to blame for the affair had been found. 
 
 S95 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 A movement took place in the hall: the publisher drew 
 nearer to the group, the editor raised himself on tiptoe, in 
 the endeavor to see over the heads of the compositors into 
 the face of the speaker. The compositors separated. Be- 
 fore the editor stood a stoutly-built young fellow, in a blue 
 blouse, with a pock-marked face, and curling locks of hair 
 which stood up in a crest above his left temple. He stood 
 with his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his 
 trousers, and, indifEerently riveting his gray, mischievous 
 eyes on the editor, he smiled faintly from out of his curl- 
 ing, light-brown beard. Everybody looked at him: — the 
 publisher, with brows contracted in a scowl, the editor with 
 amazement and wrath, the maker-up with a suppressed 
 smile. The faces of the compositors expressed both badly- 
 concealed satisfaction and alarm and curiosity. 
 
 "So . . . it's you? " — ^inquired the editor, at last, 
 pointing at the pock-marked compositor with his finger 
 and compressing his lips in a highly significant manner. 
 
 "Yes ... it's I . . ." replied the latter, grin- 
 ning in a particularly simple and offensive manner. 
 
 "A-ah! . . . Very glad to know it! So it's you? 
 Why did you put it in, permit me to inquire? " 
 
 " But have I said that I did put it in? " — and the com- 
 positor glanced at his comrades. 
 
 " It certainly was he, Mitry * Pavlovitch," the maker-up 
 remarked to the editor. 
 
 "Well, if I did, I did," — assented the compositor, not 
 without a certain good-nature, and waving his hand he 
 smiled again. 
 
 Again all remained silent. No one had expected so 
 
 prompt and calm a confession, and it acted upon them all 
 
 as a surprise. Even the editor's wrath was converted, for a 
 
 * Miry— colloquial abbreviation of Dmitry. — Translator. 
 
 296 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 moment, into amazement. The space around the pock- 
 marked man grew wider, the maker-np went off quickly to 
 the table, the compositors stepped aside . . . 
 
 " Then you did it deliberately, intentionally? " inquired 
 the publisher, smiling, and staring at the pock-marked 
 man with eyes round with astonishment. 
 
 "Be so good as to answer!" — shouted the editor, flour- 
 ishing the crumpled newspaper. 
 
 "Don't shout . . . Fm not afraid. A great many 
 people have yelled at me, and all without any cause! 
 . . ." and in the compositor's eyes sparkled a daring, 
 impudent light. ..." Exactly so . . ." he went 
 on, shifting from foot to foot, and now addressing the pub- 
 lisher, — " I put in the words deliberately . . ." 
 
 "You hear?" — ^the editor appealed to the audience. 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact, what did you mean by it, 
 you devil's doll! "—the publisher suddenly flared up. — 
 "Do you understand how much harm you have done 
 me?" 
 
 " It's nothing to you. ... I think it must even have 
 increased the retail sales. But here's the editor . . . 
 really, that bit didn't exactly suit his taste." 
 
 The editor was fairly petrified with indignation; he stood 
 in front of that cool, malicious man, and flashed his eyes 
 in silence, finding no words wherewith to express his agi- 
 tated- feelings. 
 
 " Well, it will be the worse for you, brother, on account 
 of this! " — drawled the publisher malevolently, and, sud- 
 denly softening, he slapped his knee with his hand. 
 
 In reality, he was pleased with what had happened, and 
 with the workman's insolent reply: the editor had always 
 +reated him rather patronizingly, making no effort to con- 
 ceal his consciousness of his own mental superiority, and 
 
 287 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 now he, that same conceited, self-confident man, was 
 thrown prostrate in the dust . . . and by whom? 
 
 " I'll pay you off for your insolence to me, my dear soul! " 
 he added. 
 
 " Why, you certainly won't overlook it so! " assented the 
 compositor. 
 
 This tone and these words again produced a sensation. 
 The compositors exchanged glances with one another, the 
 maker-up elevated his eyebrows, and seemed to shrivel up, 
 the editor retreated to the table, and supporting himself 
 on it with his hands, more disconcerted and offended than 
 angry, he stared intently at his foe. 
 
 " What's your name? " inquired the publisher, taking his 
 notebook from his pocket. 
 
 " Nikolka * Gvozdeff, Vasily Ivanovitch! " the maker-up 
 promptly stated. 
 
 "And you, you lackey of Judas the Traitor, hold your 
 tongue when you're not spoken to," — said the compositor, 
 with a surly glance at the maker-up. — " I have a tongue of 
 my own, ... I answer for myself. . . . My 
 name is Nikolai Semyonovitch Gvozdeff. My resi- 
 dence . . ." 
 
 " We'll find that out! " — ^promised the publisher. — " And 
 now, take yourself off to the devil! Get out, all of 
 you! . . ." 
 
 With a heavy shuffling of feet, the compositors departed. 
 Gvozdeff followed them. 
 
 " Stop ... if you please . . ." said the editor 
 softly, but distinctly, and stretched out his hand after 
 Gvozdeff. 
 
 Gvozdeff turned toward him, with an indolent move- 
 ment leaned against the door-jamb, and, as he twisted his 
 beard, he riveted his insolent eyes upon the editor's face. 
 • Colloquial for Nikolai. — Translator. 
 298 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 " I want to ask you about something," — ^began the edi- 
 tor. He tried to maintain his composure, but this he did 
 not succeed in doing: his voice broke, and rose to a shriek. 
 — "You have confessed . . . that in creating this 
 scandal . . . you had me in view. Yes? What is the 
 meaning of that? revenge on me? I ask you — ^what did 
 you do it for? Do you understand me? Can you answer 
 me?" 
 
 Gvozdeff twitched his shoulders, curled his lips, and 
 dropping his head, remained silent for a minute. The pub- 
 lisher tapped his foot impatiently, the maker-up stretched 
 his neck forward, and the editor bit his lips, and nervously 
 cracked his fingers. All waited. 
 
 "I'll tell you, if you like. . ... Only, as I'm an un- 
 educated man, perhaps it won't be intelligible to you 
 . . . Well, in that case, pray excuse me! . . . Now, 
 here's the way the matter stands. You write various arti- 
 cles, and inculcate on everybody philanthropy and all that 
 sort of thing. ... I can't tell you all this in detail 
 — I'm not much of a hand at reading and writing. . . . 
 I think you know yourself, what you discourse about every 
 day. . . . Well, and so I read your articles. You 
 make comments on us workingmen . . . and I read it 
 all. . . . And it disgusts me to read it, for it's noth- 
 ing but nonsense. Mere shameless words, Mitry Pavlo- 
 vitch! . . . because you write — don't steal, but what 
 goes on in your own printing-office? Last week, KiryakofE 
 worked three days and a half, earned three rubles and 
 eighty kopeks * and fell ill. His wife comes to the count- i 
 ing-room for the money, but the manager tells her, thatj 
 he won't give it to her, and that she owes one ruble audi 
 twenty kopeks in fines. Now talk about not steahng!; 
 
 * About f 1.90. — Translator. 
 299 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 Why don't you write about these ways of doing things? 
 And about how the manager yells, and thrashes the poor 
 little boys for eTery trifle? . . . You can't write about 
 that, because you pursue the same policy yourself. . . . 
 You write that life in the world is hard for folks — and 
 I'll just tell you, that the reason you write all that, is be- 
 cause you don't know how to do anything else. That's 
 the whole truth of the matter. . . . And that's why 
 you don't see any of the brutal things that go on right 
 under your nose, but you narrate very well about the bru- 
 talities of the Turks. So aren't they nonsense — ^those ar- 
 ticles of yours? I've been wanting this long time to put 
 some words into your articles, just to shame you. And it 
 oughtn't to be needed again! " 
 
 \ Gvozdeff felt himself a hero. He puffed out his chest 
 proudly, held his head very high, and without attempting 
 to conceal his triumph, he looked the editor straight in the 
 face. But the editor shrank close against the table, 
 clutched it with his hands, flung himself back, paling and 
 flushing by turns, and smiling persistently in a scornful, 
 confused, vicious, and suffering manner. His widely- 
 opened eyes winked fast. 
 
 "A socialist?" — inquired the publisher, with appre- 
 hension and interest, in a low voice, addressing the editor. 
 The latter smiled a sickly smile, but made no reply, and 
 hung his head. 
 
 The maker-up went off to the window, where stood a 
 tub in which grew a huge filodendron, that cast upon 
 the floor a pattern of shade, took up his post behind the 
 tub, and thence watched them all, with eyes which were 
 as small, black, and shifty as those of a mouse. They ex- 
 pressed a certain impatient expectation, and now and then 
 a little flash of joy lighted them up. The publisher stared 
 
 300 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 at the editor. The latter was conscious of this, raised his 
 head, and with an uneasy gleam in his eyes, and a ner- 
 vous quiver in his face, he shouted after the departing 
 GvozdefE: 
 
 " Stop ... if you please! You have insulted me. 
 But you are not in the right — ^I hope you feel that? I am 
 grateful to you for . . . y-your . . . straight- 
 forwardness, with which you have spoken out, but, I re- 
 peat . . ." 
 
 He tried to speak ironically, but instead of irony, some- 
 thing wan and false rang in his words, and he paused, in 
 order to tune himself up to a defence which should be 
 worthy of himself and of this judge, as to whose right to 
 sit in judgment upon him, the editor, he had never before 
 entertained a thought. 
 
 "Of course!" — and Gvozdeffi nodded his head. — "The 
 only one who is right is the one who can say a great deal." 
 
 And, as he stood in the doorway, he east a glance around 
 him, with an expression on his face which plainly showed 
 how impatient he was to get away from there. 
 
 " No, excuse me! " — cried the editor, elevating his tone, 
 and raising his hand. — " You have brought forward an ac- 
 cusation against me, but before that, you arbitrarily pun- 
 ished me for what you regard as a fault toward you on my 
 part. ... I have a right to defend myself, and I re- 
 quest that you will listen to me." 
 
 "But what business have you with me? Defend your- 
 self to the publisher, if necessary. But what have you to 
 say to me? If I have insulted you, drag me before the 
 justice of the peace. But — defend yourself — that's another 
 matter! Good-bye! " — He turned sharply about, and put- 
 ting his hands behind his back, he left the room. 
 
 He had on his feet heavy boots with large heels, with 
 
 301 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 whieli he tramped noisily, and his footsteps echoed re- 
 soundingly in the vast, shed-like editorial room. 
 
 "There you have history and geography — a detailed 
 statement of the ease! " — exclaimed the publisher, when 
 Gvozdeff had slammed the door behind him. 
 
 "Vasily Ivanoviteh, I am not to blame in this matter 
 . . ." began the maker-up, throwing his hands apart 
 apologetically, as he approached the publisher with short, 
 cautious steps. "I make up the pages, and I can't pos- 
 sibly tell what the man on duty has put into them. I'm 
 on my feet all night. . . . I'm here, while my wife 
 lies ill at home, and my children . . . three of them 
 . . . have no one to look after them. ... I may 
 say that I sell my blood, drop by drop, for thirty rubles a 
 month. . . . And when Gvozdeff was hired, I said to 
 Feodor Pavlovitch: 'Feodor Pavlovitch,' says I, 'I've 
 known Nikolka ever since he was a little boy, and I'm 
 bound to tell you, that Nikolka is an insolent fellow and a 
 thief, a man without conscience. He has already been 
 tried in the district court,' says I, ' and has even been in 
 prison . . .' " 
 
 "What was he in prison for?" — inquired the editor 
 thoughtfully, without looking at the narrator. 
 
 "For pigeons, sir . . . that is to say, not because 
 of the pigeons, but for smashing locks. He smashed the 
 locks of seven dove-cotes in one night, sir! . . . and 
 set all the flocks at liberty — scattered all the birds, sir! A 
 pair of dark-gray ones belonging to me disappeared also, — 
 one fancy tumbler, and a pouter. They were very valuable 
 birds." 
 
 "Did he steal them?" — ^inquired the publisher with 
 curiosity. 
 
 " No, he doesn't pamper himself in that way. He was 
 
 302 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 tried for theft, but lie was acquitted. So he's — an insolent 
 fellow. ... He released the birds, and delighted in 
 it, and jeered at us fanciers. . . . He has been 
 thrashed more than once already. Once he even had to go 
 to the hospital after the thrashing. . . . And when 
 he came out, he bred devils in my gossip's stove."* 
 
 " Devils! " said the publisher in amazement. 
 
 "What twaddle!" — ^the editor shrugged his shoulders, 
 knit his brows, and again biting his lips, he relapsed into 
 thought. 
 
 " It's perfectly true, only I didn't say it just right," — 
 said the maker-up abashed. — " You see, he, Nikolka, is a 
 stove-builder. He's a jack-of -all-trades: he understands 
 the lithographic trade, he has been an engraver, and a 
 plumber, also. . . . Well, then, my gossip — she has 
 a house of her own, and belongs to the ecclesiastical 
 class — and she hired him to rebuild her stove. Well, he 
 rebuilt it all right; only, the rascally fellow, he cemented 
 into the wall a bottle filled with quicksilver and needles 
 . . . and he put something else in, too. This produced 
 a sound — such a peculiar sound, you know, like a groan 
 and a sigh; and then folks began to say that devils had 
 bred in the house. When they heated the stove, the quick- 
 silver in the bottle warmed up, and began to roam about 
 in it. And the needles, scratched against the glass, just 
 as though somebody were gnashing his teeth. Besides the 
 needles, he had put various iron objects into the bottle, 
 and they made noises, too, after their own fashion, — the 
 
 * The word means "fellow sponsor "or intimate friend — the pre- 
 cise sense does not always appear from the context. But it is worth 
 noting that a man and a woman who stand sponsors for a child in bap- 
 tism, in the Eastern Catholic Church, thereby place themselves within 
 the forbidden degrees of relationship, and can never marry each other. 
 
 — Translator. 
 
 303 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 needle after its fashion, the nail after its fashion, and the 
 result was a regular devil's music. . . . My gossip 
 even tried to sell her house, but nobody would buy it — 
 who likes to have devils round, sir? She had three prayer- 
 services with blessing of holy water celebrated — it did no 
 good. The woman bawled; she had a daughter of mar- 
 riageable age, a hundred head of fowl, two cows, and a 
 good farm . . . and these devils must needs spoil 
 everything! She struggled and struggled, so that it was 
 pitiful to see. But I must say that Nikolka rescued her. 
 ' Give me fifty rubles,' says he, ' and I'll drive out the 
 devils! ' She gave him four to start with,— and afterward, 
 when he had pulled out the bottle, and confessed what the 
 matter was — well, good-bye! She's a very clever woman, 
 and she wanted to hand him over to the police, but he per- 
 suaded her not to. . . . And he has a lot of other 
 artful dodges." 
 
 " And for one of those charming ' artful dodges ' yester- 
 day I shall have to pay. I! " — ejaculated the editor ner- 
 vously, and tearing himself from his place, he again began 
 to fling himself about the room. — " Oh my God! How 
 stupid, how coarse, how trivial it all is . . ." 
 
 " We-ell, you're making a great fuss over it! " — said the 
 publisher soothingly. — "Make a correction, explain how 
 it happened. . . . He's a very interesting young fel- 
 low, deuce take him! He put devils in the stove, ha, ha! 
 No, by heaven! We'll teach him a lesson, but he's a rascal 
 with a brain, and he arouses for himself some feeling of 
 . . • you know! " — ^the publisher snapped his fingers 
 over his head, and cast a glance at the ceiling. 
 
 "Does it interest you? " — cried the editor sharply. 
 
 "Well, why not? Isn't it amusing? And he described 
 you pretty thoroughly. He's got wit, the beast! " — ^the 
 
 304 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 publisher said, taking revenge on the editor for his shout. 
 — " How do you intend to pay him off? " 
 
 The editor suddenly ran close up to the publisher. 
 
 " I shall not pay him off, sir! I can't, Vasily Ivanoviteh, 
 because that manufacturer of devils is in the right! The 
 devil knows what goes on in your printing-office, do you 
 hear? But we! . . . but I have to play the fool, 
 thanks to you. He's in the right, a thousand times 
 over! " 
 
 " And also in the addition which he made to your arti- 
 cle?" — ^inquired the publisher venomously, and pursed up 
 his lips ironically. 
 
 " Well, and what if he was? And he was right, in that 
 also, yes! You must understand, Vasily Ivanovitch, for, 
 you know, we're a liberal newspaper . . ." 
 
 "And we print an edition of two thousand, reckoning 
 in those gratuitously distributed and the exchanges," — 
 dryly interposed the publisher. — " But our competitor dis- 
 poses of nine thousand! " 
 
 "We-ell, sir?" 
 
 " I have nothing more to say! " 
 
 The editor waved his hand hopelessly, and again, with 
 dimming eyes, he began to pace up and down the room. 
 
 " A charming situation! " — ^he muttered, shrugging his 
 shoulders. — "A sort of universal chase! All the dogs 
 hunting down one, and that one muzzled! Ha, ha! And 
 that unfortunate w-workman! Oh my God! " 
 
 " Why, spit on the whole business, my dear fellow, don't 
 get worked up over it! " — counselled Vasily Ivanovitch 
 suddenly, with a good-natured grin, as though tired out 
 with emotions and recriminations. — "It has come and it 
 will go, and you will re-establish your honor. The affair 
 is far more ridiculous than dramatic." He pacifically of- 
 
 305 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 fered the editor his plump hand, and was on the point of 
 quitting the room for the office. 
 
 All at once, the door leading into the office opened, and 
 GvozdefE made his appearance on the threshold. He had 
 his cap on, and smiled not without a certain amount of 
 courtesy. 
 
 " I have come to tell you, Mr. Editor, that if you want 
 to sue me, say so — ^for I'm going away from here, and I 
 don't want to be brought back, by stages, by the police." 
 
 " Take yourself off! " — howled the editor, almost sob- 
 bing with wrath, and rushed to the other end of the room. 
 
 " That means, we're quits," — said Gvozdeff, adjusting 
 his cap on his head, and coolly wheeling round on the 
 threshold, he disappeared. 
 
 " 0-oh, the beast! " — sighed Vasily Ivanovitch, in rapt- 
 ure, to GvozdefE's back, and with a blissful smile he be- 
 gan, in a leisurely manner, to put on his overcoat. 
 
 Two days after the scene described above, Gvozdeff, in 
 a blue blouse, confined with a leather strap, in trousers 
 hanging freely, and laced shoes, in a white cap worn over 
 one ear, and the nape of his neck, and with a knobby stick 
 in his hand, was walking staidly along the " Hill." 
 
 The "Hill" presented a sloping descent to the river. 
 In ancient times, this slope had been covered with a dense 
 grove. Now, almost the whole of the grove had been 
 felled, the gnarled oaks and elms, shattered by thunder- 
 storms, reared heavenward their aged hollow boles, spread- 
 ing far abroad their knotted boughs. Around their roots 
 twined the young sprouts, small bushes clung to their 
 trunks, and everywhere amid the greenery the rambling 
 public had trodden winding paths, which crept downward 
 to the river all flooded with the radiance of the sun. Hori- 
 
 306 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 zontally intersecting the " Hill " ran a broad avenue — an 
 abandoned post-road, — and along this, chiefly, the public 
 strolled, promenading in two files, one going in each di- 
 rection. 
 
 GvozdefE had always been very fond of strolling back 
 and forth along this avenue, with the public, and of feel- 
 ing himself one of them, and, like them, freely breathing 
 the air impregnated with the fragrance of the foliage, of 
 freely and lazily moving along, and being a part of some- 
 thing great, and feeling himself equal to all the rest. 
 
 On this day, he was on the verge of being tipsy, and his 
 resolute, pock-marked face had a good-natured, sociable 
 expression. Prom his left temple his chestnut forelocks 
 curled upward. Handsomely shading his ear, they lay 
 on the band of his cap, imparting to Gvozdefl the dashing 
 air of a young artisan, who is satisfied with himself, and 
 even ready, on the instant, to sing a song, to dance, and 
 to fight, and not averse to drinking every minute. With 
 these characteristic forelocks Nature herself seemed to be 
 desirous of recommending Nikolka Gvozdeff to everyone 
 as a fiery young fellow, who was conscious of his own value. 
 Glancing about him approvingly, with his gray eyes 
 puckered up, Gvozdeff, in a perfectly peaceable manner, 
 jostled the public, bore its nudges with entire equanimity, 
 excused himself, when he trod on the ladies' trains, in 
 company with the rest swallowed the thick dust, and felt 
 extremely well. Athwart the foliage of the trees, the sun 
 could be seen setting in the meadows beyond the river. The 
 sky there was purple, warm, and caressing, alluring one 
 thither to the spot where it touched the rim of the dark 
 green fields. Beneath the feet of the promenaders lay a 
 tracery of shadows, and the throng of people trod upon 
 them, without noticing their beauty. Foppishly thrusting 
 
 307 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 a cigarette into the left corner of his lips, and idly emit- 
 ting from the right corner little streams of smoke, Gvoz- 
 defE scanned the public, feeling within him a genuine de- 
 sire to have a chat with someone, over a couple of mugs 
 of beer in the restaurant, at the foot of the " Hill." He 
 encountered none of his acquaintances, and no suitable 
 opportunity for picking up a new acquaintance presented 
 itself; for some reason, the public was gloomy, in spite of 
 its being a festival and with clear weather, and did not 
 respond to his communicative mood, although he had, al- 
 ready, more than once, stared into the faces of the people 
 he met with a good-natured smile, and with an expression 
 of perfect readiness to enter into conversation. All at once, 
 in the mass of people's backs, there flashed before his eyes 
 the back of a head which was familiar to him, smoothly 
 clipped and flat as though chopped off — the nape of the 
 neck belonging to the editor — ^Dmitry Pavlovitch Istomin. 
 Gvozdeff smiled, when he remembered how he had ill- 
 treated that man, and began to gaze with pleasure at 
 Dmitry Pavlovitch's low-crowned, gray hat. Now and then 
 the editor's hat disappeared behind other hats, and, for 
 some reason, this disquieted Gvozdeff; he raised himself 
 on tiptoe, to catch sight of it, and when he found it, he 
 smiled again. 
 
 Thus, following the editor, he walked along, and recalled 
 the time when he, Gvozdeff, had been Mkolka the lock- 
 smith, and the editor — ^was Mitka,* the deacon's son. 
 They had had another comrade, Mishka,t whom they had 
 nicknamed the Sugar-bowl. There had also been Vaska J 
 Zhukoff, the son of an official, from the last house in the 
 
 * Mitka — coUocitiial diminutive for Dmitry. — Translator. 
 f Mishka — colloquial diminutire for Mikhail. — Translator. 
 X Vaska — colloquial diminutive for Vaaily. — Translator. 
 808 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 street. It was a nice house, — old, all overgrown with moss, 
 all stuck around with additions. Vaska's father had a very 
 fine flock of pigeons. The courtyard of the house was a 
 fine place in which to play at hide-and-seek, because 
 Vaska's father was miserly, and saved up in his yard all 
 sorts of rubbish — ^broken carriages, and casks, and boxes. 
 Now Vaska was a physician, in the country, and on the 
 site of the old house stood railway freight-houses. . . . 
 They had had other chums — all little boys of from eight 
 to ten years of age. They had all resided on the outskirts 
 of the town, in Back Damp Street, had lived on friendly 
 terms with each other, and in constant hostility with the 
 horrid little boys of the other streets. They had devas- 
 tated gardens and vegetable patches, they had played at 
 knuckle-bones, at tip-cat, and other games, and had studied 
 in the parish school. . . . Twenty-five years had 
 elapsed since that time. 
 
 Time had been — and passed, the little boys had been as 
 saucy and grimy-faced as Nikolka the locksmith, — and 
 now they had become persons of importance. But Nikolka 
 the locksmith had stuck fast in Back Damp Street. They, 
 when they had finished the parish school, had got into the 
 gymnasium, — ^he had not got in. . . . And how would 
 it do if he were to address the editor? Say good-after- 
 noon, and enter into conversation? He might begin by 
 begging pardon for the row, and then talk — so, about life 
 in general. 
 
 The editor's hat kept fiitting in front of Gvozdeff's eyes, 
 as though alluring him to itself, and Gvozdeff made up his 
 mind. Just at that moment, the editor was walking alone, 
 in a free space, which had formed in the crowd. He was 
 stepping along with his thin legs in their light trousers, 
 his bead kept turning from side to side, his short-sighted 
 
 309 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 eyes were screwed up, as he scanned the public. 6v6zdefE 
 came almost alongside of him, gazed askance at his face in 
 an amiable way, awaiting a favorable moment, in order to 
 wish him a good-afternoon, and, at the same time, experi- 
 encing a keen desire to know how the editor would bear 
 himself toward him. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mitry Pavlovitch!" 
 
 The editor turned toward him, with one hand raised his 
 hat, with the other adjusted the eyeglasses on his nose, sur- 
 veyed Grvozdeff, and scowled. 
 
 But this did not daunt Nikolai Gvozdeff, — on the con- 
 trary, he leaned toward the editor, in the most agreeable 
 way possible, and flooding him with the odor of vodka, he 
 inquired: 
 
 " Are you taking a stroll? " 
 
 For a second, the editor halted; his lips and nostrils 
 quivered scornfully, and he nodded curtly at Gvozdeff: 
 
 " What do you want? " 
 
 "I? Nothing! I just thought . . . it's fine weather 
 to-day! And I'm very anxious to have a talk with you 
 about that occurrence." 
 
 "I don't wish to talk about anything with you!" — de- 
 clared the editor, hastening his steps. 
 
 GvozdeflE did the same. 
 
 " You don't wish to? I understand . , . you are 
 right — I understand that very well indeed. ... As I 
 put you to confusion, of course, you must have a grudge 
 against me . . ." 
 
 " You, simply . . . you're drunk . . ." the edi- 
 tor halted once more. — " And if you don't leave me in 
 peace, I'll summon the police." 
 
 Gvozdeff smiled affectionately. 
 
 " Well, why? " 
 
 310 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 The editor looked askance at him, with the anxious 
 glance of a man who has fallen into an unpleasant position, 
 and does not know how to extricate himself from it. The 
 public were already staring at them with curiosity. Sev- 
 eral persons pricked up their ears, scenting an approaching 
 row. Istomin cast a helpless glance around him. 
 
 Gvozdeff observed it. 
 
 " Let's turn aside," — said he, and, without awaiting the 
 other's consent, with his shoulder he dexterously thrust 
 Istomin to one side, away from the broad avenue, into a 
 narrow path, which descended the hill between the bushes. 
 
 The editor made no protest against this manoeuvre, — 
 perhaps because he had no time, perhaps because, away 
 from the public, entirely alone, he hoped to rid himself 
 more promptly and simply of his companion. He walked 
 quietly down the path, cautiously planting his cane on the 
 ground, and iGvozdeff followed him, and breathed on his 
 hat. ■ 
 
 " There's a fallen tree not far from here, we'll sit oi ! 
 that. . . . Don't be angry with me, Mitry Pavlovitch 
 for this conduct of mine. Excuse me! For I did it ou; 
 of anger. . . . Anger sometimes torments fellows lik 
 me to such a degree that you can't extinguish it with liquor j 
 . . . Well, and at such times, one gets insolent to some-l 
 body: he strikes a passer-by in the snout, or does something 
 else. ... I don't repent, what's done is done; but, 
 perhaps, I understand very well indeed, that I didn't keep 
 within bounds that time ... I went too far . 
 
 "Whether this sincere explanation touched the editor, or 
 whether Gvozdeff's personality aroused his curiosity, or 
 whether he comprehended that he could not get rid of this 
 man, at all events, he asked Gv6zdeff : 
 
 " What is it that you want to talk about? " 
 
 311 
 
 1 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 "Why . . . about everything! My soul is afflicted 
 within me, because I feel that I'm an offence to myself. 
 . . . Here, let's sit down." 
 
 " I have no time . . ." 
 
 "I know . . . the newspaper! It's eating up half 
 your life, you're squandering all your health on it. . . . 
 You see, I understand! What's he, the publisher? He 
 has put his money into the paper, but you have put your 
 blood! You have already written your eyes out. . . . 
 Sit down! " 
 
 Along the path, in front of them, lay a large stump — 
 the half-decayed remains of what had once been a mighty 
 oak. The branches of a hazel-bush bent over the tree, 
 forming a green tent; athwart the branches gleamed the 
 sky, already arrayed in the hues of sunset; the spicy odor 
 of fresh foliage filled the air. Gvozdeff seated himself, 
 and turning to the • editor, who still continued to stand, 
 gazing about him with indecision, he began again: 
 
 "I have been drinking a little to-day ... I find 
 life tiresome, Mitry Pavlovitch! I've lagged behind my 
 comrades, the workingmen; somehow, my thoughts take 
 an entirely different direction. I caught sight of you to- 
 day, and remembered that you used to be a chum of mine, 
 you know . . . ha, ha! " 
 
 He laughed, because the editor looked at him with a 
 swift change of expression on his face, which rendered him 
 really ridiculous. 
 
 "A chum? When?" 
 
 " Long ago, Mitry Pavlovitch. . . . We used to live 
 in Back Damp Street then ... do you remember? 
 We lived across the courtyard from each other. And 
 opposite us Mishka the Sugar-bowl — at the present time, 
 Mikhail Efimovitch Khruleff, the examining magistrate, 
 
 313 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 — deigned to have his residence with his stem papa. 
 . . . Do you remember Efimiteh? He used to shake 
 you and me by our top-knots. . . . Come, sit down, 
 do." 
 
 The editor nodded his head affirmatively, and seated 
 himself by the side of GvozdefE. He regarded him with 
 the intense gaze of a man who is recalling to mind some- 
 thing that took place long ago, and has been entirely for- 
 gotten, and he rubbed his forehead. 
 
 But Gvozdeff was carried away by his memories. 
 
 "What a life we led then! And why can't a man re- 
 main a child all his life long? He grows up . . . 
 why? Then he grows into the earth. All his life long he 
 endures divers misfortunes ... he becomes irritated, 
 savage . . . nonsense! He lives, he lives and — at the 
 end of his life, there's nothing to show but trash. . . . 
 A coffin . . . and nothing more. . . . But we 
 used to live on then without any dark thoughts, merrily, — 
 like little birds — that's all that can be said of it! We flew 
 over the fences after the fruits of other people's labors. 
 . . . Do you remember, one day, in Mrs. Petrovsky's 
 vegetable-patch, on a thieving expedition, I stuffed a cu- 
 cumber up your nose? You set up a yell, and I — took to 
 my heels. . . . You came with your mamma to my 
 father, to complain, and my father whipped me in proper 
 style. . . . But Mishka— Mikhail Efimovitch . . ." 
 
 The editor listened, and against his will he smiled. He 
 wished to preserve his seriousness and dignity in the pres- 
 ence of this man who had evinced an inclination to be 
 familiar. But in these stories of the bright days of child- 
 hood there was something touching, and in Gvozdeff's tone, 
 so far, the notes which menaced Dmitry Pavlovitch's 
 vanity did not ring out with especial sharpness. And 
 
 313 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 ererything round about was delightful. Somewhere up 
 above, shuffled the feet of the promenading public on the 
 sands of the paths, their voices were barely audible, and 
 once in a while a laugh resounded; but the breeze was sigh- 
 ing, — and all those faint sounds were drowned in the mel- 
 ancholy rustling of the foliage. And when the rustling 
 died away, there ensued moments of complete silence, as 
 though everything round about were lending an attentive 
 ear to the words of Nikolai GvozdefE, as he confusedly re- 
 lated the story of his youth. . . . 
 
 " Do you remember Varka, the daughter of KolokoltzofE 
 the house-painter? She's married now to Shaposhnikoff 
 the printer. Such a fine lady ... it scares one to 
 pass her. . . . She was a sickly little lass in those 
 days. ... Do you remember, how she disappeared one 
 day, and all we boys, from the whole street, searched the 
 fields and ravines for her? "We found her in the camp and 
 led her home through the plain. . . . There was an 
 awful uproar! Kolokoltzoif treated us to gingerbread, and 
 Varka, when she saw her mother, said: 'I've been with 
 the well-born wife of an officer, and she wants me to be 
 her daughter! ' He, he! . . . Her daughter! . . , 
 She was a splendid little girl! . . ." 
 
 From the river were wafted certain sounds, as though 
 someone's mighty, grief-laden breast were moaning. A 
 steamer was passing, and in the air floated the tumult of 
 the water, churned up by its wheels. The sky was rose- 
 colored, but around GvozdefE and the editor the twilight 
 was thickening. . . . The spring night drew gradually ■ 
 on. The silence became complete, profound, and GvozdefE 
 lowered his voice, as though yielding to its influence. 
 . . . The editor listened to him mutely, calling up in 
 his mind pictures of the distant past. All this had been. 
 
 314 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 \ 
 
 . . . And all this had been better than what was now.; 
 Only in childhood is a free soul, which does not notice the 
 weight of the chains that are called the conditions of life, 
 possible. Childhood knows not the sharp inflammationfi 
 of conscience, knows no other falsehood save the harmless 
 falsehood of the child. How much is unknown in the days 
 of childhood, and how good is that ignorance! One lives 
 . . . and gradually the comprehension of life is enlarged 
 . . . why is it enlarged, if one dies, without having 
 understood anything? 
 
 " So you see, Mitry Pavlovitch, it turns out, that you 
 and I are birds from one and the same nest . . . yes! 
 But our flights are different. . . . And when I recoL 
 lect, that surely all the difference between me and my for- 
 mer comrades lies in the fact that I did not sit in the gyml 
 nasium over my books, — I feel bitter and disgusted. . . i 
 Does that constitute a man? A man consists of his soul, o| 
 
 his relations to his neighbor, as it is said Well, 
 
 then, — ^you are my neighbor, and what value do I posses^ 
 for you? None whatever! — Isn't that so? " s 
 
 The editor, enticed away by his own thoughts, must}, 
 have misunderstood his companion's question. 
 
 "It is!" — he said, in a sincere, abstracted tone. 
 
 But Gv6zdeff burst out laughing, and he caught him- 
 self up: 
 
 " That is to say, excuse me? What, precisely, are you 
 asking about?" j 
 
 " Isn't it true that to you I'm — an empty spot. . . .1 
 Whether I exist or not is all one to you — you don't care! 
 a fig. . . . What is my soul to you? I live alone in] 
 the world, and all the people who know me are very tired ' 
 of me. Because, I have an evil character, and I'm very 
 fond of playing all sorts of practical jokes. But, you see, 
 
 315 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 I have feeling and brains too ... I feel offence in 
 my position. In what way am I worse than you? Only in 
 my occupation . . ." 
 
 " Ye-es . . . that is sad! " said the editor, contract- 
 ing his brow, then he paused, and resumed, in a rather 
 soothing tone: — " But, you see, another point of view must 
 be applied to the case . . ." 
 
 "Mitry Pavloviteh! Why a point of view? One man 
 should not pay attention to another man according to the 
 point of view, but according to the impulse of the heart! 
 What's that point of view? Is it possible to cast me aside 
 because of some point of view or other? But I am cast 
 aside in life — I make no headway in it. . . . Why? 
 Because I'm not learned? But surely, if you learned folks 
 would not judge from a point of view, but in some other 
 way, — you ought not to forget me, a berry from the same 
 field as yourselves, but draw me up toward you from be- 
 low, where I rot in ignorance and exasperation of my feel- 
 ings? Or — ^from the point of view — oughtn't you to do 
 it?" 
 
 GvozdefE screwed up his eyes, and gazed triumphantly 
 into the face of his companion. He felt that he was show- 
 ing himself to the best advantage, and emitted all his 
 philosophy, which he had thought out during the long 
 years of his laborious, unsystematic, and sterile life. The 
 editor was disconcerted by his companion's attack, and tried 
 simultaneously to decide — what sort of a man this was, 
 and what reply he ought to make to his speech. But 
 Gvozdeff, intoxicated with himself, continued: 
 
 "You clever people will give me a hundred answers, 
 and the sum total of them will be — ^no, you ought not! 
 But I say — you ought! Why? Because I and you folks 
 are from one street and from one origin. . . , You 
 
 816 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 i 
 
 are not the real lords of life . . . you're not noble-l 
 men. . . . From them, fellows of my sort haTe noth4 
 ing to gain. Those men would say: ' Go to the devil ' — \ 
 and you'd go. Because — they're aristocrats from ancient] 
 times, but you're only aristocrats because you know gram- 
 mar, and that sort of thing. . . . But you — are my 
 equal, and I can demand from you information about my 
 path in life. I'm of the petty burgher class, and so is 
 KhrulefE, and you . . . are a deacon's son . . ." 
 
 " But, permit me . . ." said the editor beseechingly, 
 — " am I denying your right to demand? " 
 
 But Gvozdefl was not in the least interested to know 
 what the editor denied or what he admitted; he wanted to 
 have his say, and he felt himself, at that moment, 
 capable of expressing everything which had ever agitated 
 him. . . . 
 
 " Now, you will be pleased to permit me! " — he said, in 
 a mysterious sort of whisper, bending closer to the editor, 
 and flashing his excited eyes. — "Do you think it's easy fori 
 me to toil now for my comrades, to whom, in days gone by,'j 
 I used to give bloody noses? Is it easy for me to receive; 
 forty kopeks as a tip from examining-magistrate Khruleff J 
 for whom I put in a water-closet a year ago? Surely, he's' 
 a man of the same rank as myself. . . . And his name 
 was Mishka the Sugar-bowl ... he has rotten teeth 
 now, just as he had then . . ." 
 
 A heavy, choking lump rose in his throat: he paused 
 
 for a moment, and burst out swearing — with such loud 
 
 and repulsively-cynical oaths that the editor shuddered, 
 
 and moved away from him. When he had got through 
 
 swearing, Gvozdeff seemed to weaken, as though the fire 
 
 within him had died out. He listened to himself, and no 
 
 longer felt conscious of anything within him which he 
 
 wished to say. 
 
 317 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 "That's all!"— he ejaculated dully. 
 
 He had suddenly become inwardly empty, and this sen- 
 sation of emptiness produced irritation in him. 
 
 The editor gazed askance at him in a thoughtful way, 
 and silently considered — what should he say to this young 
 fellow? He must say something nice, just, and sincere. 
 But Dmitry PavloYitch Istomin found nothing of what 
 was required in his head, at the given moment, nor in his 
 heart. For a long time past, all ideal and high-flown dis- 
 cussions of " questions " had evoked in him a feeling of 
 boredom and exhaustion. He had come out to-day to rest, 
 he had purposely avoided meeting his acquaintances, — 
 and all of a sudden, here was this man with his harangues. 
 Of course, there was a modicum of truth in his harangues, 
 as there is in everything which people say. They were curi- 
 ous, and might serve as a very interesting theme for a f euil- 
 leton. . . . But, nevertheless, he must say something 
 to him. 
 
