Early Stories

O X F O R D VVORLD S CLASSICS

Anton Chekhov Early Stories

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

CHEKHOV: EARLY STORIES

Anton Chekhov was born in 1860 in the south of Russi a, the son of a poor grocer. At the age of 19 he followed his family to Moscow, where he studied medicine and helped to support the household by writing comic stories for popu- lar magazines. By 1888 he was publishing in the leading literary monthlies of Moscowand St Petersburg: a sign that he had already been recognized as a master of Russian fiction. During the next 15 years he wrote the 50 or so short stories on which his claim to world pre-eminence in the genre is based. His plays, especially those of his later years, are also highly original and have proved extremely influential. He was closely associated with the Moscow Art Theatre and married the actress Olga Knipper in 1901. In 1898 he was forced by ill-health to move to Yalta, where he wrote his two greatest plays, Three Sisters and The Cherry Orchard. The premiere of the latter took place on his forty-fourth birth- day. Chekhov died six months later, on 15 July (2 July Old Style) 1904.

Patrick Miles has worked on the early stories in Chekhov's archives in Taganrog and Moscow, directed Ivanov, The Cherry Orchard, and Chekhov's vaudevilles at the Edinburgh Fringe, and translated Turgenev, Bulgakov, and Vampilov for the Royal National Theatre. He is the editor of Chekhov on the British Stage (Cambridge, 1993) and Russian Lector at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge.

Harvey Pitcher was Assistant Lecturer at Glasgow University and then started the Russian Department at the University ofSt Andrews. Since 1971 he has been a freelance writer and translator. His books include The Chekhov Play: A New Interpretation (London, 1973) and Chekhov's Lead- ing Lady (London, 1979), a biographical portrait of Olga Knipper. He has also written widely about the British in Russia before the Revolution.

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

ANTON CHEKHOV

Early Stories

Translated with an Introduction and Notes by

PATRICK MILES and

HARVEY PITCHER

Oxford New York

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 1994

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Introduction, Translation, and Notes © l'atrick Miles and Haroey Pitcher IY82 Stlect Btbltography © Patrtck Miles 1982 Chronology@ Oxford Untuti'Stty Press 1984

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Library of Congress Cataloging in PubhCJtion Data Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904. {Short stories. English. Stlectionsf Early stories / Anton Chekhov ; translated with an introduction and notes by Patnck Miles and Haroey Pitcher. p. cm. — rThe World's classics) lncludes bibliogrophical references. l. Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904—Translations into English. I. Miles, Patrick. U. Pitcher, HarveyJ. Hl. Titte. IV. Series. PG34S6.AISM5 1994 89l.73'3-dc2O 93-4S73 ISBN 0-19-282814-2

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Contents

/ntrodttction 1

/88J Rapture 9

The Death of a Civil Savant 11

An Incident at Law 14

Fat and Thin 16

The Daughter of Albion 18

1884 Oysters 22

A Dreadful Night 26

Minds in Fermcnt 32

The Complaints Book 36

The Chameleon 37

/885 The Huntsman 41

The Malefactor 45

A Man of Ideas 49

Sergeant Prishibeyev 53

The Misfortune 57

1886 Romance with Double-Bass 62

The Witch 68

Grisha 79

Kids 82

Revenge 88

Easter Night 92

The LiHle Joke 102

The Objet d'Art 106

The Chorus-Girl 110

Dreams 115

The Orator 123

Vanka 126

Verochka 130 A Drama 142 Typhus 147 Notes from the Journal of a Quick-Tempered Man 153 The Reed-Pipe 162 The Kiss 170

No Comment 187 Let Me Sleep 191

Notes 197

Select Bibliography 201

A Chronology of Anton Chekhov 204

Introduction

I write under the most atrocious conditions. My non-literary work lies before me Aaying my conscience unmercifully, the offspring of a visiting kinsman is screaming in the next room, in another room Father is reading aloud The Sealed Angel to Mother ... Someone has just wound up the musical box and it's playing La Belle Helene . . . I'd like to clear off to the country, but it's already one in the morning . . . Can you conceive of more atrocious surroundings for a literary man? My bed's taken up by the visiting relation, who keeps coming over to me and engaging me in medical conversation. 'My daughter must have colic, that's why she's screaming . . . ' I have the great misfortune to be a medic, so every man-jack feels duty hound to 'talk medicine' with me. And when they've had enough of talking medicine, they start on literature .. .

Letter from Chekhov to Leykin, August 1883

By contrast, The Huntsman (1885) was written in the peace of the countryside ... scribbled out by its author as he lay on the floor of a bathing-house, and posted off to the editor just as it was.

Yet it was in those hectic early years, when literature was still competing with medicine, that Chekhov the writer was at his most prolific -with so many members of the family to support financially, he had to be. Of all his published fiction, 528 items were written between 1880 and March 1888, and only 60 in the period 1888-1904. This is a striking imbalance, even given that many of the earlier works are short ephemera. And these 528 items do not include his weekly column of Moscow gossip, his reporting, theatre notices and other occasional journalism.

He was as versatile as he was productive. He wrote captions to cartoons; literary parodies; comic calendars, diari-es, questionnaires, aphorisms and advertisements; innumerable sketches; and even a detective novel. In his endless search for story material, he made use of his own experiences and raided the lives of friends and relatives. He could be frivolous or serious, now topical, now seasonable, hilarious as a parodist, and ingenious with comic twists. Thus A Dreadful Night (1884) is probably autobiographical in inspiration, it is seasonable (a Christmas tale published on December 27th), has a twist ending, and must be the send-up to end all send-ups of the

traditional Christmas horror story!

The largest single group among Chekhov's early work, though, consiMs of stories of knockabout romance. Here we meet a small army of foolish young men, silly young girls, matchmakers, mothers, and mothers-in-law. The heroes and heroines of this world are either strivingdesperately to find a wife or husband, or striving desperately to be unfaithful to one. Such well-worn themes could be relied upon to raise an easy laugh when all other inspiration failed. A brilliant l;rst flowering of the genre was Nofes from the Journal of a Quick- Tempered Man (1887), with its huge cast of 'variegated young ladies' and .Machiavellian mothers, all in hot pursuit ofthe only two, not very eligible, bachelors in the summer datcha colony. By that time, however, Chekhov had already written the first of his distinc- tive serious love stories; although non-love story might be a better description of Verochka (1887).

Another very large group, panicularly prominent in 1883 and 1884, produced several of the best known of Chekhov's earliest works. The gigantic Tsarist bureaucracy had long been a target for satire. Chekhov extracts his own brand of absurdist humour from its rituals and conventions, its red tape, bribery and corruption ('You seem to have left something behind in my hand,' says the official in one sketch to a petitioner when his chief appears at an awkward moment), and the arrogance or servility displayed by people towards those below or above them in the bureaucratic hierarchy. Not that Chekhov is sentimentally disposed towards the servile underdog. Few tears, it seems from his laconic account, need be shed for the hero of The Death of a CivilServant (1883), little sympathy felt for the thin man in Fat and Thin (1883). These tales are inspired with a youthful exasperation and disgust at the absence of the most basic notions of self-respect; or, as in the case of the landowner's behaviour in The Daughter of Albion (1883), of respect for others.

Chekhov was successful as a young writer-journalist because he catered for the rnarket. His stories appealed to young men of roughly his own age and social status who could easily identify themselves with heroes on the look-out for a good match or forced to lick the boots of their departmental chief. From the cheerfully low-brow Moscow Alarm Clock and The Dragonfly (which had published his first contribution in March 1880, when he was just twenty), he graduated to the St Petersburg Splinters, widely regarded as Russia's leading comicsheet. 'l have always maintained a serious tone even in matters of humour,' wrote its editor, Leykin. Chekhov was intro- duced to him in October 1882, and it was Leykin who, by imposing strict limits on the length of contributions, taught the prolix young Chekhov a lesson that he never forgot: how to be succinct. Whilst still workingforSp/infers, he also began to write for the respectable Petersb^rg Gazefte and in February 1886 made his debut in the major newspaper New Times. Its editor, Suvorin, had been told about this promising new writer by the veteran author Grigorovich, who himself had first become aware of Chekhov from reading The Httntsman in the Petersbttrg Gazetfe of July 18th, 1885.

In The Httntsman several qualities that will mark Chekhov out as a short story writerachievetheir first successful artisticexpression. A place, an atmosphere, are evoked powerfully, but by the slenderest, poetic means; and this natural setting interacts subtly with the characters themselves. Whilst ostensibly doing no more than describe the meeting and conversation of two people on a hot sum- mer's day (the story was first subtitled 'A Scene'), Chekhov succeeds both in throwing into relief how each sees the world, and in making palpable the whole texture of their lives - past, present, and even future. As a result, the unresolved ending, the unsentimental way in which he shows the impossibility of any rapprochement between them, satisfies by its emotional and psychological authority.

In March 1886 Grigorovich wrote directly to Chekhov. He was generous in praise of his talent, 'which places you far beyond the modern generation of writers', but urged him strongly to respect that talent by writing with more care and at greater leisure. He also suggested he should attempt a major longer work. In his reply, Chekhov sought to excuse himself. No one had ever taken his writing seriously, he wrote, he was immersed in medicine, and he had never spent more than twenty-four hours on a single story. Nevertheless, he adds that while writing stories in this 'mechanical' way he had been very careful not to waste on them 'images and scenes which are precious to me and which for some reason I carefully saved up and put aside'.

Grigorovich's advice was heeded, but did not take etfea all at once. Chekhov could still notafford tostop writingto a deadline for several publications simultaneously, he still had comic writing in his blood, and he still had much to contribute to the life of the very short story (reading which, as Chekhov put it, 'feels rather like swallowing a glass of vodka'). In 1887 he wrote almost as prolifically as in 1886.

In fact, some of his best comic stories belong to this period, and even in 1887 he was still writing occasionally for The A/arm C/ock.

That he had been 'saving up' his best material, however, seems to have been true. From the very start, even in his most prolific and hasty work, Chekhov saw himself u a professional writer. He was constantly experimenting with genres, forms and narrator's masks. On several occasions he tried to persuade Leykin to accept non- humorous work from him for Sp/inters. He read the masters of Russian prose exhaustively and critically. Even in these early years he is known to have kept notebooks in which he collected scraps of living speech and potential literary material. Whenever a previous work of his was to be repubhshed, he laboured meticulously over revising and retouching it to his current standards. Thus when given the opportunity to write longer and more serious stories for Suvorin, he was able to raise the quality of his writing, and widen the range of his themes, apparently without effort.

The quieter psychological note already heard m The Httntsman now comes to the fore. People matter more than situations. From the start he had shown a keen eye for the quirkiness of human behaviour, whether its harmless foibles, as in Raptttre (1883)or The Comp/aints Book (1884), or its more harmful and ominous perversions (Sergeant Prisfc»'beyev, 1885); but in such stories behaviour is inevit- ably seen from the outside only. What the young Chekhov now shows, however, is a marvellous ability to enter into the lives of characters, completely to 'inform', as Keats said of the poet, the lives of men, women, children, animals, and even plants and landscapes, and make the reader experience the world from their point of view. Fascinatingly, the eye may still be momentarily that of a humorist, but more and more it is that of an observer in whom imaginative empathy with his subjects is coupled with a strong scientific sense of what is physically and psychologically plausible. In Oysters (1884) and TyphKs (1886) he makes direct useof his medical knowledge to describe abnormal physical states, but these are not mere 'clinical studies': they are transformed by Chekhov's vital, imaginative involvement. With the same blend of imagination and authenticity he enters into the lives of children, whether growing up normally, as in Kids and Grisha (both 1886), or in the intolerable conditions depicted in Vanka (1886) or Let Me S/eep (1888). And because he inhabits his characters so fully, moral judgment of them is sus- pended.

It is in several of the most ambitious stories of 1886 and 1887 that the lyrical qualities of The Huntsman are perpetuated. Atmosphere and the spirit of place are evoked particularly hauntingly in Easter Night (1886), and in Verochka, The Reed-Pipe and The Kiss (1887). Themes begin to emerge that are personal to Chekhov. There is the concern with unfulfilled lives, as in The Witch (1886), with its claustrophobic sense of thwarted emotional and sexual potency. In Dreams (1886) there is the pathetic discrepancy between what men dream of and aspire to, and what life allows them to achieve. In The Reed-Pipe (1887) a theme is touched on that we recognise later in Dr Astrov's maps in Uncle Vanya — the degeneration of the natural environment. Then there is the mysterious way in which life 'feels' so different at different times. Which is the 'truer' experience: the exultation of the believers on Easter Night or the grey dawn that follows, the exultation that Ryabovich feels after he receives the accidental kiss, or the sense of futility so powerfully conveyed in the story's closing passages?

Chekhov's early stories have long held a secure place in the hearts of Russian readers. His Motley Tales of May 1886 ran through fourteen editions in as many years, and today any three-volume Russian selection ofhis works is bound to devote at least one volume to the pre-1888 period. 'Antosha Chekhonte', the pseudonym by which the young Chekhov has come to be known, is a far more familiar and accessible figure to most Russians than Anton Chekhov the playwright. These well-read and well-loved early works have led an irrepressible life of their own, untouched by the earnest censure of Chekhov's Populist contemporaries, who accused him of wasting his talent and being unprincipled because they could not find an ideolog- ical message in his writing; or by the equally earnest praise of more recent criticswho have no difficulty at all in seeing him as the scourge of Russia's pre-Revolutionary regime. The Chekhov who wrote The Complaints Book, Romance for Double-Bass, The Orator and Notes from the Journal of a Quick-Tempered Man remains an 'unprincipled' comic artist; the Chekhov who wrote Fat and Thin, The Chameleon and Sergeant Prishibeyev is a deeply subversive writer for all seasons and societies.

Translations of Chekhov into English have been numerous but, as

Ronald Hingley points out, 'in general, highly unsystematic and unscholarly'. With the completion in 1980 of the nine-volume Oxford Chekhov, Hingley has himself solved the major part of this problem: Vols. 1-3 contain all the drama, and Vols. 4-9 all the fiction from 1888-1904. Among translations of the 528 stories of the earlier period, however, a state of unsystematic and unscholarly chaos still prevails. Chekhov's most prolific translator into English, Constance Garnett, translated 147 ofthem, and did so, on the whole, very competently, although she was never at ease with dialogue, especially the racier peasant variety. It was she who was largely responsible for introducing Chekhov to English readers, and whose translations were read by, and in some ways influenced, such writers as Arnold Bennett, James Joyce, Katherine Mansfield and Virginia Woolf. Where she performed something of a disservice to Chekhov and his English readership, however, was in failing to present the stories in any kind of chronological order, with the result that no picture could emerge of how Chekhov evolved as a writer, or of the distinctive qualities ofhis early fiction. ln any case, Garnett's thirteen volumes, published between 1916 and 1922, have long been out of print, as are the two-volume Select Tales (containing eighteen early stories), last re-issued in 1967 and 1968 respectively.

Thus the basic aim of the present volume is to offer a larger and more representative selection of Chekhov's early stories than has ever been available in English in one volume before. Our selection ends where The Oxford Chekhov begins. The last story, Let Me Sleep, was written inJanuary 1888 to earn Chekhov some quick cash while he was busy on The Steppe, the hundred-page narrative pub- lished in March which marked his debut in the serious literary periodicals.

Implicit in this aim, though, is a belief in the stories themselves. We hope to persuade the English reader that these works would still be worth reading today even if Chekhov had not gone on to write A Lady with a Dog or Three Sisters. The young Chekhov, we believe, deserves better than to be represented by one or two items at the start of the Chekhov anthologies: he deserves a volume to himself.

It also seemed important to enable the English reader to see Chekhov's early work in the process of developing. The stories are therefore grouped by year, but have been slightly rearranged within each year to achieve a better balance.

Finally, we wanted to give due prominence to the purely comic side ofChekhov's early writing. This passed most of his first English admirers by completely and has been little better appreciated since; regrettably, for that sense of fun and sublime ridiculousness was something that Chekho» never lost. Whether one regards The Cherry Orchard, for instance, as tragedy, comedy, history or pas- toral, no critic should attempt to comment on that play who is not thoroughly steeped in the comic writing of Antosha Chekhonte.

The thirty-five stories included here still represent only a fraction of the total output. How were they 1:hosen?

Chekhov himself passed judgment on his early writing when he selected the stories for his Collected Works in 1899. Of the 528 items, he included 186. All fifty or so stories published between 1880 and 1882 were excluded, and all but twenty of the hundred-odd stories of 1883. These proportions are steadily reversed until fifty of the sixty-four stories of 1887 are included.

We have respected Chekhov's exclusions, with one exception: An Incident at Law (1883) has been resurrected. Our distribution of stories over different years isalso roughly commensurate with his. If we include relatively few stories from 1887, this is because the average length of Chekhov's stories has increased considerably by then. It would have been impossible, for example, to exclude The Kiss, widely regarded as Chekhov's finest work before The Steppe, even though it consumes the space of about four earlier items. In general our policy was to look for what seemed best in a particular vein, thereby avoiding duplication. The Huntsman, for example, was chosen in preference to the almost equally powerful, but rather similar, Agafya. Some hard decisions had to be taken in the choice of longer stories, but it seemed to us far more important not to sacrifice the shorter stories of 1883-1885 than to find room for one more long story from 1886 or 1887 - even though, as we learned from bitter experience, the shorter the story the more difficult to translate!

It would be inappropriate to dwell too long on the problems of translation. Certain aspects of the young Chekhov's style, however, do deserve mention here. One of his subtlest methods of taking the reader into a character is to blend fragments of that character's indirect speech - from whole sentences to the merest inflexions of voice - freely into his own narration (particularly clear examples occur in Kids and Let Me Sleep). This may give rise to repetitions, which we have been careful to respect. Then there is the way a narrative may modulate through a range of tenses that would beunusual in English fiction, as in The L(ft/e Joke and Vanka. Here, too, we have tended to follow Chekhov, even at the risk ofsounding strange, since we regard the young Chekhov as nothing if not an innovator in style and technique. Finally, there is his use of three dots. Sometimes this is very personal: the dots are carefully deployed by Chekhov aspoints de suspens/on. Often, however, as with his use of exclamation marks, the three dots are simply dictated by the conventions of Russian punctuation. We have considered each instance on its merits, and occasionally this has led to our cutting these forms in translation completely, or replacing them with others.

The collaboration of the translators has been very much more than a simple division oflabour. After one ofthetranslatorshad produced a first draft, this was sent off to Cambridge or Cromer and subjected to unsparmg criticism by the other, who returned it disfigured by amendments and suggestions for improvement. These were incorpo- rated or rejected by the original translator. The translators then met, and the revised draft was sub|ected to the further test of being read aloud, revealing new defects, especially in the rendering of dialogue. In many cases discussion rumbled on for weeks and months after that.

July 1981

To translate Chekhov sometimes requires familiarity with highly specialised areas of knowledge. We express heartfelt thanks to all those friends, relations and experts who advised us in these areas, and especially to Nikolay and Gill Andreyev (Cambridge), Nikolay Bokov (Paris), and M.P. Gromov and L.D. Opulskaya (Moscow) for their authoritative assistance with numerous points of Russian lan- guage and manners. Our gratitude to Richard Davies (Leeds), and everyone else who so patiently listened to, read, and re-read our drafts, cannot be overstated. Needless to say, the responsibility for the text and any errors it may contain remains our own, and we shall welcome correspondence concerning both.

Patrick Miles Harvey Pitcher

Rapture

Midnight.

Wild-eyed and dishevelled, Mitya Kuldarov burst into his parents' flat and dashed intoevery room. His parents were about to go to bed. His sister was in bed already and had just got on to the last page of her novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep.

'Where've you come from?' his parents exclaimed in astonish- ment. 'Is something wrong?'

'Oh, I don't know how to tell you! I'm staggered, absolutely staggered! It's . . . it's quite incredible!'

Mitya burst out laughing and collapsed into an armchair, over- come with happiness.