 "Everything you have said — ^is not new, you know," — 
 he began. . . . — "The injustice of man's relations 
 to man, has long been a topic of discussion. . . . But, 
 really, these speeches of yours do present one novelty — in 
 the sense, that they were formerly uttered by people of an- 
 other sort. . . . You formulate your thoughts in a 
 somewhat one-sided and inaccurate manner ..." 
 
 " There's your point of view again! " — laughed GvozdefE 
 faintly. — "Ekh-ma, gentlemen, gentlemen! You are en- 
 dowed with brains, but as to heart evidently . . . tell 
 me something which will suit my complaint on the spot 
 . . . so there, now! " 
 
 Having spoken thus, he hung his head, and awaited the 
 answer. Sadness had seized upon him. 
 
 Again Ist6min glanced at him, with frowning brow, and 
 
 318 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 conscious of a strong desire to get away. It seemed to Mm 
 that Gvozdeff was drunk, and for that reason had weakened 
 after his excited speeches. He looked at the white cap, 
 which had fallen on the nape of Gvozdeff's neck, at his 
 pock-marked face and aggressive top-knot; with a glance 
 he measured his whole powerful, sinewy figure, and thought 
 to himself, that this was a very typical workingman, and 
 if . . . 
 
 " Well, what is it? " — inquired Gvozdeff. 
 
 " But what can I say to you? To speak frankly, I do 
 not perceive at all clearly, what you wish to hear." 
 
 " There, that's it exactly! . . . You can't make me/ 
 any answer! " — grinned Gvozdeff. 
 
 The editor heaved a sigh of relief, justly assuming thai 
 the conversation was at an end, and that Gvozdeff would 
 assault him with no further questions. . . . And all 
 at once he thought: 
 
 " And what if he beats me? He's so vicious! " 
 
 He recalled the expression of Gvozdeff's face yonder, in 
 the editorial room, during that stupid scene. And he cast 
 a furtive glance of suspicion at him. 
 
 It was already dark. The silence was broken by the 
 sounds of songs, wafted from afar on the river. People 
 were singing in chorus, and the tenor voices were very dis- 
 tinctly audible. Large beetles hurtled through the air 
 with a metallic ring. Through the foliage of the trees the 
 stars were visible . . . now and then, one branch or 
 another over their heads began to quiver, for some reason, 
 and the soft trembling of the leaves made itself heard. 
 
 " There will be dew . . ." said the editor, cautiously. 
 
 Gvozdeff shuddered, and turned toward him. 
 
 " What did you say? " 
 
 " There will be dew, I say; it's harmful . . ." 
 
 319 
 
The Insolent Man 
 
 «A-ah!" 
 
 They fell silent. On the river resounded the shout: 
 " Hay-ei! Ba-a-arge a-ho-oo-oy! " 
 " I think I shall go. Farewell for the present." 
 "And shan't we have a drink of heer together? " — sug- 
 gested GvozdefE suddenly, and added, with a grin: — "Do 
 .me the honor! " 
 
 I " No, excuse me, I cannot just now. And then, it's time 
 I for me to be going, you know . . ." 
 i GvozdefE rose from the tree, and stared sullenly at the 
 editor. 
 
 The latter, rising also, offered him his hand. 
 " So you don't want to have a drink of beer with me? 
 "Well, devil take you!" — GvozdefE cut the interview short, 
 slapping his cap in place with a harsh gesture. — " Aristoc- 
 racy! At two kopeks the pair! I'll get drunk by my- 
 self . . ." 
 
 The editor bravely turned his back on his companion, 
 and walked up the path, without uttering a word. As he 
 passed Gvozdeff, he drew his head down strangely between 
 his shoulders, as though afraid of hitting it against some- 
 thing. Gvozdeff descended the hill with huge strides. 
 From the river resounded a cracked voice: 
 " Ba-a-arge a-ho-oy! De-e-evils! Send off a bo-o-o-oat! " 
 And among the trees rang the faint echo: 
 " 0-o-oat! " 
 
 320 
 
VARENKA OLESOFF 
 
VARENKA OLESOFF 
 
 I. 
 
 . . . A few days after his appointment as instructor 
 in one of the provincial universities, Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 Polkanoff received a telegram from his sister, from her 
 estate in a distant forest district on the Volga. 
 
 The telegram briefly announced: 
 
 " My husband is dead. For God's sake, come at once 
 to my assistance. Elizaveta." 
 
 This alarming summons unpleasantly agitated Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch, interfering with his projects and his frame 
 of mind. He had already decided to spend the summer 
 in the country, at the house of one of his comrades, and 
 to do a great deal of work there, in order to prepare him- 
 self to do justice to his lectures; and now, here it was 
 necessary to travel more than a thousand versts from St. 
 Petersburg and from the place of his appointment, in 
 order to comfort a woman who had lost her husband, with 
 whom, judging from her own letters, her life had been 
 far from sweet. 
 
 He had seen his sister, for the last time, four years 
 previously, had corresponded with her rarely, and long 
 ago there had been established between them those purely 
 formal relations which are so common between two rela- 
 tives who are separated by distance, and by dissimilarity 
 of their life-interests. 
 
 The telegram evoked in him the memory of his sister's 
 
 323 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 husband. The latter was a stout, good-natured man, 
 fond of eating and drinking. His face was round, cov- 
 ered with a net-work of red veins, and his eyes were merry 
 and small; he had a way of roguishly screwing up his left 
 eye, and smiling sweetly, as he sang in atrocious French : 
 
 " Begardez par ci, regaidez par la. . . ." 
 
 And Ippolit Sergyeevitch found it difficult to believe, that 
 that jolly young fellow was dead, because common-place 
 people usually live a long time. 
 
 His sister had borne herself toward the weaknesses of 
 this man with a half-scornful condescension; being any- 
 thing but a stupid woman, she had comprehended, that if 
 you shoot at a stone, you merely lose your arrows. And 
 it was not likely that she was greatly afflicted by his death. 
 
 But, nevertheless, it was not easy to refuse her request. 
 He could work at her house quite as well as anywhere 
 else. . . . 
 
 After further meditation in this direction, Ippolit 
 Sergy6evitch decided to go, and, a couple of weeks later, 
 on a warm June evening, fatigued with a journey of forty 
 versts * by posting-wagon, from the wharf to the village, 
 he was seated at the table opposite his sister, on a terrace 
 which overlooked the park, drinking exquisite tea. 
 
 Along the balustrade of the terrace, lilac and acacia 
 bushes grew luxuriantly; the slanting rays of the sun, 
 penetrating through the foliage, quivered in the air, in 
 slender, golden ribbons. A tracery of shadows lay upon 
 the table, closely set with country viands ; the air was filled 
 with the fragrance of the lindens, the lilacs, and the damp 
 earth, heated by the sun. In the park birds were chirp- 
 
 * A Terat is two-thirds of a mile. — Translator. 
 334 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 ing noisily; now and then a bee or a wasp flew to the ter- 
 race and buzzed anxiously, as it hovered about the table. 
 Elizaveta Sergyeevna took a napkin in her hand, and 
 flourished it in the air, iu vexation, chasing the bees and 
 the wasps off into the park. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch had already succeeded in convinc- 
 ing himself that his sister had not been particularly 
 shocked by the fact of her husband's death, that she was 
 gazing at him, her brother, in a searching way, and as she 
 chatted with him, was concealing something from him. 
 He had become accustomed to think of her, as a woman 
 entirely engrossed in the cares of housekeeping, broken 
 down with the disorders of her wedded life, and he had 
 expected to behold her nervous, pale and exhausted. 
 But now, as he looked at her oval face, covered with 
 healthy sunburn, calm, confident, and extremely enliv- 
 ened by the intelligent gleam of her large, bright eyes, 
 he felt that he was pleasantly disappointed; and as he 
 lent an ear to her remarks, he tried to hear the under- 
 current, and to understand what it was she was withhold- 
 ing from him. 
 
 " I was prepared for this, — " she said, in a high, calm 
 contralto, and her voice vibrated charmingly on the upper 
 notes. — "After his second shock, he complained almost 
 daily of pains in the heart, of its irregular beating, of in- 
 somnia . . . but, nevertheless, when they brought 
 him home from the fields — I could scarcely stand on my 
 feet. . . . They tell me that he got very excited out 
 there, and shouted . . . and on the day before he 
 had been to visit Olesoff — a landed proprietor, a retired 
 colonel, a drunkard and a cynic, broken down with the 
 gout. By the way, he has a daughter — there's a treasure, 
 I can tell you ! — You must make her acquaintance . . ." 
 
 335 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "If it cannot be avoided," interposed Ippolit Sergyee- 
 viteh, glancing at his sister with a smile. 
 
 "It cannot! She is often at our house . . . but 
 now, of course, she will come here more frequently than 
 ever, — " she replied to him, with a smile also. 
 
 " Is she on the lookout for a husband ? I'm not fitted 
 for the part." 
 
 His sister looked him steadily in the face, which was 
 oval, thin, with small, pointed, black beard, and a lofty, 
 white brow. 
 
 " Why are you not fitted for the part? Of course, I 
 am speaking in general, without any idea in connection 
 with Miss Olesoff, — you will understand why when you 
 see her . . . but, surely, you are thinking of marry- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Not just yet, — " he answered her briefly, raising from 
 his glass his light-gray eyes with a cold gleam. 
 
 "Yes, — " said Elizaveta Sergyeevna thoughtfully, — 
 " at the age of thirty it is both late and early, for a man 
 to take that step. . . ." 
 
 It pleased him that she had ceased to speak of her hus- 
 band's death, but why had she summoned him to her so 
 loudly and in so frightened a manner? 
 
 "A man should marry at twenty or at forty," she 
 said pensively, — "in that way, there is less risk of de- 
 ceiving oneself or of deceiving another person . '. . 
 but if you do make a mistake, then, in the first case, you 
 pay for it with the freshness of your feelings, and in the 
 second ... at least by your outward position, which 
 is almost always solid in the case of a man of forty." 
 
 It struck him that she was saying this more for herself 
 than for him, and he did not interrupt her, but leaned 
 back in his arm-chair and deeply inhaled the aromatic 
 air. 
 
 336 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "As I was saying— he had heen at Olesoff's on the day 
 before, and, of course, he drank there. Well, and 
 so . . ," Elizaveta Sergyeevna shook her head sadly. 
 — " Now ... I am left alone . . . although, after 
 the second year of my life with him, I felt myself in- 
 wardly quite alone. But now my position is so strange ! 
 I am twenty-eight years old, I have not lived, I have 
 merely been attached to the service of my husband and 
 children, . . . the children are dead. And I . . . 
 what am I now ? What am I to do, and how am I to live ? 
 I would sell this estate, and go abroad, but his brother 
 lays claim to the inheritance, and there may be a law- 
 suit. I will not give up what belongs to me, without 
 legal grounds for so doing, and I see none in the claim of 
 his brother. What do you think about it ? . . ." 
 
 "I am not a lawyer, you know, — " laughed Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch. — " But . . . tell me all about this, and 
 we shall see. That brother — has he written to you ? " 
 
 "Yes . . . and quite roughly. He is a gambler, 
 a ruined man, who has sunk very low . . . my hus- 
 band did not like him, although they had much in com- 
 mon." 
 
 " We shall see ! — " said Ippolit Sergyeevitch, and 
 rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was delighted to 
 know why his sister needed him, he did not like anything 
 that was not clear and definite. His first care was the 
 preservation of his inward equanimity, and if anything 
 obscure perturbed that equanimity, — a troubled disquie- 
 tude and irritation arose in his soul, which anxiously 
 incited him to clear up the thing he did not understand 
 as promptly as possible. 
 
 "To speak frankly," — explained Elizaveta softly, and 
 without looking at her brother, — " this stupid claim has 
 
 337 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 alarmed me. I am so worn out, Ippolit, I do so want to 
 rest . . . and here, something is beginning again." 
 
 She sighed heavily, and taking his glass, she continued 
 in a melancholy tone, which tickled her brother's ears 
 unpleasantly : 
 
 " Bight years of life with such a man as my deceased 
 husband give me the right, I think, to a rest. Any other 
 woman in my place, — a woman with a less developed sense 
 of duty and respectability — would long ago have broken 
 that heavy chain, but I wore it, although I fainted under 
 its weight. But the death of my children — ah, Ippolit, 
 if you only knew what I endured when I lost them ! " 
 
 He looked into her f a,ce with an expression of sympathy, 
 but her plaints did not touch his soul. He did not like 
 her language, a bookish sort of language, which was not 
 natural to a person who feels deeply, and her bright eyes 
 flitted strangely from side to side, rarely coming to a 
 pause on anything. Her gestures were soft, and cautious, 
 and an inward chill breathed forth from her whole finely- 
 formed figure. 
 
 Some sort of a merry bird perched on the balustrade 
 of the terrace, twittering, hopped along it, and flew away. 
 The brother and sister followed it with their eyes, as they 
 sat a few seconds in silence. 
 
 "Does anyone come to see you? Do you read?" — 
 asked the brother, as he lighted a cigarette, thinking how 
 delightful it would be to sit in silence, on that magnifi- 
 cent quiet evening, in a comfortable easy-chair, there on 
 the terrace, listening to the quiet rustling of the. foliage 
 and waiting for the night, which would come, and extin- 
 guish the sounds, and light up the stars. 
 
 " Varenka comes, and once in a while, Mrs. Banartzeff 
 ... do you remember her ? Liudmila Vasilievna . . 
 
 328 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 she, also, is not happy with her husband . . but she 
 understands how to avoid taking offence. A great many 
 men used to come to see my husband, — ^but not a single 
 one of them was interesting! Decidedly, there is not a 
 soul with whom to exchange a word . . . agricult- 
 ure, hunting, county tittle-tattle, gossip — that is all they 
 talk about. . . . However, there is one . . a 
 bachelor of law — Benkovsky . . young, and very 
 highly educated. You remember the Benkovskys? 
 Wait! I think someone is coming." 
 
 " Who is coming . . . that Benkovsky ? " — in- 
 quired Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 For some reason, his query set his sister to laughing; 
 as she laughed, she rose from her chair, and said in a 
 voice that was new to him: 
 
 "Varenka!" 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Let us see what you will say about her. . . . 
 Here she has made the conquest of everybody. But what 
 a monster she is, from a spiritual point of view! How- 
 ever — ^you shall see for yourself." 
 
 "I don't care about it," he declared indifferently, 
 stretching himself out in his arm-chair. 
 
 "I wUl be back directly," — said Elizaveta Sergyeevna, 
 as she went away. 
 
 "But she will present herself without your help," he 
 said with concern. 
 
 " Yes, I'll be back directly ! " his sister called to him 
 from the room. 
 
 He frowned, and remained in his chair, gazing into the 
 park. The swift beat of a horse's hoofs became audible, 
 and the rumble of wheels on the ground. 
 
 Before Ippolit Sergyeevitch's eyes stood rows of aged, 
 
 329 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 gnarled linden trees, maples, and oaks, enveloped in the 
 eveniag twilight. Their angular branches were inter- 
 woven one with another, forming overhead a thick roof 
 of fragrant verdure, and aU of them, decrepit with time, 
 with rifted bark and broken boughs, seemed to form a 
 living and friendly family of beings, closely united in an 
 aspiration upward, toward the light. But their bark was 
 thickly covered with a yellow efflorescence of mould, at 
 their roots young trees had sprung up luxuriantly, and 
 from this cause, on the old trees there were many dead 
 branches, which swung in the air like lifeless skeletons. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch gazed at them, and felt an inclina- 
 tion to doze off there in his arm-chair, under the breath 
 of the ancient park. 
 
 Between the trunks and boughs gleamed crimson 
 patches of the horizon, and against this vivid background, 
 the trees seemed still more gloomy, and wasted away. 
 Along the avenue, which ran from the terrace into the 
 dusky distance, the thick shadows were slowly moving, 
 and the stillness increased every minute, inspiring con- 
 fused fancies. Ippolit Sergyeevitch's imagination, yield- 
 ing to the sorcery of the evening, depicted from the 
 shadows the silhouette of a woman whom he knew, and 
 his own by her side. They walked in sUence down the 
 avenue, into the distance, she pressed closely to him, and 
 he felt the warmth of her body. 
 
 " How do you do ! " — rang out a thick chest voice. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and looked round, somewhat 
 disconcerted. 
 
 Before him stood a young girl, of medium stature, in 
 a gray gown, over her head was thrown something white 
 and airy, like a bridal veil, — ^that was all he noticed in 
 that first moment. 
 
 330 
 
Viirenka Olesoff 
 
 She offered him her hand, inquiring: 
 
 "Ippolit Sergyeevitch, is it not? Miss Olesoff. . I 
 already knew that you were to arrive to-day, and came to 
 see what you were like. I have never seen any learned 
 men, — and I did not know what they might be like." 
 
 A strong, warm, little hand pressed his hand, and he, 
 somewhat abashed by this unexpected attack, bowed to 
 her in silence, was angry at himself for his confusion, 
 and thought that, when he should look at her face, he 
 would find there frank and coarse coquetry. But when he 
 did look at it, he beheld large, dark eyes, which were smil- 
 ing artlessly and caressingly, illuminating the handsome 
 face. Ippolit Sergyeevitch remembered that he had seen 
 just that sort of a face, proud with healthy beauty, in an 
 old Italian picture. The same little mouth with splendid 
 lips, the same brow, arched and lofty, and the huge eyes 
 beneath it. 
 
 " Permit me ... I will order some lights . . . 
 pray be seated, . ." he requested her. 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself, I am quite at home here," she 
 said, seating herself in his chair. . 
 
 He stood at the table facing her, and gazed at her, feel- 
 ing that this was awkward, and that it behooved him to 
 speak. But she, not in the least confused by his steady 
 gaze, spoke herself. She asked him how he had come, 
 whether he liked the country, whether he would remain 
 there long; he answered her in monosyllables, and various 
 fragmentary thoughts flashed through his mind. He 
 was stunned, as it were, by a blow, and his brain, always 
 clear, now grew turbid in the presence of feelings sud- 
 denly and chaotically aroused by force. His enchant- 
 ment with her struggled with irritation at himself, and 
 curiosity struggled with something that was akia to fear, 
 
 331 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 But this young girl, blooming with health, sat opposite 
 him, leaning against the back of her chair, closely en- 
 Teloped in the material of her costume, which permitted 
 a glimpse of the magnificent outlines of her shoulders, 
 bosom and torso, and in a melodious voice full of master- 
 ful notes, uttered to him some trivialities, such as are 
 usual when two unacquainted persons meet for the first 
 time. Her dark chestnut hair curled charmingly, and her 
 eyebrows and eyes were darker than her hair. On her 
 dark neck, around her rosy, transparent ear, the skin 
 quivered, announcing the swift circulation of the blood 
 in her veins, a dimple made its appearance every time a 
 smile disclosed her small, white teeth, and every fold of 
 her garments breathed forth an exasperating seduction. 
 There was something rapacious in the arch of her nose, 
 and in her small teeth, which shone forth from between 
 ripe lips, and her attitude, full of unstudied charm, re- 
 minded one of the grace of well-fed and petted kittens. 
 
 It seemed to Ippolit Sergyeevitch that he had become 
 two persons: one half of his being was absorbed in this 
 sensual beauty, and was slavishly contemplating it, the 
 second half was mechanically noting the existence of the 
 first, and feeling that it had lost its power over it. He 
 replied to the girl's questions, and put some questions, to 
 her himself, not being in a condition to tear his eyes from 
 her entrancing figure. He had already called her, to 
 himself, a luxurious female, and had inwardly laughed at 
 himself, but this did not annihilate his double existence. 
 Thus it went on, until his sister made her appearance on 
 the terrace, with the exclamation: 
 
 " See what a clever creature ! I was hunting for her 
 yonder, and she is already . . ." 
 
 "I went round by the park." 
 
 333 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Have you made each other's acquaintance ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! I thought that Ippollt Sergy6evitch was 
 bald, at least ! " 
 
 " Shall I pour you some tea ? " 
 
 "Please do." 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch withdrew a little apart from them, 
 and stood near the steps which led down into the park. 
 He passed his hand over his face, and then drew his fin- 
 gers across his eyes, as though he were wiping the dust 
 from his face and eyes. He was ashamed of himself for 
 having yielded to a burst of emotion, and this shame soon 
 gave way to irritation against the young girl. To him- 
 self, he characterized the scene with her as a Kaz4k attack 
 on a prospective husband, and he felt like announcing 
 himself to her as a man who was utterly indifferent to her 
 challenging beauty. 
 
 " I'm going to stay over night with you, and spend all 
 day to-morrow here . ." she said to his sister. 
 
 "And how about Vasily Stepanovitch? " asked his sis- 
 ter, in surprise. 
 
 " Aunt Lutchitzky is visiting us, she will look after 
 him. . . . You know, that papa is very fond of her." 
 
 "Excuse me, . ." said Ippolit Sergyeevitch drily, — 
 " I am extremely fatigued, and will go and rest . . ." 
 
 He bowed and departed, and Vdrenka's exclamation of 
 approbation followed him: 
 
 " You ought to have done so long ago ! " 
 
 In the tone of her exclamation he detected only good- 
 nature, but he set it down as an attempt to ingratiate 
 herself, and as false. 
 
 The room which had served his sister's husband as a 
 study had been prepared for him. In the middle of it 
 stood a heavy, awkward writing-table, before which was 
 
 333 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 an oaken arm-chair; along one of the walls, almost for its 
 entire length, stretched a broad, ragged Turkish divan, 
 on the other, a harmonium, and two book-cases. Sev- 
 eral large, soft chairs, a small smoking table beside the 
 divan, and a chess-table at the window, completed the 
 furniture of the room. The ceiling was low and black- 
 ened with smoke. From the walls dark spots, which were 
 pictures and engravings of some sort, in coarse, gilded 
 frames, peered forth — everything was heavy, old, and 
 emitted a disagreeable odor. On the table stood a large 
 lamp with a blue shade, and the light from it fell upon 
 the floor. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch halted at the edge of this circle 
 of light, and feeling a sensation of confused trepidation, 
 glanced at the windows of the room. There were two of 
 them, and outside, in the gloom of evening the dark sil- 
 houettes of the trees were outlined. He went to the win- 
 dows, and opened both of them. Then the room was 
 filled with the fragrance of the blossoming lindens, and 
 with it floated in a burst of hearty laughter in a chest 
 voice. 
 
 On the divan a bed had been made up for him, and it 
 occupied a little more than half of the divan. He glanced 
 at it, and began to undo his necktie; but then, with an 
 abrupt movement, he pushed an arm-chair to the window, 
 and seated himself in it, with a scowl. 
 
 This sensation of incomprehensible trepidation dis- 
 quieted his mind, and irritated him. The feeling of dis- 
 satisfaction with himself rarely presented itself to him, 
 but when it did, it never seized hold upon him powerfully, 
 or for long — ^he managed to get rid of it promptly. He was 
 convinced that a man should and can understand his emo- 
 tions, and develop or suppress them; and when people 
 
 334 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 talked to him about the mysterious complication of man's 
 psychical life, he grinned ironically, and called such opin- 
 ions metaphysics. It was all the worse for him now to 
 feel that he was entering the sphere of some incompre- 
 hensible emotions or other. 
 
 He asked himself: Is it possible that the meeting with 
 this healthy and handsome young girl — who must be ex- 
 tremely sensual and stupid, — was it possible that this 
 meeting could have such a strange influence upon him? 
 And after having carefully scrutinized the series of im- 
 pressions of that day, he was compelled to answer himself 
 in the affirmative. Yes, it was so because she had taken 
 his mind unawares, because he was extremely fatigued 
 with the journey, and had been in a dreamy mood which 
 was quite unusual for him at the moment when she made 
 her appearance before him. 
 
 This reflection somewhat soothed him, and she imme- 
 diately presented herself to his eyes in her splendid, 
 maidenly beauty. He contemplated her, closing his eyes 
 and nervously inhaling the smoke of his cigarette, but as 
 he contemplated her, he criticised. 
 
 "In reality," — he reflected, — "she is vulgar: there is 
 too much blood and muscle in her healthy body, and there 
 are too few nerves. Her ingenuous face is not intelli- 
 gent, and the pride which beams in the frank gaze of her 
 deep, dark eyes is the pride of a woman who is convinced 
 of her beauty, and is spoiled by the admiration of men. 
 My sister said that this Varenka makes a conquest of 
 everybody." — Of course, she was trying to make a conquest 
 of him, also. But he had come hither to work, and not 
 to frolic, and she would soon understand that. 
 
 " But am not I thinking a great deal about her, for a 
 first encounter?" — flashed through his mind. 
 
 335 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 The disk of the moon, huge and blood-red in hue, was 
 rising somewhere, far away behind the trees of the park : 
 it gazed forth from the darkness like the eye of a mon- 
 ster, born of it. Faint sounds, coming from the direction 
 of the village, were borne upon the air. . Now and 
 then, in the grass beneath the window, a rustling resound- 
 ed; it must be a tortoise or a hedgehog on the prowl. 
 A nightingale was singing somewhere. And the moon 
 mounted slowly in the sky, as though the fateful necessity 
 of its movement was understood by it and wearied it. 
 
 Flinging his cigarette, which had gone out, from the 
 window, Ippolit Sergyeeviteh rose, undressed, and extin- 
 guished the lamp. Then the darkness poured iato the 
 room from the garden, the trees moved up to the win- 
 dows, as though desirous of looking in; on the floor lay 
 two streaks of moonlight, still faint and turbid. 
 
 The springs of the divan creaked shrilly under the body 
 of Ippolit Sergyeeviteh, and overcome by the pleasant cool- 
 ness of the linen sheets, he stretched himself out, and 
 lay still on his back. Soon he was dozing, and under his 
 window he heard someone's cautious footsteps and a thick 
 whisper: 
 
 " . . Ma-arya. . Are you there? Hey?" . . 
 
 With a smile, he fell fast asleep. 
 
 And iu the morning, when he awoke in the brilliant 
 sunlight, which filled his room, he smiled again at the 
 memory of the preceding evening, and of the young girl. 
 He presented himself at tea carefully dressed, cold and 
 serious, as was befitting a learned man; but when he saw 
 that his sister was seated alone at the table, he involun- 
 tarily burst out : 
 
 " But where is . . ." 
 
 His sister's sly smile stopped him before he had fin- 
 336 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 ished his question, and he seated himself, in silence, at the 
 table. Elizaveta Sergyeevna scrutinized his costume in 
 detail, smiling all the while, and paying no heed to his 
 involuntary scowl. Her significant smile enraged him. 
 
 " She rose long ago, and she and I have been to bathe, 
 and she must be in the park now . . and will soon 
 make her appearance, — " explained Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 
 " How circumstantial you are, — " he said, with a laugh. 
 — " Please give orders to have my things unloaded imme- 
 diately after tea." 
 
 " And have them taken out ? " 
 
 "No, no, that's not necessary. I'll do that myself, 
 otherwise everything will get mixed up. . . . There 
 are books and candy for you. ." 
 
 " Thanks ! That's nice of you . . and here comes 
 Varenka! " 
 
 She made her appearance in the doorway, in a thin, 
 white gown, which fell from her shoulders to her feet in 
 rich folds. Her costume resembled a child's blouse, and 
 ia it she looked like a child. Pausing for a second at the 
 door, she asked: 
 
 " Have you been waiting for me ? — " and approached 
 the table as noiselessly as a cloud. 
 
 Ippollt Sergyeevitch bowed to her in silence, and as he 
 shook her hand, her arm being bared to the elbow, he per- 
 ceived a delicate odor of violets which emanated from her. 
 
 " How you have scented yourself ! " exclaimed Eliza- 
 veta Sergyeevna. 
 
 "Is it any more than I always do? You are fond of 
 perfumes, Ippolit Sergyeevitch? I am — awfully! When 
 the violets are in bloom, I pluck them every morning after 
 my bath, and rub them in my hands, — I learned that in 
 the pro-gymnasium. . Do you like violets ? " 
 
 337 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 He drank his tea, and did not glance at her, but he felt 
 her eyes on his face. 
 
 " I really have never thought about it — whether I like 
 them or not, — " he said drUy, shruggiag his shoulders, 
 but as he involuntarily glanced at her, he smiled. 
 
 Shaded by the snow-vrhite material of her gown, her 
 face flamed with a magnificent flush, and her deep eyes 
 beamed with clear joy. She breathed forth health, fresh- 
 ness, unconscious happiness. She was as good as a bright 
 May momiag in the north. 
 
 "You haven't thought about it? — " she exclaimed. — 
 "But how is that . . • seeing that you are a bota- 
 nist." 
 
 " But not a floriculturist, — " he explained briefly, and 
 involuntarily reflecting that this might be rude, he turned 
 his eyes away from her face. 
 
 "But are not botany and floriculture one and the 
 same? — " she inquired, after a pause. 
 
 His sister laughed unrestrainedly. And he suddenly 
 became conscious that this laugh made him writhe, for 
 some reason, and he exclaimed pityingly to himself: 
 
 " Yes, she is stupid ! " 
 
 But later on, as he explained to her the difference be- 
 tween botany and floriculture, he softened his verdict, 
 and pronounced her merely ignorant. As she listened to 
 his intelligent and serious remarks, she gazed at him with 
 the eyes of an attentive pupil, and this pleased him. As 
 he talked, he often turned his eyes from her face to his 
 sister's, and in her gaze, which was immovably fixed on 
 Varenka's face, he discerned eager envy. This interfered 
 with the speech, as it called forth in him a sentiment 
 allied to disdain for his sister. 
 
 " Ye-es, — " said the young girl slowly, — " so that's how 
 it is I And is botany an interesting science ? " 
 
 838 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "Hm! you see, one must look upon science from the 
 point of view of its utility to men, — " he explained, with 
 a sigh. Her lack of development, allied with her beauty, 
 increased his compassion for her. But she, meditatively 
 tapping the edge of her cup with her teaspoon, asked him : 
 
 " Of what utility can it be, that you know how burdock 
 grows ? " 
 
 " The same which we deduce from studying the phe- 
 nomena of life in any one man." 
 
 "A man and a burdock . . ." she smiled. "Does 
 one man live like all the rest ? " 
 
 He found it strange that this uninteresting conversa- 
 tion did not fatigue him. 
 
 " Do I eat and drink in the same way as the peasants ? " 
 she continued seriously, contracting her brows. "And 
 do many people live as I do ? " 
 
 " How do you live ? " — he inquired, foreseeing that this 
 question would change the course of the conversation. 
 He wished to do so, because a malicious, sneering element 
 had now been added to the envy in the gaze which his 
 sister had fastened upon Varenka. 
 
 "How do I live? — " the girl suddenly flushed up. — 
 " Well ! — " And she even closed her eyes with satisfac- 
 tion. " You know, I wake up in the morning, and if the 
 day is bright, I immediately feel dreadfully gay! It is 
 as though I had received a costly and beautiful gift, 
 which I had long been wanting to possess. ... I run 
 and take my bath — we have a river with springs — the 
 water is cold, and it fairly nips the body ! There are very 
 deep spots, and I plunge straight into them, head first, 
 from the bank — splash ! It fairly burns one, all over . . 
 you fly into the water as from a precipice, and there is a 
 ringing in your head. . . . You come to the surface, 
 
 339 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 tear yourself out of the water, and the sun looks down at 
 you and laughs ! Then I go home through the forest, I 
 gather flowers, I inhale the forest air until I am intoxicat- 
 ed; when I arrive, tea is ready! I drink tea, and before 
 me stand flowers . . and the sun gazes at me. . . . 
 Ah, if you only knew how I love the sun ! Then the day 
 advances, and housekeeping cares begin . . everyone 
 loves me at home, they all understand and obey at once, — 
 and everything whirls on like a wheel until the evening 
 . . then the sun sets, the moon and the stars make their 
 appearance . . how beautiful and how new this always 
 is! you understand! I cannot say it intelligibly . . 
 why it is so good to live ! . . But perhaps you feel just 
 the same yourself, do you ? Surely, you understand why 
 such a life is good and interesting ? " 
 
 " Yes ... of course ! — " he assented, ready to wipe 
 the venomous smile from his sister's face with his hand. 
 
 He looked at Varenka, and did not restrain himself 
 from admiring her, as she quivered with the desire to im- 
 part to him the strength of the exultation which filled her 
 being, but this ecstasy of hers heightened his feeling of 
 pity for her to the degree of a painfully-poignant sensa- 
 tion. He beheld before him a being permeated with the 
 charm of vegetable life, full of rough poetry, overwhelm- 
 ingly beautiful, but not ennobled by brains. 
 
 " And in the winter ? Are you fond of winter ? It is 
 all white, healthy, stimulating, it challenges you to contend 
 _withit. . . ." 
 
 A sharp ring of the bell interrupted her speech. Eliza- 
 veta Sergyeevna had rung, and when a tall maid, with a 
 round, kind face, and roguish eyes, flew into the room, she 
 said to her, in a weary voice : 
 
 " Clear away the dishes, M4sha ! " 
 
 340 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 Then she began to walk up and down the room, in a 
 preoccupied way, shuffling her feet. 
 
 All this somewhat sobered the enthusiastic young girl ; 
 she twitched her shoulders as though she were shaking 
 something from them, and rather abashed she asked Ip- 
 polit Sergyeevitch : 
 
 " Have I bored you with my stupid tales ? " 
 
 " Come, how can you say so ? " — he protested. 
 
 " No, seriously, — I have made myself appear stupid to 
 you ? " — she persisted. 
 
 " But why ? ! " — exclaimed Ippolit Sergyeevitch and was 
 surprised that he had said it so warmly and sincerely. 
 
 "I am wUd . . that is to say, I am not cultivated 
 . . ." she said apologetically. — " But I am very glad to 
 talk with you . . because you are a learned man, and 
 so . . . unlike what I imagined you to be." 
 
 " And what did you imagine me to be like ? " — he 
 queried, with a smile. 
 
 " I thought you woiild always be talking about various 
 wise things . . why, and how, and this is not so, but 
 this other way, and everybody is stupid, and I alone am 
 wise. . . . Papa had a friend visiting him, he was a 
 colonel too, like papa, and he was learned, like you . . 
 But he was a military learned man ... what do you 
 call it ... of the General Staff . . . and he was 
 frightfully puffed up . . in my opinion, he did not even 
 know anything, but simply bragged. . . ." 
 
 " And you imagined that I was like that ? " — enquired 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 She was disconcerted, blushed, and springing from her 
 chair, she ran about the room in an absurd way, saying 
 in confusion : 
 
 "Akh, how can you think so . . . now, could 
 I " 
 
 341 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Well, see here, my dear children . . ." remarked 
 Elizaveta Sergyeevna,seanmng them with her eyes screwed 
 up, — "I'm going off to attend to something about the 
 housekeeping, and I leave you ... to the will of God ! " 
 
 And she vanished, with a laugh, rustling her skirts as 
 she went. Ippolit Sergyeevitch looked after her reproach- 
 fully, and reflected, that he must have a talk with her 
 about her way of behaving toward this really very charm- 
 ing, though undeveloped young girl. 
 
 " Do you know, I have an idea — would you like to go in 
 the boat? We will drive to the forest, and then have a 
 stroll there, and be back by dinner-time. Shall we ? Fm 
 awfully glad that the day is so bright, and that I'm not 
 at home. . . . For papa has another attack of gout, and 
 I should have been obliged to fuss about him. And papa 
 is capricious when he is ill." 
 
 Amazed at her frank egotism, he did not immediately 
 reply to her in the affirmative, and when he did reply, he 
 recalled the intention, which had arisen in him the even- 
 ing before, and with which he had emerged from his cham- 
 ber that morning. But, surely, she had afforded no 
 ground, so far, for suspicion of a desire to conquer his 
 heart? In her speeches; everything was perceptible ex- 
 cept coquetry. And, in conclusion, why not spend one 
 day with such ... an undoubtedly original young 
 girl? 
 
 " And do you know how to row? Never mind if you do 
 it badly . . I will do it myself, I am strong. And the 
 boat is so light. Shall we go ? " 
 
 They went out upon the terrace, and descended into 
 the park. By the side of his tall, thin figure, she appeared 
 shorter and more plump. He offered her his arm, but she 
 declined it. 
 
 342 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Why? It is nice when one is tired, but otherwise, it 
 only hinders one in walking." 
 
 He smiled as he looked at her through his eyeglasses, and 
 walked on, adjusting his stride to her pace, which greatly 
 pleased him. Her walk was light and graceful, — her white 
 gown floated around her form, but not a single fold un- 
 dulated. In one hand she held a parasol, with the other 
 she gesticulated freely and gracefully, as she told him 
 about the beauty of the suburbs of the village. 
 
 Her arm, bared to the elbow, was strong and brown, 
 covered with a golden down, and as it moved through the 
 air, it compelled Ippolit Sergyeevitch's eyes to follow it 
 attentively. . . . And again, in the dark depths of his 
 soul, a confused, incomprehensible apprehension of some- 
 thing began to tremble. He tried to annihilate it, asking 
 himself: What had prompted him to follow this young 
 girl? And he answered himself: — curiosity, a calm and 
 pure desire to contemplate her beauty. 
 
 " Yonder is the river ! Go and take your seat in the 
 boat, and I will get the oars at once. . ." 
 
 And she disappeared among the trees before he could 
 ask her to show him where he could find the oars. 
 
 In the still, cold water of the river, the trees were re- 
 flected upside down; he seated himself in the boat, and 
 gazed at them. These spectral images were more splendid 
 and beautiful than the living trees, which stood on the 
 bank, shading the water with their curved and gnarled 
 branches. Their reflection flattered them, thrusting into 
 the background what was deformed, and creating in the 
 water a clear and harmonious fantasy, on the foundation 
 of the paltry reality, disfigured by time. 
 
 As he admired the transparent picture, surrounded by 
 the .silence and the gleam of the sun which was not yet 
 
 343 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 hot, and drank in along with the air the songs of the 
 larks full of the joy of existence, Ippolit Sergy6evitch felt 
 springing into life within him a sensation of repose which 
 was novel and agreeable to him, which caressed his brain, 
 and lulled to sleep its constant and rebellious striving to 
 understand and to explain. Quiet peace reigned around, 
 not a leaf quivered on the trees, and in this peace the 
 mute triumph of nature was unceasingly in progress, life, 
 always smitten with death but invincible, was being sound- 
 lessly created, and death was working quietly, smiting all 
 things, but never winning the victory. And the blue sky 
 shone in triumphant beauty. 
 