'It's incredible! You'll never believe it! Take a look at this!'

His sister jumped out of bed and came over to him, wrapping a blanket round her. The schoolboys woke up.

'Is something wrong? You look awful!'

'I'm so happy, Mum, that's why! Now everyone in Russia knows about meJ Everyone! Till now only you knew of the existence of clerical officer of the fourteenth grade, Dmitry Kuldarov, but now everyone in Russia knows! O Lord, Mum!'

Mitya jumped up, ran round every room and sat down again.

'But tell us what's happened, for goodness' sake!'

'Oh, you live here like savages, you don't read the papers, you've no idea what's going on, and the papers are full of such remarkable things! As soon as anything happens, they make it all public, it's down there in black and white! O Lord, I'm so happy! Only famous peopleget their names in the paper, then all ofa sudden - they go and print a story about me!'

'What?! Where?'

Dad turned pale. Mum looked up at the icon and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and ran over to their elder brother, wearing nothing but their short little nightshirts.

'They have! About mc! Now I'm known all over Russia! You'd better keep this copy, Mum, and we can take it out now and then and read it. Look!'

1883

Mitya pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to hisfather, jahbing his finger at a p.issage ringed with blue pencil.

'Read it out!'

Father put on his glasses.

'Go on, read it!'

Mum looked up at the icon and crossed herself. Dad clcnred his throat and began:

'On December 29th at II p.m. clerical officer of the fourteenth grade, Dmitry Kuldarov -'

'See? See? Go on, Dad!'

' . .. clerical officer of the fourteenth grade, Dmitry Kuldarov, emerging from the public ale-house situated on the ground floor of Kozikhin's Buildings in Little Bronnaya Street and being in a state of intoxication -'

'It w.as me and Semyon Petrovich . . . They've got all the details! Go un! Now listen, listen to this bit!'

'. . . and being in a state of intoxication, slipped and fell in front of a cab-horse belonging to Ivan Knoutoff, peasant, from the village of Bumpkino in Pnoff district, which was standing at that spot. The frightened horse, stepping across Kuldarov, dragged over him the sledge 11 which was seated Ivan Lukov, merchant of the Second Guild in Moscow, bolted down the street and was arrested in its flight by some yard-porters. Kuldarov, being at first in a state of unconsciousness, was taken to the police-station and examined by a doctor. The blow which he had received on the back of the head -'

'I did it on the shaft, Dad. Go on, read the rest!'

'. . . which he had received on the back of the head, was classified as superficial. A police report was drawn up concerning the incident. Medical assistance was rendered to the victim -'

'They dabbed the back of my head with cold water. Finished? So what do you say to that, ch?! It'll be all over Russia by now! Give it here!'

Mitya grabbed the newspaper, folded it and stuffed it into his pocket.

'Must run and show the Makarovs . .. Then on ro the lvanitskys, Nataliya Ivanovna and Anisim Vasilich . .. Can't stop! 'Bye!'

Mitya put on his official cap with the cockade and radiant, trium- phant, ran out into the street.

The Death of a Civil Servant

One fine evening, a no less fine office factotum, Ivan Dmitrich Kreepikov, was sitting in the second row of the stalls and watching The Chimes of Normandy through opera glasses. He watched, and felt on top ofthe world. But suddenly . .. You ohen come across this 'But suddenly . ..' in short stories. And authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly, then, his face puckered, his eyes rolled upwards, his breathing ceased - he lowered his opera glasses, bent forward, and . . . atchoo!!! Sneezed, in other words. Now sneezing isn't prohibited to any one or in any place. Peasants sneeze, chiefs of police sneeze, and sometimes even Number 3's in the Civil Service. Everyone snee7.es. Kreepikov did not feel embarrassed at all, he simply wiped hisnose with his handkerchief and, being a polite kind of person, looked about him to see if he had disturbed anyone by sneezing. But then he did have cause forembarrassment. He saw that the little old gentleman sitting in front of him, in the first row, was carefully wiping his pate and the back of his neck with his glove, and muttering something. And in the elderly gentleman Kreepikov rec- ognised General Shpritsalov, a Number 2 in the Ministry of Com- munications.

'I spattered him!' thought Kreepikov. 'He's not my chief, it's true, but even so, it's awkward. I'll have to apologise.'

So he gave a cough, bent respectfully forward, and whispered in the General's ear:

'Please excuse me, Your Excellency, for spattering you . . . it was quite unintentional . . .'

'That's all right, that's all right . ..'

'Please, please forgive me. 1-1 didn't mean to!'

'Oh do sit down, please, I can't hear the opera!'

Disconcerted by this, Kreepikov gave a stupidgrin, sat down, and began to watch the stage again. He watched, but no longer did he feel on top of the world. He began to feel pangs of worry. In the interval he went over to Shpritsalov, sidled along with him, and, conquering his timidity, stammered:

'I spattered you, Your Excellency . .. Please forgive me .. . 1- it wasn't that -'

'Oh for goodness' sake . . . I'd already forgotten, so why keep on about it!' said the General, and twitched his lower lip impatiently.

'Hm, he says he's forgotten,' thought Kreepikov, eyeing the Gen- eral mistrustfully, 'but looks as nasty as you make 'em. He won't even talk about it. I'll have to explain that I didn't want - that sneezing's a law of nature . .. Otherwise he may think I meant to spit at him. And if he doesn't now, he may later! . . .'

When he got home, Kreepikov told his wife about his breach of good manners. His wife, he felt, treated the incident much too lightly: at first she had quite a fright, but as soon as she learned that Shpritsalov was 'someone else's' chief, she calmed down again.

'Even so, you go along and apologise,' she said. 'Otherwise he'll think you don't know how to behave in public!'

'That's right! I did apologise to him, but he acted sort of strangely ... I couldn't get a word of sense out of him. There wasn't time to discuss it, either.'

Next day, Kreepikov put on his new uniform, had his hair trim- med, and went to Shpritsalov to explain ... As he entered the General's audience-room, he saw a throng of people there, and in their midst the General himself, who had just begun hearing peti- tions. After dealingwithseveral petitioners, the General looked up in Kreepikov's direction.

'Yesterday at the Arcadia Theatre, Your Excellency, if you recall,' the little clerk began his speech, 'I sneezed, sir, and - inadvertently spattered . . . Forg-'

'Drivel, sir! . . . You're wasting my time. Next!' said the General, turning to another petitioner.

'He won't even talk about it!' thought Kreepikov, going pale. 'He must be angry, then . .. No, I can't leave it at that ... I must explain to him . . .'

When the General had finished i nterviewing the last petitioner and was on his way back to the inner recesses of the department, Kreepikov strode after him and mumbled:

'Your Excellency! If I make so bold as to bother Your Excellency, it is only from a sense of- of deep repentance, so to speak! . . . I'm not doing it on purpose, sir, you must believe me!'

The General pulled an agonised face and brushed him aside.

'Are you trying to be funny, sir?' he said, and vanished behind a door.

'Funny?' thought Kreepikov. 'Of course I'm not trying to be funny! Calls himself a general and can't understand! Well, if he's going to be so snooty about it, I'm not going to apologise any more! To hell with him! I don't mind writing him a lener, but I'm not coming all the way over here again. Oh no!'

Such were Kreepikov's thoughts as he made his way home. He did not write to the General, though. He thought and thought, but just could not think what to say. So nextmorning he had to go to explain in person.

'Yesterday I came and disturbed Your Excellency,' he started stammering, when the General raised his eyes questioningly at him, 'not to try and be funny, as you so kindly put it. I came to apologise for sneezing and spattering you, sir - it never occurred to me to try and be funny. How could I dare to laugh?! If we all went about laughing at people, there'd be no respect for persons, er, left in the world -'

'Clear out!!' bellowed the General suddenly, turning purple and trembling with rage.

'Wha-what?' Kreepikov asked in a whisper, swooning with terror.

'Clear out!!' the General repeated, stamping his feet.

Something snapped in Kreepikov's stomach. Without seeing any- thing, without hearing anything, he staggered backwards to the door, reached the street, and wandered off ... He entered his home mechanically, without taking off his uniform lay down on the sofa, and . .. died.

An Incident at Law

The case occurred at a recent session of the N. district court.

In the dock was Sidor Felonovsky, resident of N., a fellow ofabout thirty, with restless gipsy fearures and shifty little eyes. He was accused of burglary, fraud and obtaining a false passport, and cou- pled with the latter was a further charge of impersonation. The case was being brought by the depury prosecutor. The name of his tribe is Legion. He's totally devoid of any special features or qualities that might make him popular or bring him huge fees: he's just average. He has a nasal voice, doesn't sound his k's properly, and is forever blowing his nose.

Whereas defending was a fantastically celebrated and popular advocate, known throughout the land, whose wonderful speeches are always being quoted, whose name is uttered in tones of awe . . .

The role that he plays at the end of cheap novels, where the hero is completely vindicated and the public bursts into applause, is not inconsiderable. In such novels he is given a surname derived from thunder, lightning and other equally awe-inspiring forces of nature.

When the deputy prosecutor had succeeded in proving that Felonovsky was guilty and deserved no mercy, when he had finished defining and persuading and said: 'The case for the prosecution rests' - then defence counsel rose to his feet. Everyone pricked up their ears. Dead silence reigned. Counsel began his speech . . . and in the public gallery their nerves ran riot! Sticking out his swarthy neck and cocking his head to one side, with eyes a-flashing and hand upraised, he poured his mellifluous magic into their expectant ears. His words plucked at their nerves as though he were playing the balalaika . .. Scarcely had he uttered a couple ofsentences than there was a loud sigh and a won:an had to be carried out ashen-faced. Only three minutes elapsed hefore the judge was obliged to reach over for his bell and ring three times for order. The red-nosed clerk of the court swivelled round on his chair and began to glare menacingly at the animated faces of the public. Eyes dilated, cheeks drained of colour, everyone craned forward in an agony of suspense to hear what he would say next . . . And need I describe what was happening to the ladies' hearts?!