 In the background of the picture in the water of the 
 river, a white beauty, with a smile on her face, made her 
 appearance. She stood there, with the oars in her hands, 
 as though inviting him to go to her, mute, very lovely, and 
 she seemed to have dropped down from the sky. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh knew that it was Varenka, emerg- 
 ing from the park, and that she was looking at him, but 
 he did not wish to destroy the enchantment by a sound or 
 a movement. 
 
 "Say, what a dreamer you are! — " her astonished ex- 
 clamation rang out on the air. 
 
 Then, with regret, he turned away from the water, 
 glanced at the girl, who was descending vivaciously and 
 easily to the shore, down the steep path from the park. 
 
 And his regret vanished with this glance at her, for this 
 girl was, in reality, enchantingly beautiful. 
 
 " I could not possibly have imagined that you were fond 
 of dreaming! You have such a stem, serious face . . 
 You will steer: is that right? We will row upstream . . 
 it is more beautiful there . . . and, in general, it is 
 more interesting to go against the current, because then 
 you row, you get exercise, you feel yourself . . ." 
 
 344 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 The boat, pushed out from the shore, rocked lazily on 
 the sleepy water, but a powerful stroke of the oars imme- 
 diately put it alongside of the bank, and rolling from 
 side to side under a second stroke, it glided lightly for- 
 ward. 
 
 " We will row under the hilly shore, because it is shady 
 there . ." said the young girl, as she cut the water with 
 skilful strokes. " Only, the current is weak here, . . . 
 but on the Dnyepr, — Aunt Lutchitzky has an estate there 
 — it's a terror, I can tell you ! It fairly tears the oars out 
 of your hjands . . . you haven't seen the rapids of the 
 Dnyepr? . ." 
 
 " Only the threshold of the door," * Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch tried to pun. 
 
 " I have been through them," she said, laughing. — " It 
 was fine! One day, they came near smashing the boat, and 
 in that case, we should infallibly have been drowned. . ." 
 
 " Well, that would not have been fine at all," said Ip- 
 polit Sergy^evitch seriously. 
 
 " What of that ? I'm not in the least afraid of death 
 . . although I love to live. Perhaps it will be as inter- 
 esting there as it is here on earth. . ." 
 
 " And perhaps there is nothing at all there . ." he 
 said, glancing at her with curiosity. 
 
 " Well, how can there help being ! — " she exclaimed, 
 with conviction. — " Of course there is! " 
 
 He decided not to interfere with her — ^let her go on 
 philosophizing; at the proper moment he would stop her, 
 and make her spread out before him the whole miserable 
 little world of her imagination. She sat opposite him, 
 with her small feet resting against a cross-bar, nailed to 
 the bottom of the boat, and with every stroke of the oars, 
 
 * PorSg, a threshold,— jjoroj'*, rapids, in Rnssian. — Trantlator. 
 
 345 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 she bent her body backward. Then, beneath the thin 
 material of her gown, her virgin bosom was outlined in 
 relief, high, springy, quivering with the exercise. 
 
 "She does not wear corsets, — " said Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch to himself, dropping his eyes. But there they rested 
 on her tiny feet. Pressed against the bottom of the boat, 
 her legs were tensely stretched, and at such times their 
 outliaes were visible to the knees. 
 
 " Did she put on that idiotic dress on purpose ? " — he 
 said to himself in vexation, and turned away, to look at 
 the high shore. 
 
 They had passed the park, and now they were floating 
 under a steep cliff; from it swung curly pea-vines, the 
 long slender wreaths of pumpkin, with their velvety 
 leaves, large yellow circles of the sunflower, standing on 
 the edge of the abyss, looked down into the water. The 
 other shore, low and smooth, stretched away into the dis- 
 tance, to the green walls of the forest, and was thickly 
 covered with grass, succulent and brilliant in hue; pale 
 blue and dark blue flowers, as pretty as the eyes of chil- 
 dren, peered caressingly forth from it at the boat. And 
 ahead of them stood the dark-green forest — and the river 
 pierced its way into it, like a piece of cold steel. 
 
 " Aren't you warm? " asked Varenka. 
 
 He glanced at her, and felt abashed: — ^upon her brow, 
 beneath her crown of waving hair, glistened drops of per- 
 spiration, and her breast heaved high and rapidly. 
 
 "Pray forgive me!" — he exclaimed penitently. — "I 
 forgot myself in looking about me . . . you are tired 
 . . . give me the oars ! " 
 
 " I will not give them to you ! Do you think I am tired ? 
 
 That is an insult to me ! We haven't gone two versts yet 
 
 . . . No, keep your seat ... we will land presently, 
 
 and take a stroll." 
 
 346 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 It ■was evident from her face, that it was useless to 
 argue with her, and shrugging his shoulders with vexa- 
 tion, he made no reply, thinking to himself with displeas- 
 ure : " It is plain that she considers me weak." 
 
 " You see — this is the road to our house, — " she pointed 
 it out to him on the shore, with a nod of her head. — 
 " Here is the ford across the river, and from here to our 
 house is fourteen versts. It is fine on our place, also, more 
 beautiful than on your Polkanovka." 
 
 " Do you live in the country during the winter ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Why not ? You see, I have the entire charge of the 
 housekeeping, papa never ripes from his chair. . . He 
 is carried through the rooms." 
 
 " But you must find it tiresome to live in that way ? " 
 
 " Why ? I have an awful lot to do . . and only one 
 assistant — Mkon, papa's orderly. He is already an old 
 man, and he drinks, besides, but he's awfully strong, and 
 knows his business. The peasants are afraid of him 
 ... he beats them, and they also once beat him terri- 
 bly . . . very terribly ! He is remarkably honest, and 
 he's devoted to papa and me . . he loves us like a dog ! 
 And I love him, too. Perhaps you have read a romance, 
 where the hero is an ofiicer. Count Grammont, and he had 
 an orderly also, Sadi-Coco? " 
 
 "I have not read it, — " confessed the young savant 
 modestly. 
 
 " You must be sure to read it — it is a good romance, — " 
 she advised him with conviction. — " When Mkon pleases 
 me, I call him Sadi-Coco. At first he used to get angry 
 with me for that, but one day I read that romance to 
 him, and now he knows that it is flattering for him to 
 be like Sadi-Coco.'^ 
 
 347 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh looked at her, as a European looks 
 at a delicately executed but fantastically-deformed statue 
 of a Chinaman; with a mixture of amazement, compas- 
 sion and curiosity. But she, with ardor, related to him the 
 feats of Sadi-Coco, filled with disinterested devotion to 
 Count Loliis Grammont. 
 
 " Excuse me, Varvara * Vasilievna," he interrupted her, 
 — "but have you read the romances of the Eussian 
 writers ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! But I don't like them — ^they are tiresome, 
 very tiresome! And they always write things which I 
 know just as well as they do. They cannot iuvent any- 
 thing interesting, and almost everything they say is true." 
 
 "But don't you like the truth?" — asked Ippolit 
 Sergyeeviteh kindly. 
 
 " Ah, no indeed ! I always speak the truth, straight to 
 people's faces, and . . ." 
 
 She paused, reflected, and inquired : 
 
 " What is there to like in that ? It is my habit, how 
 can one like it ? " 
 
 He did not manage to say anything to her on this point, 
 because she quickly and loudly gave the command : 
 
 " Steer to the right ... be quick ! To that oak- 
 tree, yonder . . Ai, how awkward you are ! " 
 
 The boat did not obey his hand, and ran ashore broad- 
 side on, although he churned the water forcibly with his 
 oar. 
 
 " Never mind, never mind," she said, and suddenly ris- 
 ing to her feet, she sprang over the side. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh uttered a low shriek, and stretched 
 his arms toward her, but she was standing uninjured on 
 
 • Varenka is the caressing diminutive of Varv&ra. — Translator. 
 
 348 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 the shore, holding the chain of the boat in her hands, and 
 apologetically asking him : 
 
 "Did I frighten you?" 
 
 " I thought you would fall into the water, — " he said 
 softly. 
 
 "But could anyone fall there? And moreover, the 
 water is not deep there, — " she defended herself, dropping 
 her eyes, and drawing the boat to the bank. And he, as 
 he sat at the stem, reilected that he ought to have done 
 that. 
 
 " Do you see what a forest there is ? — " she said, when 
 he had stepped out on the bank, and stood beside her. — 
 " Isn't it fine here ? There are no such beautiful forests 
 around St. Petersburg, are there ? " 
 
 In front of them lay a narrow road, hemmed in on both 
 sides by tree trunks of difEerent sizes. Under their feet 
 the gnarled roots, crushed by the wheels of peasant-carts, 
 lay outstretched, and over them was a thick tent of boughs, 
 with here and there, high aloft, blue scraps of sky. The 
 rays of sunlight, slender as violin-strings, quivered in the 
 air, obliquely intersecting this narrow, green corridor. 
 The odor of rotting foliage, of mushrooms and birch trees, 
 surrounded them. Birds flitted past, disturbing the sol- 
 emn stillness of the forest with their lively songs and 
 anxious twittering. A woodpecker was tapping some- 
 where, a bee was buzzing, and in front of them, as though 
 showing them the road, two butterflies fluttered, in pur- 
 suit of each other. 
 
 They strolled slowly on. Ippolit Sergyeevitch was si- 
 lent, and did not interfere with Varenka's finding words 
 wherewith to express her thoughts, while she said warmly 
 to him : 
 
 " I don't like to read about the peasants; what can there 
 349 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 be that is interesting in their lives ? I know them, I live 
 with them, and I see that people do not write accurately, 
 do not write the truth about them. They are described 
 as such wretched creatures, but they are only base, and 
 there is nothing to pity them for. They want only one 
 thing — to cheat us, to steal something from us. They are 
 always importuning us, always moaning, they're disgust- 
 ing, dirty . . . and they're clever, oh! they're even 
 very cunning. Oh, if you only knew how they torture me 
 sometimes ! " 
 
 She had warmed up to her theme now, and wrath and 
 bad humor were expressed on her face. Evidently, the 
 peasants occupied a large place in her life; she rose to 
 hatred, as she depicted them. Ippolit Sergyeevitch was 
 astonished at the violence of her agitation, but, as he did 
 not care to hear these sallies from the master's point of 
 view, he interrupted the young girl : 
 " You were speaking of the French writers, . . ." 
 " Ah, yes ! That is to say, about the Eussian writers, — " 
 she corrected him, calming down, — "you ask, why the 
 Eussians write worse than they, — that is clear enough! 
 because they do not invent anything interesting. The 
 French writers have real heroes, who do not talk like 
 everybody else, and who behave differently. They are 
 always brave, in love, jolly ... but with us, the heroes 
 are simple little men, without daring, without fiery feel- 
 ings,— ugly, pitiful little creatures— the most real sort of 
 men, and nothing more ! Why are they heroes ? You will 
 never understand that in a Eussian book. The Eussian 
 hero is a stupid, sluggish sort of fellow, he's always dis- 
 gusted with something, he's always thinking of something 
 incomprehensible, and he pities everybody, and he himself 
 is pitif 111, ve-ery pi-tif ul iudeed ! He meditates, and talks 
 
 350 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 and then he goes to make a declaration of love, and then 
 he meditates again until he gets married . . . and 
 when he is married, he says sour nonsense to his wife, and 
 abandons her. . . . What is there interesting in that ? 
 It even angers me, because it resembles a deception — in- 
 stead of a hero, there is always some sort of a stuffed 
 scarecrow stuck up in a romance! And never, while you 
 are reading a Eussian book, can you forget real hfe, — is 
 that nice ? But when you read the works of a Frenchman 
 — you shudder for the heroes, you pity them, you hate, 
 you want to fight when they fight, you weep when they 
 perish . . . you wait for the end of the romance with 
 passionate interest, and when you read it — ^you almost cry 
 with vexation, because that is all. You live — ^but in Eus- 
 sian books, it is utterly incomprehensible why men live. 
 Why write books, if you cannot narrate anything unusual ? 
 Eeally, it is strange ! " 
 
 " There is a great deal which might be said in reply to 
 you, Varvdra Vasilievna, — " he stemmed the stormy tide 
 of her speech. 
 
 " Well then, reply ! — " she burst out, with a smile. — 
 " Of course, you will rout me ! " 
 
 " I shall try. First of all, what Eussian authors have 
 you read ? " 
 
 " Various . . but they are all alike. Take Salias, for 
 example ... he imitates the French, but badly. How- 
 ever, he has Eussian heroes also, and can one write any- 
 thing interesting about them? And I have read a great 
 many others — Mordovtzeff, Markevitch, Paziikhra, I think 
 — ^you see, even from their names it is plain that they 
 cannot write well! You haven't read them? But have 
 you read Fortune de Boisgobey? Ponson du Terrail? 
 Ars^ne Houssaye? Pierre Zaconne? Dumas, Gaboriau, 
 
 351 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 Borne ? How fine, good heavens ! Wait ... do you 
 know what pleases me most in romances is the villains, 
 those who so artfully weave various spiteful plots, who 
 murder and poison, . . . they're clever, strong . . 
 and when, at last, they are caught, — rage seizes upon me, 
 and I even go so far as to cry. Everybody hates the villain, 
 everybody is against him — he is alone against them all! 
 That's — a hero! And those others, the virtuous people, 
 become disgusting, when they win . . And, in general, 
 do you know, people please me so long as they strongly 
 desire something, march forward somewhere, seek some- 
 thing, torment themselves . . . but if they have reached 
 their goal, and have come to a halt, then they are no 
 longer interesting . . . they are even insipid ! " 
 
 Excited, and, probably, proud of what she had said to 
 him, she walked slowly by his side, raising her head 
 prettily, and flashing her eyes. 
 
 He looked into her face, and nervously twisting his head, 
 he sought for a retort which should, at one stroke, tear 
 from her mind that coarse veil of dust which enveloped it. 
 But, while feeling himself bound to reply to her, he wished 
 to listen longer to her ingenuous and original chatter, to 
 behold her again carried away with her opinions, and sin- 
 cerely laying bare her soul before him. He had never 
 heard such speeches; they were hideous and impossible in 
 his eyes, but, at the same time, everything she had said 
 harmonized, to perfection, with her rather rapacious 
 beauty. Before him was an unpolished mind, which of- 
 fended him by its roughness, and a woman who was seduc- 
 tively beautiful, who irritated his sensuality. These two 
 forces crushed him down with all the energy of their di- 
 rectness, and he must set up something in opposition to 
 them, otherwise, he felt — they might drive him out of the 
 
 352 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 wonted ruts of those views and moods, with which he had 
 dwelt in peace until he met her. He possessed a clear 
 sense of logic, and he had argued well with persons of his 
 own circle. But how was he to talk with her, and what 
 ought he say to her, in order to urge her mind into the 
 right road, and ennoble her soul, which had been deformed 
 by stupid novels, and the society of the peasants, and of 
 that soldier, her drunken father ? 
 
 " Ugh, how foolishly I have been talking ! — " she ex- 
 claimed, with a sigh. — " I have bored you, haven't I?" 
 
 "No, but . . ." 
 
 " You see, I'm very glad to know you. Until you came, 
 I had no one to talk with. Your sister does not like 
 me, and is always angry with me . . it must be be- 
 cause I give my father vodka, and because I thrashed 
 Nikon. . . " 
 
 " You ? ! You thrashed him ? Eh . . how did you do 
 that ? " — said Ippolit Sergy^evitch, in amazement. 
 
 "Very simply, I lashed him with papa's kazak whip, 
 that's all! You know, they were threshing the grain, 
 there was an awful hurry, and he, the beast, was drunk! 
 Wasn't I angry ! How dared he get drunk when the work 
 was seething, and his eyes were needed in every direction ? 
 Those peasants, they. . ." 
 
 "But, listen, Varvara Vasilievna, — " he began, impres- 
 sively and as gently as possible, — " is it nice to beat a ser- 
 vant ? Is that noble ? Reflect I Did those heroes, whom 
 you adore, beat their admirers ? . . Sadi-Coco. . ." 
 
 "Oh, indeed they did! One day, Count Louis gave 
 Coco such a box on the ear, that I even felt sorry for the 
 poor little soldier. And what can I do with them, except 
 beat them? It's a good thing I am able to do it ... for 
 I am strong ! Feel what muscles I've got ! " 
 
 353 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 Bending her arm at the elbow, she proudly offered it to 
 him. He laid his hand on her arm ahove her elbow, and 
 pressed it hard with his fingers, but immediately recol- 
 lected himself, and in confusion, blushing crimson, he 
 looked around him. Everywhere the trees stood in si- 
 lence, and only. . . . 
 
 In general, he was not modest with women, but this 
 woman, by her simplicity and trustfulness made him so, 
 although she kindled in him a feeling which was perilous 
 to him. 
 
 " You have enviable health, — " he said, ^taring intently 
 and thoughtfully at her little, sunburned hand, as it ad- 
 justed the folds of her gown on her bosom. — " And I 
 think that you have a very good heart, — " he broke out, 
 unexpectedly to himself. 
 
 " I don't know ! " — she retorted, shaking her head. — 
 "Hardly, — ^I have no character: sometimes I feel sorry 
 for people, even for those whom I do not like." 
 
 " Only sometimes ? — " he laughed. — " But, surely, they 
 •are always deserving of pity and sympathy." 
 
 " What for ? " — she inquired, smiling also. 
 
 " Cannot you see how unhappy they are ? Take those 
 peasants of yours, for example. How difficult it is for 
 them to live, and how much injustice, woe, torture there 
 is in their lives." 
 
 This burst hotly from him, and she looked attentively 
 at his face, as she said : 
 
 " You must be very good, if you speak like that. But, 
 you see, you don't know the peasants, you have not lived 
 in the country. They are unhappy, it is true — but who is 
 to blame for that ? They are crafty, and no one prevents 
 their becoming happy." 
 
 " But they have not even bread enough to satisfy their 
 hunger 1 " 
 
 354 
 
Varenka Olesofif 
 
 "I should think not! See what a lot of them there 
 are. . ." 
 
 " Yes, there are a great many of them! But there is a 
 great deal of land, also ... for there are people who 
 own tens of thousands of desyatinas.* For instance, how 
 much have you ? " 
 
 " Five hundred and seventy-three desyatinas . . Well, 
 and what of that ? Is it possible . . . come, listen to 
 me ! Is it possible to give it to them ? " 
 
 She gazed at him with the look of an adult on a child, 
 and laughed softly. This laughter confused and angered 
 him. There flashed up within him the desire to convince 
 her of the errors of her mind. 
 
 And, pronouncing his words distinctly, even sharply, he 
 began to talk to her about the injustice of the distribution 
 of wealth, about the majority of men's lack of rights, about 
 the fatal struggle for a place in life and for a morsel of 
 bread, about the power of the rich and the helplessness of 
 the poor, and about the mind — the guide iu life, crushed 
 by century-long injustice, and the host of prejudices, 
 which are advantageous to the powerful minority of peo- 
 ple. 
 
 She maintained silence, as she walked along by his side, 
 and gazed at him with curiosity and surprise. 
 
 Around them reigned the dusky tranquillity of the 
 forest, that tranquillity across which sounds seem to slide, 
 without disturbing its melancholy harmony. The leaves 
 of the aspens quivered nervously, as though the trees were 
 impatiently awaiting something passionately longed for. 
 
 " The duty of every honest man," said Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch impressively, " is to contribute to the conflict on be- 
 half of the enslaved all his brain, and all his heart, en- 
 * A desyatma is 2.70 acres. — Translator. 
 355 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 deavoring either to put an end to the tortures of the con- 
 flict, or to hasten its progress. For that genuine heroism 
 is required, and precisely in this conflict is where you 
 ought to look for it. Outside of it — there is no heroism. 
 The heroes of this fight are the only ones who are worthy 
 of admiration and imitation . . . and you ought to 
 direct your attention precisely to this spot, Varvara 
 Vasilievna, seek your heroes here, expend your strength 
 here ... it seems to me, that you might become a 
 notably-steadfast defender of the truth ! But, first of all, 
 you must read a great deal, you must learn to understand 
 life in its real aspect, unadorned by fancy . . . you 
 must fiing all those stupid romances into the fire. . ." 
 
 He paused, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, 
 he waited — wearied with his long speech — to see what she 
 would say. 
 
 She was gazing into the distance, straight ahead of her, 
 with her eyes narrowed, and on her face quivered shadows. 
 Five minutes of silence were broken by her quiet exclama- 
 tion: 
 
 " How well you talk ! . . Is it possible that everybody 
 in the university can talk so well ? " 
 
 The young savant heaved a hopeless sigh, and expecta- 
 tion of her answer gave place within him to a dull irrita- 
 tion against her, and compassion for himself. Why 
 would not she accept what was so logically clear for every 
 being endowed with the very smallest reasoning powers? 
 What, precisely, was lacking ia his remarks, that they 
 failed to strike home to her feelings ? 
 
 " You talk very well ! — " she sighed, without waiting for 
 him to reply, and in her eyes he read genuine satisfaction. 
 
 " But do I speak truthfully ? "—he asked. 
 
 "No! — " replied the young girl, without stopping to 
 
 366 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 think. — " Although you are a learned man, I shall argue 
 with you. For, you see, I also understand some things ! — 
 You speak so that it appears . . as though people were 
 building a house, and all of them were equals in the work. 
 And even not they only, but everything : — the bricks, and 
 the carpenters, and the trees, and the master of the house 
 — with you, everything is equal to everything else. But 
 is that possible ? The peasant must work, you must teach, 
 and the Governor must watch, to see if everybody does 
 what is necessary. And then you said, that life is a battle 
 . . . well, where is it ? On the contrary, people live very 
 peaceably. But if it is a battle, then there must be van- 
 quished people. But the general utUity is something that 
 I cannot understand. You say that general utility consists 
 in the equality of all men. But that is not true! My 
 papa is a colonel — how is he the equal of Nikon or of a 
 peasant ? And you — ^you are a learned man, but are you 
 the equal of our teacher of the Russian language, who 
 drank vodka, who was red-headed, stupid, and blew his 
 nose loudly, like a trumpet ? Aha ! " 
 
 She exulted, regarding her arguments as irresistible, 
 while he admired her joyous agitation, and felt satisfied 
 with himself, because he had caused her this joy. 
 
 But his mind strove to solve the problem why the solid 
 thought, unassailed by analysis, which he had aroused, 
 worked in a direction exactly opposite to the one in which 
 he had thrust it? 
 
 " I like you and I do not like some other person . . . 
 where is the equality ? " 
 
 " You like me ? — " Ippolit Sergyeevitch inquired, rather 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Yes . . . very much ! " she nodded her head affirma- 
 tively, and immediately asked : 
 
 357 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "What of it?" 
 
 He was frightened for himself ia the presence of the 
 abyss of ingenuousness which looked forth at him from 
 her clear gaze. 
 
 " Can this be her way of coquetting ? " — he thought — 
 "she has read romances enough, apparently, to under- 
 stand herself as a woman. . . ." 
 
 " Why do you ask about that ? — " she persisted, gazing 
 into his face with curious eyes. 
 
 Her gaze confused him. 
 
 " Why ? " — He shrugged his shoulders, — " I think it is 
 natural. You are a woman ... I am a man . ." he 
 explained, as calmly as he could. 
 
 " Well, and what of that ? All the same, there is no 
 reason why you should know. You see, you are not pre- 
 paring to marry me ! " 
 
 She said this so simply, that he was not even discon- 
 certed. It merely struck him, that some power, with 
 which it was useless to contend in view of its blind, ele- 
 mental character, was altering the work of his brain from 
 one direction to another. And, with a shade of playful- 
 ness, he said to her : 
 
 " Who knows ? . . . And then . . the desire to 
 please, and the desire to marry, or to get married — are 
 not identical, as you surely must know." 
 
 She suddenly burst out into a loud laugh, and he im- 
 mediately cooled under her laughter, and mutely cursed 
 both himself and her. Her bosom quivered with rich, sin- 
 cere mirth, which merrily shook the air, but he remained 
 silent, guiltily awaiting a retort to his playfulness. 
 
 " Okh ! well, what sort . . . what sort of a wife 
 . . . should I make for you! It's as ridiculous . . . 
 as the ostrich and the bee ! Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 358 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 And he, also, broke into laughter, — not at her queer 
 comparison, but at his own failure to comprehend the 
 springs which governed the movements of her soul. 
 
 " You are a charming girl ! " — ^he broke out sincerely. 
 
 " Give me your hand . . , you walk very slowly, and 
 I will pull you along! It is time for us to turn back 
 . . . high time! We have been roaming for four hours 
 . . . and Elizaveta Sergyeevna will be displeased with 
 us, because we are late for dianer. . ." 
 
 They went back. Ippollt Sergy^evitch felt himself 
 bound to return to his explanation of her errors, which 
 did not permit him to feel as free by her side as he would 
 have liked to be. But first it was necessary to suppress 
 within himself that obscure uneasiness, which was dully 
 fermenting ia him, impeding his intention to listen calmly 
 to her arguments, and to controvert them with decision. 
 It would be so easy for him to cut away the abnormal ex- 
 crescence from her brain by the cold logic of his mind, if 
 that strange, enervating, nameless sensation did not em- 
 barrass him. What was it ? It resembled a disinclination 
 to introduce into the spiritual realm of this young girl 
 ideas which were foreign to her. . . . But such an 
 evasion of his obligations would be shameful in a man 
 who was steadfast in his principles. And he regarded 
 himself in that light, and was profoundly convinced of 
 the power of his mind, and of its supremacy over feeling. 
 
 " Is to-day Tuesday ? " she said. — " Yes, of course. That 
 means, that three days hence the little black gentleman 
 will arrive. . ." 
 
 " Who will arrive, and where, did you say ? " 
 
 " The little black gentleman, Benkovsky, will come to 
 us on Saturday." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 359 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 She began to laugh, gazing searchingly at him. 
 
 " Don't you know ? He's an official. . ." 
 
 "Ah! yes, my sister told me. . ." 
 
 " She told you ? " said V4renka, becoming animated. — 
 " Well, tell me then — will they be married soon ? " 
 
 " What do you mean by that? WTiy should they marry? " 
 — asked IppoKt Sergyeevitch disconcerted. 
 
 " Why ? " — said Varenka, in amazement, with a vivid 
 blush. — " Why, I don't know. It's the regulation thing 
 to do ! But, oh Lord ! Can it be possible that you did not 
 know about that ? " 
 
 "I know nothing! — " ejaculated Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 with decision. 
 
 "And I have told you!" — she cried, in despair. — "A 
 pretty thing, truly ! Please, my dear Ippolit Sergyeevitch, 
 don't know anythirig about it now ... as though I 
 had not said anything ! " 
 
 "Very well! But permit me; I really do not know 
 anything. I have understood one thing — that my sister 
 is going to marry Mr. Benk6vsky . . is that it? " 
 
 " Well, yes ! That is to say, if she herself has not told 
 you that, perhaps it will not take place. You will not tell 
 her about this ? " 
 
 " I will not tell her, of course ! " promised he. — " I came 
 hither to a funeral, and have hit upon a wedding, it seems ? 
 That is pleasant ! " 
 
 "Please don't say a word about the wedding! — " she 
 entreated him. — " You don't know anything." 
 
 " That is perfectly true. — What sort of a person is this 
 Mr. Benkovsky ? May I inquire ? " 
 
 " You may, about him ! He's rather black of complex- 
 ion, rather sweet, and rather taciturn. He has little eyes, 
 a little mustache, little lips, little hands and a little fiddle. 
 
 360 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 He loves tender little songs, and little cheese patties. I 
 always feel like rapping him over his little snout." 
 
 " Well, you don't love him ! " exclaimed Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeeviteh, feeling sorry for Mr. Benkovsky at this hu-\ 
 miliating description of his exterior. 
 
 " And he does not love me ! I . . I can't endure 
 little, sweet, unassuming men. A man ought to be tall, 
 and strong; he ought to talk loudly, his eyes should be 
 large, fiery, and his emotions should be bold, and know 
 no impediments. He should will a thing and do it — that's 
 a man ! " 
 
 " Apparently, there are no more such ! " said Ippolit 
 Sergy6evitch, with a dry laugh, feeling that her ideal of 
 a man was repulsive to him, and irritated him. 
 
 " There must be some ! " she exclaimed with confidence. 
 
 "But Varvara Vasilievna, you have depicted a sort of 
 wild beast! What is there attractive about such a mon- 
 ster?" 
 
 "He's not a wild beast at all, but a strong man! 
 Strength — that is what is attractive. The men now-a- 
 days are born with rheumatism, with a cough, with vari- 
 ous diseases — is that nice? Would I find it interesting, 
 for example, to have for a husband a gentleman with pim- 
 ples on his face, like County Chief Kokovitch? or a pretty 
 little gentleman, like Benkovsky ? Or a round-shouldered, 
 gaunt hop-pole, like court-usher Mukhin? Or Grisha 
 Tchernoneboff, the merchant's son, a fat man, with the 
 asthma, and a bald head, and a red nose ? What sort of 
 children could such trashy husbands have ? For, you see, 
 one must think of that . . mustn't one? For the 
 children are a very important consideration! But those 
 men don't think . . They love nothing. They are good 
 for nothing, and I . . I would beat my husband if I 
 were married to any of those men ! " 
 
 861 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 Ippolit Sergy^eviteh stopped her, demonstrating that lier 
 judgment of men was, in general, incorrect, because she 
 had seen too few people. And the men she had mentioned 
 must not be regarded from the external point of view 
 alone — that was unjust. A man may have an ugly nose, 
 but a fine soul, pimples on his face, but a brilliant mind. 
 He found it tiresome and difficult to enunciate these ele- 
 mentary truths; until his meeting with her, he had so 
 rarely remembered their existence, that now they all ap- 
 peared to him musty and threadbare. He felt that all this 
 did not suit her, and that she would not accept it. 
 
 " There is the river! " she exclaimed joyfully, interrupt- 
 ing his speech. 
 
 And Ippolit Sergyeevitch reflected : 
 
 " She rejoices, because I am silenced." 
 
 Again they floated along the river, seated facing each 
 other. Varenka took possession of the oars, and rowed 
 hastily, powerfully; the water involuntarily gurgled under 
 the boat, little waves, flowed to the shores. Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch watched the shores moving to meet the boat, 
 and felt exhausted with all he had said and heard during 
 the course of this expedition. 
 
 " See, how fast the boat is going ! " Varenka said to him. 
 
 "Yes," he replied briefly, without turning his eyes to 
 her. It made no difference even without seeing her, he 
 could picture to himself how seductively her body was 
 bending and her bosom was heaving. 
 
 The park came in sight . . Soon they were walking up 
 its avenue, and the graceful figure of Elizaveta Sergyeevna 
 was coming to meet them, with a significant smile. She 
 held some papers in her hands, and said : 
 
 " Well, you have had a long walk ! " 
 
 " Have we been gone long ! On the other hand, I have 
 such an appetite, that I — ugh ! I could eat you ! " 
 
 362 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 And Varenka, encircling Elizaveta Sergyeevna's waist, 
 whirled her lightly round her, laughing at the latter's 
 cries. 
 
 The dinner was tasteless and tiresome, because Varenka 
 was engrossed with the process of satisfying her hunger, 
 and maintained silence, and Elizaveta Sergy^evna was 
 angry with her brother, who observed the searching 
 glances which she directed at his face, every now and then. 
 Soon after dinner, Varenka drove off homeward, and Ip- 
 polit Sergyeevitch went to his room, lay down on the divan, 
 and began to meditate, summing up the impressions of the 
 day. He recalled the most trivial details of the walk, and 
 felt that a turbid sediment was being formed from them, 
 which was eating into his stable equilibrium of mind and 
 feeling. He even felt the physical novelty of his mood, 
 in the shape of a strange weight, which oppressed his 
 heart — as though his blood had coagulated during that 
 time, and was circulating more slowly than was its wont. 
 This resembled fatigue, inclined him to revery, and formed 
 the preface to some desire which had not yet assumed 
 form. And this was disagreeable only because it remained 
 a nameless sensation, despite Ippolit Sergyeeviteh's efforts 
 to give it a name. 
 
 " I must wait to analyze it, until the fermentation has 
 subsided . . ." he came to the conclusion. 
 
 But a feeling of keen dissatisfaction with himself pre- 
 sented itself, and he simultaneously reproached himself 
 for having lost the ability to control his emotions, and 
 for having that day conducted himself in a manner unbe- 
 coming a serious man. Alone with himself, he was always 
 firm and stern with himself, more so than when with other 
 people. Accordingly, he now began to scrutinize himself. 
 
 Indisputably, that young girl was stupefyingly beautiful, 
 
 363 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 but to behold her, and instantly to enter in the dark circle 
 of some troubled sensation or other — was too much for 
 her, and was disgraceful for him, for that was wantonness, 
 a lack of strength of character. She strongly stirred hia 
 sensuality, — yes, but he must contend against that. 
 
 " Must I ? " — suddenly flashed into his head the curt, 
 poignant question. 
 
 He frowned, and bore himself toward the question as 
 though it had been put by someone outside of himself. 
 In any case, what was going on within him was not the 
 beginning of a passion for a woman, rather was it a protest 
 of his mind, which had been affronted by the encounter 
 from which he had not emerged as the conqueror, although 
 his opponent had been as weak as a child. He ought to 
 have talked to that girl figuratively, for it was evident that 
 she did not understand a logical argument. His duty was 
 to exterminate her wild conceptions, to destroy all those 
 coarse and stupid fancies, with which her brain was soaked. 
 He must strip her mind of all those errors, purify, empty 
 her soul, and then she would be capable of accepting the 
 truth and of holding it within her. 
 
 " Can I do that ? " — an irrelevant question again flashed 
 up within him. And again he evaded it. . . . What 
 would she be like, when she had accepted something new, 
 and contrary to what was already in her ? And it seemed 
 to him, that when her soul, freed from the captivity of 
 error, should have become permeated with harmonious 
 teaching, foreign to everything obscure and blinding, — 
 that young girl would be doubly beautiful. 
 
 When he was called to tea, he had already flrmly made 
 up his mind to reconstruct her world, imposing this de- 
 cision upon himself as a direct obligation. Now he would 
 meet her coldly and composedly, and would impart to his 
 
 861 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 intercourse with her a character of stern criticism of 
 everything that she shoiild say, or should do. 
 
 " Well, how do you like Varenka ? " — inquired his sister, 
 when he emerged on the terrace. 
 
 " A very charming girl," he replied, elevating his brows. 
 
 "Yes? So, that's it. . . I. thought you would be 
 struck by her lack of development." 
 
 " I really am rather surprised at that side of her, — " he 
 assented. — " But, to speak frankly, she is, in many ways, 
 better than the girls who are developed and who put on 
 airs over that fact." 
 
 " Yes, she is handsome . . and a desirable bride . . . 
 she has five hundred desyatinas of very fine land, about 
 one hundred of building timber. And, in addition, she 
 will inherit a solid estate from her aunt. And neither 
 estate is mortgaged. . ." 
 
 He perceived that his sister was determined not to un- 
 derstand him, but he did not care to explain to himself 
 why she found this necessary. 
 
 " I do not look at her from that point of view, — " said 
 he. 
 
 " Do so, then . . I seriously advise it." 
 
 « Thanks." 
 
 " You are a little out of temper, apparently ? " 
 
 " On the contrary. But what of that ? " 
 
 " Nothing. I want to know it, as an anxious sister." 
 
 She smiled prettily, and rather ingratiatingly. That 
 smile reminded him of Mr. Benkovsky, and he, also, smiled 
 at her. 
 
 " What are you laughing at ? — " she inquired. 
 
 " And you, what are you laughing at ? " 
 
 " I feel merry." 
 
 " I feel merry also, although I did not bury my wife two 
 weeks ago, — " he said, with a laugh. 
 
 865 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 But she put on a serious face, and sighed, as she said : 
 
 "Perhaps, in your soul, you condemn me for lack of 
 feeling toward my deceased husband. You think that I am 
 egotistical ? But, Ippolit, you know what my husband was, 
 I wrote to you what my life was like. And I often said to 
 myself : — ' My God ! and was I created merely for the pur- 
 pose of pleasing the coarse appetites of Nikolai Stepan- 
 oviteh Banartzeff, when he has drunk himself into such a 
 state of intoxication that he cannot distinguish his wife 
 from a simple peasant woman, or a woman of the street? ' " 
 
 " You don't say so ! " . . exclaimed Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch, recalling her letters, in which she had talked a 
 great deal about her husband's lack of character, his fond- 
 ness for liquor, his indolence, and of all vices except de- 
 bauchery. 
 
 " Do you doubt it ? — " she inquired reproachfully, and 
 sighed. — " Nevertheless, it is a fact. He was often in such 
 a condition. ... I do not assert that he betrayed me, 
 but I admit it. Could he be conscious, whether I was with 
 him, or some other woman, when he mistook the win- 
 dow for the door ? Yes . . and that was the way I lived 
 for years. . . ." She talked long and tediously to him 
 about her sad life, and he listened and waited for her to 
 tell him the thing that she wished to tell. And it invol- 
 untarily occurred to him, that Varenka would never be 
 likely to complain of her life, however it might turn out 
 for her. 
 
 " It seems to me that fate ought to reward me for those 
 long years of grief. . . . Perhaps it is near — my recom- 
 pense. ." 
 
 Elizaveta Sergy6evna paused, and casting an interroga- 
 tive glance at her brother, she blushed slightly. 
 
 " What do you mean to say ? " — he inquired, affection- 
 ately, bending toward her. 
 
 366 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " You see . . . perhaps I shall , . . marry again ! " 
 
 " And you will do exactly right ! I congratulate you ! 
 . . . But why are you so disconcerted? " 
 
 "Really, I do not know!" 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " I think I have mentioned him to you . . . Benkov- 
 sky . . , the future procurator . . . and, in the 
 meantime, a poet and dreamer. . . . Perhaps you have 
 come across his verses? He prints them. . ." 
 
 " I do not read verses. Is he a good man ? However, 
 of course he is good. . . ." 
 
 " I am sufficiently clever not to answer in the affirma- 
 tive; hut I think I may say, without self-delusion, that 
 he is capable of making up to me for the past. He loves 
 me. ... I have invented a little philosophy for myself 
 . . . perhaps it will seem rather harsh to you." 
 
 " Philosophize without fear, that's the fashion at pres- 
 ent, . ." jested Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 " Men and women are two tribes, which are everlastingly 
 at war . ." said the woman softly, . . " Confidence, 
 friendship and other feelings of that sort, are hardly pos- 
 sible between me and a man. But love is possible. , . . 
 And love is the victory of the one who loves the least over 
 the one who loves the most. ... I have been conquered 
 once, and have paid for it . . . now I have won the 
 victory, and shall enjoy the fruits of conquest. . ." 
 
 " It is a tolerably fierce sort of philosophy, . ." Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch interrupted her, feeling, with satisfaction, 
 that Vdrenka could not philosophize in that manner. 
 
 " Life has taught it to me. . . . You see, he is four 
 years younger than I am, . , he has only just finished 
 at the university, . I know that that is dangerous for me 
 . . . and, how shall I express it ? . . I should like to 
 
 367 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 arrange matters with him in such a way, that my property- 
 right shall not be subjected to any risk." 
 
 " Yes ... so what then ? " inquired Ippolit Sergy6e- 
 viteh, becoming attentive. 
 
 " So, you are to advise me as to how this is to be ar- 
 ranged. I do not wish to give him any legal rights over 
 my property . . . and I would not give him any over 
 my person, if that could be avoided." 
 
 " It strikes me that that could be effected by a civil mar- 
 riage. However. . ." 
 
 " No, I reject a civil marriage. . ." 
 
 He looked at her, and thought, with a feeling of fastidi- 
 ousness : 
 
 " Well, she is wise ! If God created men, life re-creates 
 them so easily, that they certainly must have long ago be- 
 come repulsive to him." 
 
 And his sister convincingly explained to him her view 
 of marriage. 
 
 " Marriage ought to be a reasonable contract, excluding 
 every risk. That is precisely how I mean to deal with 
 Benkovsky. But, before taking that step, I should like 
 to clear up the legality of that vexatious brother's claim. 
 Please look over these documents." 
 
 " Will you permit me to undertake this matter to-mor- 
 row? " — he inquired. 
 
 " Of course, when you like." 
 
 She continued, for a long time, to set forth her ideas 
 to him, then she told him a great deal about Benkovsky, 
 Of him she spoke condescendiagly, with a smile flitting 
 over her lips, and, for some reason, with her eyes puckered 
 up, Ippolit listened to her, and was amazed at the utter 
 absence in himself of all sympathy for her fate, or interest 
 in her remarks. 
 
 368 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 The sun had already set when they parted, he, exhausted 
 by her, to his own room; she, animated by the conversa- 
 tion, with a conJSdent sparkle ia her eyes, — to attend to 
 her housekeeping. 
 
 When he arrived in his own quarters, Ippolit lighted the 
 lamp, got a book, and tried to read; but with the very 
 first page, he comprehended that it would please him 
 equally well if he closed the book. Stretching himself 
 luxuriously, he closed it, and fidgetted about in his arm- 
 chair, seeking a comfortable attitude, but the chair was 
 hard; then he betook himself to the divan, and lay down 
 on it. At first, he thought of nothing at all ; then, with 
 vexation, he remembered, that he would soon be obliged 
 to make the acquaintance of Mr. Benkovsky, and imme- 
 diately he smiled, as he recalled the sketch which Varenka 
 had given of that gentleman. 
 
 And soon she alone occupied his thoughts and his im- 
 agination. Among other things, he thought : 
 
 " And what if I were to marry such a charming mon- 
 ster? I think she might prove a very interesting wife 
 ... if only for the reason that one does not hear from 
 her mouth the cheap wisdom of the popular books. . ." 
 
 But after having surveyed his position, in the character 
 of Vdrenka's husband, from all sides, he began to laugh, 
 and categorically answered himself: 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 And after that, he felt sad. 
 
 369 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 11 
 
 On Saturday morning, a little unpleasantness began for 
 Ippollt Sergyeevitch : as he was dressing himself, he had 
 knocked the lamp off of the little table to the floor, it had 
 flown into fragments, and several drops of kerosene from 
 the broken reservoir had fallen into one of his shoes, 
 which he had not yet put on his feet. The shoes, of 
 course, bad been cleaned, but it began to seem to Ippollt 
 Sergyeevitch that a repulsive, oily odor was streaming 
 upon the air from the tea, the bread, the butter, and even 
 from the beautifully dressed hair of his sister. 
 
 This spoiled his temper. 
 
 " Take off the shoe, and set it in the sun, then the kero- 
 sene will evaporate, — " his sister advised him. — "And, 
 in the meantime, put on my husband's slippers, there is 
 one pair which is perfectly new." 
 
 " Please don't worry. It will soon disappear." 
 
 " It is of the greatest importance to wait until it dis- 
 appears. Eeally, shall not I order the slippers to be 
 brought ? " 
 
 "No . . I don't want them. Throw them away." 
 
 " Why ? They are nice slippers, of velvet . . . they 
 are fit to use." 
 
 He wanted to argue, the kerosene irritated him. 
 
 " What wni they be good for ? You will not wear them." 
 
 " Of course I shall not, but Alexander will." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " Why, Benkovsky." 
 
 " Aha ! — " he gave way to a hard laugh. — " That is very 
 touching fidelity on the part of your dead husband's slip- 
 pers. And practical." 
 
 " You are malicious to-day." 
 
 370 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 She looked at him somewhat offended, but very search- 
 ingly, and, he, catching that expression ia her eyes, 
 thought unpleasantly: 
 
 " She certainly imagines that I am irritated by Varen- 
 ka's absence." 
 
 " Benkovsky will arrive in time for dinner, probably, — " 
 she informed him, after a pause. 
 
 "I'm very glad to hear it, — " he replied, as he com- 
 mented to himself : 
 
 " She wants me to be amiable toward my future brother- 
 iu-law." 
 
 And his irritation was augmented by a feeling of oppres- 
 sive boredom. But Elizaveta Sergy^evna said, as she care- 
 fully spread a thin layer of butter on her bread: 
 
 " Practicalness, in my opinion, is a very praiseworthy 
 quality. Especially at the present moment, when im- 
 poverishment so oppresses our brethren, who live upon 
 the fruits of the earth. Why should not Benkovsky wear 
 the slippers of my deceased husband ? . ." 
 
 " And his shroud also, if you removed the shroud from 
 him, and have preserved it," — said Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 venomously to himself, concentrating his attention upon 
 the operation of transferring the boiled cream from the 
 cream-jug to his glass. 
 
 " And, altogether, my husband has left a very extensive 
 and appropriate wardrobe. And Benk6vsky is not spoiled. 
 For you know how many of them there are — three young 
 fellows besides Alexander, and five young girls. And the 
 estate has about ten mortgages on it. You know, I pur- 
 chased their library, on very advantageous terms ; — there 
 are some very valuable things in it. Look it over, and 
 perhaps you will find something you need. . . . Alex- 
 ander subsists on a very paltry salary." 
 
 371 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Have you known him long? — " he asked her; — it was 
 necessary to talk about Benkovsky, although he did not 
 wish to do so. 
 
 "Four years, altogether, and so . . . intimately, 
 seven or eight months. You will see that he is very nice. 
 He is so tender, so easily excited, and something of an 
 idealist, a decadent, I think. However, all the young gen- 
 eration are inclined to decadentism. . . . Some fall on 
 the side of idealism, others on the side of materialism 
 . . . and both sorts seem very clever to me." 
 
 " There are men who profess ' scepticism of a hundred 
 horse power,' as one of my comrades has defined it, — " 
 said Ippolit Sergyeeviteh, bending his face over his glass. 
 
 She laughed, as she said : 
 
 " That is witty, though it is also rather coarse. Eeally, 
 I am on the verge of scepticism myself, the healthy scep- 
 ticism, you know, which fetters the wings of all possible 
 impulses, and seems to me indispensable for . . the 
 acquisition of correct views as to the life of people." 
 
 He made haste to finish his tea, and went away, an- 
 nouncing that he had to sort over the books which he had 
 brought with him. But the odor of kerosene lingered still 
 in his chamber, in spite of the open doors. He scowled, 
 and taking a book, he went out into the park. There, iu 
 the closely clustered family of ancient trees, wearied with 
 gales and thunderstorms, reigned a melancholy silence, 
 which enervated the mind, and he walked on, without 
 opening his book, down the principal avenue, thinking of 
 nothing, desiring nothing. 
 
 Here was the river and the boat. Here he had seen 
 Varenka reflected in the water, and angelically beautiful 
 in that reflection. 
 
 "Well, I'm just like a boy from the gymnasium!" he 
 
 372 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 cried to himself, eonscious that the memory of her was 
 agreeable to him. 
 
 After halting for a moment by the side of the river, he 
 stepped into the boat, seated himsejf in the stern, and 
 began to gaze at that picture in the water, which had been 
 so lovely three days before. It was equally beautiful to- 
 day, but to-day, on its transparent background the white 
 figure of that strange young girl did not make its appear- 
 ance. PolkanofE lighted a cigarette, and immediately flung 
 it into the water, reflecting that, perhaps, he had done a 
 foolish thing in comiag hither. As a matter of fact, of 
 what use was he there ? Apparently, only for the sake of 
 preserving his sister's good name, to speak more simply, 
 in order to enable his sister to receive Mr. Benkovsky into 
 her house, without offending the proprieties. It was not 
 an important role. . . . And that Benkovsky could not 
 be very clever if he really did love Polkanoff's sister, who 
 was, if anything, too clever. 
 
 After having sat there for three hours in a semi-medi- 
 tative condition, his thoughts paralyzed, in a certain way, 
 and gliding over subjects, without sitting in judgment 
 upon them, he rose, and went slowly to the house, angry 
 with himself for the uselessly wasted time, and firmly re- 
 solving to set to work as speedily as possible. As he ap- 
 proached the terrace, he beheld a slender young man, in 
 a white blouse, girt with a strap. The young man was 
 standing with his back to the avenue, and was looking at 
 something, as he bent over the table. Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 slackened his pace, wondering whether this could possibly 
 be Benk6vsky? Then the young man straightened up, 
 with a graceful gesture flung back the long locks of curl- 
 ing hair from his brow, and turned his face toward the 
 avenue. 
 
 373 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Why, he's a page of the Middle Ages ! " exclaimed Ip- 
 polit Sergyeevitch to himself. 
 
 . Benkovsky's face was oval, of a dead-white hue, and 
 appeared jaded, because of the strained gleam of his large, 
 almond-shaped, black eyes, deeply sunken in their orbits. 
 His beautifully formed mouth was shaded by a small, 
 black mustache, and his arched brow by locks of carelessly 
 dishevelled, waving hair. He was small, below middle 
 stature, but his willowy figure, elegantly built, and finely 
 proportioned, concealed this defect. He looked at Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch as short-sighted persons look, and there was 
 something sympathetic, but sickly, about his pale face. In 
 a velvet beretta and costume, he really would seem like a 
 page who had escaped from a picture representing a court 
 of the Middle Ages. 
 
 " Benkovsky ! " — he said, in a low tone, offering his 
 white hand, with the long, slender fingers of a musician, 
 to Ippolit Sergyeevitch, as the latter ascended the steps 
 of the terrace. 
 
 The young savant shook his hand cordially. 
 
 For a moment, both preserved an awkward silence, then 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch began to talk about the beauty of 
 the park. The young man answered him briefly, being 
 anxious, evidently, merely to comply with the demands of 
 politeness, and exhibiting no interest whatever in his com- 
 panion. 
 
 Elizaveta Sergyeevna soon made her appearance, in a 
 loose white gown, with black lace on the collar, and girt 
 at the waist with a long, black cord, terminating in tassels. 
 This costume harmonized well with her calm countenance, 
 imparting a majestic expression to its small, but regular 
 features. On her cheeks played a flush of satisfaction, and 
 her cold eyes had an animated look. 
 
 374 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "Dinner will be ready at once, — " she announced. — 
 " I am going to treat you to ice-cream. But why are you 
 so bored, Alexander Petr6vitcli? Yes! You have not 
 forgotten Schubert ? " 
 
 " I have brought Schubert and the books,—" he replied 
 frankly, and meditatively admiring her. 
 
 Ippolit Sergy^evitch observed the expression of his face, 
 and felt awkward, comprehending that this charming 
 young man must have made a vow to himself not to recog- 
 nize his existence. 
 
 " That's fine ! " — exclaimed Elizaveta Sergy^evna, smil- 
 ing at Benk6vsky. — " Shall we play it after dinner ? " 
 
 " If you like ! — " and he bowed his head before her. 
 
 This was gracefully done, but, nevertheless, it made 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh grin inwardly. 
 
 "It does please me very much, — " declared his sister 
 eoquettishly. 
 
 " And are you fond of Schubert ? — " inquired Ippolit 
 Sergy6evitch. 
 
 " I love Beethoven best of all — he is the Shakspear of 
 music, — " replied Benkovsky, turniag his profile toward 
 him. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh had heard Beethoven called the 
 Shakspear of music before, and the difference between 
 him and Schubert constituted one qf those mysteries 
 which did not interest him in the least. But this boy did 
 interest him, and he seriously inquired : 
 
 " Why do you place Beethoven, ia particular, at the head 
 of all?" 
 
 " Because he is more of an idealist than all the other 
 musical composers put together." 
 
 " Really ? Do you, also, take that as the true view of 
 the world?" 
 
 375 
 
Varenka Olesofif 
 
 " Undoubtedly. And I know that you are an extreme 
 materialist, — " explained Benkovsky, and his eyes gleamed 
 strangely. 
 
 " He wants to argue ! " thought Ippolit Sergy^evitch, — 
 " But he's a nice young fellow, straightforward, and, proba- 
 bly, strictly honorable." 
 \ And his sympathy for this idealist, who was condemned 
 \ to wear the dead man's slippers, increased. 
 \ " So, you and I are enemies ? " — he inquired, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " — Elizaveta Sergyeevna called to them 
 from the room. — " Don't forget that you have only just 
 made each other's acquaintance. . ." 
 
 Masha, the maid, was setting the table, with a clatter of 
 dishes, and she cast a furtive glance at Benkovsky with 
 eyes in which sparkled artless rapture. Ippolit also gazed 
 at him, reflecting that he must treat this young fellow 
 with all possible delicacy, and that it would be well to 
 avoid " ideal " conversations with him, because he would, 
 in all probability, get excited to the point of rage in argu- 
 ments. But Benkovsky stared at him with a burning glit- 
 ter in his eyes, and a nervous quiver on his face. . . Evi- 
 dently, he was passionately anxious to talk, and he re- 
 strained his desire with difficulty. Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 made up his mind to confine himself to the bounds of 
 strictly official courtesy. 
 
 His sister, who was already seated at the table, tossed 
 insignificant phrases, in a jesting tone, now to one, now 
 to the other: the men made brief replies — one with the 
 careless familiarity of a relative, the other with the re- 
 spect of the lover. And all three were seized with a cer- 
 tain feeling of awkwardness and embarrassment, which 
 made them keep watch over one another, and over them- 
 selves. 
 
 376 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 Masha brought the first course out. on the terrace. 
 
 " Please come to dinner, gentlemen ! " — Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna invited them, as she armed herself with the soup- 
 ladle. — " Will you have a glass of vodka? " 
 
 " Yes, I will ! " — said Ippolit Sergy^evitch. 
 
 " And I will not, if you will excuse me," declared Ben- 
 k6vsky. 
 
 " I willingly excuse you. But you will drink, wUl you 
 not?" 
 
 " I do not wish to. . ." 
 
 " Touch glasses with a materialist, — " thought Ippolit 
 Sergy6evitch. 
 
 Either the savory soup with patties, or Ippolit Ser- 
 gy6eviteh's ceremonious manner seemed somewhat to cool 
 and soften the sullen gleam of the young man's black 
 eyes, and when the second course was served he began 
 to talk : 
 
 " Perhaps my exclamation, in reply to your question, 
 struck you as a challenge — are we enemies? Perhaps it 
 is impolite, but I assume that people's relations to one 
 another should be free from their official falsehood, which 
 everyone has accepted as the rule." 
 
 " I entirely agree with you," answered Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch, with a smUe. — " The more simply, the better. 
 And your straightforward declaration only pleased me, if 
 you will permit me to express myself in that way." 
 
 Benkovsky smiled sadly, as he said : 
 
 " We really are enemies in the realm of ideas, but that 
 defines itself at once, of itself. Now, you say — ' the more 
 simply, the better,' and I think so too, but I put one con- 
 struction on those words, while you put another. . . ." 
 
 " Do we ? " — inquired Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, if you proceed in the straight line of 
 logic from the views set forth in your article." 
 
 877 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Of course I do. . ." 
 
 "There, you see . . And from my point of view, 
 your idea of simplicity would be coarse. But let us drop 
 that question. . . . Tell me, in regarding life merely 
 as a mechanism, which has worked out everything, includ- 
 ing ideas, do not you feel conscious of an inward chUl, 
 and is there not in your soul a single drop of compassion 
 for all the mysterious and enehantingly beautiful, which 
 we degrade to simple chemistry, to a commingling of atoms 
 of material?" 
 
 " Hm ! . . I do not feel that chill, for my place is 
 clear to me, in the great mechanism of life, which is more 
 poetical than aU fantasies. ... As for the metaphysi- 
 cal fermentation of sentiment and mind, that, you know, 
 is a matter of taste. So far, no one knows what beauty is. 
 In any case, it is proper to assume that it is a physiological 
 sensation." 
 
 One talked in a low tone, full of pensiveness and sor- 
 fowful notes of pity for his erring interlocutor; the other 
 spoke calmly, with a consciousness of his mental superior- 
 ity, and with a desire not to employ words which wounded 
 the vanity of his opponent — words which are so frequent 
 in a discussion between two well-bred men, as to whose 
 truth is the nearer to the real truth. Elizaveta Sergyeevna 
 smiled slightly, as she watched the play of their counte- 
 nances, and composedly ate her dinner, carefully gnawing 
 the bones of her game. Masha peeped from behind the 
 door, and, evidently, wished to understand what the gen- 
 tlemen were saying, for her face wore a strained expres- 
 sion, and her eyes had become round, and lost their wonted 
 expression of cunning and amiability. 
 
 " You say — actuality, but what is it, when everything 
 around us, and we ourselves are merely chemistry and 
 
 378 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 mechanism, working without cessation? Everywhere ui 
 motion, and everything is motion, and there is not the 
 hundredth part of a second of rest. — How shall I seize 
 actuality, how shall I recognize it, if I myself, at any given 
 moment, am not what I was, am not what I shall be the 
 following moment ? You, I, we — are we merely material ? 
 But some day we shall lie beneath the holy pictures, filling 
 the air with the vile stench of corruption. . . . All that 
 will remain of us on earth will be, perhaps, some faded 
 photographs, and they can never tell anyone about the 
 joys and torments of our existence, which has been swal- 
 lowed up by the unknown. Is it not terrible to believe 
 that all we thinking and suffering beings live only for the 
 purpose of decaying ? " 
 
 Ippolft Sergy6evitch listened attentively to his speech, 
 and said to himself : 
 
 " If you were convinced of the truth of your belief, you 
 would be at ease. But here you are, shouting. And it is 
 not because you are an idealist that you shout, my good 
 fellow, but because you have weak nerves." 
 
 But Benkovsky, gazing into his face, with flaming eyes, 
 went on : 
 
 " You talk about science, — very good ! — I bow down be- 
 fore it as before a mighty power which will loose the bonds 
 of the mystery that fetters me. . . . But by the light of 
 it I behold myself on the same spot where stood my distant 
 ancestor, who believed that the thunder rumbles thanks 
 to the prophet Elijah. I do not believe in Elijah; I know 
 that it is caused by the action of electricity, but how is 
 that any clearer than Elijah ? In that it is more compli- 
 cated ? It is as inexplicable as motion, and all the other 
 powers, which people are unsuccessfully trying to substi- 
 tute for one. And it sometimes seems to me, that the 
 
 879 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 entire business of science amounts to complicating con- 
 ceptions — that is all ! I think, that it is good to believe ; 
 people laugh at me, they say : ' It is not necessary to be- 
 lieve, but to know.' I want to know what matter is, and 
 they answer me, literally, thus : ' Matter is what is con- 
 tained in that locality of space, in which we render ob- 
 jective the cause of the sensations that we receive.' Why 
 talk like that ? Can that be given out as the answer to the 
 question ? It is a sneer at those who are passionately and 
 sincerely seeking an answer to the anxious queries of their 
 spirits. ... I want to know the aim of existence — 
 that aspiration of my spirit is also ridiculed. But I am 
 living, life is not easy, and it gives me a right to demand 
 a categorical answer from the monopolists of wisdom — 
 why do I live?" 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch east a sidelong glance at the face 
 of Benkovsky, which was glowing with emotion, and rec- 
 ognized the fact that that young man must be answered 
 with words which should correspond with his own words, 
 in the matter of the strength of stormy feeling injected 
 into them. But, while he recognized this fact, he felt 
 within himself a desire to retort. But the poet's huge 
 eyes grew stni larger, a passionate melancholy burned 
 within them. He sighed, and his white, elegant right 
 hand, fluttered swiftly through the air, now convulsively 
 clenched into a fist and menacing, now as though clutch- 
 ing at something in space, which it was powerless to grasp. 
 
 " But, while giving nothing, how much you have taken 
 from life ! You reply to that with scorn. . . . But in 
 it rings — what ? The impossibility of retorting with con- 
 fidence, and, in addition, your inability to pity people. 
 For men are asking from you spiritual bread, and you are 
 ofEering them the stone of negation! You have stolen 
 
 380 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 the soul of life, and if there are in it no great feats of love 
 and suffering, you are to blame for that, for, the slaves 
 of reason, you have surrendered your soul into its power, 
 and now it has turned cold, and is dying, ill and poverty- 
 stricken ! But life is just as gloomy as ever, and its tor- 
 ments, its woe, demand heroes. . . . Where are they ? " 
 
 " What a hysterical creature he is ! " exclaimed Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch to himself, as with an unpleasant shiver, he 
 gazed at this little ball of nerves, which was quivering 
 before him with melancholy excitement. — He tried to stem 
 the stormy eloquence of his future brother-in-law, but did 
 not succeed, for, possessed by the inspiration of his pro- 
 test, the young man heard nothing and, apparently, saw 
 nothing. He must have carried these complaints, which 
 poured forth from his soul, about in him for a long time, 
 and was glad that he could have his say to one of the men 
 who, in his opinion, had ruined life. 
 
 Elizaveta Sergy^evna admired him, screwing up her 
 light eyes, and in them burned a spark of sensual desire. 
 
 " In all that you have so powerfully and beautifully 
 said, — " began Ippolit Sergyeevitch, in measured and amia- 
 ble tones, taking advantage of the involuntary pause of the 
 weary orator, and desirous of soothing him, — " in all this 
 there indisputably does ring much true feeling, much 
 searching reason. . . ." 
 
 " What can I say to him that is chilling and concilia- 
 tory? — " he said to himself, with renewed force, as he 
 wove his web of compliments. 
 
 But his sister rescued him from his trying situation. 
 She had already eaten her £11, and sat there, leaning 
 against the back of her chair. Her dark hair was arranged 
 in antique fashion, but this coiffure, in the form of a dia- 
 dem, was very becoming to the masterful expression of her 
 
 881 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 countenance. Her lips, quivering with, laughter, dis- 
 played a strip of white teeth, as thin as the edge of a 
 knife, and stopping her brother with a graceful gesture, 
 she said: 
 
 " Permit me to say a word ! I know an apothegm of a 
 certain wise man, and it runs : ' Those are not in the 
 right who speak — there is the truth, neither are they in 
 the right who reply to them — that is a lie, but only Sab- 
 baoth and Satan are right, in whose existence I do not be- 
 lieve, but who must exist somewhere, for it is they who 
 have organized life in such a dual form, and it is life 
 which has created them. You do not understand? Yet 
 I am speaking the same human language as you are. But 
 I compress the entire wisdom of the ages into one phrase, 
 in order that you may perceive the nothingness of your 
 wisdom.' " 
 
 When she had finished her speech, she asked the men, 
 with an enchantingly brilliant smile: 
 
 " What do you think of that ? " 
 
 Ippollt Sergyeeviteh shrugged his shoulders in silence, 
 — his sister's words perturbed him, but he was delighted 
 that she had curbed Benkovsky. 
 
 But something strange happened with Benkovsky. 
 When Elizaveta Sergyeevna began to speak, his face flamed 
 with ecstasy, and, paling at every word she uttered, it ex- 
 pressed something akin to terror at the moment, when she 
 put her question. He tried to make her some reply, his 
 lips trembled nervously, but no words proceeded from 
 them. And she, magnificent in her composure, watched 
 the play of his face, and it must have pleased her to behold 
 the effect of her words on him, for satisfaction beamed 
 from her eyes. 
 
 " To me, at least, it seems as though the entire sum- 
 382 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 total of huge folios of philosophy are contained in these 
 words," she said, after a pause. 
 
 " You are right, up to a certain point, — " said Ippolit 
 Sergy6evitch, with a wry smile, — "but, at the same 
 time. . . ." 
 
 " So, is it possihle that a man is bound to quench the 
 last sparks of the Promethean fire which still burn in his 
 soul, ennobling his strivings? — " exclaimed Benkovsky, 
 gazing sadly at her.. 
 
 " Why, if they yield anything positive . . . anything 
 agreeable to you ! — " she said, with a smile. 
 
 " It seems to me that you are taking a very dangerous 
 criterion for the definition of the positive, — " drUy re- 
 marked her brother. 
 
 " Elizaveta Sergyeevna ! You are a woman, tell me : — 
 what echoes does the great intellectual movement of 
 woman awaken in your soul? — " inquired Benkovsky, 
 warming up again. 
 
 " It is interesting. . ." 
 
 "Only that?" 
 
 " But I think that it . . . how shall I express it to 
 you? . . that it is the aspiration of the superfluous 
 women. They have remained outside the bulwarks of 
 life, because they are homely, or because they do not rec- 
 ognize the power of their beauty, do not know the taste of 
 power over men. . . . They are superfluous, from a 
 mass of causes ! . . . But — ice-cream is a necessity ! " 
 
 In silence he took the little green dish out of her hands, 
 and setting it in front of him, he began to stare intently 
 at the cold, white mass, nervously rubbing his brow 
 with his hand, which was trembling with suppressed emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " There, you see that philosophy spoils not only the 
 
 383 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 taste for life, but even the appetite, — " jested Elizaveta 
 Sergyeevna. 
 
 But her brother looked at her and thought, that she 
 was playing an unworthy game with that boy. In him the 
 whole conversation had evoked a dawning sensation of 
 boredom, and, although he pitied Benkovsky, this pity 
 did not comprise any warmth of heart, and therefore it 
 was devoid of energy. 
 
 " Sic visum Veneri ! " — he decided, as he rose from the 
 table, and lighted a cigarette. 
 
 " Shall we play ? " Elizaveta Sergyeevna asked Benkov- 
 sky. 
 
 And when, in reply to her words, he bent his head sub- 
 missively, they went from the terrace into the house, 
 whence soon resounded the chords of the piano, and the 
 sounds of a violin being tuned. Ippolit Sergyeevitch sat 
 in a comfortable arm-chair near the railing of the ter- 
 race, protected from the sun by a lace-like curtain 
 of wild grapevine, which had climbed from the ground 
 to the roof on cords that had been strung for it, 
 and heard everything which his sister and Benkovsky 
 said. 
 
 " Have you written anything lately ? " — inquired Eliza- 
 veta Sergyeevna, as she struck the note for the violin. 
 
 " Yes, a little piece." 
 
 " Eeeite it ! " 
 
 " Keally, I do not wish to." 
 
 " Do you want me to entreat you ? " 
 
 "Do I? No. . . . But I should like to recite 
 the verses which are now composing themselves within 
 me. . . ." 
 
 "Pray do!" 
 
 " Yes, I will recite them. . . . But they have onlv 
 
 384 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 just presented themselves . . and you have called them 
 into life. . ." 
 
 " How agreeable it is to me to hear that ! " 
 " I do not know. . . . Perhaps you are speaking with 
 sincerity. ... I do not know. . ." 
 
 " Really, ought not I to go away ? " — thought Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch. But he was too indolent to move, and he 
 remained, consoling himself with the thought that they 
 must be aware of his presence on the terrace. 
 
 " Of thy calm beauty 
 The cold gleam doth trouble me . . .." * 
 
 rang out the low voice of Benkovsky. 
 
 " Wilt thou laugh at my dreams ? 
 Thou understandest me not, perchance ? " 
 
 mournfully iaquired the youth. 
 
 " I'm afraid it's rather late in the day for you to ask 
 about that," — thought Ippolit Sergyeevitch, with a scep- 
 tical smile. 
 
 " In thine eyes there is no happiness, 
 In thy words, — cold laughter do I hear. 
 And strange to thee ia the delirium mad 
 Of my soul. . . ." 
 
 Benk6vsky paused, from emotion, or from lack of a 
 rhyme. 
 
 " But it is so splendid ! 
 In it is a whirlwind of songs, in it is my life ! 
 All permeated is it with stormy passion 
 
 * These lines are very irregular, as to both rhyme and rhythm in the 
 original. They are hardly of sufficient merit to warrant a poetical rer- 
 eion. — Translator. 
 
 885 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 To solve the enigma of existence, 
 
 To find for all men the road to happiness. . . ." 
 
 "I must go! — " decided Ippolit Sergyeevitch, involtin- 
 tarily brought to his feet by the young man's hysterical 
 moans, in which simultaneously resounded a touching 
 " farewell! " to the peace of his soul, and a despairing " have 
 mercy! " addressed to the woman. 
 
 " Thy slave,— to thee I've raised a throne 
 In the madness of my heart , , . 
 And I await. . ." 
 
 "Your ruin, for — sic visum Veneri!" — Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch completed the verse, as he walked down the 
 avenue through the park. 
 
 He was astonished at his sister: — she did not seem 
 handsome enough to arouse such love in the young man. 
 She certaialy must have effected it by the tactics of op- 
 position. Then, one must acknowledge her steadfast bear- 
 ing, for Benkovsky was handsome. . . . Perhaps he, 
 as her brother, and a well-bred man, ought to speak to 
 her about the true character of her relations to this boy, 
 glowing with red-hot passion? But to what could such a 
 conversation lead, now? And he was not enough of an 
 authority on matters of Cupid and Venus to meddle with 
 this affair. . . . But, nevertheless, he must point out to 
 Elizaveta the probable ruin of that gentleman, if he, with 
 her aid, did not succeed in quenching pretty promptly the 
 flame of his transports, and did not learn to feel more 
 normally, and to argue in a more healthy manner. 
 
 " And what would happen, if that torch of passion were 
 to flare up before Varenka's heart ? " 
 
 But, after putting this question to himself, Ippolit Ser- 
 
 386 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 gyeevitch did not try to solve it, but began to wonder what 
 the young girl was doing at that particular moment ? Per- 
 haps she was slapping her Nikon in the face, or rolling her 
 sick father through the rooms in his arm-chair. And as he 
 represented her to himself engaged in those occupations, 
 he was offended, on her account. Yes, it was indispen- 
 sably necessary to open the eyes of that girl, to actuality, 
 to acquaint her with the intellectual tendencies of the 
 day. What a pity that she lived so far away, and it was 
 impossible to see her more frequently, so that, day by day, 
 he might shake loose everything which barred off her mind 
 from the action of logic ! 
 
 The park was full of stillness, and of fragrant coolness, 
 from the house floated the singing sounds of the violin, 
 and the nervous notes of the piano. One after another 
 phrases of sweet entreaty, of tender summons, of stormy 
 ecstasy were showered over the park. 
 
 Music poured from heaven also — there the larks were 
 singing. With rumpled plumage, and black as a piece of 
 coal, a starling sat on a linden bough, and bristling up 
 the feathers on his breast, he whistled significantly, star- 
 ing sidewise at the meditative man, who was strolling 
 slowly along the avenue, with his hands clasped behind 
 his back, and staring far away into the distance, with smil- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 At tea, Benk6vsky was more reserved, and not so much 
 like a crazy man; Elizaveta Sergyeevna, also seemed to 
 be warmed up by something. 
 
 On observing this, Ippolit Sergydevitch felt himself 
 guaranteed against the breaking out of any abstract dis- 
 cussions, and so felt less embarrassed. 
 
 " You tell me nothing about St. Petersburg, Ippolit, — " 
 said Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 
 387 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " What is there to say about it ? It is a very large and 
 lively city . . The weather is damp there, but. . . ." 
 
 " But the people are dry," — interrupted Benkovsky. 
 
 " Not all of them, by any means. There are many who 
 have grown perfectly soft, and are covered with the mould 
 of very ancient moods; people everywhere are tolerably 
 varied ! " 
 
 " Thank God that it is so ! " exclaimed Benkovsky. 
 
 " Yes, life would be intolerably tedious if it were not 
 so ! " assented Elizaveta Sergyeevna. — " But in what favor 
 does the country stand with young people. Are they still 
 speculating on a fall in stocks ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are becoming somewhat disillusioned." 
 
 " That is a characteristic phenomenon for the educated 
 class of our days, — " said Benkovsky, with a laugh.^ 
 " When the majority of that class were of the nobility, it 
 had no existence. But now-a-days, when the son of every 
 low-born extortioner, merchant or official, who has read 
 two or three popular little books, also belongs to the edu- 
 cated class, — ^the country cannot arouse the interest of such 
 an 'intelligentzia.'* Do they know anything about it? 
 Can it be for them anything except a good place in which to 
 spend the summer ? For them the country is a suburban 
 villa . . . and altogether, they are villa-residents, by 
 virtue of the essential quality of their souls. They make 
 their appearance, live on, and disappear, leaving behind 
 them in life divers papers, bits, scraps — the usual traces 
 of their sojourn, which villa-residents leave behind them 
 in country fields. Others will follow after them and anni- 
 hilate this rubbish, and with it the memory of the ig- 
 
 • The popular word for the class in question. I leave it untrans- 
 lated here for the benefit of those who have already met with the 
 word. — Translator. 
 
 388 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 nominious, soulless and impotent educated people of these 
 years of 1890." 
 
 " And are those others repaired noblemen ? " asked Ip- 
 polit Sergyeeviteh. 
 
 " You have understood me, apparently, ... in a way 
 that is far from flattering to you, if you will excuse me for 
 saying so ! " Benkovsky flared up. 
 
 "I merely inquired who these coming people are to 
 be?" replied Ippolit Sergyeeviteh, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " They are — the young country ! Its reformed genera- 
 tion, men who already possess the developed sentiment of 
 human dignity, who thirst for knowledge, who are of an 
 investigative turn of mind, ready to introduce themselves 
 to notice." 
 
 " I welcome them in advance," said Ippolit Sergyeeviteh 
 indifferently. 
 
 "Yes, it must be confessed, that the country is be- 
 ginning to produce a new impression on the world, — a 
 conciliatory impression," remarked Elizaveta Sergy6evna. 
 — " I have here some very interesting children, — Ivdn and 
 Grigory Sh4khoff, who have read almost half of my library, 
 and Akim Soz^reff, a man ' who understands everything/ 
 as he asserts. As a matter of fact, he has brilliant ideas ! 
 I put him to the test — I gave him a work on physics, and! 
 said to him — ' read this, and explain to me the laws of the 
 lever and of equilibrium'; and one week later, he passed 
 my examination with so much effect, that I was simply 
 astounded! And moreover, in reply to my commenda- 
 tions, he said : ' What of that ? You understand this, con- 
 sequently, no one forbids me to do the same — books are 
 written for everybody ! ' What do you think of that ? But 
 you see . . . their idea of their dignity has been de- 
 
 389 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 veloped, so far, only to the point of insolence and churlish- 
 ness. They apply these newly-born properties even to me, 
 but I endure it, and do not complain to the county chief, 
 because I understand what fiery flowers might blossom forth 
 on that soil . . . very likely, some fine morning, one 
 might wake up with nothing but the ashes of one's manor 
 left." 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch smiled. Benkovsky glanced, sadly 
 at the woman. 
 
 Touching superficially on themes, and not attacking 
 one another's vanity strongly, they conversed until ten 
 o'clock, and then Elizaveta Sergyeevna and Benkovsky 
 went off again to play, and Ippolit Sergyeevitch bade 
 them good night and retired to his own room, observing 
 that his future brother-in-law made not the slightest ef- 
 fort to conceal the satisfaction he felt at getting rid of his 
 betrothed's brother. 
 
 . . . One discovers what he wishes to discover, and 
 ennui makes its appearance, as though by way of reward 
 for an investigative turn of mind. It was precisely this 
 enervating sensation which Ippolit Sergyeevitch experi- 
 enced, when he seated himself at the table in his chamber, 
 with the intention of writing several letters to his ac- 
 quaintances. He understood the motives of his sister's 
 peculiar relations toward Benkovsky, he understood, also, 
 his role in her game. All this was not nice, but, at the 
 same time, it was all foreign to him, in a way, and his 
 soul was not disturbed by the parody on the story of 
 Pygmalion and Galatea which was being enacted in his 
 presence, although, in his mind, he condemned his sister. 
 Tapping the handle of his pen, in a melancholy way, 
 against the table, he turned down the light, and when the 
 room was plunged in obscurity, he began to look out of 
 the window. 
 
 390 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 Dead silence reigned in the park, which was illuminated 
 by the moon, and through the window-panes, the moon 
 had a greenish hue. 
 
 Under the windows, a shadow flitted past, and vanished, 
 leaving behind it a soft sound of rustling branches, quiver- 
 ing at the contact. Stepping to the window, Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch opened it, and looked out, — ^beyond the trees 
 glimmered the white gown of Masha, the maid. 
 
 " What of that ? " — he said to himself, with a smile, — 
 " let the maid love, if the mistress is only playing at love." 
 
 Slowly the days vanished — drops of time in the boundless 
 ocean of eternity — and they were all tediously monoto- 
 nous. There were hardly any impressions, and it was diffi- 
 cult to work, because the sultry blaze of the sun, the nar- 
 cotic perfumes of the park, and the pensive, moonlight 
 nights, all aroused meditative indolence in the soul. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch calmly enjoyed this purely-vege- 
 table existence, postponing from day to day his resolve to 
 set to work seriously. Sometimes he felt bored, he re- 
 proached himself for his inactivity, his lack of will, but 
 all this did not arouse in him the desire to work, and he 
 explained to himself his indolence as the effort of his 
 organism to amass energy. In the morning, on awaking 
 from a deep, healthy slumber, he noted, as he stretched 
 himself luxuriously, how springy his muscles were, how 
 elastic was his skin, and how deeply and freely his lungs 
 breathed. 
 