'Gentlemen of the jury, you and I are human beings! Let us therefore judge as human beings!' said defence counsel in/er alia. 'Before appearing in front of you today, this human being had to endure the agony of six months on remand. For six months his wife has been deprived of the husband she cherishes so fondly, for six months his children's eyes have been wet with tears at the thought that their dear father was no longer beside them. Oh, if only you could see those children! They are starving because there is no one to feed them. They are crying because they are so deeply unhappy •.. Yes, look at them, look at them! See how they stretch their tiny arms towards you, imploring you to give them back their father! They are not here in person, but can you not picture them? (Pattse.) Six months on remand . . . Six . . . They put him in with thieves and murderers .. . a man like this! (Pattse.) One need only imagine the moral torment of that imprisonment, far from his wife and children, to ... But need I say more?!'

Sobs were heard in the gallery . . . A girl with a large brooch on her bosom had burst into tears. Then the little old lady next to her began snivelling.

Defence counsel went on and on . . . He tended to ignore the facts, concentrating more on the psychological aspect.

'Shall ! tell you what it means to know this man's soul? It means knowing a unique and individual world, a world full of varied impulses. I have made a study of that world, and I tell you frankly that as I did so, I felt I was studying Man for the first time ... I understood what Man is ... And every impulse of my client's soul convinces me that in him I have the honour of observing a perfect human being . ..'

The clerk of the coun stopped staring so menacingly and fished around in his pocket for a handkerchief. Two more women were carried out. The judge forgot all about the bell and put on his glasses, so that no one would notice the large tear welling up in his right eye. Handkerchiefs appeared on every side. The deputy prosecutor, that rock, that iceberg, that most insensitive oforganisms, shifted about in his chair, turned red, and started gazing at the floor ... Tears were glistening behind his glasses.

'Why on eanh did I go ahead with the case?' he thought to himself. 'How am I ever going to live down a fiasco like this!'

just look at his eyes!' defence counsel continued (his chin was trembling, his voice was trembling, and his eyes showed how much his soul was suffering). 'Can those meek, tender eyes look upon a crime without tlinching? No, I tell you, those are the eyes of a man who weeps! There are scnsitive nerves concealed behind those Asia- tic cheekbones! And the heart that beats within that coarse, missha- pen breast - that heart is as honest as the day is long! Members of the jury, can you dare as human beings t<> say that this man is guilty?'

At this p>int the accused himself could bear it no longer. Now it was his turn to start crying. He blinked, burst into tears and began fidgeting restlessly . ..

'All right!' he blurted out, interrupting defence counsel. • All right! I am guilty! It was me done the burglary and the fraud. Miserable wretch that I am! I took the money from the trunk and got my sister-in-l:iw to hide the fur coat. I confess! Guilty on all counts!'

Accused then made a detailed confession and was convicted.

Fat and Thin

Two friends bumped into each other at the Nikolayevsky railway station: one was fat, the other thin. The fat man had just dined in the station restaurant and his lips were still coated with grease and gleamed like ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and (leurs d'oranger. The thin man had just got out of a carriage and was loaded down with suitcases, bundles and band-boxes. He smelt of boiled ham and coffee-grounds. Peeping out from behind his back was a lean woman with a long chin - his wife, and a lanky schoolboy with a drooping eyelid — his son.

'Porfiry!' excl;iimed the fat man, on seeing the thin. 'Is it you? My dear chap! I haven't seen you for ages!'

'Good Lord!' cried the thin in astonishment. 'It's Misha! My old schoolmate! Fancy meeting you here!'

The two friends kissed and hugged three times and stood gazing at each other with tears in their eyes. It was a pleasant shock for both of them.

'My dear old chap!' began Thin after they had finished kissing. 'Who would have guessed! Well what a surprise! Let's have a good look at you! Yes, as sman and handsome as ever! You always were a bit of a dandy, a bit of a lad, eh? Weil l never! And how are you? Rich? Married? I'm married, as you see ... This is my wife Luise, nee Wanzenbach ... er, of the Lutheran persuasion ... And this is my son Nathaniel - he's in the third form. Misha was my childhood companion, Nat! We \>'fe at grammar-school together!'

Nathaniel thought for a moment, then removed his cap.

'Yes, we were at gr<^mmar-school together!' Thin continued. 'Remember how we used to tease you and call you "Herostratos", because you once burned a hole in your school text-book with a cigarette? And they called me "Ephialtes", because I was always sneaking on people. Ho-ho . .. What lads we were! Don't be shy, Nat! Come a bit closer . . . And this is my wife, nee Wanzenbach . .. er, Lutheran.'

Nathaniel thought for a moment, then took refuge behind his father's back.

'Well, how are you doing, old chap?' asked Fat, looking at his friend quite enraptured. 'In the Service, are you? On your way up?'

'Yes, old boy, I've had my Grade 8 two years now - and I've got my St Stanislas. The pay's bad, but, well, so what! The wife gives music lessons and I make wooden cigarette-cases on the side - good ones, too! I sell them at a rouble a time, and if you buy ten or more then I give a discount. We manage. First, you know, I worked in one of the Ministry's depanments, now I've been transferred here as head of a sub-office . .. So I'll be working here. And what about yourself? You must be a 5 now, eh?'

'No, try a bit higher, old chap,' said Fat. 'Actually I'm a Number 3 . .. I've got my two stars.'

Thin suddenly went pale, turned to stone; but then his whole face twisted itself into an enormous grin, and sparks seemed to shoot from his eyes and face. He himself shrank, bent double, grew even thinner . . . And all his cases, bundles and band-boxes shrank and shrivelled, too . . . His wife's long chin grew even longer, Nathaniel sprang to attention and did up all the buttons on his uniform . ..

'Your Excellency, 1— This is indeed an honour! The companion, so to speak, of my childhood, and all of a sudden become such an imponant personage! Hee-hee-hee . . .'

'Come now, Porfiry!' frowned F:zt. 'Why this change oftone? You and I have known each other since we were children - rank has no place berween us!'

'But sir ... How can you -' giggled Thin, shrinking even smaller. 'The graciousattention of Your Excellency is as - as manna from on high to ... This, Your Excellency, is my son Nathaniel . . . and this is my wife Luise, Lutheran so to speak . . .'

Fat was about to object, but such awe, such unction and such ab|ect servility were written on Thin's face that the Number 3's stomach heaved. He took a step back and offered Thin his hand.

Thin took his middle three fingers, bent double over them, and giggled 'Hee-hce-hee' like a Chinaman. His wife beamed. Nathaniel clicked his heels and dropped his cap. It was a pleasant shock for all three of them.

The Daughter of Albion

A handsome barouche with rubber tyres, a fat coachman and velvet-upholstered seats drew up in front of Gryabov's manor- house. Out jumped the local Marshal of Nobility, Fyodor Andreich Ottsov. He was met in the anteroom by a sleepy-looking footman.

'Family at home?' asked the Marshal.

'No, sir. Mistress has took the children visiting, sir, and Master's out fishing with Mamselle the governess. Went out first thing, sir.'

Ottsov stood and pondered, then set off for the river to look for Gryabov. He came upon him a couple of versts from the house. On looking down from the steep river bank and catching sight of him, Ottsov burst out laughing . . . A big fat man with a very big head, Gryabov was sitting cross-legged on the sand in Turkish fashion. He was fishing. His hat was perched on the back of his head and his tie had slid over to one side. Next to him stood a tall thin Englishwoman with bulging eyes like a lobster's and a large bird-nose that looked more like a hook than a nose. She was wearing a white muslin dress, through which her yellow, scraggy shoulders showed quite clearly.

On her gold belt hung a little gold watch. She too was fishing. They were both as silent as the grave and as still as the river in which their floats were suspended.

'Strong was his wish, but sad his lot!' said Ottsov, laughing. 'Good day, Ivan Kuzmich!'

'Oh . : . it's you, is it?' asked Gryabov, without taking his eyes off the water. 'You've arrived then?'

'As you see . .. Still sold on this nonsense, are you? Not tired of it yet?'

'Been here since morning, damn it . . .They don'tseem tobe biting today. I haven't caught a thing, nor's this scarecrow here either. Sit sit sit, and not so much as a nibble! It's been torture, I can tell you.'

'Well, chuck it in then. Let's go and have a glass of vodka!'

'No, hang on ... We may still catch something. They bite better towards dusk . .. You know, I've been sitting here since first thing this morning - I'm bored stiff! God knows what put this fishing bug into me. I know it's a stupid wasteoftime but still I go on with it! I sit here chained to this bank like a convict and stare at the water as if I was daft. I ought to be out haymaking and here I am fishing. Yesterday the Bishop was taking the service at Khaponyevo, but I didn'tgo, I sat here all day with this . . . this trout . .. this old hag . . .'

'Are you crazy?' Ottsov asked in embarrassment, glancing side- ways at the Englishwoman. 'Swearing in front of a lady . . . calling her names . . .'

'To hell with her! She doesn't understand a word of Russian anyway. You can pay her compliments or call her names for all she cares. And look at that nose! Her nose alone is enough to freeze your blood. We fish here for days on end and she doesn't say a word. Just stands there like a stuffed dummy, staring at the water with those goggle eyes.'

The Englishwoman yawned, changed the worm on her line and cast out again.

'You know, it's a very funny thing,' Gryabov continued. 'This fool of a woman has lived over here for ten years and you'd think she'd be able to say something in Russian. Any tinpot aristocrat of ours can go over there and start jabbering away in their lingo in no time, but not them - oh no! Just look at her nose! Take a really good look at that nose!'

19

'Oh come now, this is embarrassing . .. Stop going on at the woman . ..'

r. - 2

'She's not a woman, she's a spinster. I expect she spends all day dreaming of a fiance, the witch. And there's a kind of rotten smell about her ... I tell you, old man, I hate her guts! I can't look at her without getting worked up! When she turns those huge eyes on me, I get this jarring sensation all over, as if I'd knocked my funny-bone. She's another one who likes fishmg. And look at the way she goes about it: as if it were some holy rite! Turning up her nose at every- thing, damn her . . . Here am I, she says to herself, a member of the human race, so that makes me superior to the rest of creation." And do you know what her name is? Wilka Charlesovna Tvice! Ugh, I can't even say it properly!'

Hearing her name, the Englishwoman slowly brought her nose round in Gryabov's direction and measured him with a look of contempt. Then, raising her glance from Gryabov to Ousov, she poured contempt over him too. And all of this was done in silence, solemnly and slowly.

'You see?' said Gryabov, roaring with laughter. 'That's what she thinks of us! Old hag! I only keep the codfish because of the children. But for them, I wouldn't let her within a hundred versts of the estate . . . Just like a hawk's beak, that nose . .. And what about her waist? The witch reminds me of a tent-peg-you know, take hold ofher and bang her into the ground. Hang on, I think I've got a bite . ..'

Gryabov jumped up and lifted his rod. The line went taut . .. He gave a rug but could not pull the hook out.

'It's snagged!' he said, frowning. 'Caught behind a stone, I expect ... Blast!'

Gryabov looked worried. Sighing, scuttling from side to side and muttering oaths, he tugged and rugged at the line - but to no effect. Gryabov paled.

'Blow it! I'll have to get into the water.'

'Oh, give it up!'

'Can't do that . . . They bite so well towards dusk ... What a ruddy mess! I'll simply have to get into the water. Nothing else for it! And I'd do anything notto have to undress! It means I'll have to get rid of the Englishwoman ... I can't undress in front of her. She is a lady, after all!'

Gryabov threw off his hat and tie.

'Miss ... er ... Miss Tvice!' he said, turning to the English- woman. 'fe vous prie . .. Now how can I put it? How can I put it so you'll understand? Listen . . . over there! Go over there! Got it?'

Miss Tvice poured a look ofcontempt over Gryabov and emitted a nasal sound.

'Oh, you don't understand? Clear off, I'm teiling you! I've got to undress, you old hag! Go on! Over there!'

Tugging at the governess's sleeve, Gryabov pointed to the bushes and crouched down - meaning, of course, go behind the bushes and keep out of sight . . . Twitching her eyebrows energetically, the Englishwoman delivered herself of a long sentence in English. The landowners burst out laughing.

'That's the first time I've heard her voice. lt's a voice all right! What am I going to do with her? She just doesn't understand.'

'Forget it! Let's go and have some vodka.'

'Can't do that, this is when they shouldstart biting . .. At dusk . .. Well, what do you propose I do? lt's no good! I'll have to undress in front of her . . .'

Gryabov removed his jacket and waistcoat, and sat down on the sand to take off his boots.

'Look, Ivan Kuzmich,' said the Marshal, spluttering with laughter. 'Now you're actually insulting her, my friend, you're making a mockery of her.'

'No one asked her not to understand, did they? Let this be a lesson to these foreigners!'

Gryabov took off his boots and trousers, removed his underwear, and stood there in a state of nature. Onsov doubled up, his face scarlet from a mixture of laughter and embarrassment. The English- woman twitched her eyebrows and blinked . . . Then a haughty, contemptuous smile passed over her yellow face.

'Must cool down first,' said Gryabov, slapping his thighs. 'Do tell me, Fyodor Andreich, why is it I get this rash on my chest every summer?'

'Oh hurry up and get in the water, you great brute, or cover yourself with something!'

'She might at least show some embarrassment, the hussy!' said Gryabov, geting into the water and crossing himself. 'Brrr . . . this water's cold . .. Look at those eyebrows ofhers twitching! She's not going away . . . She's above the crowd! Ha, ha, ha! She doesn't even regard us as human beings!'

When he was up to his knees in the water, he drew himself up to his full enormous height, winked and said:

'Bit different from England, eh?!'

Miss Tvice coolly changed her worm, gave a yawn and cast her line. Omov turned aside. Gryabov detached the hook, immersed himself and came puffing out of the water. Two minutes later he was sming on the sand again, fishing.

Oysters 1884

It does not require a great feat of memory for me to recall in all its detail that rainy autumn evening when I was standing with my father on one of Moscow's crowded streets and began to feel a strange illness gradually take hold of me ...

There is no pain at all, but my legs are giving way beneath me, words stick in my throat, and my head is lolling helplessly to one side. I am evidently on the point of falling down unconscious.

Had I ben admitted to hospital at that moment, the doctors would have had to write on my card Fames -an illness that does not appear in any of the medical textbooks.

Beside me on the pavement stands my dear father in a threadbare summer coat and a linle tricot cap with a piece of white wadding sticking out. He is wearing large heavy galoshes. A vain man, he is afraid of people noticing that he is wearing the galoshes over bare feet, and so has pulled an old pair ofboot-tops tight round his shins.

This poor, foolish old clown, for whom my love grows stronger as his rather dandified summer coat gets more and more dirty and tattered, arrived in the city five months ago to seek an appointment in the clerical line. These five long months he has been wandering round the city asking for a job, and today for the first time he has brought himself to go out onto the streets and beg ...

Opposite us is a large three-storey building with a blue sign that says 'Eating-House'. My head is tilted back feebly to one side, so I cannot help looking up at its lighted windows. Human figures flit across them and I can make out the right-hand comer of a mechani- cal organ, rwo oleographs, some hanging lamps . . . Peering through one of the windows, I discern a shining white spot. Because it does not move and has straight edges, this spot stands out sharply from the general background of dark brown. Straining my eyes, I see that it is a white placard on the wall. Something is written on it - but what, I can't make out . ..

For half an hour I starc and stare at the placard. Its gleaming whiteness lures my eyes and seems to hypnotise my brain. I try to read it, but my efforts are futile.

Finally the strange illness comes into its own.

The noise of the passing carriages begins to sound like thunder, in the stench of the street I detect thousands of different smells, while the lights of the eating-house and the street-lamps fill my eyes with blinding flashes of lightning. All my senses are at fever pitch and abnormally receptive. I begin to see things that I couldn't see before.

'Oy-sters' - I make out on the placard.

What a strange word! I've lived on this earth for eight years and three months exactly, but not once have I heard that word before. What does it mean? Can it be the surname of the landlord? But boards with surnames are hung on doors, not walls!

'Papa, what does "oysters" mean?' I ask in a hoarse voice, strain- ing to tum my head in his direction.

My father doesn't hear. He is scrutinising the movements of the crowds and following each person who goes past ... I can tell from his eyes that he wants to speak to them, but the fatal word hangs on his trembling lips like a heavy weight, and simply will not detach itself. He even took a step after one passer-by and touched his sleeve, but when the man turned round he said 'Sorry', became flustered, and retreated again in confusion.

'Pdpa,' I repeat, 'what does "oysters" mean?'

'It's a kind of animal . . . It lives in the sea .. .'

In a trice I have pictured this mysterious sea creature to myself. It must be a cross berween a fish and a crayfish. Since it is from the sea, it can obviously be used to make very tasry broth with fragrant pepper and a bay leaf floating in it; thick, sourish soup with bits of backbone; crayfish sauce; fish in aspic with horse-radish ... I vividly imagine this animal beingbroughtstraight from the market, quickly cleaned, and popped in the pot - all so quickly, quickly, because everyone's so hungry, terribly hungry! And from the kitchen wafts the smell of fried fish and crayfish soup.

I can feel this smell nckling my palate and nostrils, and gradually taking possession of my whole body. Everything smells of it - the eating-house, Fathcr, the white placard, my sleeves - and the smell is so strong that I begm chewing. I chew and I swallow, as though I actu:tlly had a piccc of the sca creature in my mouth.

My legs buckle under me from this pleasurable sensation, and so as not to fall I grab my father's sleeve and press up against his wet summer coat. My father is trembling and clmching himself: it's so cold . . .

'Papa,' I ask, 'can you cat oysters in Lem?'

'You e.-it them alive,' says Father. 'They live in shells like tortoises . . . but in r'o halves.'

Thedelicious smell instantly ceases to uckle my body, the illusion vanishes ... I see it all now!

'Horrible,' I whisper, 'horrible!'

So that's what 'oysters' means! I imagine an animal like a frog. This frog sits inside a shell, looking out with large, gleaming eyes and champingwith its disgusting jaws. I see this animal being brought in its shell from the markct, with its claws, its gleaming eyes and slimy skin . . . The children all hide, but the cook, screwing up her face in disgust, takes hold ofthe animal by one claw, puts it on a plate, and carries it into the dining-room. The grown-ups take hold of it and they eat it - eat it alive, eyes, teeth, feet and all! And it squeaks loudly and tries to bite them on the lip ...

I screw up my face, but . . . but why is it my teeth have begun chewing? The creature is vile, disgusting, terrifying, but I am eating it all the same, bolting it down so as not to discover what its real taste and smell are. One animal is finished and already I can see the gleamingeyes of a second and a third ... I eat them too . . . And I end up eating the serviette, the plate, Father'sgaloshes, the white placard ... I eat everything in sight, because I know that only eating will cure my illness. The oysters shoot horribleglances at me, they are disgust- ing, I tremble at the thought of them, but I must eat, I must eat!

'Give me some oysters! Some oysters!' I suddenly find myself shouting, and stretch out my arms.

At the same time I hear Father's hollow, strangled voice saying: 'Help us, gentlemen! I'm ashamed to be asking, but God knows, I'm at the end of my tether!'

'Give me some oysters!' I shout, tugging at Father's coat-tails.

'Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A little boy like you?'

someone laughs beside me.

Twogentlemen in top-hatsare standing in front of us, looking into my face and laughing.

'Do you eat oysters, lad? Do you really? Most remarkable. And how do you eat them?'

I remember a strong hand dragging me into the brightly-lit eating-house. Within a minute a crowd gathers round and watches me with curiosity and amusement. I am sitting at a table and eating something slimy, salty, smelling of damp and mould. I eat greedily, without chewing, without looking and without trying to discover what I am eating. I'm sure that if I open my eyes, I shall see those gleaming eyes, those claws and sharp teeth . . .

Suddenly I begin chewing something hard. There is a crunching sound.

'Ha, ha! He's eating the shells!' roars the crowd. 'You don't eat those, you little chump!'

After that I remember a terrible thirst. I am lying on my bed and can't get to sleep from indigestion and a strange taste in my burning mouth. My father is pacing up and down, gesticulating to himself.