 The sad habit of philosophizing, which too frequently 
 revealed itself in his sister, irritated him, at first, but he 
 gradually became reconciled to this defect in Elizaveta 
 Sergy6evna, and managed, so cleverly and inoffensively 
 to demonstrate to her the inutility of philosophy, that 
 
 391 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 she grew more reticent. Her inclination to argue about 
 everything produced an unpleasant impression on him — 
 he perceived that his sister was arguing, not from a nat- 
 ural impulse to explaia to herself her relation to life, but 
 merely from a provident desire to destroy and overthrow 
 everything which might perturb the cold repose of her 
 soul. She had worked out for herself a scheme of practice, 
 but theories only interested her in so far as they were able 
 to smooth over before him her hard, sceptical, and even 
 ironical relations toward life and people. Although Ip- 
 polit Sergyeevitch comprehended all this, he did not feel 
 within him the slightest desire to reproach and shame his 
 sister; he condemned her iu his own mind, but there was 
 not in it that something which would have permitted him 
 to express aloud his condemnation, for, as a matter of 
 fact, his heart was no warmer than his sister's. 
 
 Thus, almost every time, after a visit from Benkovsky, 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch promised himself that he would speak 
 to his sister about her relations toward that young man, 
 but he did not keep his promise, imperceptibly to himself 
 refraining from meddling with that affair. For, as yet, 
 no one could tell which would be the suffering side, when 
 sound sense should awaken in that highly inflamed young 
 man. And this would happen — the young man was blaz- 
 ing too violently, and must, infallibly, burn out. And his 
 sister was bearing it firmly in mind, that he was younger 
 than she, so there was no cause for anxiety on her score. 
 But if she got her punishment— what then? That was 
 quite proper, if life is just. . . . 
 
 Varenka came frequently. They rowed on the river, 
 together, or in company with his sister, but never with 
 Benkovsky ; they strolled in the forest, and once they drove 
 to a monastery, twenty versts away. The young girl con- 
 
 392 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 tinued to please him, and to upset him with her odd re- 
 marks, but he always found her society agreeahle. Her 
 ingenuousness perplexed him, and restraiued the man 
 within him; the integrity of her nature aroused his amaze- 
 ment, but the simple-hearted straightforwardness with 
 which she put aside everything wherewith he attempted 
 to unsettle the peace of her soul, wounded his self-love. 
 
 And more and more frequently did he ask himself : 
 
 " But is it possible that I have not sufficient energy to 
 drive out of her head all these errors and stupidities ? " 
 
 When he did not see her, he clearly felt the indispensa- 
 ble necessity of liberating her mind from abnormal paths, 
 he imposed this necessity upon himself as an obligation, 
 but when Varenka made her appearance — ^he did not ex- 
 actly forget his resolve, but he never placed it in the fore- 
 most rank in his relations toward her. Sometimes he 
 caught himself listening to her, exactly as though he were 
 desirous of learning something from her, and he admitted 
 that there was something about her which hampered the 
 freedom of his mind. It happened, on occasion, that when 
 he had ready prepared a retort which, by stunning her 
 with its clearness and force, would have convinced her of 
 the obviousness of her error, — he locked this retort up 
 within him, as though afraid to utter it. When he caught 
 himself at this, he thought : 
 
 " Can this proceed from lack of confidence in my 
 truth?" 
 
 And, of course, he convinced himself of the contrary. 
 Another reason why he found it difficult to talk to her was, 
 that she hardly knew even the alphabet of the generally 
 accepted views. It was necessary to begin at the founda- 
 tions, and her persistent questions : " why ? " and " what 
 for ? " constantly led him off into the thickets of abstrac- 
 
 393 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 tions, where she understood absolutely nothing. One day, 
 worn out with his contradictions, she set forth her phi- 
 losophy to him in these words : 
 
 " God created me, like other people, in His own image 
 and likeness . . . which signifies, that everything I do, 
 I do according to His will, and I live — as He wants me 
 to. . . . Surely, He knows how I live ? Well, and that 
 is all there is to be said, and it is useless for you to try 
 to pick a quarrel with me ! " 
 
 More and more frequently did she irritate in him the 
 glowing sensation of the male, but he kept watch on him- 
 self, and with swift efforts, which demanded from him 
 constantly increasing consciousness, he extinguished in 
 himself these flashes of sensuality, he even endeavored to 
 conceal them from himself, and when he could no longer 
 conceal them, he said to himself, with a guilty laugh : 
 
 " What of it ? — That's natural . . . considering her 
 beauty . . But I am a man, and every day my organism 
 is growing stronger under the influence of this sun and 
 air . . It is natural, but her oddities completely guaran- 
 tee me against being carried away by her. . . ." 
 
 Eeason becomes incredibly active and pliable, when 
 man's feeling requires a mask, behind which to hide the 
 crude truth of his questions. Feeling, like every other 
 power, straightforward and upright, when it is shattered 
 by life, or broken by excessive efforts to restrain its out- 
 bursts with the cold bridle of reason, loses both upright- 
 ness and straightforwardness, and remains merely crude. 
 And then, being in need of a screen for its weakness and 
 coarseness, it betakes itself for aid to the great capacity 
 which reason possesses of imparting to a lie the physiog- 
 nomy of the truth. This capacity was well developed in 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch, and with its aid, he successfully im- 
 
 394 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 parted to his attraction toward Varenka the character of 
 interest in her, pure and free from all impulses. He would 
 not have had the strength to love her, — he knew that, but 
 in the depths of his mind there flashed up the hope of 
 possessing her; without himself being aware of it, he ex- 
 pected that she would be captivated by him. And as he 
 argued with himself about everything which did not lower 
 him in his own eyes, he succeeded in concealing within 
 himself everything which might have evoked in him a 
 doubt as to his good breeding. . . 
 
 One day, at evening tea, his sister announced to him : 
 
 " Do you know — to-morrow is Varenka Olesoff's birth- 
 day. We must drive over there. I want to have a drive. 
 . . . And it will be good for the horses, too." 
 
 " Do drive over . . and congratulate her on my be- 
 half, — " he said, feeling that he, also, would like to go. 
 
 "But will not you drive with me? — " she inquired, 
 glancing at him, with curiosity. 
 
 " I ? I don't know whether I care to. ... I think 1 
 don't. But I may go, all the same." 
 
 "It is not obligatory! — " remarked Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna, and dropped her eyelids, to conceal the smile 
 which gleamed in her eyes. 
 
 " I know that, — " said he, displeased. 
 
 A long pause ensued, during which Ippolit Sergy^evitch 
 remarked to himself, with severity, that he was conduct- 
 ing himself toward that Young_ girl exac tly as though he 
 vggS&--a^aid...thaJ;Jtua..,.6g |f:Cont rol would not resis t her 
 chargia— 
 
 " She told me — that Varenka — that they have a very 
 beautiful site there, — " he said, and turned scarlet, know- 
 ing that his sister understood him . . But she did not 
 betray this in any way — on the contrary, she began to per- 
 suade him. 
 
 395 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "Let us go, do, please! You will see, it really is mag- 
 nificent at their place. And it will be less awkward for me 
 if you are there. ... We will not stay long, is that 
 right?" 
 
 He assented, but his mood was spoiled. 
 
 " Why did I find it necessary to lie ? What is there dis- 
 graceful or unnatural in my wanting to see a pretty young 
 girl once more? — " he asked himself angrily. And he 
 made no reply to these questions. 
 
 On the following morning, he awoke early, and the first 
 sounds of the day which his ear caught, were his sister's 
 words : 
 
 . . . . " Ippolit will be astonished ! " 
 
 They were accompanied by a loud laugh — only Varenka 
 could laugh like that. Ippolit Sergyeevitch, sitting up in 
 bed, threw off the sheet, and listened, smiling the while. 
 That which instantaneously invaded him and filled his 
 soul could hardly be called joy, rather was it a foreboding 
 of joy near at hand, which pleasantly titillated the nerves. 
 And springing from his bed, he began to dress himself 
 with a swiftness which confused and perplexed him. What 
 had happened ? Could it be that she, on her birthday, had 
 come to invite him and his sister to her house? What 
 a darling girl ! 
 
 When he entered the dining-room, Varenka dropped her 
 eyes before him with a penitently-comical manner, and 
 without taking the hand which he offered her, she began, 
 in a timid voice : 
 
 " I am afraid, that you. . ." 
 
 "Just imagine! — " exclaimed Elizaveta Sergyeevna, — 
 " she has run away from home ! " 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " — her brother asked her. 
 
 " On the sly — " explained Varenka. 
 
 396 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — " laughed Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 
 "But . . . why?"— persisted Ippolit. 
 
 " I have run away from my suitors, . . ." the young 
 girl confessed, and began to laugh also. — " Imagine, what 
 frightful faces they will make! Aunt Lutchitzky is aw- 
 fully anxious to drive me into marriage! — she sent them 
 solemn invitations, and cooked and baked as much for 
 them as though I'd had a hundred wooers ! And I helped 
 her do it . . . . but to-day I woke up, and jumped on my 
 horse — and march 1 hither. I left them a note to say that 
 I had gone to the ShtcherbakofEs . . . you understand ? 
 twenty-three versts away, in exactly the opposite direc- 
 tion!" 
 
 He looked at her, and laughed, with a laugh which 
 evoked a pleasing warmth in his breast. Again she was 
 clad in a full, white gown, whose folds fell in tender 
 streams from her shoulders to her feet, enveloping her 
 body in a cloud, as it were. Clear laughter quivered in her 
 eyes, and on her face played an animated flush. 
 
 " You do hot like it ? " — she asked him. 
 
 " What ? " — he inquired briefly. 
 
 "What I have done? It was impolite, I understand 
 that, — " she said, becoming serious, and immediately burst 
 out laughing again. . . 
 
 "I can imagine them! All dressed up, scented . . 
 they'll get drunk with grief — heavens, how drunk ! " 
 
 " Are there many of them ? — " asked Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch. 
 
 "Four. . » 
 
 " The tea is poured! " announced Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 
 " You will have to pay for this prank, Varya. . . . 
 Have you thought of that ? " 
 
 " No . . and I don't want to ! — " she replied with de- 
 
 397 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 eision, as she seated herself at the tahle. — " That will 
 take place — ^when I return to them . . . that is to say, 
 this evening, for I'm going to spend the day with you. 
 Why should I think from morning on ahout what will not 
 happen until the evening ? And who can do anything to 
 me, and what can they do ? Papa ? He will growl, hut I 
 can go away and not listen to him. . . . Aunty? — 
 she loves me passionately! They, do you think? Why, 
 I can make them crawl round me on all fours ... ha, 
 ha, ha ! That would be . . ridiculous ! I will try . . . 
 TcheronebofE can't, because he has a big beUy! " 
 
 " Varya ! You are losing your wits ! " — Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna endeavored to stop her. 
 
 "No, I shall not! — " promised the girl through her 
 laughter, but she did not stop soon, and kept on depicting 
 her suitors, and captivating the brother and sister by the 
 genuineness of her animation. 
 
 Laughter resounded during the whole time they were 
 driaking tea. Elizaveta Sergyeevna laughed with a tinge 
 of condescension toward Varya. Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 tried to restrain himself, but could not. After tea, they 
 began to discuss how they should fill up the day which had 
 begun so merrily. Varenka suggested that they should 
 row in the boat, to the forest, and drink tea there, 
 and Ippolit Sergyeevitch immediately agreed with her. 
 But his sister assumed a troubled expression, and an- 
 nounced: 
 
 " I cannot take part in that — I must drive to Sanino to- 
 day, and cannot defer it. I had intended to drive to your 
 house, Varya, and turn ofiE there on the way . . but now 
 it is necessary that I should make the trip expressly. . ," 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch cast a suspicious glance at her — 
 it struck him that she had that moment invented this, for 
 
 398 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 the purpose of leaving Varya alone with him. But her face 
 expressed nothing except dissatisfaction and anxiety. 
 
 Varenka was grieved by her words, but soon recovered 
 her animation : 
 
 " Well, what of that ? So much the worse for you . . . 
 and we'll go, all the same ! Won't we ? To-day I want to 
 go far. . . . Only, see here — can Grigory and Masha 
 go with us ? " 
 
 " Grigory can, of course ! But Masha . . . who will 
 serve dinner ? " 
 
 " And who will eat the dinner ? You are going to the 
 Benkovskys, we shall not return until evening." 
 
 " Very well, take Masha also." 
 
 Varenka hurried off somewhere or other. Ippollt Ser- 
 gyeeviteh lighted a cigarette, went out on the terrace, and 
 began to pace up and down it. This expedition charmed 
 him, but Grigory and Masha seemed to him superfluous. 
 They would embarrass him — there was no doubt about 
 that, and he would not be able to talk freely in their 
 presence. 
 
 Half an hour had not elapsed before Ippolit Sergy^e- 
 . vitch and Varya were standing by the boat, while around 
 it bustled Grigory — a red-haired, blue-eyed young fellow, 
 with freckles on his face, and an aquiline nose. Masha, 
 as she packed the samovar and the various bundles in the 
 boat, said to him : 
 
 " Move quicker, you red-head; don't you see, the quality 
 are waiting." 
 
 "Everything will be ready in a minute," replied the 
 young fellow, in a high tenor voice, as he fastened the row- 
 locks, and winked at Masha. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch saw it, and divined who it was that 
 had been flitting past his windows by night. 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Do you know, — " said Varya, as she seated herself in 
 the hoat, and indicated Grigory by a nod, — " he also has 
 the reputation of being a learned man, with us. ... 
 He's a lawyer." 
 
 "You're just talking, Varvara Vasilievna, — " laughed 
 Grigory, showing his strong white teeth. — " A lawyer ! " 
 
 " Seriously, Ippolit Sergyeevitch, he knows all the Kus- 
 sian laws. . ." 
 
 " Do you, really, Grigory ? " asked Ippolit Sergyeevitch, 
 with interest. 
 
 " The lady is joking . . . the idea! Nobody knows 
 them all, Varvara Vasilievna." 
 
 " And how about the person who wrote them ? " 
 
 " Mr. Speransky ? He died long, long ago. . ." * 
 
 " Why, do you read ? " — inquired Ippolit Sergyeevitch, • 
 attentively scanning the intelligent, eagle-like face of the 
 young man, who was lightly tossing the oars into the boat. 
 
 " And as for the laws, as she says, — " and Grigory in- 
 dicated Varya with his bold eyes. — " The tenth volume of 
 them fell into my hands by accident . . I looked through 
 it, and saw that it was interesting and necessary. I began 
 to read. . . . And now I have the first volume . , 
 
 * The well-known statesman, who influenced Alexander I. between 
 the years 1806 and 1812. — Speransky, the son of a poor village priest, 
 and socially (though not legally) on the level of the peasants, was edu- 
 cated at an ecclesiastical academy, and became the professor of mathe- 
 matics and philosophy in the ecclesiastical school of St. Alexander 
 Nevsky, in St. Petersburg. Thence his rise was as follows : he be- 
 came the tutor of a nobleman's children ; secretary to the Chancellor 
 of the Imperial Council ; Secretary of State. He was an ardent ad- 
 mirer of Napoleon I., as was Alexander I., and to this, no doubt, was 
 due much of his influence over the Emperor. The Code Napoleon 
 was his ideal of legislation, and formed the foundation for a scheme of 
 reforms and laws which he carried into effect, in part. He thereby 
 antagonized all classes of society : the aristocracy were offended by his 
 
 400 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 The first article in it is so straight, and says : ' no one/ it 
 says, ' can excuse himself through ignorance of the laws.' 
 Well, so I thought to myself, that nobody does know them, 
 and it isn't necessary for everybody to know them all. 
 . . . And the teacher is soon going to get me the statutes 
 about the peasants ; — it's very interesting to read — and see 
 what they are like. . ." 
 
 " You see what he is ? " — inquired Varenka. 
 
 " And do you read much ? — " Ippolit Sergy^evitch pur- 
 sued his inquiry, as he recalled G6gol's Petrushka. 
 
 "I read, when I have time. There are a great many 
 little books here. . . . Elizaveta Sergyeevna alone must 
 have as many as a thousand. Only, hers are all romances, 
 and various stories. . . ." 
 
 The boat floated smoothly against the current, the 
 shores moved to meet it, and all around was intoxicatingly 
 beautiful: bright, still, fragrant. Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 gazed at Vdrenka's face, which was turned with curiosity 
 toward the broad-chested rower, while the latter, cutting 
 the mirror-like surface of the river in measured strokes, 
 chatted about his literary tastes, content that the learned 
 gentleman so gladly listened to him. Love and pride 
 
 boldness, which they resented in n, man of such low extraction, the 
 peasants were enraged by the increase in their taxes ; and so forth. 
 He was suddenly sent into polite exile, as the governor of Nizhni 
 N6vgorod Prorince, in March, 1812, but was speedily deprived of his 
 office, and subjected to strict surveillance. Later on, for a couple of 
 years, his exile took the form of the governorship of Siberia, whence 
 he returned to St. Petersburg in 1821. But he never recovered his 
 standing or influence. He had been created a Count by Alexander I. , 
 and, as the male line of his descendants died out, his descendants in 
 the female line, — the Russian branch of the Princes Kantakiiizin (Can- 
 tacuzSne), — petitioned the Emperor, in 1872, for permission to add 
 the title of " Count Speransky " to their own title, which was granted. 
 — Translator. 
 
 401 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 beamed ia the eyes of Masha, who was watching them 
 from beneath her drooping lashes. 
 
 " I don't like to read about how the sun sets and rises 
 . . . and, in general, about nature. I have seen those 
 sunrises more than a thousand times, I think. ... I 
 know all about the woods and the rivers, also; why should 
 I read about them? But that sort of thiag is in every 
 book . . and, in my opinion, it's entirely superfluous. 
 . . . Everybody understands the sunset after his own 
 fashion. . . . And everybody has his own eyes for that 
 purpose. But about the life of people — that's interesting. 
 Yoii read, and you say to yourself : — ' and what would you 
 do yourself, if you were placed on that line ? ' Although 
 you know that the whole of it is false." 
 
 " What is false ? " — asked Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 " Why, the little books. They're invented. About the 
 peasant, for example. . . . Are they the sort of folks 
 they appear in books ? Everybody writes about them com- 
 passionately, and makes them out to be such petty fools 
 ... it isn't well ! Folks read, and think and, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, they can't understand the peasant . . . be- 
 cause in the books he's . . terribly stupid, and bad. . ." 
 
 Varenka must have found these remarks tiresome, for 
 she began to sing, in a low tone, as she gazed at the shores 
 with dimming eyes. 
 
 " See here — Ippolit Sergyeevitch, let's get out and go 
 on foot through the forest. But here we are, sitting and 
 baking in the sun — is that the way to take a pleasure trip ? 
 Grigory and Masha can row on to Savyoloff dell, land there, 
 and prepare tea for us, and meet us. . . . Grigory, bring 
 the boat to the shore. I'm awfully fond of eatiog and 
 drinking in the forest, in the air, in the sunshine. , . 
 One, somehow, feels like a free vagabond. . ." 
 
 " There, you see," she said, with animation, as she 
 
 402 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 sprang from the boat upon the sandy shore, — " you touch 
 earth, and immediately there is something which . . . 
 raises the soul in revolt. Here I've got my boots full of 
 sand . . . and have wet one foot in the water. . . . 
 That's unpleasant and pleasant, that means — it is good, 
 because it makes one feel oneself. . . . Look, how 
 swiftly the boat has moved on ! " 
 
 The river lay at their feet, and disturbed by the boat, 
 it plashed softly agaiast the shore. The boat flew, like an 
 arrow, in the direction of the forest, leaving behind it a 
 long wake, which glittered like silver in the sunlight. 
 They could see that Grig6ry was laughing, as he looked 
 at Masha, while she was threatening him with her fist. 
 
 " That's a pair of lovers," — remarked Varenka, with a 
 smile ; — " Masha has already asked Elizaveta Sergyeevna's 
 permission to marry Grigory. But Elizaveta Sergyeevna 
 will not allow it, for the present; she does not like mar- 
 ried servants. But Grigory's term of service ends in the 
 autumn, and then he'll take Masha away from you. . . 
 They're both splendid people. Grigory is begging me to 
 sell him a small plot of ground to be paid for in instal- 
 ments . . . or to let him have it on a long lease . . . 
 he wants ten desyatinas. But I cannot, as long as papa is 
 alive, and it's a pity . . I know that he would pay me all, 
 and very punctually . . he's a good hand at everything 
 . . a locksmith, and a blacksmith, and he's serving at 
 your place as under-coaehman. . . . Kokovitch — the 
 county chief, and my suitor — says this to me about him: 
 ' that's a dangerous beast, do you know — ^he doesn't respect 
 his superiors! ' " 
 
 " Who is that Kokovitch? A Pole? " *— inquired Ip- 
 polit Sergy6evitch, admiring her grimaces. 
 
 * Varenka has mimicked Kok&viteh's pronunciation, which leads to 
 this question. — Translator. 
 
 403 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "A Mordvinian, a Tehuvash — I don't know! He has a 
 frightfully long and thick tongue, there isn't room for it in 
 his mouth, and it interferes with his speech. . . . Ugh ! 
 What mud!" 
 
 Their path was blocked by a puddle of water covered 
 with green scum, and surrounded by a border of greasy 
 mud. Ippolit Sergyeevitch inspected his feet, remarking: 
 
 " We must go around it." 
 
 " Aren't you going to jump over it ? I thought it was 
 already dried up. . ." exclaimed Varenka, indignantly, 
 stamping her foot. . " It is a long way round, and then, 
 I shall tear my gown there. . . . Try to leap across it ! 
 It's easy, see — o-one ! " 
 
 She sprang, and flung herself forward; it seemed to 
 him that her gown had been torn from her shoulders, and 
 was fluttering through the air. But she stood on the 
 other side of the puddle, and cried, with regret : 
 
 " Ai, how I have spattered myself! 'No, do you go round 
 it . . fie, how horrid! " 
 
 He looked at her, and smiled wanly, catching within him 
 a dark thought which stimulated him, and feeling that his 
 feet were sinking into the sticky dampness. On the other 
 side of the mud, Varenka was shaking her gown, it emitted 
 a soft rustle, and amid its fluttering, Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 caught sight of dainty, striped stockings on the well- 
 formed little feet. For an instant, it seemed to him as 
 though the mud which separated them from each other, 
 held a sense of warning for him or for her. But he 
 roughly tore himself away, calling this prick in the heart 
 stupid childishness, and hastily stepped aside from the 
 road, into the bushes which bordered it, where, neverthe- 
 less, he was obliged to walk through water concealed by 
 the grass. With wet feet, and a resolve which was not yet 
 
 404 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 clear to himself, he emerged beside her, and she, showing 
 him her gown, with a grimace, said : 
 
 " Look at that— is that nice ? Bah ! " 
 
 He looked — large, black spots smote the eye, as they 
 triumphantly decorated the white material. 
 
 " I love, and am accustomed to behold thee so sacredly 
 pure, that even a spot of mud on thy gown would cast a 
 black shadow on my soul . ." said Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 slowly, and ceasing, he began to gaze into the astonished 
 face of Varenka with a smile hovering over his lips. 
 
 Her eyes rested questioningly on his face, but he felt as 
 though his breast were filling up with burning froth, which 
 was on the point of being converted into wondrous words, 
 such as he had never yet uttered to anyone, for he had 
 never known them until that moment. 
 
 " What was that you said ? " — inquired Varenka firmly. 
 
 He shuddered, for her question sounded stern, and en- 
 deavoring to be calm, he began seriously to explain to her : 
 
 " I was reciting verses ... in Eussian they sound 
 like prose . . . but you hear that they are verses, do 
 you not ? They are Italian verses, I think . . . really, 
 I do not remember. . . . However, perhaps it was 
 prose, from some romance. ... It just happened to 
 come into my head. . ." 
 
 " How did it go — say it again ? " she asked him, sud- 
 denly becoming thoughtful. 
 
 " I love . . ." he paused, and wiped his brow with his 
 hand. — " Will you believe it ? I have forgotten what I 
 said ! On my word of honor — I have forgotten ! " 
 
 " Well ... let us go on ! — " and she moved forward 
 with decision. 
 
 For several minutes Ippolit Sergyeevitch tried to un- 
 derstand and explain to himself this strange scene, which 
 
 406 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 had placed between him and the young girl a barrier of 
 mutual distrust — tried, and could get nothing out of him- 
 self, except a consciousness of awkwardness before Va- 
 renka. She walked by his side, in silence, and with bowed 
 head, not looking at him. 
 
 " How am I to explain it all to her ? " Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch reflected. 
 
 Her silence was crushing; it seemed as though she were 
 thinking of him, and not thinking well of him. And un- 
 able to devise any explanation of his outburst, he sud- 
 denly remarked, with forced cheerfulness : 
 
 "Your suitors ought to know how you are spending 
 your time ! " 
 
 She glanced at him, as though, by his words, he had 
 called her back from somewhere far away, but gradually, 
 her face changed from seriousness to simplicity, and an 
 expression of childlike sweetness. 
 
 " Yes ! It would — ofEend them ! But they shall know, 
 oh! they shall know! And, perhaps they . . . will 
 think ill of me!" 
 
 " Are you afraid of that ? " 
 
 " I ? Of them ? — " she inquired, softly but angrily. 
 
 " Pardon me for the question." 
 
 " Never mind. . . . You see, you do not know me 
 . . . you do not know how repulsive they all are to me! 
 Sometimes I feel like hurling them under my feet, and 
 trampling on their faces . . . treading on their lips, 
 so that they could not say anything. Ugh ! How detest- 
 able they all are ! " 
 
 Wrath and heartlessness sparkled so clearly in her eyes, 
 that it made him uncomfortable to look at her, and he 
 turned away, saying to her : 
 
 " How sad, that you are compelled to live among people 
 
 406 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 whom you detest. . . . Can it be, that there is not one 
 among them who would . . strike you as well-bred. . ." 
 
 " No ! You know, there are frightfully few interesting 
 people in the world . . Everybody is so stupid, so un- 
 inspired, so repulsive. . . ." 
 
 He smiled at her complaint, and said with a touch of 
 irony, which was incomprehensible even to himself : 
 
 " It is early yet for you to talk in that way. But wait 
 a little, and you will meet a man who will satisfy you 
 . . . you will find him interesting in every way. . ." 
 
 " Who is he ? " — she asked quickly, and even halted. 
 
 " Your future husband." 
 
 "But who is he?" 
 
 "How can I know that? — " Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 shrugged his shoulders, feeling displeased at the anima- 
 tion of her questions. 
 
 " But tell me ! " — she sighed, and moved on. 
 
 They were walking through bushes, which barely 
 reached their shoulders ; the road ran through this under- 
 brush, like a lost ribbon, all in capricious curves. Now, 
 in front of them, the dense forest made its appearance. 
 
 " And do you wish to marry ? " — asked Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch. 
 
 "Yes. . . . I don't know! I'm not thinking about 
 that . . ." she replied simply. The glance of her beauti- 
 ful eyes, fixed on the far distance, was as concentrated as 
 though she were recalling something far away and dear 
 to her. 
 
 " You ought to spend the winter in town, — there your 
 beauty would attract to you universal attention, and you 
 would soon find what you want. . . . For many would 
 strongly desire to call you their wife, — " he said, slowly, 
 ia a low tone, as he thoughtfully scanned her figure, 
 
 407 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " It would be necessary that I should permit that ! " 
 
 " How can you forbid men to desire it ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! Of course ... let them desire it. . . ." 
 
 They walked a few steps in silence. 
 
 She, pensively gazing into the distance, still was intent 
 on recalling something, but he, for some reason, was count- 
 ing the spots of mud on the front of her gown. There 
 were seven of them: three large ones, which resembled 
 stars, two, like commas in shape, and one, like a daub from 
 a brush. By their black color, and their arrangement on 
 the material, they signified something to him. But what 
 — he did not know. 
 
 " Have you been in love ? " — ^her voice suddenly rang 
 out, serious and searching. 
 
 " I ? " — shuddered Ippolit Sergyeevitch. — " Yes . . . 
 only, it was long ago, when I was a young fellow. . ." 
 
 " So have I, long ago," she informed him. 
 
 " Ah . . . who was he ? — " inquired PolkanofE,* not 
 conscious of the awkwardness of the question, and tear- 
 ing off a branch which came under his hand, he flung it 
 far away from himself. 
 
 "He? He was a horse-thief . . Three years have 
 passed since I saw him last, I was seventeen years old 
 then. . . . They caught him one day, beat him, and 
 brought him to our court-yard. He lay there, bound with 
 ropes, and said nothing, but looked at me. ... I was 
 standing on the porch of the house. I remember, it was 
 such a bright morniug — it was early in the morning, and 
 everyone at our house was still asleep. . . ." 
 
 * It must be borne in mind that tbe surname is not used in Russian 
 speech or novels nearly as often as the Christian name followed by the 
 patronymic, which is more definite as to the precise individual, and the 
 precise member of the family. — Translator. 
 
 408 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 She paused, buried in her memories. 
 
 " Under the cart there was a pool of blood — such a 
 thick pool — and into it fell heavy drops from him. . . . 
 His name was Sashka Remezoil. The peasants came into 
 the court-yard, and as they looked at him, they growled 
 like dogs. All of them had evil eyes, but he, that Sashka, 
 stared at them all quite calmly. . . . And I felt that 
 he — although he was beaten and bound — considered him- 
 self better than all of them. He looked so . . . his 
 eyes were large, and brown. I felt sorry for him, and 
 afraid of him. ... I went into the house, and poured 
 him out a glass of vodka. . . . Then I went out and 
 gave it to him. But his hands were bound, and he could 
 not driak it . . . and he said to me, raising his head 
 a little — and his head was all covered with blood : ' Put it 
 in my mouth, my lady.' I held it to his lips, and he drank 
 so slowly, so slowly, and said: 'Thank you, my lady! 
 God grant you happiness ! ' — Then, all at once, I whis- 
 pered to him: 'Eun!' But he answered aloud: — 'If I 
 live, I certainly will run. You may trust me for that ! ' — 
 And I was awfully pleased, that he had said it so loudly, 
 that everyone in the court-yard heard him. Then he said: 
 ' My lady ! Order them to wash my face I ' I told Dunya, 
 and she washed it . . although his face remained blue 
 and swollen from the blows . . . yes ! They soon car- 
 ried him away, and when the cart drove out of the court- 
 yard, I looked at him, and he bowed to me, and snuled with 
 his eyes . . . although he was very badly bruised. 
 . . . How I wept for him I How I prayed to God that he 
 might run away. . . ." 
 
 " Do you mean . . ." Ippolit Sergyeeviteh ironically 
 interrupted her, — " that perhaps you are waiting for him 
 to make his escape and present himself before you, and 
 then . . . you will marry him ? " 
 
 409 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 She either did not hear or did not understand the irony, 
 for she answered simply: 
 
 " Well, and why should he show himself here ? " 
 
 " But if he did — would you marry him ? " 
 
 " Marry a peasant ? .• . I don't know . . . no, I 
 think not!" 
 
 Polkanoff waxed angry. 
 
 " You have ruined your brain with your romances, that's 
 what I have to say to you, Varvara Vasilievna . . ." he 
 remarked severely. 
 
 At the sound of his harsh voice, she glanced at his face 
 with amazement, and began, silently and attentively, to 
 listen to his stern, almost castigating words. And he 
 demonstrated to her, how that literature which she loved 
 depraved mind and soul, always distorted reality, was for- 
 eign to ennobling ideas, was indifferent to the sad truth 
 of life, to the desires and tortures of mankind. His voice 
 rang out harshly in the silence of the forest which sur- 
 rounded them, and frequently, in the wayside branches, a 
 timorous rustliag resounded — some one was hiding there. 
 Prom the foliage fragrant twilight peered forth upon the 
 road, now and then, athwart the forest, a prolonged sound 
 was wafted, which resembled a stifled sigh, and the foliage 
 quivered faintly, as in slumber. 
 
 " You must read and respect only those books which 
 teach you to understand the meaning of life, to under- 
 stand the aspirations of men, and the true motives of their 
 actions. To understand people means, — ^to pardon them 
 their defects. You must know how badly people live, and 
 how well they might live, if they were only more sensible, 
 and if they paid more respect to the rights of one another. 
 For, of course, all men desire one thing — happiness, but 
 they proceed toward it by different paths, and those paths 
 
 410 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 are, sometimes, very ignominious, but that is only be- 
 cause they do not understand in what happiness consists. 
 Hence, it is the duty of all practical and honest literature, 
 to explain to men in what happiness consists, and how to 
 attain to it. But those books which you read, do not oc- 
 cupy themselves with such problems . . they merely 
 lie, and lie crudely. Here, they have inculcated in you 
 . . an uncivilized notion of heroism . . And what is 
 the result ? Now you will be seeking in life such people 
 as those in the books. . . ." 
 
 " No, of course I shall not ! . ." said the young girl 
 seriously. — " I know that there are no such men. But the 
 books are nice precisely for the reason that they depict 
 that which does not exist. The commo nplace is every- 
 where ... all life is_ commonplace . . . . There is 
 a~^ eat deal-Sa id a h(11Jt~F fferin^. . That certainly is 
 fal^se^but iiJi Lis false— why is i t not a good thin^ to sav 
 a great deal aj!flai.t...thai ,of jfEich3k§2§»iS-§fl- little! ^ Here, 
 you say, that in books one must seek . . . exemplary 
 feelings and thoughts, . . . and that all men err, and 
 do not understand themselves. . . . But, surely, the 
 books are written by men, also ! And how am I to know 
 what I ought to believe, and what is best ? And in those 
 books, which you assail, there is a great deal that is 
 noble. . ." 
 
 " You have not understood me . . ." he exclaimed, 
 with vexation. 
 
 "Eeally? And you are angry with me for that? — " 
 she asked, in a penitent tone. 
 
 " No ! Of course, I am not angry . , . as if there 
 could be any question of such a thing ! " 
 
 " You are angry, I know it, I know it ! For, you see, I 
 always get provoked myself, when people do not agree with 
 
 411 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 me ! But why do you find it necessary that I should agree 
 with you ? And I think, also. ... In general, why does 
 everybody always quarrel and insist that others should 
 agree with them ? Then there would be nothing whatever 
 to talk about." 
 
 She laughed, and in the midst of her laugh, she con- 
 cluded : 
 
 " It's exactly as though everybody wanted to have only 
 one word left out of all the .words — ' yes ! ' It's awfully 
 amusing ! " 
 
 " You ask, why I find it necessary. . ." 
 
 "No, I understand; you have got used to teaching, so 
 you regard it as indispensable that no one should impede 
 you with objections." 
 
 " That's not so at all ! — " exclaimed Polkg,nQff bitterly. 
 — " I wish to arouse in you the faculty of criticising every- 
 thing that goes on around you, and in your own soul." 
 
 " Why ? " — she inquired, ingenuously looking him 
 straight in the eye. 
 
 " Good heavens ! What do you mean by ' why ' ? In 
 order that you may know how to scrutinize your emotions, 
 your thoughts, your actions . . in order that you may 
 bear yourself reasonably toward life, toward yourself." 
 
 " Well, that must be . . . difficult. To scrutinize 
 oneself, to criticise oneself . . what for? And how is 
 it to be done ? Am I to split myself in two, pray ? I don't 
 understand at all ! You make it out, that truth is known 
 to you alone. . . . Let us assume that I know some 
 truth, and that everybody else knows some. . . . But, 
 it appears, everyone is mistaken ! For you say, that truth 
 is one for all men, don't you ? . . But look — see what 
 a beautiful glade ! " 
 
 He gazed, and made no reply to her words. Within 
 
 412 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 him raged a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, for 
 his reason had been insulted by this girl, who would not 
 yield to his efforts to subdue her, to bring her thoughts 
 to a halt even for a moment, and then turn her into the 
 right road, directly opposed to the one along which she 
 had been proceeding up to this time, without encountering 
 any opposition. He had become accustomed to regard as 
 stupid those people who did not agree with him; at best, 
 he set them down as devoid of the capacity of develop- 
 ment beyond that point, on which their mind already 
 stood, — and toward such people, he always bore himself 
 with disdain, mingled with compassion. But this young 
 girl did not strike him as stupid, and did not arouse in 
 him his customary sentiments toward his opponents. Why 
 was this so, and what was she ? And he answered him- 
 self : " Undoubtedly merely, because she was so stunningly 
 handsome. . . Her wild speeches might, really, not be 
 regarded as a fault . . simply because they were orig- 
 inal, and originality, on the whole, is rarely met with, 
 especially in women." 
 
 As a man of lofty culture, he outwardly bore himself 
 toward women as beings who were mentally his equals, 
 but in the depths of his own soul, like all men, he thought 
 of women sceptically and with irony. In the heart of man 
 there is much space for faith, but very little for convic- 
 tion. 
 
 They strolled slowly across the broad, almost perfectly 
 circular glade. The road cut across it, in two dark lines 
 of wheel-ruts, and disappeared again in the forest. In 
 the centre of the glade, stood a small clump of graceful 
 young birch-trees, casting lace-like shadows on the blades 
 of the mown grass. Not far away from them, a half- 
 ruined hut, constructed of branches, bowed toward the 
 
 413 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 earth; inside it one could catch a glimpse of hay, and on 
 it perched two daws. To Ippolit Sergyeevitch they ap- 
 peared entirely unnecessary and absurd, in the midst of 
 this tiny, lovely wilderness, surrounded on all sides by the 
 dark walls of the mysteriously mute forest. But the daws 
 east sidelong glances at the people who were walking along 
 the road, and in their attitude there was a certain fear- 
 lessness and confidence, — as though, perched there upon 
 the hut, they were guarding the entrance to it, and 
 were conscious that they were thereby discharging their 
 duty. 
 
 " Are not you fatigued ? " — inquired Polkanoff, with a 
 feeling akin to anger, as he stared at the daws, pompous 
 and sullen in their immobility. 
 
 " I ? Fatigued with walking ? It is a downright insult 
 to hear that! Moreover, it is not more than one verst 
 further to the place where they are awaiting us ... we 
 shall enter the forest in a moment, and the road runs 
 down hill." 
 
 She told him how beautiful was the spot which was their 
 goal, and he felt that a soft, agreeable indolence was tak- 
 ing possession of him, which prevented his paying due 
 heed to her remarks. 
 
 " It is a piae forest there, and stands on a hillock, and 
 is called Savyoloff's Crest. The pine-trees are huge, and 
 there are no branches on their boles, except that away up 
 aloft, each one has a dark-green canopy. It is quiet in 
 that forest, even painfully quiet, the ground is all car- 
 peted with pine needles, and the forest seems to have been 
 swept up neatly. When I ramble in it, I always think of 
 God, for some reason or other ... it must be awe-in- 
 spiring like that around His throne . . . and the angels 
 do not sing praises to Him — that is not true ! What need 
 
 414 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 has He of praises? Does not He know of Himself how 
 great He is ? " 
 
 A brilliant thought flashed through Ippolit Sergyee- 
 viteh's mind : 
 
 " What if I were to take advantage of dogma, to plough 
 up the virgin soil of her soul ? " 
 
 But he instantly, and proudly rejected this involuntary 
 confession of his weakness before her. It would not he 
 honorable to employ a force, in whose existence he did not 
 believe. 
 