'I seem to have caught a chill,' he is mumbling. 'I've got this feeling in my head . . . Like there was someone in it . . . Or maybe it's because I haven't . .. well, because I haven't eaten today. I'm an odd one, I really am, a bit ofa fool ... I saw those gentlemen paying ten roubles for oysters, so why didn't I go up and ask them for a few roubles . . . on loan? They'd have given me them.'

Towards morning I fall asleep and dream of a frog with claws, sitting inside a shell and rolling its eyes. At midday I wake up feeling thirsty and look round for my father: he's still pacing up and down gesticulating . . .

A Dreadful Night

Ivan Petrovich Spektroffs face grew pale and his voice quavered as he turned down the lamp and began his story:

'It was Christmas Eve 1883. The earth lay shrouded in impenetr- able darkness. I was returning home from the house of a friend (who has since died), where we had all been sitting up late attending a seance. For some reason the streets through which I was passing were unlit, and I had almost to grope my way along. I was living in .Moscow, near the Church ofSt Mary-in-the-Tombstones, in a house belonging to the civil servant Kadavroff - in other words, in one of the remotest parts of the Arbat district. My thoughts as I walked along were gloomy and depressing . .. "The end of your life is at hand . . . Repent ..." Such had been the words addressed to me at the seance by Spinoza, whose spirit we had succeeded in calling up. I askcd for confirma- tion, and the saucer not only repeated the words, but added: "This very night." I am not a believer in spiritualism, but the thought of death, or even the merest allusion to it, is enough to plunge me into despondency. Death is inevitable, my friends, it is commonplace, but nevertheless the thought of death is repugnant to human nature . . . Now, as cold, unfathomable darkness hemmed me in and raindrops whirled madly before my eyes, as the wind groaned plaintively above my head and I could neither see a single living soul nor hear a single human sound around me, my heart filled with a vague, inexplicable dread. I, a man free from superstition, hurried through the streets afraid to look around or glance to either side. I felt sure that if I did look round, I would see an apparition of death close behind me.' Spektroff gulped for breath, drank some water and continued: 'This feeling of dread, which despite its vagueness you will all recognise, did not leave me even when I climbed to the third floor of Kadavroff's house, unlocked the door and entered my room. It was dark in my humble abode. The wind was moaning in the stove and tapping on the damper, almost as though it were begging to be let into the warm.

lf Spinoza was telling the truth, I reflected with a smile, then I am to die this night to the accompaniment of these moans. What a gruesome thought!

I lit a match . . . A violent gust of wind raced across the roof. The quiet moaning turned to a ferocious roar. Somewhere down below a half-loose shutter started banging, and the damper began whining plaintivcly for help . . .

Pity the poor devils, I thought, without a roof over their heads on a night like this.

The moment was to prove inopportune, however, for reflections of that kind. When the sulphur of my match flared up with a blue flame and I looked round the room, an unexpected, a terrifying spectacle met my cyes . .. Oh, why didn't thatgustofwind blow out my match? Then perhaps I should have secn nothing and my hair would not have stood on end. I gave a wild cry, took a step back- wards towards the door, and filled with terror, amazement and despair, closed my eyes . . .

In the centre of the room stood a coffin.

The blue flame did not last long, but I had time to make out the coffin's main features ... I saw its richly shimmering pink brocade, I saw the gold-embroidered cross on its lid. There are certain things, my friends, which imprint thcmselves on one's memory, evcn when one has glimpsed them but for a single moment. So it was with that coffin. I saw it but for a second, yet I recall it in the most minute detail. It was a coffin made for a person of medium height, and judging by the pink colour, for a young girl. The expensive silk brocadc, the feet, the bronze handles - all these suggested that the deceased came from a wealthy family.

I rushed headlong from my room, not stopping to think or con- sider but experiencing only unutterable fear, and flew downstairs. The staircase and corridors were in darkness, I kept tripping over my coat-tails, and how I avoided tumbling head-over-heels down the stairs and breaking my neck, I shall never know. Finding myself in the street, l leant up against a wet lamp-post and tried to recover my composure. My heart was thumping horribly and I had a tight feeling across the chest . . .'

One of the listeners turned up the lamp and moved her chair closer to the narrator, who continued:

'I would not have been so taken aback if I had discovered in my room a fire, a thief or a mad dog ... I would not have been so taken aback if the ceiling had come down, the floor had collapsed or the walls had caved in ... All th.it is natural and comprehensible. But how could a coffin have turned up in my room? Where had it come from? How had an expensive coffin, evidently made for a young girl of noble birth, found its way into the miserable room of a minor civil servant? Was the coffin empty or was it - occupied? And who was this she, this rich young aristocrat who had quitted life so prema- turely and paid me this dread, disturbing visit? It was a tantalising mystery!

If it's not a case of the supernatural, the thought flashed through my mind, then there's foul play involved.

I became lost in conjecture. My door had been locked while I was out, and only my very close friends knew where I kept the key. But the coffin certainly hadn't been left by friends. Then it was also conceivable that the undertakers had delivered the coffin to me in error. They might have muddled up the names, mistaken the floor number or the door, and taken the coffin to the wrong place. But who ever heard of Moscow undertakers leaving a room without being paid, or at least waiting for a tip?

The spirits foretold my death, I thought. Perhaps they've already set about providing me with a coffin, too?

I am not a believer in spiritualism, my friends, nor was I then, but such a coincidence is enough to plunge even a philosopher into a mood of mysticism.

But all this is absurd, I decided, and I'm being as cowardly as a schoolboy. It was an optical illusion-no more than that! On my way home I was in such a gloomy state of mind that it's hardly surprising my overv.:rought nerves thought they saw a coffin . . . Of course, an optical illusion! What else could it be?

The rain was lashing my face, and the wind kept tugging angrily at my hat and coat-tails ... I was wet through and chilled to the bone. I would have to find shelter - but where? To go back home would mean running the risk of seeing the coffin again, and that was a spectacle beyond my powers of endurance. Not seeing a single living soul or hearing a single human sound around me, left alone in the company ofa coffin which perhaps contained a dead body, I might easily lose my reason. But to remain on the street in the cold and pouring rain was equally impossible.

I decided to go and spend the night with my friend Lugubrovitch (who, as you know, was later to shoot himself). He lived in a block of furnished rooms belonging to the merchant Skeletoff - the ones on the corner of Deadman's Passage.'

Spektroff wiped away the beads of cold perspiration that had

gathered on his pallid brow, and with a deep sigh continued:

'I did not find my friend at home. After knocking on his door and deciding he must be out, I felt for his key on the lintel, unlocked the door and went in. I flung my wet coat on the floor, and feeling my way to the sofa, sat down to recuperate. It was very dark . . . The wind droned mournfully in the ventilator. Behind the stove a cricket chirped over and over again its monotonous song. The Kremlin bells had begun to ring for Christmas morning communion. Hastily I struck a match. But its light did not dispel my gloomy mood; on the contrary. A dreadful, unutterable terror seized me again . . . I cried out, staggered backwards, and rushed blindly from the apartment . ..

In my friend's room I had seen the same as in my own - a coffin!

My friend's coffin was almost twice as large as mine, and its subfusc upholstery gave it a peculiarly gloomy appearance. How had it got there? That it was an optical illusion now seemed quite certain - there couldn't be a coffin in every room! I was obviously suffering from a nervous disorder, from hallucinations. Wherever I now went, I would see before me the dreadful dwelling-place of death. In other words I was going mad, I was suffering from a kind of "cof- finomania", and the cause ofmy derangement was not hard to find: I had only to recall the spiritualist seance and the words ofSpinoza . . .

I'm going mad! I thought to myself with terror, clutching my head. Oh my God! What am I to do?!

My head was splitting and my knees shaking . . . The rain was pouring down in buckets, the wind was piercing right through me, and I had neither coat nor hat. To go back to the apartment for them was impossible, beyond my powers of endurance . . . Fear gripped me firmly in her cold embrace. My hair was standing on end and cold perspiration streamed down my face, even though I believed that the coffin was only an hallucination.'

'What was I to do?' Spektroffcontinued. 'I was going mad and in danger of catching a violent cold. Fortunately I remembered that not far from Deadman's Passage lived my good friend Kryptin, a recently qualified doctor, who had also been at the seance with me that night. I hurried round to his place. This was before he married his merchant heiress, and he was still living on the fourth floor ofa house belong- ing to state counsellor Nekropolsky.

At Kryptin's my nerves were fated to undergo yet another ordeal. As I was climbing to the fourth floor, I heard above me a terrible din of running footsteps and slamming doors.

"Help!" I heard a soul-piercing cry. "Help! Porter!"

And a moment later a dark figure in a coat and battered top-hat came hurtling down the stairs towards me ...

"Kryptin!" I exclaimed, recognising my friend. "Is that you, Kryp- tin? Whatever's wrong?"

Kryptin pulled up short and clutched my hand convulsively. He was pale, breathing heavily and trembling. His eyes _were rolling wildly and his chest was heaving . ..

"Is that you, Spektroff?" he asked in a sepulchral voice. "Is that rcally you? You're as white as a ghost . . . Are you quite sure you're not a hallucination? . . . My God . . . you scare me stiff ..."

"But what about you? You look ghastly!"

"Phew, let me get my breath back, old chap . . . It's wonderful to see you, if it really is you and not an optical illusion. That damned seance . . . Would you believe it, my nerves were so overwrought that when I got back to my room just now I thought I saw - a coffin!"

I could not believe my ears and asked for confirmation.

"A coffin, a real coffin!" said the doctor, sitting down exhausted on one of the stairs. "I'm no coward, but the devil himself would get a fright if he came home after a seance and bumped into a coffin in the dark!"

Stumbling and stammering, I told the doctor about the coffins I had seen . . .

For a moment we gazed at each other, our eyes popping and our mouths gaping in astonishment. Then, to make sure we were not seeing hallucinations, we bcgan pinching each other.

"We both feel pain," said thedoctor, "which means that we're not asleep and seeing each other in a dream. And that means the coffins — mine and your two - are not optical illusions but really do exist. So what's our next move, old man?"