 " You ... do not believe in God ? " — she inquired, 
 as though divining his thought. 
 
 " What makes you think that ? " 
 
 " Why . . . none of the learned men do be- 
 lieve. . . ." 
 
 " None of them, indeed ! " he laughed, not caring to 
 talk to her on that subject. But she would not let him off. 
 
 " Isn't it true that aU are unbelievers ? But how is it 
 that they do not believe ? Please to tell me about those 
 who do not believe in Him at all. ... I do not under- 
 stand how that can be. Whence has all this made its 
 appearance ? " 
 
 He paused, arousing his mind, which had fallen into a 
 sweet doze beneath the sounds of her voice. Then he be- 
 gan to talk about the origin of the world, as he understood 
 it: 
 
 " Mighty, unknown powers are eternally moving, com- 
 ing into conflict, and their vast movement gives rise to the 
 world which we see, in which the life of thought and of 
 the grass-blade are subjected to the same, identical laws. 
 This movement had no beginning, and will have no 
 end. . . .» 
 
 The young girl listened attentively to him, and fre- 
 
 415 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 quently asked him to explain one point or another. He 
 explained with pleasure, perceiving the tension of thought 
 in her face. She was thinking, thinking! But when he 
 had finished, she asked him ingenuously, after pausing for 
 a minute : 
 
 " So it was not begun from the beginning ! But in the 
 beginning was God. How is that? There is simply no 
 mention of Him there, and can that be what is meant by 
 not believing in Him ? " 
 
 He wanted to retort, but he understood, from the ex- 
 pression of her face, that that was useless at the moment. 
 She was a believer — to that her eyes, which were blazing 
 with mystical fire, bore witness. Softly, timidly, she told 
 him something strange. He did not catch the beginning 
 of her speech. 
 
 " When you look at people, and see how hateful every- 
 thing about them is, and then remember God and the 
 Last Judgment — your heart fairly contracts! Because, 
 assuredly. He can demand an accounting at any time — 
 to-day, to-morrow, an hour hence. . . . And, you know, 
 it sometimes seems to me — that it will be soon ! It will be 
 by day . . and first the sun will be extinguished . . 
 and then a new flame will flash up, and in it He will 
 appear." 
 
 Ippolit Sergy6evitch listened to her ravings, and said 
 to himself: 
 
 " She possesses everything except the one thing which 
 she ought to have. . . ." 
 
 Her remarks called forth pallor on her face, and there 
 was terror in her eyes. In this low-spirited condition she 
 walked on for a long time, so that the curiosity with 
 which Ippolit Sergyeevitch had been listening to her, be- 
 gan to die out, and give place to weariness. 
 
 416 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 But her delirium suddenly vanished, when a loud laugh 
 was wafted to their ears, as it rang out somewhere in the 
 immediate vicinity. 
 
 " Do you hear that ? It is Masha . . . We have ar- 
 rived ! " 
 
 She hastened her pace, and shouted: 
 
 "Masha, a-oo!" 
 
 " Why does she shout ? " thought Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 compassionately. 
 
 They emerged upon the bank of the river; it sloped 
 down to the water, and on it cheerful clumps of birch-trees 
 and aspens were capriciously scattered. And on the op- 
 posite shore, at the very water's edge, stood the lofty, 
 silent pines, filling the air with their heavy, resinous fra- 
 grance. There everything was gloomy, motionless, mo- 
 notonous, and permeated with stern dignity, but on this 
 side — the graceful birch-trees rocked their supple 
 branches to and fro, the silvery foliage of the aspens quiv- 
 ered; the wild snow-ball, and hazel bushes stood in lux- 
 uriant masses, reflected in the water; yonder the sand 
 gleamed yellow, sprinkled with reddish pine-needles; here, 
 under their feet, the second growth of grass, barely peep- 
 ing forth from among the shorn stalks, showed green, 
 and the scent of new-mown hay emanated from the hay- 
 cocks which had been tossed up under the trees. The 
 river, calm and cold, reflected like a mirror these two 
 worlds, so unlike one to the other. 
 
 In the shade of a group of birches a gay-colored rug had 
 been spread, on it stood the samovar, emitting clouds of 
 steam and blue smoke, and beside it, squatting on her 
 heels, Mdsha was busying herself, teapot in hand. Her 
 face was red and happy, her hair was damp. 
 
 "Have you been in bathing?" Varenka asked her, 
 " And where is Grigory? " 
 
 417 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " He has gone to take a bath also. He'll soon be back." 
 
 "Well, I don't want him. I want to eat, drink, and 
 ... eat and drink ! That I do ! And how about you, 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh ? " 
 
 " I shall not refuse, you know, — " he laughed. 
 
 "Be quick, Masha!" 
 
 " What do you command first ? Chicken, the pasty. . ." 
 
 " Serve everything at once, and you may disappear ! 
 Perhaps someone is waiting for you ? " 
 
 " Just nobody at all," smiled Masha softly, gazing at her 
 with grateful eyes. 
 
 " Well, all right, go on pretending! " 
 
 "How simply she says all that," thought Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeeviteh, attacking the chicken. — " Can it be that she 
 is acquainted with the sense and the details of such rela- 
 tions? Very likely, seeing that the country is so frank 
 and coarse in that sphere." 
 
 But Varenka, with a laugh, jested away to the confusion 
 of Masha, who stood before her with downcast eyes, and 
 with a smile of happiness on her face. 
 
 " Wait, he'll take you in hand ! " — she threatened. 
 
 " Of co-ourse ! And I shall give myself to him ! . . . 
 I . . you know ... I put him . . ." and covering 
 her face with her apron, she rocked to and fro, in a fit 
 of uncontrollable laughter. — " On the way, I pushed him 
 into the water ! " 
 
 " Did you ! That's a clever girl ! And what did he do ? " 
 
 " He swam after the boat . . and . . and he kept 
 beseeching me, to . . . let him . . . into the boat 
 . . . but I . . . flung him ... a rope, from the 
 stern!" 
 
 The infectious laughter of the two women forced Ip- 
 
 418 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 pollt Sergy^evitch to burst into laughter also. He laughed 
 not because he imagined to himself Grigory swimming 
 after the boat, but because it did him good to laugh. A 
 sensation of freedom from himself pervaded him, and, 
 now and then, he seemed to be surprised at himself from 
 somewhere in the distance, that he had never before been 
 so simply joyous as at that moment. Then Masha van- 
 ished, and again they remained alone together. 
 
 Vdrenka half reclined on the rug, and drank tea, while 
 Ippolit Sergy^evitch gazed at her, as through the mist of 
 dreams. Around them reigned stillness, only the samovar 
 hummed a pensive melody, and, from time to time, some- 
 thing rustled in the grass. 
 
 " What makes you so taciturn ? " inquired Vdrenka, 
 casting an anxious glance at him. "Perhaps you are 
 bored?" 
 
 " No, I'm enjoying myself," he said slowly, " but I don't 
 feel like talking." 
 
 " That's the way I feel, too," and the girl grew ani- 
 mated, — "when it is stUl, I don't like at all to chatter. 
 For with words you cannot say much, because there are 
 feelings for which there are no words at all. And when 
 people say — ' silence,' it is nonsense : — one cannot speak 
 of silence without destroying it, . . . can one ? " 
 
 She paused, gazed at the pine forest, and pointing at 
 it with her hand, she said, with a quiet smile: 
 
 " See, the pines seem to be listening to something. 
 There, among them, it is still, so still. Sometimes it 
 seems to me that the best way to live is like that, in si- 
 lence. But it is fine, too, in a thunderstorm . . . akh, 
 how fine ! The sky is black, the lightning is vicious, it is 
 dark, the wind roars . . at such times I feel like going 
 out into the fields, and standing there, and singing — sing- 
 
 410 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 ing loudly, or rumiiiig through the rain, against the wind. 
 It's the same in winter. Do you know, I once got lost in 
 a snow-storm and came near freezing to death." 
 
 " Tell me, how that happened," he requested her. He 
 found it pleasant to listen to her, — it seemed as though 
 she were talking in a language which was new to him, 
 although comprehensible. 
 
 " I was driving from the town, late at night," she began, 
 moving nearer to him, and fixing her softly-smiling eyes 
 upon his face. — " The coachman was Yakoff, such a stern 
 old peasant. And the snow-storm began, a snow-storm of 
 terrible force, and blew straight in our faces. The wind 
 came in gusts, and hurled a whole cloud of snow on us, 
 so that the horses backed, and Yakoff reeled on the box. 
 Everything around seethed as though in a kettle, and we 
 were in a cold foam. We drove and drove, and then I 
 saw Yakoff take his cap from his head and cross himself. 
 ' What's the matter ? ' — ' Pray, my lady, to the Lord and 
 to Varvara the Great Martyr, she will help against sudden 
 death.' He spoke simply, and without fear, so that I was 
 not frightened: I asked — 'Have we lost our way?' — 
 'Yes,' said he. — 'But perhaps we shall escape?' — 'How 
 are we to escape, in such a blizzard! Now, I'm going to 
 let go of the reins, and perhaps the horses will find the 
 way themselves; but do you call God to mind, all the 
 same! ' He is very devout, that Yakoff. The horses 
 halted, and stood still, and the snow drifted over us. How 
 cold it was ! The snow cut our faces. Yakoff moved from 
 the box, and sat beside me, so that both of us might be 
 warmer, and we put the rug that was in the sledge over 
 our heads. I sat there and thought : ' Well, I am lost ! 
 And I shall not eat the bonbons I have brought from the 
 town. . .' But I was not afraid, because Yakoff kept 
 
 420 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 talking all the while. I remember that he said: * I'm sorry 
 for you, my lady! * Why should you perish? — ' 'Why, 
 you will be frozen also ? — ' ' I'm of no consequence, I've 
 lived my life, but here are you . . .' and he kept on about 
 me. He is very fond of me, he even scolds sometimes, 
 you know, growls at me, he's so cross-grained : — ' akh, you 
 impious creature, you mad-cap, you shameless weather- 
 cock! . .'" 
 
 She assumed a surly mien, and spoke in a deep bass 
 voice, drawling out her words. The memory of YakoflE 
 had diverted her from her story, and Ippolit Sergyeeviteh 
 was obliged to ask her: 
 
 " And how did you find the road ? " 
 
 " Why, the horses got chilled, and started ahead of 
 their own accord, and they went on, and on until they 
 reached a village thirteen versts away from ours. You 
 know, our village is near here, about four versts distant. 
 If you were to go along the shore, and then by the foot- 
 path, through the forest, to the right, you would come 
 upon a hollow, and our home-farm would be in sight. But 
 by the highway, it is ten versts from here." 
 
 Several saucy birds hovered around them, and perch- 
 ing upon the branches of the bushes, twittered valiantly, 
 as though imparting to one another their impressions con- 
 cerning these two persons, alone there in the heart of the 
 forest. Prom afar laughter, talking and the splash of oars 
 was wafted to them, — probably from Grigory and Masha 
 as they rowed on the river. 
 
 • Bdrynya, for a married woman of noble birth, IdrysJvrvya, for an 
 unmarried woman, are more nearly equivalent to "mistress" and 
 "young mistress." But these are inconvenient, in many instances. 
 In general, they are used precisely as " my lady " is used by Eng- 
 lish people of the lower class to those of superior rank. — Translator. 
 
 421 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Suppose we call them, and go in that direction, among 
 the pines? " — suggested Varenka. 
 
 He assented, and placing her hand to her mouth like a 
 trumpet, she began to shout : 
 
 " Eow thi-is wa-ay ! " 
 
 Her bosom strained with the cry, and Ippolit Sergyee- 
 viteh admired her in silence. He had to think of some- 
 thing — of something very serious, he felt, — ^but he did not 
 wish to think, and this faint appeal of his mind did not 
 prevent his calmly and freely resigning himself to the 
 more powerful command of his feelings. 
 
 The boat came in sight. Grigory's face was sly and 
 rather guilty; Masha's bore a fictitious expression of 
 anger; but Varenka, as she took her seat in the boat, 
 glanced at them, and laughed, and then they both began 
 to laugh, confused and happy. 
 
 "Venus and her petted slaves," said Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch to himself. 
 
 In the piae forest it was solemn and still as in a temple, 
 and the mighty, stately tree-trunks stood like columns, 
 supporting a heavy vault of dark verdure. A warm, heavy 
 odor of resin filled the air, and under their feet the dry 
 pine-needles crackled softly. In front, behind, on every 
 side, stood the reddish pines, and only here and there, at 
 their roots, through a layer of needles, did a pallid green 
 force its way. In the stillness and in silence the two 
 people strolled slowly amid this dumb life, turning now to 
 the right, now to the left, to avoid trees which barred their 
 path. 
 
 " We shall not go astray ? " — inquired Ippolit Sergyee- 
 viteh. 
 
 "I go astray?" said VArenka in surprise. — "I can 
 always, everywhere find the way I require . . all one 
 has to do is to look at the sun." 
 
 422 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 He did not ask her how the sun pointed out the road 
 to her, he did not, in the least, wish to speak, although 
 he felt, at times, that he might say a very great deal to 
 her. But these were internal impulses of desire, flash- 
 ing up on the surface of his calm mood, and dying out 
 again in a second, without agitating him. Varenka 
 walked hy his side, and on her face he beheld the reflec- 
 tion of quiet ecstasy. 
 
 "Is this nice?" she asked him, now and then, and a 
 caressing smile caused her lips to quiver. 
 
 " Yes, very," he replied briefly, and again they fell si- 
 lent, as they roamed through the forest. It seemed to 
 him that he was a young man, devoutly in love, a stranger 
 to sinful intentions, and to all inward conflict with him- 
 self. But every time that his eyes fell upon the spots of 
 mud on her gown, a disquieting shadow fell upon his soul. 
 And he did not understand how this happened, that sud- 
 denly, all in a moment, when such a shadow enveloped his 
 consciousness, with a deep sigh, as though casting off a 
 weight, he said to her : 
 
 " What a beauty you are ! " 
 
 She looked at him in amazement. 
 
 " What ails you ? You have held your peace, held your 
 peace — and then, suddenly, you say that ! " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch smiled faintly, disarmed by her 
 composure. 
 
 " It is so beautiful here . . you know ! The forest is 
 beautiful . . and you are like a fairy in it . . or, you 
 are a goddess, and the forest is your temple." 
 
 " No," she replied, with a smile, " it is not my forest, it 
 belongs to the Crown, but our forest is yonder, down the 
 river." 
 
 And she pointed with her hand somewhere to one side. 
 
 423 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Is she jesting, or . . . does not she understand ? — " 
 said Ippolit Sergyeeviteh to himself, and a persistent de- 
 sire to talk to her about her beauty began to blaze up 
 within him. But she was pensive, calm, and this re- 
 strained him during the entire time of their stroU. 
 
 They rambled on for a long time, but said little, for the 
 soft, peaceful impressions of that day had breathed into 
 their souls a sweet languor, in which all desires had sunk 
 to rest, except the desire to meditate in silence upon some- 
 thing inexpressible in words. 
 
 On their return home, they learned that Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna had not yet arrived, and they began to drink tea, 
 which Mdsha hastily prepared. Immediately after tea, 
 Varenka rode ofE homeward, having exacted from him a 
 promise to come to their manor with Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 He saw her off, and as he reached the terrace, he surprised 
 in himself a mournful sensation of having lost something 
 which was indispensable to him. As he sat at the table, 
 whereon still stood his glass of tea, which had grown cold, 
 he sternly tried to bring himself up short, to suppress this 
 whole play of emotions excited by the day, but pity for 
 himself made its appearance, and he rejected all opera- 
 tions on himself. 
 
 " Why ? " he said to himself — " can all this be serious ? 
 It is a frolic, nothing more. It wiU not hurt her, it can- 
 not hurt her, even if I wished it. It somewhat interferes 
 with my life . . . but there is so much that is young 
 and beautiful about it. . ." 
 
 Then, smiling condescendingly to himself, he recalled 
 his firm resolve to develop her mind, and his unsuccessful 
 efforts to do so. 
 
 " No, evidently, one must use different words with her. 
 These unadulterated natures are more inclined to yield 
 
 424 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 their directness to metaphysics . . . defending them- 
 selves against logic by the armor of blind, primitive feel- 
 ing. . . She is a strange girl ! " 
 
 His sister found him engrossed in thoughts about her. 
 She made her appearance in noisy, animated mood, — 
 such as he had not beheld her hitherto. After ordering 
 Mdsha to boil the samovdr, she seated herself opposite her 
 brother, and began to tell him about the Benkovskys. 
 
 " Forth from all the cracks of their ancient house peer 
 the cruel eyes of poverty, which is celebrating its victory 
 over that family. In the house, to all appearances, there 
 is not a kopek of money, nor any provisions; they sent to 
 the village to get eggs for dinner. There was no meat at 
 dinner, and so old Benkovsky talked a great deal about 
 vegetarianism, and about the possibility of the moral re- 
 generation of people on that basis. The whole place reeks 
 of decay, and they are all bad-tempered — from hunger, 
 probably." She had gone to them with the proposition 
 that they should sell her a small plot of land which cut 
 into her estate. 
 
 " Why did you do that ? " inquired Ippolit Sergy6evitch, 
 with interest. 
 
 " Well, you can hardly appreciate the calculations which 
 I am carrying out. Imagine — it is on account of my fu- 
 ture children, — " she said, laughing. " Well, and how 
 have you passed the time ? " 
 
 " Agreeably." ' 
 
 She said nothing, but eyed him askance. 
 
 " Excuse me for the question . . . aren't you a little 
 bit afraid of being captivated by Varenka ? " 
 
 " What is there to fear ? " he inquired, with an interest 
 which was incomprehensible to himself. 
 
 " The possibility of being strongly carried away ? " 
 
 425 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 « ' 
 
 ■ Well, I am hardly capable of that . ." he replied 
 sceptically, and he believed that he was speaking the truth. 
 
 " And if that is the case, it is very good indeed. A little 
 — that is all well enough, but you are rather cold . . . 
 too serious . . for your years. And really . . I shall 
 be glad if she stirs you up a little. . . . Perhaps you 
 would like to see her more frequently? . . ." 
 
 " She made me promise to go to their house, and begged 
 you to do so . ." Ippolit Sergyeevitch informed her. 
 
 " When do you wish to go ? " 
 
 " It makes no difference to me. . . Whenever you find 
 it convenient. You are in good spirits to-day. ." 
 
 " Is that very noticeable ? " — she laughed. — " What of 
 it ? I have passed the day pleasantly. On the whole . . . 
 I am afraid it will seem cynical to you . . but the truth 
 is, that since the day of my husband's funeral, I feel that 
 I am reviving to new life ... I am egotistical — of 
 course ! But it is the joyous egotism of a person who has 
 been released from prison to freedom. . Condemn me 
 . . but be just." 
 
 " How many accusations for such a short speech ! You 
 are glad and . . go on being glad . ." laughed Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch amiably. 
 
 " And you are kind and charming to-day," said she. — 
 " You see — a little happiness — and a person immediately 
 becomes better, kinder. But some over-wise people think 
 that sufferings purify us . . I should like to have life, 
 by applying that theory to them, purify their minds from 
 error. . ." 
 
 " But if you were to make Varenka suffer — what would 
 become of her? " Ippolit Sergyeevitch asked himself. 
 
 They soon parted. She began to play, and he, going off 
 to his own room, lay down on his couch and began to re- 
 
 426 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 fleet, — what sort of an idea of him had that young girl 
 formed? Did she consider him handsome? Or clever? 
 What was there about him that could please her ? Some- 
 thing attracted her to him — that was evident to him. But 
 it was not likely that he possessed in her eyes any value 
 as a clever, learned man; she so lightly brushed aside all 
 his theories, views, exhortations. It was more probable 
 that he pleased her simply as a man. 
 
 And on arriving at this conclusion, Ippolit Sergy6evitch 
 flushed with proud joy. Closing his eyes, with a smile of 
 satisfaction, he pictured to himself this girl as submis- 
 sive to him, conquered by him, ready to do anything for 
 him, timidly entreating him to take her, and teach her to 
 think, to live, to love. 
 
 III. 
 
 When Elizaveta Sergyeevna's cabriolet stopped at the 
 porch of Colonel Olesoff's house, the tall, thin figure of a 
 woman in a loose gray gown made its appearance, and a 
 bass voice rang out, with a strong burr on the letter " r ": 
 
 " A-ah I What a pleasant surprise ! " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch even shivered at this greeting, 
 which resembled a bellow. 
 
 " My brother Ippolit . ." Elizaveta Sergyeevna intro- 
 duced him, after she and the woman had kissed each other. 
 
 " Margarita Eodionovna Lutchitzky." 
 
 Five cold, sticky bones pressed Ippolit Sergyeeviteh's 
 fingers; flashing gray eyes were riveted on his face, and 
 Aunt Lutchitzky boomed away in her bass voice, distinctly 
 enunciating every phrase, as though she were counting 
 them, and were afraid of saying too much. 
 
 427 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " I am very glad to make your acquaintance. ." 
 
 Then she moved to one side, and laid her hand on the 
 house-door. 
 
 " Pray, come in ! " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh stepped across the threshold, and 
 a hoarse cough and an irritated exclamation were borne 
 to meet him from some quarter: 
 
 " Devil take your stupidity ! Go along, see, and tell me, 
 who-o has come. . ." 
 
 " Go in, go in, Elizaveta Sergyeevna," urged on her 
 brother, perceiving that he had halted, hesitatingly. — " It's 
 the colonel shouting. . . It is we who have come, col- 
 onel!" 
 
 In the middle of a large room with a low ceiling, stood 
 a massive arm-chair, and in it was squeezed a big, lym- 
 phatic body, with a red, wizened face, overgrown with 
 gray moss. The upper part of this mass turned heavily, 
 emitting a choking snort. Behind the arm-chair rose the 
 shoulders of a tall, stout woman, who gazed into IppoUt 
 Sergyeevitch's face with lack-lustre eyes. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you ... is this your brother ? . . 
 Colonel Vasily Olesoff . . he beat the Turks and the 
 Tekke Turkomans, and now he himself is conquered by 
 diseases . . . ho, ho, ho ! I'm glad to see you. Varvara 
 has been drumming in my ears all summer about your 
 learning, and all the rest of it. . . Pray, come hither, 
 into the drawing-room. . . Thekla, push me in ! " 
 
 The wheels of the chair squeaked piercingly, the colonel 
 lurched forward, threw himself back, and broke into a 
 hoarse cough, wagging his head about as though he wanted 
 it to break off. 
 
 " When your master coughs — stand still I Haven't I 
 told you that a thousand times ? " 
 
 4S8 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 And Aunt Lutchitzky, seizing Th6kla by the shoulder, 
 crushed her down to the floor. 
 
 The Polkdnoffs stood and waited, until the heavily 
 swaying body of Olesoff should have finished coughing. 
 
 At last they moved forward, and found themselves in a 
 small room, where it was suffocating, dark and cramped 
 with a superabundance of softly-stuffed furniture in can- 
 vas covers. 
 
 " Pray seat yourselves . . . Th6kla, — call your young 
 mistress ! " commanded Aunt Lutchitzky. 
 
 " Elizaveta Sergy^evna, my dear, I am glad to see you ! " 
 announced the colonel, staring at his guest from beneath 
 his gray eyebrows which met over his nose, with eyes as 
 round as those of an owl. The colonel's nose was comi- 
 cally huge, and its tip, purple and shining, mournfully hid 
 itself in the thick brush of his whiskers. 
 
 " I know that you are as glad to see me as I am to see 
 you, . ." said his visitor caressingly. 
 
 "Ho, ho, ho! That's a lie — begging your pardon! 
 What pleasure is there in seeing an old man, crippled 
 with gout, and sick with an inexorable thirst for vodka ? 
 Twenty-five years ago, one might really have rejoiced at 
 the sight of Vdska Olesoff . . and many women did 
 rejoice . . . but now, I'm utterly useless to you, and 
 you're utterly useless to me. . . But when you are 
 here, they give me v6dka — and so, I'm glad to see you! " 
 
 " Don't talk much, or you'll begin to cough again. . ." 
 Margarita Eodi6novna warned him. 
 
 "Did you hear? — " the colonel turned to Ippolit Ser- 
 gy6eviteh. — " I must not talk — it's injurious, I must not 
 drink, it's injurious, — ^I must not eat as much as I want, — 
 it's injurious ! Everything is injurious, devil take it ! And 
 I see, that it's injurious for me to live! Ho, ho, ho! I 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 have lived too long. . . I hope you may never have oc- 
 casion to say the same thing about yourself. . . How- 
 ever, you will certainly die early, you'll get the consump- 
 tion, — ^you have an impossibly narrow chest. . ." 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch looked, now at him, now at Aunt 
 Lutchltzky, and thought of Varenka : 
 
 " And what monsters she lives among ! " 
 
 He had never tried to depict to himself the setting of 
 her life, and now he was crushed by what he beheld. The 
 harsh, angular leanness of Aunt Lutchitzky offended his 
 eyes; he could not bear to look at her long neck, covered 
 with yellow skin, and every time she spoke he began to 
 be apprehensive of something, as though in anticipation 
 that the bass sounds, which emanated from this woman's 
 broad bosom, flat as a board, would rend her breast. And 
 the rustle of Aunt Lutchitzky's skirts seemed to him to he 
 her bones rubbing against each other. The colonel reeked 
 with some sort of liquor, sweat, and vile tobacco. Judging 
 from the gleam in his eyes, he must often be in a fury, 
 and Ippolit Sergyeevitch, as he imagined him in a state of 
 exasperation, felt loathing for the old man. The rooms 
 were not comfortable, the wall-paper was smoke-be- 
 grimed, and the tiles of the stoves were streaked with 
 cracks, which, however, made them look like marble. The 
 paint had been rubbed off of the floors by the wheels of the 
 rolling-chair, the window-frames were awry, the panes 
 were dull, everything breathed forth an odor of age, per- 
 ishing with exhaustion. 
 
 "It is sultry to-day, . ." remarked Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna.. 
 
 " There will be rain," declared Mrs. Lutchitzky cate- 
 gorically. 
 
 " Eeally? " said the visitor doubtfully. 
 430 
 
Viirenka OlesofF 
 
 " Trust to Margarita, — " said the old man hoarsely. — 
 " She knows everything that will take place. . . . She 
 assures me so every day. . . ' You will die,' she says, 
 ' and they will roh VArya, and break her head . . — ^you 
 see ? I dispute it : — the daughter of Colonel Olesoff will 
 not permit anyone to turn her head . . . she'll do it 
 herself; and that I shall die — is true . . that is to say, 
 it is as it should be. And you, my learned gentleman, how 
 do you feel yourself ? A very small fish in a big tank ? " 
 
 " No, why should I ? It is a beautiful wooded coun- 
 try . ." replied Ippolit Sergyeevitch courteously. 
 
 " It is a beautiful wooded country here ? Phew ! That 
 means that you haven't seen anything beautiful on earth. 
 The valley of Kazanlik in Bulgaria is beautiful, . . it is 
 beautiful in Kherassan . . on the Murgal river there 
 is a spot like paradise itself . . Ah! My precious 
 child! . . ." 
 
 V4renka brought with her an aroma of freshness into 
 the musty atmosphere of the drawing-room. Her form 
 was enveloped in some sort of mantle, of light lilac sar- 
 pinka* In her hands she held a huge bouquet of freshly- 
 gathered flowers, and her face was beaming with pleasure. 
 
 "How nice that you have come to-day! — " she ex- 
 claimed, as she greeted her guests. — " I was just prepar- 
 ing to go to you . . they have been nagging me ! " 
 
 And with a sweeping gesture, she designated her father 
 and Margarita Kodionovna, who was sitting beside her 
 visitor with such unnatural rigidity, that her backbone 
 seemed to have turned to stone, and to be incapable of 
 bending. 
 
 * Sarpinka is a very fine cotton goods, manufactured by German 
 
 colonists, in the Gorernment of Saratoff, on tlie lower Vblga. It is 
 
 almost invariably of two colors, like shot silk, is very durable and 
 
 pretty. — Translator. 
 
 431 
 
Virenka Olesoff 
 
 " Varvdra I You're talking nonsense ! " she cried sternly 
 to the young girl, with flashing eyes. 
 
 " Don't scream ! If you do, I'll tell about Lieutenant 
 YAkovleff, and his fiery heart. . . ." 
 
 "Ho, ho, ho! V4rka*— be quiet! I'll tell it my- 
 self. . ." 
 
 " What sort of a place have I got into ? " — meditated 
 Ippolit Sergy^evitch, gazing at his sister in amazement. 
 
 But, evidently, all this was familiar to her, and although 
 a smile of disdain quivered on the corners of her mouth, 
 she looked on and listened with composure. 
 
 " I will go and see about tea ! " — announced Margarita 
 Eodionovna, stretching herself upward, without bending 
 her body, and disappeared, after casting a glance of re- 
 proach at the colonel. 
 
 Vdrenka sat down in her aunt's place, and began to 
 whisper something in Elizaveta Sergyeevna's ear. 
 
 " Why has she such a passion for loose garments ! " said 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch to himself, casting a furtive glance 
 at her figure, as it bent toward his sister, in a fine pose. 
 
 But the colonel rumbled away, like a cracked double- 
 
 " Of course, you are aware, that Margarita is the wife 
 of my comrade, Lieutenant-Colonel Lutchitzky, who was 
 killed at Iski-Zagra. She made the campaign with him, 
 that she did ! She's an energetic woman, you know. Well, 
 and in our regiment there was a Lieutenant- YakovlefE 
 . . . such a delicate young lady he was ... his chest 
 was crushed by a Turkish volunteer, and consumption en- 
 sued, so that was the end of him ! Well, and when he fell 
 ill, she nursed him for five months ! What do you think 
 
 *V4,rya, Varenka, V4rka, are all dlminutiTes of Varv&ra Trans- 
 lator. 
 
 432 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 of that ? hey ? And, do you know, she gave him her word 
 that she would not marry. She was young, and handsome 
 ... a very striking woman. Very worthy men courted 
 her, courted her seriously — Captain Shmurl6, a very fine 
 young Little Kussian, even took to drink and left the ser- 
 vice. I, also . . that is to say, I also proposed to her : — 
 ' Margarita ! marry me ! ' . . She would not . . it 
 was very stupid of her, but noble, of course. And then, 
 when I was seized with the gout, she presented herself, and 
 said : * You are alone in the world, I am alone . .' and 
 so forth and so on. Touching and saintly. Eternal friend- 
 ship, and we snarl at each other all the time. She comes 
 here every summer, she even wants to sell her estate and 
 settle down here forever, that is to say, until I die. I 
 appreciate it — ^but it's all ridiculous, isn't it ? Ho, ho, ho ! 
 For she was a passionate woman, and you see how he has 
 dried her up ? Don't play with fire . . ho ! She flies 
 into a rage, you know, when one narrates this poetry of 
 her life, as she expresses it. ' Don't you dare,' says she, 
 * to insult the holy things of my heart with your abominable 
 tongue!' Ah! Ho, ho, ho! But, as a matter of fact, what 
 sort of a holy thing is it ? A delusion of the mind . . . 
 the dreams of a school-girl . . Life is simple, isn't it? 
 Enjoy yourself, and die when your time comes, that's the 
 whole philosophy ! But . . . die when your time comes! 
 But here now, I have overlived the right time, I hope you 
 won't do that. . . ." 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch's head was reeling with the story, 
 and the odor which emanated from the colonel. But Va- 
 renka, paying no heed whatever to him, and, probably, 
 not comprehending how little agreeable the conversation 
 with her father was to him, was chatting, in a low tone, 
 with Elizaveta Sergy^evna, listening seriously and atten- 
 tively to her. 
 
 433 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " I invite you to drink tea ! — " Margarita Eodionovna's 
 bass voice rang out in the doorway. — "Varvira, wheel 
 your father ! " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch drew a breath of relief and fol- 
 lowed Varenka, who lightly pushed in front of her the 
 heavy chair. 
 
 Tea was prepared in the English fashion, with a mass of 
 cold viands. A huge rare piece of roast beef was flanked 
 by bottles of wine, and this evoked a laugh of content- 
 ment on the part of the colonel. It seemed as though 
 even his half-dead legs, enveloped in bear-skia, quivered 
 with the anticipation of pleasure. He was rolled up to the 
 table, and stretching out his fat, trembling hands, over- 
 grown with dark hair, toward the bottles, he laughed aloud, 
 shaking the air of the great dining-room, set around with 
 chairs plaited from osier twigs. 
 
 The tea-drinking lasted a torturingly long time, and 
 throughout it the colonel narrated military anecdotes, 
 in a hoarse voice, Margarita Eodionovna interposed brief 
 remarks in her bass, and Varenka chatted softly but viva- 
 ciously with Elizaveta Sergyeevna. 
 
 " What is she talking about ? " — thought Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch sadly, delivered over to the colonel as a victim. 
 
 It seemed to him that she was paying too little attention 
 to him to-day. Was this coquetry ? And he felt that he 
 was on the point of becoming angry with her. But now 
 she cast a glance in his direction, and uttered a ringing 
 laugh. 
 
 " My sister has called her attention to me ! " reflected 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch, frowning with displeasure. 
 
 "Ippolit Sergyeevitch! Have you finished your tea?" 
 inquired Varenka. 
 
 " Yes, long ago. . ." 
 
 434 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Would you like to take a stroll? I will show you some 
 splendid places ! " 
 
 " Let us go. And wUl you come too, Liza ? " 
 
 "No! I find it pleasant to sit with Margarita Eodio- 
 novna and the Colonel." 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho ! Agreeable to stand on the brink of the 
 grave, into which my half -dead body is rolling ! " and the 
 colonel roared with laughter. " Why do you say that ? " 
 
 " The next thing, she will be asking me — ' don't you find 
 it tiresome at our house?' — " thought Ippolit Sergyde- 
 viteh, as he emerged with Varenka from the house into 
 the garden. But she asked him : 
 
 " How do you like papa ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " — exclaimed Ippolit Sergy6eviteh softly. " He 
 inspires respect ! " 
 
 " Aha ! " replied Varenka, with satisfaction. — " That's 
 what everybody says. He's frightfully brave ! You know, 
 he does not talk about himself, but Aunt Lutchitzky was 
 in the same regiment with him, and she said that at 
 Gorny Dubnyak a ball crushed his horse's nostrils, and 
 the animal carried him straight in among the Turks. But 
 the Turks pursued him; he managed to wheel and gallop 
 along their line; of course, they killed the horse; he fell, 
 and saw that four men were running toward him. . . One 
 rushed up, and brandished the butt-end of a rifle over him, 
 but papa let fly, — whack ! and the man fell at his feet. He 
 discharged a revolver straight in his face — ^bang! And 
 then he pulled his leg out from under the horse, and the 
 other three rushed up, and more after them, and our own 
 soldiers flew to meet them, with Yakovleff . . . you 
 know who he was? . . . Papa seized the dead man's 
 rifle, sprang to his feet — and forward ! But he was awfully 
 strong, and that came near ruining him; he hit the Turk 
 
 435 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 over the head, and the gun broke, and he had nothing but 
 his sword left, but it was bad and dull, and a Turk was 
 trying to kill him with a bayonet-thrust in the breast. 
 Then papa grasped the strap of the rifle in his hand, and 
 ran to meet his own men, dragging the Turk after him. 
 He understood that he was lost, turned his face toward 
 the foe, wrenched the gun away from the Turk, and 
 dashed at them — hurrah ! Then Yakovleff rushed up with 
 the soldiers, and they set to work so heartily, that the 
 Turks beat a retreat. They gave papa the George * for 
 that, but he flew into a rage, because they did not give 
 the George to a non-commissioned officer of his regiment, 
 who had saved YakovlefiE twice and papa once in that fight, 
 and refused the cross. But when they gave it to the non- 
 commissioned officer, then he took it." 
 
 "You tell about that fight exactly as though you had 
 taken part in it . . ." remarked Ippolit Sergyeevitch, 
 interrupting her narration. 
 
 " Ye-es . . ." she said slowly, sighing and puckering 
 up her eyes. — " I like war. . . And I'm going, as a Sister 
 of Mercy, if they begin to fight. ." 
 
 " Then I shall go as a soldier. . ." 
 
 " You ? " she inquired, scanning his figure. — " Come, 
 you are jesting, . . you would make a poor soldier , . 
 you are so weak, so thin. . ." 
 
 This stung him. 
 
 " I am strong enough, I assure you . . ." he declared, 
 as though warning her. 
 
 * The Order of St. George— the most prized of Eussian Orders, be- 
 cause it must be won by desperate, personal valor, on the field of 
 battle. The names of the members are inscribed in gold on the white 
 marble walls of the grand Hall of St. George, in the Great Palace, iu 
 
 the Kremlin, at Moscow. The ribbon is orange and black. Trant- 
 
 lator. 
 
 436 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Well, you don't say so ? " said Vdrenka composedly, 
 not believing him. 
 
 A raging desire to seize her in his arms, and crush her 
 to his breast with all his might flamed up within him — 
 to crush her so that the tears would gush forth from her 
 eyes. He cast a hasty glance around, twitched his shoul- 
 ders, and immediately felt ashamed of his impulse. 
 
 They walked through the garden along a path set with 
 regular rows of apple-trees, and behind them, at the end 
 of the path, gazed forth the windows of the house. Ap- 
 ples kept falling from the trees, striking the earth dully, 
 and voices resounded somewhere close at hand. One 
 asked : 
 
 " I suppose he has come wooing too ? " 
 
 But the other swore gruffly. 
 
 " Wait . . ." Varenka stopped her companion, grasp- 
 ing his sleeve, "let's hear what they have to say about 
 us. . ." 
 
 He east a harsh glance at her, and said : 
 
 " I am not fond of eavesdropping to the gossip of ser- 
 vants. . ." 
 
 " But I love it . ." declared Varenka, " when they are 
 by themselves, they always talk very interestingly about 
 us, their masters. . ." 
 
 " It may be interesting, but it is not nice . ." laughed 
 Ippolit Sergy6evitch. 
 
 " Why not ? They always speak well of me." 
 
 " I congratulate you. ." 
 