After standing for a solid hour on the cold staircase and losing ourselves in conjecture and surmise, we were chilled to the bone and made up our minds to cast aside cowardly fear and wake up the floor-porter, in order to return with him to the doctor's room. This we did. On entering the apartment, we lit a candle and there indeed we saw a coffin, covered in white silk brocade, with a gold fringe and tassels. The porter crossed himself reverently.

"Now we can find out," said the doctor, pale-faced and trembling all over, "whether this coffin is empty, or - or - inhabited!"

After an understandably long period of indecision, the doctor bent over, and grimng his teeth in dread and anticipation, wrenched off the lid of the coffin. We looked inside and . ..

The coffin was empty.

There was no dead body, but we did find a lener which read as follows:

"My dear Kryptin! As you know, my father-in-law's business has been going from bad to worse. He's up to his neck in debt. Tomor- row or the day after they're coming to make an inventory of all his stock, which will deal the death blow to his family and mine, and to our honour, which is dearer to me than anything. At our family conference yesterday we decided to hide everything precious and valuable. As my father-in-law's stock consists entirely of coffins (he is, as you know, a master coffin-maker, the best in town), we decided to hide away all the best coffins. I appeal to you as a friend to help me save our fortune and our honour! In the hope that you will assist us in preserving our stock, I am sending youonecoffin, oldchap, with the request that you keep it until it is required. Without the help of our friends and acquaintances we shall certainly perish. I hope this is not too much to ask, especially as the coffin will not be with you for more than a week. I have sent a coffin each to all those I consider our true friends and am relying on their nobility and generosity.

Affectionately yours, Ivan Nekstovkin."

For three months afterwards I was under a specialist in nervous disorders, whilst our friend, the coffin-maker's son-in-law, not only saved his honour and his stock, but set up a funeral parlourand deals in memorials and tombstones. His business is none too healthy, and now, when I come home each evening, I am always afraid I'm going to see a white marble memorial or a catafalque by my bedside.'

Minds in Ferment

(From the Annals ofa Town)

The earth was like an inferno. The aftcrnoon sun hcat down with such a vengeance that even thc thermometer hanging in the excise office lost its head, shot up to 112• 5, and hovered there in dither . . . Sweat poured off the town's inhabitants as though they were hard- ridden horses, and dried where it was: thcy hadn't the energy to wipe it off.

Across the broad market square, where all the surrounding build- ings were tightly shuttered, walked two such inhabitants: chief cashicr Skrabhitch and town solicittH Optimov (veteran local cor- respondent ofSon of the Fatherland, to boot). They walked in silence on account of the heat. Optimov felt the urge to castigate the council for all the dust and litter lying about the market place, but knowing the peaceful disposition and moderate views of his companion, he reframed.

When they reached the middle of the square, Skrabbitch suddenly stopped and stared up at the sky.

'What are you looking at, Yevpl Serapionych?'

'Th.at flock ofstarlings there. I wonder where they'll settle? Clouds and clouds of them! Say you were to take a pot-shot at them from here, say you were to go and pick them up afterwards . .. and say ... They've settled in the Dean's orchard!'

'No, you're wrong, Yevpl Serapionych, they're in Deacon Pan- demonoff's. If you were to take a pot-shot at them from here, you wouldn't hit anything. The pellets are too small, once they'dgot that far their strength would have gone. Anyway, what do you want to kill them for?The bird's a menace to fruit, I grant you, but it's one of God's creatures, don't forget, a work of the Lord. A starling, for example, can sing . . . And wherefore does he sing, you may ask? To give praise, that's why. "Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!" No, you're right, I do believe they've settled in the Dean's orchard.'

Whilst they were conversing thus, three old women, wandering pilgrims carrying scrips and wearing big bast shoes, walked silently by. Puzzled by the way in which Skrabbitch and Optimov were staring at the Dean's house, they slowed down, drew to one side, stopped, took another look at the two friends, and proceeded to gaze at the Father's house in their turn.

'You were quite right, they have settled in the Dean's orchard,' Optimov went on. 'His cherries have just ripened, so they've flown in for a peck.'

At this moment, Father Kantiklin himself came out of his garden gate with Yevstigney, his server. Seeing so much attention directed towards his house and wondering what everyone was staring at, he stopped, and he and his server also began looking up in the air, to find oi:t.

'I expect the good Father's taking an office,' said Skrabbitch. 'The Lord be his succour!'

Some workers from Purov's factory who were just returning from a swim in the river now hove into view in the space between the two friends and Father Kantiklin. Seeing the latter with his gaze fixed on the firmament above, and the pilgrims standing stockstill and also staring on high, they stopped and stared in the same direction. A little boy leading a blind beggar, and a peasant who had come out to tip a barrelful of rotten herrings onto the square, did likewise.

'Looks as though something's up,' said Skrabbitch. 'Do you reckon it's a fire? No, it can't be, there's no smoke. Hey, Kuzma!' he shouted at the peasant. 'What's going on over there?'

The peasant said something in reply, but Skrabbitch and Optimov did not catch it. Sleepy shopkeepers began to appear in all the doorways. Some plasterers working on the front of merchant Fer- tikulin's corn-chandler's left their ladders and joined the factory- workers. A fireman, who had been describing circles at the top of the watch-tower in his bare feet, came to a halt, and after a few moments' observation, descended. The fire-tower was now desened. This looked suspicious.

'Perhapsthere's a fire somewhere? Hey, stop shoving will you! Pig face!'

'What's all this about a fire, then ? What fire? Come on, gentlemen, move along, will you! I'm asking you politely!'

'Must be a fire indoors!'

'Politely, he says, and then starts barging about. Stop swinging your arms around! You may be head constable, but no one's given you a perfect right to make free with your fists!'

'Ow, you've trodden on my corn! May you choke, damn you!'

'Choke? Who's choking? Lads, someone's been crushed!' 'Why's this crowd hcre.^} Wh.n's all this in aid of?'

'Someone's becn crushcd, vcronncr!'

'Where? D-is-perse! I'm asking you all politely - you too, hlm k- head!'

'You can shove the peasams, but don't you darc touc-h a pcmlf- man! Keep your hands off!'

'Call yourselves people? You could talk nicely to this lot ull you were blue in the face! Sidorov, go and fetch A kim Danilych! At the double! It'll be worse for you now, gcntlemen! Once A kim Damlych comes you'll bi- for it! What, you here too, Parfen?!A blind holy man here too! He's as blind as a hat, hut he has to go along and resist the law jiist like other people! Smirnov, take Parfen's name!'

'Yessir! Am I to putdown Purov's men as well, sir? Him over there wnh the swollen cheek - he's one of Purov's!'

'No, don't put Purov's men down yet ... It's Purov's samt's-day party tomorrow!'

The starlings rose in a dark cloucl above Father Kantiklin's orch.ird, but Skrahhitch and Optimov did not even notice them; they were too busy gazing into the air and tryirg to work out why such a big crowd had gathered and what it was staring at. Then Akim Danilych came round the corner. Still chewing something and wip- ing his lips, he gave a sudden bellow and dived into the crowd.

'Firemen, stand by! Crrrowd, d-is-perse! Mr Optimov, disperse yourself please or it'll be the worse for you. Instead of writmg all these criticisms of decent people for the papers, you should try behaving a bit more substantially yourself! The papers never improved anyone!'

'I'll thank you to leave the public press out of it!' flared up Optimov. 'I am a professional writer, and I will notallowyou tocast aspersions on the press - even if I do consider it my duty as a citizen to respect you as a father and benefactor!'

'Firemen, turn on the hose!'

'There's no water, yeronner!'

'Stop answering hack! Go and get some! At-the-double!'

'Nothing to go on, your honour. The major's taken the brigade horses to drive his auntie to the station !'

'Disperse, will you! Move back, damn the lot of you . . . You deaf? Right, take the blighter's name for him!'

'I've lost my pencil, yeronner . . .'

The crowd was growing bigger and bigger . . . Goodness knows what proponions it would have reached, had not someone in Sleez- kin's tavern chosen this moment to try out the new mechanical organ that had recently arrived from Moscow. Hearing the most popular tune of the day, the crowd gave an 'Aah !' and piled into the tavern. Thus nobody ever did discover why the crowd had gathered, and Optimov and Skrabbitch had long forgonen all about the starlings who were the real cause of the incident. An hour later, the town was absolutely still and quiet again, and only a single solitary hu!Tlan being could be seen - the fireman walking round and round the top of his watch-tower . . .

That evening, Akim Danilych sat in Fertikulin's grocery shop sipping fizzy lemonade laced with brandy, and wrote: 'In addition to my official communication, I venture, Your Excellency, to append some supplementary remarks of my own. My Father and Benefactor! Verily it could only have been through the prayers of your most virtuous spouse residing in her salubrious datcha close by our town that we were saved from disaster! I cannot begin to describe all that I have been through this day. The efficiency displayed by Krushensky and Major Portepeeyeff of the fire brigade beggars all description. I glory in these worthy servants of our fatherland! As for myself, I did all that a frail man can whose sole desire is the well-being of his neighbour, and now that I am sitting in the bosom of my family, I offer up thanks with tears in my eyes to Him Who spared us bloodshed. In the absence of evidence, the guilty parties are at the moment under lock and key, but I propose to release them in a week or so. It was their ignorance that led them astray!'

The Complaints Book

It lies, this book, in a special little desk inside the railway station. To get at it you have to 'Apply to the Station Policeman for Key' — but it's all nonsense about the key, since the desk is always unlocked. Open the book and you will read:

'Dear Sir! Just testing the pen?!'

Below this is a funny face with a long nose and horns. Underneath it says:

'I'm a picture, you're a blot, you're a pig, I'm not. I am your ugly mug.'

'Approaching this station and admiring the seenery, my hat blue off. I. Harmonkin.'

'I know not who it was that writ, but him that reads it is a twit.'

'Fobbemoff, Head of Small Claims Office, was here.'