 He was the prey of a malicious impulse to speak sharply, 
 rudely to her, to wound her. To-day her conduct agitated 
 him : — yonder, in the house, she had paid no attention to 
 him for a long time, just as though she did not under- 
 stand that he had come for her sake, and to see her, and 
 
 437 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 not to see her crippled father, and dried-up aunt. Then, 
 when she pronounced him a weakling, she had begun to 
 look upon him with a certain condescension, 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this ? " he said to himself. 
 — " If my exterior does not please her, and I am not in- 
 teresting from the internal point of view — what has at- 
 tracted her to me ? A new face — and nothing more ? " 
 
 He believed that she was gravitating toward him, and 
 thought that he had to deal with coquetry under the guise 
 of ingenuousness and artlessness. 
 
 " Perhaps she considers me stupid . . and hopes that 
 I shall grow wiser. . ." 
 
 " My aunt is right . . it is going to rain ! " said 
 Varenka, gazing into the distance, — "see, what a dark 
 cloud . . and it is growing sultry, as it always does be- 
 fore a thunder-storm. . . ." 
 
 " That is unpleasant . ." said Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 " We must turn back, and warn my sister. ." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " That we may return home before it begins to rain. ." 
 
 " Who is going to let you go ? And you would not be 
 able to get there before the thunder-storm begins. . . 
 You will have to wait here." 
 
 " And what if the rain should last until night ? " 
 
 " You will spend the night with us," said Varenka cate- 
 gorically. 
 
 " No, that is inconvenient. . ." protested Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch. 
 
 " Oh Lord ! Is it so difficult to spend one night incon- 
 veniently ? " 
 
 " I had not my own comfort in view. ." 
 
 " Then don't worry yourself about other people — each 
 person can take care of himself." 
 
 438 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 They disputed and walked on, but the dark cloud swept 
 swiftly to meet them across the sky, and already the 
 thunder was beginning to rumble somewhere far away. 
 An oppressive sultriness permeated the atmosphere, as 
 though the approaching thunder-cloud, condensing all the 
 burning heat of the day, were driving it before it. And the 
 leaves on the trees grew still, in eager expectation of the 
 refreshing moisture. 
 
 " Shall we turn back?" suggested Ippolit Sergy6evitch.y 
 
 " Yes, because it is stifling , . . How I detest the 
 time before something is coming . . before a thunder- 
 storm, before holidays. The thunder-storm or the holiday 
 is all well enough in itself, but it is tiresome to wait for it. 
 If everything could only be done at once . . you could 
 lie down and sleep — it is winter, and cold; you wake — 
 and it is spring, with flowers and sun ... or, the sun 
 is shining, and, all at once, there is darkness, thunder, a 
 downpour. . ." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to have a man also change as 
 suddenly and unexpectedly?" inquired Ippolit Sergyde- 
 vitch, with a laugh. 
 
 "A man should always be interesting . ." she said, 
 gententiously. 
 
 " But what do you mean by being interesting ? " — ex- 
 claimed Ippolit Sergy6evitch, with vexation. 
 
 "What do I mean? Why . . it is difficult to say 
 . . . I think that all people would be interesting, if 
 they were more . . . lively . . yes, more lively ! If 
 they laughed, sang, played more ... if they were more 
 daring, stronger . . even audacious . . even 
 coarse. ." 
 
 He listened attentively to her definitions, and asked 
 himself : 
 
 439 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " Is she recommending to me the programme of the re- 
 lations which she wishes me to bear toward her ? . ." 
 
 " There's no swiftness in people . . and everything 
 ought to be done swiftly, in order that life should be inter- 
 esting . . ." she explained, with a serious face. 
 
 " Who knows? Perhaps you are right . ." remarked 
 IppoKt Sergyeevitch softly. " That is to say, not entirely 
 right. . ." 
 
 " Don't excuse yourself ! — " she laughed. — " Why not 
 entirely? It's either entirely right or not right at all 
 . . . it's either good or bad . . . either handsome 
 or homely . . that's the way to argue! But people say: 
 * she's quite nice, quite pretty , . .' and it's simply out 
 of cowardice that they speak in that way . . . they're 
 afraid of the truth, for some reason or other! " 
 
 " Well, you know, that by just this division into two, 
 you insult far too many ! " 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " By injustice. . ." 
 
 " A man always keeps coming back to that same justice ! 
 Just as though all life were contained in it and one couldn't 
 possibly get along without it. But who wants it ? " 
 
 She cried out angrily and capriciously, and her eyes 
 kept contracting and emitting sparks. 
 
 "Everyone, Varvara VasHievna! Everyone, from the 
 peasant . . to yourself. . ." said Ippolit Sergyeevitch 
 didactically, as he watched her agitation, and tried to ex- 
 plain it to himself. 
 
 "I don't want any justice!" — she rejected it with de- 
 cision, and even made a gesture with her hand, as though 
 she were repelling something. — " And if I do need it, I'll 
 find it for myself. . . Why are you forever bothering 
 yourself about people ? And . . . you simply say that, 
 
 440 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 in order to make me angry . . . because to-day you are 
 consequential, and pompous. . ." 
 
 " I? I make you angry? Why? " said Ippolit Sergyee- 
 vitch, in amazement. 
 
 " How should I know ? Because you are bored, proba- 
 bly . . But . . you'd better stop it! I'm loaded to 
 the muzzle . . even without your interference! They 
 have been feeding me on sermons the whole week, all 
 because of my suitors . . . they have flooded me with 
 every sort of venom . . . and vile suspicions . . . 
 thanks to you ! " 
 
 Her eyes flashed with a phosphorescent gleam, her nos- 
 trils quivered, and she trembled all over with the agitation 
 which had suddenly seized upon her. Ippolit Sergyeevitch, 
 with a mist in his eyes, and a rapid beating of the heart, 
 began hotly to defend her against herself. 
 
 " I did not mean to anger you. . ." 
 
 But, at that moment, the thunder crashed noisily over 
 their heads — as though some monstrously-large and 
 coarsely-good-natured person were laughing. Stunned by 
 the terrific sound, they both shuddered, and halted, for an 
 instant, but immediately set out, at a rapid pace, for the 
 house. The foliage trembled on the trees, and a shadow fell 
 upon the earth from the thunder-cloud, which spread over 
 the sky in a soft, velvety canopy. 
 
 "But what a quarrel you and I have had!" said Va- 
 renka on the way. — " I did not notice how the cloud was 
 creeping up." 
 
 On the porch of the house stood Elizaveta Sergy^evna, 
 and Aunt Lutchitzky, with a large straw hat on her head, 
 which made her look like a sunflower. 
 
 "There is going to be a terrific thunder-storm," she 
 announced, in her impressive bass voice, straight in Ip- 
 
 441 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 polit Sergyeevitch's face, as though she considered it her 
 plain duty to assure him of the approach of the tempest. 
 Then she said : 
 
 " The colonel has fallen asleep . . ." and vanished. 
 
 "How does this please you?" asked Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna, indicating the sky with a nod. — " I think we shall 
 be obliged to spend the night here." 
 
 " If we do not incommode anyone. . ." 
 
 " That's ]ust like a man ! " — exclaimed Varenka star- 
 ing at him with amazement, and almost with pity. — 
 " You're always afraid of inconveniencing people, of being 
 unjust. . . akh, oh Lord ! Well, and you must find it 
 tiresome to live . . . always on pins and needles ! The 
 way I think about it is — ^if you want to inconvenience 
 people, do it, if you want to be unjust, be unjust ! . . ." 
 
 "And Grod Himself will decide who is in the right," 
 interposed Elizaveta Sergyeevna, smiling at her with a 
 consciousness of her own superiority. — "I think I must 
 hide myself under the roof . . . What are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 " We will watch the thunder-storm here, — won't we ? " 
 the girl asked, addressing Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 He expressed his assent by a bow. 
 
 " Well, I am not fond of the grandiose phenomena of 
 Nature . . if they are likely to produce fever or a cold 
 in the head. Moreover, one can enjoy a thunder-storm 
 through the window-panes. . . ai!" 
 
 The lightning flashed; the gloom, rent by it, quivered, 
 for a moment revealing what it had engulfed, and then 
 flowed together again. For a couple of seconds, a crush- 
 ing silence reigned, then the thunder roared, like the dis- 
 charge of a battery, and its rumblings rolled over the 
 house. The wind burst forth, and seizing the dust and 
 
 443 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 rubbish on the ground, and whirled around with every- 
 thing it had gathered, rising upward in a column. Straws, 
 bits of paper, leaves flew about; the martius clove the air 
 with frightened squeaks, the foliage rustled dully on the 
 trees, on the iron roof of the house the dust could be 
 heard, giving rise to a noisy rattle. 
 
 Varenka watched this play of the storm from behind 
 the jamb of the door, and Ippolit Sergyeevitch, winking 
 from the dust, stood behind her. The porch was like a 
 box, which is dark inside, but when the lightning flashed, 
 the girl's graceful figure was illuminated by a bluish, 
 spectral light. 
 
 " Look . . . look ! " cried Varenka, when the light- 
 ning rent the thunder-cloud ..." did you see ? The 
 thunder-cloud seems to smile — doesn't it ? It greatly re- 
 sembles a smile . . . there are just such surly and 
 taciturn people — that sort of a man remains silent, keeps 
 silent for ever so long, and then, all of a sudden, he smiles : 
 — his eyes blaze, his teeth gleam. . . And here comes the 
 rain!" 
 
 On the roof the big, heavy drops of rain drummed, at 
 long intervals, at first, then closer and closer together, 
 and, at last, with a roaring noise. 
 
 " Let us go away . . ." said Ippolit Sergyeevitch . . 
 " you wiU get wet." 
 
 He found it awkward to stand so close to her, in that 
 dense darkness — awkward and disagreeable. And he 
 thought, as he looked at her neck : 
 
 " What if I were to kiss it ? " 
 
 The lightnings flashed, lighting up half of the heaven, 
 and by their illumination Ippolit Sergyeevitch perceived 
 that Varenka was waving her arms, with cries of rapture, 
 and standing, with her body leaning backward, as though 
 
 443 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 presenting her breast to the lightning. He seized her from 
 behind, by the waist, and almost laying his head on her 
 shoulder, he asked her, panting : 
 
 " What . . what . . is the matter with yon ? " 
 
 " Why, nothing ! " she exclaimed with vexation, freeing, 
 herself from his arms with a supple, powerful motion of 
 her body. — " Good heavens, how frightened you are . . 
 and you a man ! " 
 
 " I was alarmed for you," he said, in low tone, retreat- 
 ing into the corner. 
 
 The contact with her seemed to burn his hands, and 
 filled his breast with inextinguishable fire of desire to em- 
 brace her, to embrace her strongly, even to pain. He had 
 lost his self-control, and he wanted to quit the porch, and 
 stand in the rain, where the big drops were lashing the 
 trees like scourges. 
 
 " I will go into the house," said he. 
 
 " Let us go," agreed Varenka with displeasure, and slip- 
 ping noiselessly past him, she went through the door. 
 
 " Ho, ho, ho ! " the colonel greeted them.—" What ? By 
 order of the commander of the elements you are arrested 
 until further notice ? Ho, ho, ho ! " 
 
 "This is a frightful thunder-storm," remarked Aunt 
 •Lutchitzky, with the utmost seriousness, intently scan- 
 ning the pale face of their guest. 
 
 "I do not like these mad fits of Nature ! " said Elizaveta 
 Sergyeevna, with a scornful grimace on her cold face. — 
 " Thunder-storms, snow-storms; — why such a useless waste 
 of a mass of energy? " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch, suppressing his emotion, hardly 
 found the strength to ask his sister calmly: 
 
 " Will it last long, do you think ? " 
 
 " All night," Margarita Eodionovna answered him. 
 
 444 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " I think it will," assented his sister. 
 
 " You can't tear yourselves away from here ! " declared 
 Vdrenka, with a laugh. 
 
 Polkdnoff shuddered, feeling that there was somethiag 
 fatal in her laugh. 
 
 " Yes, we shall he obliged to spend the night here," said 
 Elizaveta Sergydevna. ..." We cannot pass through 
 the KamofiE thicket of young trees, by night, without de- 
 facing the equipage ... by good luck. . ." 
 
 " There are plenty of chambers here," announced Aunt 
 Lutchitzky. 
 
 " Then . . I will beg you to excuse me ! a thunder- 
 storm has the most shocking effect upon me ! . . I should 
 like to know . . . where I am to he quartered . . I 
 will go there, for a few minutes." 
 
 Ippolit's words, uttered in a low, broken voice, produced a 
 general alarm. 
 
 "Sal ammoniac!" boomed Margarita Eodionovna, in 
 her deep bass, and, springing from her chair, she disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Vdrenka bustled about the room with astonishment 
 written on her face, and said to him : 
 
 " I'll show you directly . . I will assign you a place 
 . . where it is quiet. ." 
 
 Elizaveta Sergy6evna was the most composed of them 
 all, and asked him, with a smile : 
 
 " Are you dizzy ? " 
 
 And the colonel said, hoarsely: 
 
 "Fiddle-faddle! It will pass off! My comrade. Major 
 Gortdloff, who was killed by the Turks during a sortie, 
 was a dashing fellow! Oh! a rare fellow! A valiant 
 young man! At Sistoff, he walked forward straight on 
 the bayonets, ahead of the soldiers, as calmly as though he 
 
 445 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 were leading a dance : — he hewed, slashed, shouted, broke 
 his sword, seized a club, and thrashed the Turks with that. 
 He was a brave man, and there aren't many such! But he, 
 also, got nervous in a thunder-storm, like a woman . . 
 it was ridiculous ! He turned pale, and reeled, as you do, 
 and cried ' akh,' and ' okh ! ' He was a hard drinker, and 
 a jolly dog, twelve vershoks tall * . . . imagine how it 
 became him ! " 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeeviteh looked, and listened, made his ex- 
 cuses, calmed them all, and cursed himself. His head 
 really was swimming, and when Margarita Rodionovna 
 thrust a smelling-bottle under his nose, and commanded 
 him: " Smell that! "... he seized the salts, and began 
 inhaling the penetrating odor into his nostrils, feeling, that 
 this whole scene was comic, and was lowering him in Va- 
 renka's eyes. 
 
 The rain beat angrily against the window, the lightnings 
 flashed in their glare, the peals of thunder made the panes 
 rattle in a frightened way, and all this reminded the col- 
 onel of the uproar of battle. 
 
 " During the last Turkish campaign ... I don't re- 
 member where . . there was just such a tumult as this. 
 Thunder, a torrent of rain, lightning, volleys of firing 
 from the artillery, a scattered fire from the infantry . . 
 Lieutenant Vyakhireff took out a bottle of brandy, put 
 the neck in his lips, and — bul-bul-bul! And a bullet 
 smashed the bottle to flinders ! The Lieutenant looked at 
 the neck of the bottle in his hand, and said : ' Devil take it, 
 they are making war on bottles ! ' Ho, ho, ho ! But I said 
 to him: ' You're mistaken. Lieutenant, the Turks are fir- 
 ing at bottles, but it is you who are making war on bottles ! ' 
 Ho, ho, ho! Witty, wasn't it ? " 
 
 * A Tersh&k is IJ inches. — Translator. 
 446 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 " Do you feel better ? " Aunt Lutchltzky asked Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch. 
 
 He thanked her, with clenched teeth, as he looked at 
 them all with mouinfully-angry eyes, and remarked that 
 Vdrenka was smiling incredulously and with surprise at 
 something which his sister was whispering to her, with her 
 ear bent toward her. At last he succeeded in getting away 
 from these people, and flinging himself on the divan in 
 the little chamber which had been assigned to him, he 
 began to reduce his emotions to order, to the sound of the 
 rain. 
 
 Impotent wrath against himself struggled within him 
 with the desire to understand how it had come about, that 
 he had lost the power of self-control, — could the attrac- 
 tion toward that young girl be so deeply seated within 
 him? But he could not manage to settle down upon any 
 one thing, and pursue his thought to the end; a fierce 
 tempest of excited emotions was raging within him. At 
 first he resolved, that he would come to an explanation 
 with her that very day, and immediately rejected this re- 
 solve, when he remembered, that behind it stood the obli- 
 gation which he was reluctant to fulfil, of entering into 
 definite relations to Varenka, and, of course, he could not 
 marry that beautiful monster! He blamed himself for 
 having gone so far in his infatuation for her, and for hav- 
 ing lacked boldness in his dealings with her. It seemed 
 to him, that she was entirely ready to give herself to him, 
 and that she was coldly playing with him, playing like a 
 coquette. He called her stupid, an animal, heartless, and 
 answered himself, defending her. And the rain dashed 
 menacingly against the window, and the whole house shook 
 with the peals of thunder. 
 
 But there is no fire which does not die out! After a 
 — _ ~«T" — ^ 
 
Vcirenka Olesoff 
 
 prolonged and painful struggle, Ippolit Sergy^eviteh suc- 
 ceeded in repressing himself within the hounds of reason, 
 and all his agitated emotions, beating a retreat to some 
 spot deep withiu his heart, gave way to confusion and 
 indignation at himself. 
 
 A young girl, irreparably spoiled by her abnormal sur- 
 roundings, inaccessible to the suggestions of sound sense, 
 immovably steadfast in her errors, — that strange young 
 girl had turned him almost into an animal, in the course 
 of three months ! And he felt himself crushed by the dis- 
 grace of the fact. He had done all he could to render her 
 human; if he had not been able to do more, that was no 
 fault of his. But after he had done what he could, he 
 ought to have gone away from her, and he was to blame 
 for not having taken his departure at the proper time, and 
 for having allowed her to evoke in him a shameful out- 
 burst of sensuality. 
 
 "A less honorable man than myself would have been 
 wiser than I, under the given circumstances, I think." 
 One unexpected thought stung him painfully : 
 
 " Is it honor which re stra ins me? P erhaps, it is only 
 ; ;;weakness_o|_ |gg^JB,g2»JKhai;.J£itJa.»BflA^ie&^ 
 which agitates - me -thus.? A.m I capable of loving, in 
 general . . . can I be a husband and a father . . have 
 ■\P-^* ^^*!lS*^?H^StoJfej^.IfiaB,iredJor those ^ ?^^ 
 
 ^ m X ,!S^gX — " -^s he ineditated in this SjregS^nTEe'wai^'' 
 
 He was soon summoned to supper. 
 
 Varenka greeted him with a searching glance, and the 
 amiable query: " is your headie better? " 
 
 " Yes, thank you . . ." he replied drily, seating him- 
 self at a distance from her, and thinking to himself : 
 
 443 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " She does not even know how to speak : * is your headie 
 better? 'indeed!" 
 
 The colonel dozed, nodding his head, and sometimes 
 snoring, all three of the ladies sat in a row on the divan, 
 and chatted about trifles. The noise of the rain on the 
 windows became more gentle, but that faint, persistent 
 sound clearly bore witness to the firm intention of the 
 rain to drench the earth for an interminably long time. 
 
 The darkness stared in at the windows, the room was 
 close and the odor of kerosene from the three lamps which 
 were burning, mingling with the odor of the colonel, 
 increased the stifling atmosphere, and the nervous state 
 of Ippolit Sergyeevitch. 
 
 He looked at Vdrenka and reflected: 
 
 " She does not come near me . . . why ? I wonder 
 whether Elizaveta . . . has been telling her some non- 
 sense or other . . . has been drawing conclusions from 
 her observations of me ? " 
 
 In the dining-room, fat Th6kla was bustling about. Her 
 big eyes kept peering into the drawing-room at Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch, who was silently smoking a cigarette. 
 
 "My lady! Supper is ready . . ." she announced, 
 with a sigh, slowly presenting her figure in the drawing- 
 room door. 
 
 " Let us go and eat . . . Ippolit Sergyeevitch, if you 
 please. Aunty, it is not necessary to disturb papa, let 
 him stay here and doze . . . for if he goes there, he 
 will begin to drink again." 
 
 " That is sensible . . ." remarked Elizaveta Ser- 
 gyeevna. 
 
 But Aunt Lutchitzky said, in a low voice, with a shrug 
 of the shoulders : 
 
 " It's late in the day now, to think of that ... if he 
 
 449 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 drinks, he'll die all the sooner, but, on the other hand, 
 he'll have some pleasure; if he doesn't drink, he will live 
 a year longer, but not so pleasantly." 
 
 " And that is sensible, also, . ." remarked Elizaveta 
 Sergyeevna. 
 
 At table, Ippolit Sergyeeviteh sat beside Varenka, and 
 noticed that the girl's proximity was again arousing an 
 agitation within him. He very much desired to move so 
 close to her that he could touch her gown. And, as he 
 watched himself, according to his wont, he thought, that 
 in his infatuation for her there was much obstinacy of 
 the flesh, but strength of spirit. . . 
 
 " A withered heart ! " — he cried bitterly to himself. 
 And then he noticed, almost with pride, that he was not 
 afraid to speak the truth about himself, and understood 
 how to interpret every fluctuation of his " ego." 
 
 Engrossed with himself, he maintained silence. 
 
 At first Varenka addressed him frequently, but on re- 
 ceiving, in reply, curt, monosyllabic words, she evidently 
 lost all desire to converse with him. Only after supper, 
 when they were left entirely alone, did she ask him simply : 
 
 " Why are you so depressed ? Do you feel bored, or are 
 you displeased with me ? " 
 
 He replied, that he did not feel depressed, much less 
 was he displeased with her. 
 
 " Then what is the matter with you ? " she persisted. 
 
 " Nothing in particular, apparently . . but . . . 
 sometimes . . an excess of attentions to a man tires 
 him." 
 
 " An excess of attentions ? " Varenka anxiously put a 
 counter-question. — "Whose? Papa's? For aunty has not 
 been talking with you." 
 
 He felt that he was blushing under this invulnerable 
 
 450 
 
V4renka Olesoff 
 
 artlessness, or hopeless stupidity. But she, not waiting 
 for his reply, suggested to him, with a smile : 
 
 " Don't be like that, will you ? Please ! I have a dread- 
 ful dislike for gloomy people. . . Come, what do you 
 think of this — let us play cards . . do you know how ? " 
 
 " I play badly . . and, I must confess, that I am not 
 fond of that form of uselessly wasting time . ." said Ip- 
 polit Sergy^evitch, feeling that he was effecting a recon- 
 ciliation with her. 
 
 " I don't like it either . . but what is one to do ? 
 You see, how tiresome it is here ! " said the yoimg girl bit- 
 terly. — "I know that you have become as you are pre- 
 cisely because it is so tedious." 
 
 He began to assure her of the contrary, and the more 
 he talked, the more ardent did his words become, until, 
 at last, before he knew what he was doing, he wound up : 
 
 " If you like, I should not find it tiresome in a desert 
 with you. . ." 
 
 " What am I to do for that ? " she caught him up, and 
 he perceived that her wish to cheer him up was thoroughly 
 sincere. 
 
 " You need do nothing, — " he replied, concealing deep 
 within him the reply which he would have liked to make. 
 
 "No, really, you came hither to rest, you have so 
 much difficult work, you require strength, and before your 
 arrival, Liza said to me: ' You and I will help the learned 
 man to rest and divert himself . . .' But we . . . 
 what can I do ? Keally .. I ... if I could get away 
 from this tediousness . . . I'd kiss you heartily!" 
 
 Things grew dark before his eyes, and all the blood 
 flew to his heart so stormOy that he fairly reeled. 
 
 " Try it . . kiss me . . kiss me . . ." he said, in a 
 low voice, as he stood before her, without seeing her. 
 
 451 
 
V^renka Olesoff 
 
 " Oho ! So that's what you are like ! " laughed Vdrenka, 
 and vanished. 
 
 He hastened after her, and stopped short, clutching at 
 the jamb of the door, and his whole being yearned toward 
 her. 
 
 A few seconds later he saw the colonel: — ^the old man 
 was sleeping, with his head resting on his shoulder, and 
 snoring sweetly. It was this sound which attracted Ip- 
 polit Sergydevitch's attention. Then he was compelled to 
 convince himself that the monotonous and lugubrious 
 moaning was not resounding in his own breast, but out- 
 side the windows, and that it was the rain weeping, and 
 not his suffering heart. Then anger flashed up within 
 him. 
 
 " You are playing with me . . you are playing with 
 me thus?" . . he reiterated to himself, gritting his 
 teeth, and he threatened her with some humiliating chas- 
 tisement. His breast was in a glow, but his feet and his 
 head stung him like sharp icicles. 
 
 Laughing merrily over something, the ladies entered, 
 and, at the sight of them, Ippolit Sergyeevitch inwardly 
 pulled himself together. Aunt Lutehitzky was laughing 
 in a dull way, as though bubbles were bursting somewhere 
 in her chest. Varenka's face was animated by a roguish 
 smile, and Elizaveta Sergyeevna's laughter was conde- 
 scendingly restrained. 
 
 "Perhaps they are laughing at me!" thought Ippolit 
 Sergyeevitch. 
 
 The game of cards which Varenka had suggested did not 
 take place, and this afforded Ippolit Sergyeevitch the 
 possibility of withdrawing to his room, under the pretext 
 of indisposition. As he left the drawing-room, he felt 
 three pairs of eyes fixed on his back, and knew that they 
 
 452 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 all expressed astonishment. He was not disconcerted by 
 this, being full of the desire to revenge himself on the 
 naughty little girl, to humiliate her, for having dared to 
 indulge in such pranks, to make her weep, and to gaze at 
 her and laugh aloud at her tears. But his feelings could 
 not remain long at such a pitch of intensity, he was ac- 
 customed to subject their fermentation to the power of 
 reason, and he never expressed them until they had coolec 
 down. His vanity was irritated to the poiat of suffering 
 by the conviction that she was playing with him: but 
 along with this, there again sprang up the resolve, whicl 
 had been suppressed by the recent scene, to pay off the 
 girl by utter neglect of her beauty. She must be made tc 
 feel of how little^ consoaaeriiPP ,sb^ -^S'jT'!lf?!" '^y^^Sj 
 wouI3"be good for her, but it must^He a Tesson, notvra^ 
 geance, of course. 
 
 Such arguments always soothed him, but now there wad 
 in his breast something which could not be put aside, 
 which was oppressive, and he simultaneously wished and 
 did not wish to define this singular, almost painful sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Damn aU nameless sensations ! " he exclaimed to him- 
 self. 
 
 But some drops of water, which fell from somewhere to 
 the floor, monotonously beat out : 
 
 "Tak . . . tak. . ." 
 
 After sitting there an hour, in this state of conflict with 
 himself in the unsuccessful endeavor to comprehend what 
 remained incomprehensible, and was more powerful than 
 all he did comprehend, he decided to go to bed, and sleep, 
 in order that he might depart on the morrow, free from 
 everything which so had worried and humiliated him. 
 But, as he lay in his bed, he involuntarily pictured to him- 
 
 453 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 self Varenka as he had beheld her on the porch, with her 
 arms uplifted, as though for an embrace, with her bosom 
 quivering with satisfaction at the flashing of the lightning. 
 And again he reflected, that if he had been bolder with 
 her . . . and then he stopped himself, and finished the 
 thought thus: — then he would have fastened about his 
 neck a mistress who was indisputably very beautiful, but 
 frightfully inconvenient, burdensome, and stupid, with the 
 character of a wildcat, and with the coarsest sensuality, 
 that was certain ! . . . 
 
 But all at once, in the midst of these thoughts, illumi- 
 nated by a surmise or a foreboding, he trembled all over, 
 leaped swiftly to his feet, and running to the door of his 
 room, he unlocked it. Then, smiling, he again, lay down 
 in his bed, and began to stare at the door, thinking to 
 himself, with hope and rapture : 
 
 " That does happen . . . that does happen. . ." 
 
 He had read, somewhere, of its having happened once: 
 she had entered during the night, and had surrendered 
 herself, asking nothing, demanding nothing, simply for 
 the sake of the sensation. Varenka . . assuredly, she 
 had something in common with the heroine of that story, 
 — she was capable of acting thus. In her charming ex- 
 clamation: " So thaf s what you are like! " — ^there had, 
 perhaps, rung for him, a promise, which he had not under- 
 stood ? And now, suddenly, she would come, clad in white, 
 all trembling with shame and desire ! 
 
 He rose from his bed several times, lent an ear to the 
 
 stillness of the house, to the noise of the rain against the 
 
 windows, and cooled his fevered body. But everything 
 
 was quiet, and the longed-for sound of footsteps did not 
 
 \ ring through the stillness. 
 
 "How will she enter?" — he said to himself, and he 
 
 454 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 pictured her to himself, on the threshold of the door, with 
 a proud resolute face. — Of course, she would give her 
 beauty to him proudly! It was the gift of an empress. 
 But perhaps she would stand before him with drooping 
 head, abashed, modest, with tears iu her eyes. Or, she 
 would make her appearance with a laugh, with a quiet 
 laugh, at his torments, which she knew, which she always 
 noted, though she never showed him that she noticed 
 them, in order to trouble him, and to amuse herself. 
 
 In this condition, verging on the delirium of madness, 
 depicting sensuous scenes in his imagination, irritating 
 his nerves, Ippolit Sergy6evitch did not notice that the 
 rain had ceased, and that the stars were peering in through 
 his window, from a clear sky. He was awaiting the sound 
 of footsteps, a woman's footsteps, which should bring him 
 pleasure. But they did not ring out through the slumber- 
 ous stillness. At times, and only for a brief moment, the 
 hope of embracing the young girl died out in him; then 
 he heard, in the hurried beating of his heart, a reproach 
 to himself, and he recognized the fact that his recent con- 
 dition was one that was foreign to him, was disgraceful to 
 him, both painful and repulsive. But the inner world of 
 a man is too complicated and varied to permit of any one 
 tlu^ "persistentixjslding.^^ 
 
 and therefore, in the life of every man, there is an abyss, 
 into which'he'willfaU' without warning, „^ifia4be time 
 , for it^rgjr ives. An d the cautious, by the bitter irojgy of 
 the powers jyhich-goveiiLJifej^ll the most^ deeply, and 
 injure themselves the most painfully. 
 
 He raved untilmoming dawrred; tortured by passion, 
 and when the sun had already risen, footsteps did make 
 themselves heard. He sat up in bed, trembling, with 
 swollen eyes, and waited, and felt that when she did make 
 
 450 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 her appearance, lie would not be able to utter a single 
 word of gratitude to her. But the steps which were ap- 
 proaching his door were slow, heavy. . . 
 
 And now the door opened softly . . . Ippolit Ser- 
 gyeevitch threw himself back feebly on his pillow, and, 
 closing his eyes, remained motionless. 
 
 " Have I waked you up? I want your boots . . and 
 your trousers . . ." said fat Thekla, in a sleepy voice, 
 as she approached the bed, with the slowness of an ox. 
 Sighing, yawning, and knocking against the furniture, she 
 gathered up his clothing, and went out, leaving behind 
 her an odor of the kitchen. 
 
 He lay there for a long time, broken and annihilated, 
 indifferently watching in himself the slow disappearance 
 of the fragments of those images which had racked his 
 nerves all night. 
 
 Again the peasant woman entered, with his clothing, 
 well-brushed, laid it down, and went out, panting heavily. 
 He began to dress himself, without stopping to consider 
 why it was necessary to do it so early. Then, without re- 
 flecting, he decided to go and take a bath in the river, 
 and this animated him, to a certain degree. Treading 
 softly over the floors, he passed the room in which the 
 colonel's snore was booming, then the door of another 
 chamber. He paused, for an instant, before it, but after 
 bestowing an attentive glance upon it, he felt sure that 
 it was not the one. And, at last, half asleep, he emerged 
 into the garden, and walked down the narrow path, know- 
 ing that it would lead him to the river. 
 
 The weather was clear and fresh, the rays of the sun 
 had not yet lost the rosy hues of dawn. The starlings 
 were chattering vivaciously with one another as they 
 pecked at the cherries. On the leaves, drops of dew quiv- 
 
 456 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 ered like diamonds; falling to the earth, in joyous, spar- 
 kling tears, they vanished. The earth was damp, hut it 
 had swallowed up all the moisture which had fallen during 
 the night, and nowhere was there mud or a puddle visible; 
 — Everything round about was pure, and fresh and new — 
 as though everything had been bom that night, and every- 
 thing was quiet and motionless, as though it had not yet 
 become used to life on the earth, and, beholding the sun 
 for the first time, in silent astonishment it was admiring 
 its marvellous beauty. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch gazed about him, and the shroud 
 of mire which had clothed his mind and soul during the 
 night that was past began to release him from its folds, 
 making way for the pure breath of the new-born day, filled 
 with sweet and refreshing perfumes. 
 
 Here was the river, still rose-colored and gold in the 
 rays of the sun. The water, slightly turbid from the rain, 
 faintly reflected the verdure of the banks in its waves. 
 Somewhere, close at hand, a fish was splashing, and this 
 splashing, and the songs of the birds were the only sounds 
 which broke the stillness of the morning. Had it not 
 been damp, he might have lain down on the ground, beside 
 the river, under the canopy of verdure, and remained there 
 until his soul had regained its composure from the emo- 
 tions which he had experienced. 
 
 Ippolit Sergyeevitch walked along the shore, fantasti- 
 cally carved into sandy promontories, and tiny bays sur- 
 rounded with verdure, and a new picture opened out be- 
 fore him almost every half-dozen paces. As he strolled 
 thus noiselessly, on the very edge of the water, he knew 
 that new and ever new scenes awaited him. And he 
 scrutinized in detail the outlines of every bay, and the 
 forms of the trees, which bent over them, as though de- 
 
 457 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 sirous of ascertaining with certainty, precisely how the 
 details of this picture differed from those of the one he 
 had just left behind. 
 
 And, all at once, he came to a halt, dazzled. 
 
 Before him, up to her waist in the water, stood Va- 
 renka, with her head bent over, squeezing her wet hair 
 with her hands. Her body was rosy with the cold and the 
 rays of the sun, drops of water glistened on it like silver 
 scales. They trickled slowly from her shoulders and 
 breast, and fell into the water, and before falling, each 
 drop glittered for a long time in the sunlight, as though 
 it did not wish to leave the body which it had washed. 
 And the water was streaming from her hair, passing 
 through the rosy fingers of the young girl with a tender 
 dripping sound which smote sweetly on the ear. 
 
 He gazed at her in ecstasy, with reverence, as at some- 
 thing holy — so pure and harmonious was the beauty of 
 this young girl, in the blooming freshness of her youth, 
 and he felt no other desire, save that of gazing upon her. 
 Above her head, on the branch of a hazel-bush, a night- 
 ingale was sobbing and singing, but for him, the whole 
 light of the sun, and aU sounds were concentrated in that 
 young girl, amid the waves. And the waves softly stroked 
 her body, noiselessly and caressingly passing around it, 
 in their peaceful flow. 
 
 But the good is as brief as the beautiful is rare, and 
 what he beheld, he beheld for a few seconds only, for the 
 girl suddenly raised her head, and with an angry cry, she 
 swiftly dropped into the water up to her neck. 
 
 This movement of hers was reflected in his heart — it 
 seemed to fall, shuddering, into a cold which cramped him. 
 The girl gazed at him with flashing eyes, and a frown of 
 anger intersected her brow, distorting her face with fear, 
 scorn and wrath. He heard her indignant voice : 
 
 4S8 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 "Begone ... go away! What are you doing? 
 Aren't you ashamed of yourself ! . . ." 
 
 But her words floated to him from somewhere in the 
 distance, dimly, forbidding him nothing. And he bent 
 over the water, stretching out his arms, hardly able to 
 stand on his feet, which were trembling with his efforts to 
 support his unnaturally-curved body, flaming with the 
 torture of passion. The whole of him, every fibre of his 
 being, yearned toward her, and now, at last, he fell upon 
 his knees, which almost touched the water. 
 
 She cried out in anger, made a movement to swim away, 
 but halted, saying in a low, agitated voice : 
 
 " Go away ... I will not tell anyone. . ." 
 
 " I cannot . . ." he tried to answer her, but his 
 trembling lips refused to utter the words, for they had 
 no power to say anything. 
 
 " Have a care . . . you ! Go away ! " — screamed the 
 girl. — " You scoundrel ! You base man. . . ." 
 
 What were these cries to him ? He gazed into her eyes 
 with his own drily burning eyes, and kneeling there, he 
 waited for her, and he would have waited, had he known, 
 that someone was brandishing an axe over his head, to 
 smash his skull. 
 
 " Oh ! you . . . disgusting dog . . come, I'll give 
 it to you . ." whispered the young girl, with loathing, 
 and suddenly dashed out of the water toward him. 
 
 She grew before his eyes, grew, as she dazzled him with 
 her beauty, — and now she stood complete, to her very 
 toes, before him, very beautiful and wrathful; he saw 
 this, and awaited her with eager perturbation. Now she 
 bent toward him . . he flourished his arms, but em- 
 braced the air. 
 
 And at that moment, a blow in the face from something 
 damp and heavy blinded him, and he fell backward. 
 
 459 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 He began swiftly to rub his eyes — damp sand was under 
 Ms fingers, and upon his head, shoulders, and cheeks blows 
 rained down. But the blows did not evoke pain in him, 
 but some other sentiment, and as he shielded his head with 
 his hands, he did so mechanically rather than consciously. 
 He heard angry sobs. . . At last, overturned by a power- 
 ful blow in the breast, he fell on his back. He was not 
 beaten again. The bushes rustled and grew still. . . . 
 
 Incredibly long were the seconds of sullen silence which 
 ensued after that rustling died out. The man still lay 
 there motionless, crushed by his disgrace, and filled with 
 an instinctive longing to hide himself from his shame, he 
 pressed closely to the earth. When he opened his eyes, he 
 perceived the infinitely-deep, blue sky, and it seemed to him 
 that it was swiftly retreating further away from him, higher, 
 higher . . . and this made him breathe so heavily that 
 he groaned, and slowly sank away somewhere, where there 
 were no sensations. 
 
 . . . Thus he lay, until he felt cold; when he opened 
 his eyes he saw Varenka bending over him. Through her 
 fingers tears were dripping upon his face. He heard her 
 voice: 
 
 . . "Well — ^is this nice? . . How will you go to 
 the house in this state? . . all dirty, muddy, wet, and 
 torn . . . Ekh, you stupid! . . Do say that you 
 tumbled into the water from the bank . . Aren't you 
 ashamed of yourself? For, you know, I might have killed 
 you ... if I had happened to get hold of something 
 else." 
 
 And she said a great deal more to him, but all this did 
 not, in the least, diminish or augment what he felt. And 
 he made no reply to her words, until she told him that she 
 was going. Then he asked softly: 
 
 460 
 
Varenka Olesoff 
 
 " You ... I shall not see you . . any more? " 
 
 And when he asked this he remembered and understood 
 that he ought to say to her: " Forgive me. . ." 
 
 But he did not manage to say it, because, with a wave of 
 her hand, she vanished among the trees. 
 
 He sat, with his back propped against the trunk of a 
 tree, or something, and stared dully at the turbid water of 
 the river as it flowed past his feet. 
 
 And it flowed slowly . . . slowly . . slowly on. . . 
 
 461 
 
COMRADES 
 
COMRADES 
 
 The hot July sun shone dazzlingly over Smolkina, flood- 
 ing its aged huts with an abundant torrent of brilliant rays. 
 There was an especially great amount of sunlight on the 
 roof of the village Elder's hut, which had recently been 
 covered afresh with smoothly planed boards, yellow and 
 fragrant. It was Sunday, and almost the entire popula- 
 tion of the village had come out into the street, thickly 
 overgrown with grass, and sprinkled with hillocks of dried 
 mud. In front of the Elder's hut, a large group of peasant 
 men and women had assembled, some were sitting on the 
 earth, which was banked up around the foundation of the 
 hut, others flat on the ground, others, still, were standing; 
 small children were chasing one another in and out among 
 them, every now and then receiving from their elders angry 
 shouts and raps. 
 
 The centre of the throng was a tall man, with long, droop- 
 ing mustaches. From his light-brown face, covered with a 
 thick, blue mark of beard and a network of deep wrinkles, 
 from the locks of gray hair which hung down beneath a 
 dirty straw hat, — one might judge that this man was fifty 
 years of age. He was staring at the ground, and the nos- 
 trils of his large, cartilaginous nose were quivering, and 
 when he raised his head, casting a glance at the windows 
 of the Elder's hut, his eyes became visible, — large, sad, even 
 gloomy eyes, which were deeply sunken in their orbits, 
 
 465 
 
Comrades 
 
 while his thick eyebrows threw a shadow over the dark 
 pupils. He was clad in the cinnamon-hrown, tattered cas- 
 sock of a monastic lay-brother, which barely coTered hia 
 knees, and was girt about him with a rope. On his back 
 was a canvas wallet, in his right hand, a long staff with an 
 iron ferrule, with his left hand he clutched at his breast. 
 The people round about stared at him suspiciously, sneer- 
 ingly, with scorn, and, at last, with plain delight, that they 
 had succeeded in catching the wolf before he had managed 
 to do any damage to their flock. He had passed through 
 the village, and, approaching the window of the Elder's hut, 
 he had asked for a driak. The Elder had given him kvas * 
 and had talked with him. But the wayfarer, contrary to 
 the habit of pilgrims, had answered very reluctantly. . . 
 The Elder had asked him if he had a passport, and it turned 
 out that he had not. And they had detained the wayfarer, 
 resolved to send him to the District Council. The Elder 
 had selected the sotsky f as his escort, and now, inside his 
 hut, he was giving the latter instructions concerning the 
 journey, leaving the prisoner in the midst of the crowd, who 
 were making merry at his expense. 
 
 As the prisoner had been brought to a halt at the trunk 
 of a white willow tree, so he remained standing, with his 
 curved back resting against it. 
 
 But now, on the porch of the hut, a wall-eyed old man, 
 with a foxy face, and a small, gray, wedge-shaped beard, 
 made his appearance. He lowered his booted feet sedately 
 from step to step, and his round little belly waggled solidly 
 under his long shirt of sarpinka.J And over his shoulders 
 peered the square, bearded face of the policeman. 
 
 * See foot-note on p. 13. — Translator. 
 
 f A sort of police-captain, elected by the peasants. — Translaior. 
 
 % See foot-note on p. 242. 
 
 466 
 
Comrades 
 
 "You understand, Efimushka?" the Elder asked the 
 policeman. 
 
 " What is there to understand? I understand all about 
 it. That means, that I, the policeman of Smolkina, am 
 bound to conduct this man to the Kural Chief, and — that's 
 all there is to it! " — and having uttered his speech with dis- 
 tinct articulation, and with comical importance, the police- 
 man winked at the spectators. 
 
 " And the document? " 
 
 " The document — lives in my breast." 
 
 " Well, all right! " said the Elder argumentatively, and 
 he added, as he scratched his ribs violently: 
 
 " Then go ahead, and God be with you! " 
 
 " Start up! Shall we march on, father? " the policeman 
 smilingly asked the prisoner. 
 
 " You might provide a conveyance," replied the latter, 
 in a low tone to the policeman's question. The Elder 
 grinned. 
 
 "A con-ve-eyance! Get out with you! There are lots 
 of tramps like you cropping up in the fields and villages 
 . . there wouldn't be horses enough to go around for 
 them all. So trot along on your own legs. That's the 
 way! " 
 
 "Never mind, father, we'll walk!" — said the policeman 
 encouragingly. . . . "Do you think it's far from us? 
 With God's blessing, not more than twenty versts! Yes, 
 and it can't be as much as that. You and I will soon roll 
 there. And there you can rest yourself." 
 
 " In the cooler . . ." * explained the Elder. 
 
 " That's nothing," the policeman hastened to remark 
 . . . " When a man's tired he can rest even in jail. And 
 
 * Thia is not arbitrary slang, but a literal translation of the word, 
 hholodnaya — the cooler, or cold place. — Translator. 
 
 467 
 
Comrades 
 
 then — the cooler — it's refreshing . . after a hot day — 
 it's very nice indeed there! " 
 
 The prisoner cast a surly glance at his escort — the latter 
 smiled frankly and cheerfully. 
 
 " Come on, now, respected father! Farewell, Vasil Gavri- 
 litch! Go along!" 
 
 "The Lord be with you, Bfimushka! — Keep a sharp 
 lookout! " 
 
 " Look as sharp — as though you had three eyes! " put in 
 a young fellow in the crowd. 
 
 " Lo-ook here now! Am I a baby, I'd like to know? " 
 
 And they set off, keeping close to the huts, in order to 
 walk in the strip of shade. The man in the cassock went 
 first, with the loose but swinging gait of a pedestrian ac- 
 customed to walking. The policeman, with a stout cudgel 
 in his hand, walked behind. 
 
 Efimushka was a small peasant, low of stature, squarely 
 built, with a broad, kindly face, framed in a light-brown 
 beard which fell in tufts, and began just below his clear, 
 gray eyes. He was almost always smiling at something, 
 displaying strong, yellow teeth, and wrinkling the skin be- 
 tween his eyebrows, as though he were on the point of 
 sneezing. He was clad in a long, full smock, whose skirts 
 were tucked into his girdle, in order that they might not 
 entangle his legs, on his head was stuck a dark-green cap 
 without a visor, which was pulled down over his brows in 
 front, and bore a strong resemblance to a prison-cap. 
 
 His companion walked on, paying no attention to him, as 
 though he were not even conscious of his presence behind 
 him. Their way led along a narrow country road; it wound, 
 in serpentine curves, through a waving sea of rye, and the 
 shadows of the travellers crept over the gold of the ears. 
 
 On the horizon the crest of a forest shone blue, on the 
 wayfstrers' left, the sown fields stretched out into the end- 
 
 468 
 
Comrades 
 
 less distance, and among them lay the dark blot of a village, 
 and beyond it, again, were fields, which vanished in pale- 
 blue mist. 
 
 On their right, from behind a clump of willows, the spire 
 of a belfry, still surrounded by scaffoldings, and not yet 
 painted, pierced the blue sky — ^it gleamed so brilliantly in 
 the sun, that it was painful to look at. 
 
 Larks were trilling in the sky, corn-flowers smiled among 
 the rye, and the weather was hot — almost stifling. The 
 dust flew up from under the travellers' feet. 
 
 Efimushka began to feel bored. Being a great chatterer 
 by nature, he could not hold his tongue for long, and clear- 
 ing his throat, he suddenly struck up, in a falsetto voice: 
 
 " Hey — ekh — the-ere, and why-y is thi-i-is . . 
 An' why do-oth sor-row gnaw my heart ? " 
 
 " If your voice gives out, blow it up to its limits! Hm — 
 ye-es . . . but I did use to sing. . . The Vishenki 
 teacher used to say, — 'come on, now, Efimushka, strike 
 up! ' And he and I burst into a flood of song! he was a 
 just young fellow. . ." 
 
 " Who was he? " inquired the man in the cassock, with a 
 bass voice. 
 
 " Why, the Vishenki teacher. . ." 
 
 " Vishenki — was that his name? " 
 
 " Vishenki is the name of a village, brother. But the 
 teacher's name was Pavel Mikhailitch. He was a first-class 
 man. He died three years ago. . . ." 
 
 " Was he young? " 
 
 "He was under thirty. . ." 
 
 "What did he die of? . ." 
 
 " Of grief, I suppose." 
 
 Efimushka's companion cast a sidelong glance at him, 
 and burst out laughing. 
 
 469 
 
Comrades 
 
 "You see, my dear man, this is the way it was — ^he 
 taught, he taught seven years in succession, and then he 
 hegan to cough. He coughed, and coughed, and began to 
 grieve. . . Well, and with the grief, of course, he began 
 to drink vodka. But Father Alexei did not like him, and 
 when he took to drink, that Father Alexei sent ofE a docu- 
 ment to the town — ^thus and so, says he — the teacher drinks, 
 and 'tis nothing but a scandal. Then they sent another 
 document from the town, in reply, and a woman teacher. 
 She was a very long woman, and bony, with a huge nose. 
 Well Pavel Mikhailiteh sees that his business is done for. 
 He was grieved; ' here I've taught and taught,' says he . . 
 ' akh, you devils! ' He went from the school straight to the 
 hospital, and five days later, he gave up his soul to God. 
 . . . That's all. . . ." 
 
 They walked on for some time in silence. The forest 
 drew nearer to the pedestrians with every step, growing 
 before their very eyes, and turning green from blue. 
 
 "Are we going through the forest?" inquired Efi- 
 mushka's companion. 
 
 " We shall cut across the corner of it, about half a verst. 
 But why? Hey? What are you up to? I perceive that 
 you are a goose, respected father! " 
 
 And Efimushka laughed, and wagged his head. 
 
 " What do you mean? " inquired the prisoner. 
 
 " Why, nothing. Akh, you stupid! ' Shall we go 
 through the forest? ' says he. You're simple, my dear man, 
 nobody with any sense would have asked that question. 
 Any sensible man would have walked straight up to the 
 forest, and then. . ." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Ko thing! I see through you, brother. Ekh, you dear, 
 sly humbug! No — you drop that idea — about the forest! 
 Do you think you can get the better of me? Why, I could 
 
 4T0 
 
Comrades 
 
 manage three such as you, and I could whip you with one 
 hand, while the other was hound to my hody. . . Do 
 you understand? " 
 
 " Yes! You fool! — " said the prisoner, curtly and sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 "What? Did I guess you?" — said Efimushka trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 " Blockhead! What have you guessed? " said the pris- 
 oner, with a wry smile. 
 
 "About the forest ... I understand! . . *I,' 
 says he — that is you, — 'when we come to the forest, will 
 cut him down' — meaning me, — 'I'll cut him down, and 
 make ofE across the fields, and the forests? ' Isn't that 
 it?" 
 
 "You're stupid . ." said the man who had heen di- 
 vined, shrugging his shoulders. — " Come now, where could 
 I go to?" 
 
 " Well, wherever you please^that's your affair." 
 
 "But where? — " Efimushka's companion was either 
 angry, or was very anxious to hear from his escort precisely 
 where he could go. 
 
 " Wherever you please, I tell you! " repeated Efimushka 
 calmly. 
 
 "I have no place to run to, brother, none!" — said his 
 companion quietly. 
 
 " Oh, co-ome now! " ejaculated the escort incredulously, 
 and even waved his hand. " There's always some place to 
 run to. The earth is big. There's always room for one man 
 on it." 
 
 " Well, what do you mean? Do you mean that I am to 
 run away?" — ^inquired the prisoner with curiosity, and he 
 laughed. 
 
 " What a man you are ! You're very fine ! Is that proper ? 
 If you run away, whom can they put in prison, iastead of 
 
 471 
 
Comrades 
 
 you? They'll put me there in your place. No, I only said 
 that by way of talking. . ." 
 
 " You're a blessed fool . . yet you seem a good sort 
 of peasant, — " said Efimushka's travelling-companion with 
 a sigh. Efimushka hastened to agree with him. 
 
 " That's just what some folks do call me, a blessed fool 
 . . and as for my being a good sort of a peasant — ^that's 
 true too. I'm straightforward, that's the chief thing. 
 Some folks always act in a roundabout way, with guile, but 
 what's that to me? I'm a man who is alone in the world. 
 If you're guileful, you die, and if you live uprightly, you 
 die. So I try to be as straightforward as possible." 
 
 " You do well! " — ^remarked Efimushka's companion in- 
 differently. 
 
 " Why not? Why should I begin to squirm in my soul, 
 when I'm alone, that's all there is to it. I'm a free man, 
 brother. As I like, so I Hve, I pass my life according to 
 the law. . . . Ye-es. . . . And what is your 
 name?" 
 
 "My name? Well . . call me Pavel Ivanoff, if you 
 like. . . ." 
 
 "Very well! Are you an ecclesiastic?" 
 
 " N-no. . ." 
 
 " Well, now? Why, I thought you were. . ." 
 
 " Did you think so from my dress? " 
 
 "Yes, exactly so! You're for all the world like a run- 
 away monk, or a disfrocked priest. . . . But your face 
 doesn't suit, in the face you look more like a soldier. . . . 
 God knows what sort of a man you are " — and Efimushka 
 east an inquisitive glance at the pilgrim. The latter 
 sighed, adjusted his hat on his head, mopped his perspiring 
 brow, and asked the policeman: 
 
 " Do you smoke tobacco? " 
 
 "Oh, mercy me! Of course I smoke! " 
 
 472 
 
Comrades 
 
 He pulled a dirty tobacco-pouch out of his bosom, and 
 bending his head, but not halting, he began to stuff tobacco 
 into a clay pipe. 
 
 " There now, smoke that! " — The prisoner stopped, and 
 bending toward a match which his escort lighted, he drew 
 in his cheeks. Blue smoke floated up into the air. 
 
 "From what class do you come? Are you a petty 
 burgher? " 
 
 " A noble . . ." said the prisoner briefly, and spat to 
 one side, on the ears of rye, already clothed in a golden 
 glow. 
 
 "E-eh! That's clever! Then how do you come to be 
 going about without a passport? " 
 
 " Why, I'm just roaming." 
 
 "Well — ^well! That's practical! Your nobility is ac- 
 customed to this wolf's life, I guess? E-ekh, you imfortu- 
 nate! " 
 
 " Well, that will da . . stop your chatter," — said the 
 unfortunate curtly. 
 
 But Efimushka, with growing curiosity and sympathy, 
 scrutinized the passportless man, and wagging his head 
 thoughtfully, he went on: 
 
 " A-ai! How Fate does play with a man, when you come 
 to think of it! Now, I suppose it is true that you are a 
 nobleman, because you carry yourself so magnificently. 
 Have you been living long in this manner? " 
 
 The man with the magnificent carriage cast a surly glance 
 at Efimushka, and waved him off with his hand, as he would 
 have treated a troublesome wasp. 
 
 " Drop it, I say! Why are you persisting, like a woman? " 
 
 "Now, don't you get angry!" — ^remarked Efimushka 
 soothingly. " I'm speaking with pure motives. . . I have 
 a very kind heart. . . ." 
 
 473 
 
Comrades 
 
 " "Well, that's lucky for you. . . But your tongue wags 
 incessantly — ^that's unlucky for me." 
 
 " Well, all right! I can hold my tongue . . . a man 
 can hold his tongue if people don't want to listen to his 
 conversation. But you're getting angry without any cause. 
 . . Is it my fault that you have been compelled to live 
 the life of a vagabond? " 
 
 The prisoner halted, and set his teeth so tightly, that his 
 cheek-bones stood out like two acute angles, and the gray 
 bristles on them stood on end. He eyed Efimushka from 
 head to foot, with eyes puckered up and blazing with wrath. 
 
 But before Efimushka observed this pantomime, he be- 
 gan again to cover the ground with long strides. 
 
 On the countenance of the loquacious policeman lay an 
 impress of pensiveness. He stared upward, at the spot 
 whence the trills of the larks poured forth, and whistled 
 to them through his teeth, brandishing his cudgel in time 
 with his steps. They reached the. edge of the forest. It 
 stood like a dark, motionless wall — not a sound was wafted 
 from it to greet the travellers. The sun was already setting, 
 and its slanting rays dyed the crests of the trees with crim- 
 son and gold. Prom the trees breathed forth a fragrant 
 dampness, the twilight, and concentrated silence, which 
 filled the forest gave birth to a feeling of awe. 
 
 When a forest stands before one's eyes, dark and motion- 
 less, when it is completely submerged in mysterious still- 
 ness, and every tree seems to be listening keenly to some- 
 thing — then the forest appears to be full of something 
 living, which is only temporarily keeping quiet. And one 
 waits, with the expectation that the next moment some- 
 thing vast and incomprehensible to human understanding 
 will emerge from it, will emerge, and begin to speak in a 
 mighty voice about the great mysteries of Nature's crea- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 474 
 
Comrades 
 
 n. 
 
 On reaching the edge of the forest, Efimushka and his 
 companion decided to take a rest, and seated themselves on 
 the grass, near a large oak stump. The prisoner slowly 
 drew the wallet from his shoulders, and indifferently in- 
 quired of the policeman: 
 
 " Would you like some bread? " 
 
 " If you give it, I'll chew it," replied Efimushka, with a 
 smile. 
 
 And so they began, in silence, to chew their bread. Efi- 
 mushka ate slowly, sighing all the while, and gazing ofE 
 somewhere into the distance, across a field on his left, but 
 his companion was entirely engrossed in the process of sat- 
 isfying his hunger, ate fast, and munched noisily, measuring 
 his crust of bread with his eyes. The field darkened, the 
 grain had already lost its golden hue, and had become rosy- 
 yellow, tufts of dark clouds crept up the sky from the south- 
 west, and shadows fell from them upon the plain, — fell, and 
 crept over the ears of grain to the forest, where sat the two 
 dark human figures. And the trees, also, cast dark shad- 
 ows on the earth, and from the shadow sadness breathed 
 upon the soul. 
 
 " I thank thee, oh Lord! — " exclaimed Efimushka, gath- 
 ering up from the skirts of his smock the crumbs of bread, 
 and licking them from his palm with his tongue. " The 
 Lord has fed me — ^no one saw it, and he who saw it, took 
 no offence! Friend! Shall we sit here a little hour? Shall 
 we get to the cooler soon enough? " 
 
 The friend shook his head. 
 
 " Well, then, see here. . . . This place is very beau- 
 tiful, it's a memorable spot to me. . . Yonder, to the 
 left, the manor of the Tutchkoffs used to stand. . . ." 
 
 475 
 
Comrades 
 
 " Where? " . . asked the prisoner quickly, turning in 
 the direction in which Efimushka waved his hand. . . . 
 
 " Why, yonder — ^beyond the point of forest. . . Every- 
 thing around here used to belong to them. They were the 
 richest of gentry, but after the Emancipation they went to 
 decay. ... I used to belong to them, — all of us used 
 to be their serfs. It was a big family. . . The Colonel 
 himself was Alexander Nikititch Tutchkoff. There were 
 children: four sons — ^what has become of them all now? 
 It's as if people were blown away by the wind, like the 
 leaves in autumn. Only Ivan Alexandrovitch remains, — 
 I'm taking you to him now, he's our Eural Chief. . . 
 He's an old man. . ." 
 
 The prisoner began to laugh. He laughed in a low 
 tone, with a peculiar sort of internal laughter, — ^hia chest 
 and belly heaved, but his face remained immovable, only 
 through his grinning teeth broke forth dull sounds, re- 
 sembling a bark. 
 
 Efimushka shrivelled up apprehensively, and drawing his 
 cudgel nearer to his hand, he asked him: 
 
 " What's the matter with you? Have you got a fit, or 
 what? . . hey?" 
 
 "Nothing ... it will pass off," said the prisoner 
 spasmodically but amiably. " You were telling me, you 
 know. . . ." 
 
 "Well, ye-es! So you see, these TutchkofE gentry were 
 great folks, and now they are gone. . . . Some have 
 died, others have disappeared, and left no trace behind 
 them. . . . There was one in particular . . . the 
 youngest of them all. His name was Victor . . Vitya. 
 He and I were ehimis. ... At the time when the 
 Emancipation was proclaimed, he and I were fourteen 
 years old. . . . What a boy he was, may the Lord re- 
 member his soul for good! Pure as a brook! Like it he 
 
 476 
 
Comrades 
 
 streamed on all day long, and rippled like it. . . . Where 
 is he now? Is he alive or not? " 
 
 "How was he so good?" his companion softly asked 
 Efimushka. 
 
 " In every way! " — exclaimed Efimushka. — " In heauty, 
 brains, kind heart. . . . Akh, you strange man! my dar- 
 ling, my ripe berry! you ought to have seen us two in those 
 days . . . ai, ai, ai! What games we played, how 
 merry life was, — ^the sweetest of the sweet! He used to 
 shout — 'Eflmka!* — ^let's go hunting!' He had a gun, 
 — his father gave it to him on his saint's day,— and I used 
 to carry the gun. And we would ramble about here in the 
 forest for one day, two days, three days! When we got 
 home, he got a scolding and I got a thrashing; and, be- 
 hold, the next day, it was again: 'Eflmka! let's go after 
 mushrooms! — ' He and I killed birds by the thousand! We 
 gathered pudsf of mushrooms! He used to catch but- 
 terflies and beetles, and stick them on pins, in little boxes. ' 
 It was a busy time! He taught me to read and write. . . 
 "Eflmka,' says he, Til teach you. Go ahead!—' Well, 
 and so I began. ' Say A,' says he! I yell — ' A-A! ' We 
 laugh! At first I looked on the matter as a joke — what 
 does a peasant want with reading and writing? Well, and 
 he exhorted me: ' Your mind is given to you, you fool, so 
 that you may learn. ... If you know how to read and 
 write,' says he, ' you'U know how a man must live, and 
 where to seek the truth.' ... Of course, a little child 
 is apt, evidently he had heard that sort of speech from his 
 elders, and began to talk like that himself. ... It 
 was all nonsense, of course. . . . That sort of knowl- 
 edge is in the heart, and the heart will point out about the 
 
 * Efimushka and Efimka are both diminutives of Efim,— Buthymus, 
 — Translator. 
 
 \ A pud is thirty-six pounds. — Translator. 
 
 477 
 
Comrades 
 
 right. . . . It — the heart — is quick-sighted. Well, 
 and so he taught me, and he got so interested in that mat- 
 ter, that he wouldn't let me rest! I was worn out! I en- 
 i treated him! ' Vitya,' says I, * reading and writing are be- 
 \ yond my power, I can't conquer them,' says I. Then ho-ow 
 he did roar at me! ' I'll thrash you with papa's kazak whip, 
 — ^learn your lesson! — ' 'Akh, have mercy! I'll learn. 
 . . .' Once I ran away from my lesson. I just jumped 
 up and took to my heels! Then he hunted me all day long, 
 with his gun — he wanted to shoot me. He said to me after- 
 ward — ' if I had met you that day,' says he, 'I'd have shot 
 you!' You see what a sharp fellow he was! Inflexihle, 
 fiery — a real gentleman. ... He was fond of me; he 
 had a flaming soul. . . . 'Once my daddy decorated my 
 back with the reins, and when he, that Vitya, saw it, he came 
 to our hut, — and my heavens! — what a row! he turned all 
 pale, and shook all over, and clenched his fists, and wanted 
 to go after daddy in the loft! ' How dared you do it? ' says 
 he. Daddy says — 'I'm his father! Aha! — ' 'Well, very 
 good, father, I won't come to an agreement with you, until 
 your back is just like Efimka's.' He burst out crying after 
 these words and ran away. . . . Well, and what do 
 you say to that, father? For he kept his word. Evidently, 
 he instigated the house-servants, or something of that sort, 
 only, one day daddy came home grunting; he tried to take 
 off his shirt, but it had dried fast to his back. . . . 
 Father was very angry with me that time — ' all on account 
 of you,' says he, ' I'm suffering, you nobleman's toady.' And 
 he gave me a healthy licking. But as for my being a noble- 
 man's toady, he was wrong about that,— I wasn't anything 
 of the sort. . ," 
 
 " That's true, Efimka, you were not! " said the prisoner 
 in confirmation, and trembled all over. " It's immediately 
 
 478 
 
Comrades 
 
 apparent that you could not be a nobleman's toady," be 
 added rather hastily. 
 
 "Exactly so!" exclaimed Efimushka. . . "I simply 
 loved him, that Vitya. . . He was just the sort of a 
 child whom everyone loved, — and not I alone. . . . He 
 used to make various remarks. . . I don't remember 
 what they were, more than thirty years have passed since 
 those days — Akh, oh Lord! where is he now? I think, that 
 if he is still alive, he must be either occupying a very lofty 
 place, or ... be seething in the very gulf of misery, 
 . . Such is human life! It boils and boils, and nothing 
 sensible ever co mes of it. . .^TSn3" pedpre~"3isappear 
 . '"".' '."" andljneleels^ sorry for the people, deadly sorry !^^^" 
 Efimushka, sighing heavLlyrKung"r6rs neaa upon his~breast. 
 The silence lasted for a minute. 
 
 " And are you sorry for me? " asked the prisoner merrily. 
 Merrily is the only way to describe his manner of asking, 
 his whole face was illuminated by such a fine, kind smile. . . 
 
 " Yes, you queer man! — " exclaimed Efimushka, — " how 
 can I help being sorry for you? What are you, when you 
 stop to think about it? If you tramp about in this way, 
 evidently, it is because you have nothing of your own on 
 earth, neither nook nor chip. . . But perhaps you are 
 bearing a great sin with you — who knows? you're an un- 
 fortunate man — that's the only word for it. . . ." 
 
 "Exactly so, — " said the prisoner. 
 
 And again they fell silent. The sun had set now, and 
 the shadows had grown more dense. The air smelled of 
 damp earth, and flowers, and forest mould. . . They 
 sat for a long time, thus silent. 
 
 " Well, however beautiful it is here, we must go on. . . 
 We have still eight versts to walk. , . . Come on there, 
 father, get up!" 
 
 " Let us sit a little longer, — " entreated the father. 
 
 479 
 
Comrades 
 
 " Well, I have no objection, I'm fond of being near the 
 forest by night myself. . . Only, when shall we get to 
 the Eural Chief? He'll scold me— tell me I'm late." 
 
 " Never mind, he won't scold. . ." 
 
 "Do you mean to speak a word for me? — " grinned the 
 policeman. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "You don't say so?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You're a joker! He'll pepper you! " 
 
 "Will he thrash me?" 
 
 "He's fierce! And clever — he'll give you a whack in 
 the ear, and it will be as good as a scythe through your 
 legs." 
 
 "Well, we'll give him as good as he sends," said the 
 prisoner confidently, tapping his escort on the shoulder in 
 a friendly way. 
 
 This was familiar, and Efimushka did not like it. Look 
 at it as you might, he was one of the authorities, and that 
 goose must not forget that Efimushka had his brass shield 
 of office in his breast. Efimushka rose to his feet, took his 
 stick in his hand, hung the shield outside, in the very middle 
 of his breast, and said sternly: 
 
 " Get up, come along! " 
 
 "I won't!" said the prisoner. 
 
 Efimushka was abashed, and, with starting eyes, he made 
 no reply for a minute, not understanding how the prisoner 
 had come to be such a jester all of a sudden. 
 
 " Well, don't loll there, come along! " he repeated more 
 gently. 
 
 " I won't come along! " repeated the prisoner, with de- 
 cision. 
 
 " Do you mean that you won't come with me? " shouted 
 Efimushka, in wrath and amazement. 
 
 480 
 
Comrades 
 
 "Exactly that. I want to spend the night here with 
 you. . . Come now, light a fire." 
 
 " I'll teach you to spend the night! I'll light such a fire 
 in your ribs — I'll make it pleasant for you! " menaced Efi- 
 mushka. But, in the depths of his soul, he was amazed. 
 The man said, " I won't go " — but he offered no opposi- 
 tion, did not begin a fight, but simply lay still on the 
 ground, and nothing more. What was he to do? 
 
 " Don't yell, Eflm, — " the prisoner calmly advised him. 
 
 Again Efimushka was reduced to silence, and shifting 
 from foot to foot, over his prisoner, he stared at him with 
 bursting eyes. And the man stared at him, stared and 
 smiled. Efimushka pondered heavily what he was to do 
 next. 
 
 And what had made this vagabond, hitherto so surly and 
 cross, now suddenly turn so amiable? And what if he were 
 to fall upon him, bind his hands, give him a cut or two 
 across the throat, and so end it all? And in the very 
 severest tone of authority which he had at his command, 
 Efimushka said: 
 
 " Well, you burnt-out scrap, see here — you've put on airs 
 enough, and I've had enough of it! Get up! Or I'll bind 
 you, and then you'll go, never fear! Understand? Well? 
 Look out — I'll thrash you! " 
 
 "Me, do you mean?" laughed the prisoner. 
 
 " Whom do you suppose? " 
 
 " You, Efim Gr^zloff, will thrash Vitya Tutehkoff ? " 
 
 " Akh — ^you're firing high! — " exclaimed Efimushka, in 
 astonishment, — " but who are you, anyway? What sort of 
 an exhibition are you going through with me? " 
 
 " Come, stop shouting, Efimushka, it's time you recog- 
 nized me, — " said the prisoner, with a calm smile, and rose 
 to his feet, — "won't you exchange greetings!" 
 
 Efimushka staggered back from the hand which was ex- 
 
 iSl 
 
Comrades 
 
 tended to him, and stared, with all his eyes, into the face 
 of his prisoner. Then his lips quivered, and his whole face 
 wrinkled up. . . . 
 
 " Viktor Alexandroviteh, and is it really you? " he asked 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " If you like — I will show you my papers? But the best 
 way of all is — ^to recall old times. . . . Come now . . 
 how you fell into the wolf's hole, in the Eamen pine woods? 
 And how I climbed a tree for a bird's nest, and hung head 
 downward from a bough? And how we stole cream from 
 the old dairy-woman, Petrovna? And the fairy-tales she 
 used to tell us? " 
 
 Eflmushka sat down heavily on the ground, and began 
 to laugh in a confused manner. 
 
 "Do you believe me?" the prisoner asked him, and sat 
 down beside him, gazing into his face, and laying his hand 
 on the other's shoulder. Eflmushka remained dumb. It 
 had become completely dark around them. A confused 
 rustling and whispering arose in the forest. Far away, 
 somewhere in the underbrush, a nocturnal bird was moan- 
 ing. A dark cloud crept over the forest, with an almost 
 imperceptible movement. 
 
 " Well, Efim, — aren't you glad to see me? Or are you 
 glad? Ekh, you . . . saintly soul! You are exactly 
 as you were when you were a child . . aren't you, Efim? 
 Come, say something, you dear monster! " 
 
 Eflmushka began to blow his nose violently on the tail 
 of his smock. . . . 
 
 " Come, brother! Ai, ai, ai! — " the prisoner shook his 
 head reproachfully. "What ails you? Shame on you! 
 You're almost fifty years old, and you busy yourself with 
 such a nonsensical matter! Stop it! — " and embracing the 
 policeman's shoulders, he shook him gently. The police- 
 
 483 
 
Comrades 
 
 man began to laugh in a quiTering tone, and, at last, he 
 began to speak, but without looking at his companion: 
 
 "Well, what's the matter with me? . . . I'm glad 
 . . So it is really you? How am I to believe it? You, 
 and . . such an affair! Vitya . . . and in such a 
 guise! In the cooler. . . . Without a passport . . . 
 You nourish yourself on bread. . . . You have no 
 tobacco. ... Oh Lord! Is that right? If it had 
 been I, and you had been the policeman ... it would 
 have been easier to bear! But now, how has it turned out? 
 How can I look you in the eye? I have always remem- 
 bered you with joy . . . Vitya, — I have thought, and 
 my very heart leaped with gladness. But now — what have 
 you come to! Oh, Lord . . why, if I were to tell the 
 folks, they wouldn't believe me. . ." 
 
 He muttered his broken phrases, with his eyes riveted 
 obstinately on his feet, and his hand kept clutching at his 
 breast and at his throat. 
 
 " But don't you telllhe.iplks about all this, it's not ngces- 
 sary. And stop grieving — ^is it any fault of yours? Don't 
 worry about me. . . I have my papers, I did not show 
 them toJhg_Elde r. because I did not wish to have them 
 recognizeiait. there. . . . My brotES^vfi wiUnotput 
 me in prison, but, on the contrary, he will help me to get 
 on my feet. . . I shall stay with him, and you and I 
 will go hunting- again together. . . You see how well 
 everything ia arranging itself." 
 
 Vitya said this affectionately, in the tone with which 
 grown-up people soothe grieving children. Out of the 
 forest, to meet the dark cloud, rose the moon, and the edge 
 of the cloud, silvered by her rays, took on soft, opalescent 
 hues. The quails were calling among the grain, a corn- 
 crake was chattering somewhere. . . The night mist 
 grew denser and denser. 
 
 483 
 
Comrades 
 
 "That's a fact . . ." began Efimushka, softly, 
 " Ivan Alexandrovitch will rejoice to see his own brother, 
 and you, of course, will adapt yourself to life again. . . 
 That's all true. . . . And we will go hunting. . . Only, 
 everything isn't as it should be. . . I thought you were 
 doing great deeds in life! But instead . . just see . . ." 
 
 Vitya Tutchkoff burst out laughing. 
 
 "I have done deeds enough, brother Efimushka. . , 
 I have run through my share of the estate, I have not grown 
 rich in the service, I have been an actor, I have been a 
 clerk in the timber trade, then I kept actors myself . . 
 then I was burnt out, I got over head and ears in debt, and 
 got mixed up in a scandal . . . ekh! ^'jye d.QT ^e five ry 
 sort of thing. ._. ^.__ And everything hasbeenajEgjlare! " 
 
 TKe'prisoner waved his hand, and began to laugh good- 
 humoredly. 
 
 " I'm no longer a gentleman, brother Efimushka. . . . 
 I've cured myself of that. Now you and I will begin to 
 live! Won't we? Come, now! Gather your wits to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Why, I don't mind . . ." began Efimushka, in a 
 suppressed voice, — "only, I'm ashamed. Here I've been 
 saying all sorts of things to you . . . nonsensical 
 words, and, in general ... a peasant — everybody 
 knows what he's like. . . So we are to pass the night 
 here, you say? I'll just build a fire. . . ." 
 
 " All right, go ahead. . . ." 
 
 The prisoner stretched himself out on the ground, breast 
 upward, and the policeman vanished into the border of the 
 forest, whence there immediately proceeded, a crackling and 
 a rustling of branches. Efimushka speedily made his ap- 
 pearance, with an armful of dry brush-wood, and a moment 
 later a serpent of fire began to crawl merrily among the 
 twigs on the little hillock. 
 
 484 
 
Comrades 
 
 The old comrades gazed thoughtfully at it, as they sat 
 opposite each other, and smoked the pipe by turns. 
 
 "It's exactly as it used to be," — ^remarked Efimushka 
 sadly. 
 
 " Only the times are different, — " said Tutchkoff. 
 
 "Ye-es, life has become harsher in character. . . . 
 Here . . it has . . . broken you up. . ." 
 
 "Well, that isn't certain, as yet — ^whether it has con- 
 quered me, or I have conquered it. . ." laughed Tutch- 
 koff. 
 
 They fell silent. 
 
 "Ah? Oh Lord God! Vitya! And here's a nice Sun- 
 day greeting! " * exclaimed Efimushka bitterly. 
 
 "Eh, enough of that! What's past is past,—" Tutch- 
 k6ff comforted him philosophically. 
 
 Behind them rose the dark wall of the forest, which was 
 softly whispering about something, the fire crackled merrily, 
 around it the shadows danced noiselessly, and over the plain 
 lay impenetrable mist. 
 
 * It is customary to congratulate one another on Sundays and holi- 
 days. In the higher circles of society, kisses are often exchanged. — 
 Translaior. 
 
 THE END 
 
 486 
 
" GORKY is to be a new illumination for the 
 world of the thoughtful." 
 
 Foma Gordyeeff 
 
 (Thomas the Proud) 
 
 By Maxim Gorky 
 
 Translated from the Original Russian by Isabel 
 Florence Hapgood. With Illustrations and 
 a Biographical Preface. i2mo, ;^i.oo. 
 
 FOMA GORDYEEFF has been chosen 
 for introducing to American readers this 
 brilliant young Russian, the literary lion of 
 continental Europe, because it is his strongest 
 work. It is a powerful presentation, frankly 
 realistic, of the hero's character as developed 
 from childhood amid incidents and scenes 
 typical of the merchant class along the Volga. 
 
 Arthur Symons says in the London Saturday 
 
 Review : 
 
 " Gorky writes about what he knows ; he describes 
 to us the life he has lived, and it has seemed to me as 
 if I were learning something quite new about men and 
 women. . , . He has aiBrmed his independence, he has 
 been resolutely himself, he has had the energy to stand 
 up against the inevitable, realizing at least his own 
 courage, perhaps his own strength." 
 
Carries the finest traditions of Russian 
 realism." 
 
 (Foma Gordyeeff) 
 
 Mr. Herman Rosenthal, the Librarian of 
 the Russian Department of the New York Pub- 
 lic Library, says of it : 
 
 " It is long since an equally grand picture of con- 
 temporary real Russian life has been painted with 
 such bold strokes and in such vivid colors. Gorky's 
 peculiar talent, becoming more and more pronounced 
 with each new sketch, here attains its full significance, 
 enabling us to predict the future master destined 
 TO create a new epoch." 
 
 "A book of tremendous power. Gorky has spread 
 before him a great canvas, and with the confidence of a 
 master he has painted upon it enormous, struggling 
 creatures. . . . Here is a master — ^young but one 
 who has conceived his strength and is now ready to 
 express himself. . . . When this book is adversely 
 criticised, it must be with that tone of respect which one 
 employs in speaking of a great achievement." 
 
 — Chicago Tribune, 
 
 "In saying that Gorky is superior to Zola in the 
 application of the realistic method, we are taking into 
 consideration the wider and obscurer range of his aim. 
 He is not only painting a broad canvas of the com- 
 mercial society on the Volga, but impregnating it with 
 the study of a human soul." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Publishers, I53-IS7 Fifth Avenue, NEW YORK