'I wish to register a complaint against Ticket-Collector Krumpkin for rudeness with respect to my wife. My wife wasn't kicking up a row but on the contrary was trying to keep it all as quiet as possible. Also against Constable Kuffkin for Grabbing me by the shoulder. My place of residence is the estate of Andrey Ivanovich Snoopin who knows my mode of behaviour. Paragonsky, estate clerk.'

'Nikandroff's a Socialist!'

'Whilst the impression of this disgraceful incident is still fresh — (crossed out). Passing through this station I was shocked to the depths of my being by the following - (crossed out). I witnessed with my own eyes the following disgraceful occurrence, vividly illustrat- ing the state of affairs pertaining on our railways - (everything else crossed out, except for the signature-) Ivan Svot, Upper Sixth Form, Kursk Grammar School.'

'While awaiting the departure of the train I studied the station- master's physiognomy and was not at all pleased by what I saw. Am passing this information along the line. An undespairing nine-to- fiver.'

'I know who wrote that. It was M.D.'

'Gentlemen! Teltsovsky's a card-sharp!'

'The station policeman's wife took a trip over the river with Kost- ka the barman yesterday. Good luck to them! Chin up, constable!' 'Passing through this station and requiring sustenance in the form of something to eat I was unable to obtain any lenten fare. Deacon Cheruboff.'

'Stuff in what they've got, mate!' ...

'Will anyone finding a leather cigar-case kindly hand it in to Andrey Yegorych at the ticket office.'

'Right, if you'resackingme because you say I getdrunk, I'm telling everyone you're a load of dirty rogues and swindlers. Koz- modemyansky, telegraph-operator.'

'Rejoice in good deeds.'

'Katinka, I love you madly!'

'Please refrain from making irrelevant entries in this complaints book. B.A.Ivanoff (pp. Station-master).'

'B.F.Ivanoff, more like.'

The Chameleon

Across the market square comes Police Inspector Moronoff. He is wearing a new greatcoat and carrying a small package. Behind him strides a ginger-headed constable bearing a sieve filled to the brim with confiscated gooseberries. There is silence all around ... Not a soul in the square . .. The wide-open doors of the shops and taverns look out dolefully on the world, like hungry jaws; even their beggars have vanished.

'Bite me, would you, you little devil?' Moronoff suddenly hears. 'Catch him, lads, catch him! Biting's against the law now! Grab him! Ouch!'

A dog squeals. Moronoff looks round - and sees a dog run out of merchant Spatchkin's woodyard, hopping along on three legs and glancing backwards. A man in a starched calico shirt and unbut- toned waistcoat comes chasing out after it. He runs behind, bends down rightover it, and tumbles to the ground catching the dog by the hind legs. There is another squeal and a shout: 'Hold him, lads!' Sleepy countenances thrust themselves out of the shop windows and soon a crowd has sprung up from nowhere by the woodyard.

'Looks like trouble, your honour!' says the constable.

Moronoff executes a half-turn to his left and marches towards the throng. He sees that the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned shirt is standing at the yard gatesand with his right hand raised high in the air is showing the crowd a bloodstained finger. His half..:;ozzled face seems to be saying 'You'll pay for this, you scoundrel!' and his very finger has the air of a victory banner. Moronoff recognises the man as Grunkin the goldsmith. On the ground in the midst of the crowd, its front legs splayed out and its whole body trembling, sits the actual cause of the commotion: a white borzoi puppy with a pointed muzzle and a yellow patch on its back. The expression in its watering eyes is one of terror and despair.

'What's all this about?' asks Moronoff, cutting through the crowd. 'Why are you lot here? What's your finger - ? Who shouted just now?'

'I was walking along, your honour, minding me own business . . .' Grunkin begins, giving a slight cough, 'on my way to see Mitry Mitrich about some firewood - when all of a sudden, for no reason, this little tyke goes for my finger . .. Beg pardon, sir, but I'm a man what's working . . . My work's delicate work. I want compensation for this-after all, I may not be able to lift this finger for a week now . . . There's nothing in the law even that says we have tO put up with that from beasts, is there your honour? If we all went round biting, we might as well be dead . . .'

'Hm! All right . . .' says Moronoff sternly, clearing his throat and knitting his brows. 'Right . . . Who owns this dog? I shall not let this matter rest. I'll teach you to let dogs run loose! It's time we took a closer look at these people who won't obey regulations! A good fat fine'll teach the blighter what I think of dogs and suchlike vagrant cattle! I'll take him down a peg! Dildin,' says the inspector, turning to the constable, 'find out who owns this dog, and take a statement! And the dog must be put down. Forthwith! It's probably mad anyway ... Come on then, who's the owner?'

'Looks like General Tartaroff's!' says a voice from the crowd.

'General Tartaroff's? Hm . .. Dildin, remove my coat for me, will you? ... Phew it's hot! We must be in for rain . . . What I don't understand, though, is this: how did it manage to bite you?' says

Moronoff, turning to Grunkin. 'How could it reach up to your finger? A litde dog like that, and a hulking great bloke like you! I expect what happened was, you skinned your finger on a nail, then had thc bright idea of making some money out of it. I know you lot! You devils don't fool me!'

'Hc shoved a fag in its mug for a lark, your honour, but she weren't having any and went for him . . . He's always stirring up trouble, your honour!'

'Don't lie, Boss-Eye! You couldn't see, sowhy tell lies? His honour here's a clever ger.t, he knows who's lying and who's telling the gospel truth . .. And if he thinks I'm lying, then let the justice decide. He's got it all written down there in the law . .. We're all equal now .. . I've got a brother myself who's in the po-lice . . . you may l ike to know -'

'Stop arguing!'

'No, it's not the General's .. .' the constable observes profoundly. 'The General ain't got any like this. His are more setters . ..'

'Are you sure of that?'

'Quite sure, your honour -'

'Well of course I know that, too. The General has dogs that are worth something, thoroughbreds, but this is goodness knows what! It's got no coat, it's nothing tolook at-just a load of rubbish ... Do you seriously think he'd keep a dog like that?! Use your brains. You know what'd happen if a dog like that turned up in Petersburg or Moscow? They wouldn't bother looking in the law books, they'd dispatch him - double quick! You've got a grievance, Grunkin, and you mustn't let the matter rest . . . Teach 'em a lesson! It's high time .. .'

'Could be the General's, though . . .' muses the constable aloud. 'It ain't written on its snout ... I did see one like that in his yard the other day.'

'Course it's the General's!' says a voice from the crowd.

'Hm . .. Help me on with my coat, Dildin old chap . . . There's a bit of a breeze got up ... It's quite chilly . . . Right, take this dog to the General's and ask them there. Say I found it and am sending it back. And tell them not to let it out on the street in future. It may be worth a lot, and if every swine is going to poke cigarettes up its nose, it won't be for much longer. A dog's a delicate creature . . . And you put your hand down, you oaf! Stop showing your stupid finger off! It was all your own fault!'

'Here comes the General's cook, let's .isk him . . . Hcy, Prokhor! Come over hcre a moment, will you? Take a look at this dog . . . One of yours, is it?'

'You must he joking! We've never had none like th.at!'

'Right, wecan stop making enquiries,' says Moronoff. 'It's a stray! We cancut thechat . . .Ifevcryone says it's a stray, it is a stray . . . So that's that, it must he put down.' ,

'No, it's not one of ours,' Prokhor continues. 'It belongs to the General's brother what come down the other day. Our General don't go much on borzois. His brother docs, though —'

'You mean to say his Excellency's brother's arrived? Vladimir lvanych ?' asks Moronoff, his face breaking into an ecstatic smile. 'Well hlow me down! And I didn't know! Come for a little stay, has he?'

'He's on a visit . . .'

'Well l never . . . So he felt like seeing his dear old brother again . . . And fancy me not knowing! So it's his little dog, is it?Jolly good .. . Take him away with you, then . . . He's a good little doggie . . . Pretty quick off the mark, too . . . Took a bite out of this bloke's finger-ha, ha, ha! No need to shiver, little chap! "Grr-rrr" . . . He's angry, the rascal . . . the little scamp . . .'

Prokhor calls the dog over and it follows him out of the woodyard . . . The crowd roars with laughter at Grunkin.

Tll deal with you later!' Moronoff threatens him, and wrapping his greatcoat tightly round him, resumes his progress across the market square.

The Huntsman

It is midday, hot and close. Not a puff of cloud in the sky . . . The sun-parched grass looks at you sullenly, despairingly: even a down- pour won't turn it green now . .. The forest stands there silent and still, as ifgazing somewhere with the tops of its trees, or waiting for something.

Along the edgr of the scrub ambles a tall, narrow-shouldered man of about forty with a lazy, rolling gait and wearing a red shirt, patchedtrousers that were his master's cast-offs, and big boots. He is ambling along the road. To his right is the green of the scrub, to his left a golden sea of ripe rye stretching to the very horizon . . . He is red in the face and sweating. Perched jauntily on his handsome, flaxen head is a small white cap with a stiff jockey peak to it - evidently a present from some young gentleman in a fit of generosity. He has a shooting-bag over his shoulder, with a rumpled black grouse hanging out of it. The man is holding a cocked twelve-bore in his hands and keeping a weather eyeon hisleanold dog, whohas run ahead and is sniffing round the bushes. All is completely quiet, not a sound in the air . . . Every living thing has hidden away from the heat.

'Yegor Vlasych!' the sportsman suddenly hears a soft voice say.

He starts, looks round, and frowns. Right beside him, as though she had just sprung out of the ground, stands a pale-faced peasant woman of about thirty, with a sickle in her hand. She tries to look into his face, and smiles at him bashfully.

'Oh, it's you, Pelageya !' says the sponsman, stopping and slowly uncocking his gun. 'Hm! . . . What brings you to these parts?'

'The girls from our village are working here, so I've come over with them . .. As a labourer, Yegor Vlasych.'

'Uhuh ...' grunts Yegor Vlasych, and slowly continues on his way.

Pelageya follows him. They walk about twenty paces in silence.

'It's a long time since I saw you last, Yegor Vlasych . . .' says Pelageya, looking fondly at the rippling motion of his shoulders. 'Not since you came into our hut for a drink of water at Eastertide — that was the last time we saw you . .. Yes, you came inside for a minute at Easter, and Lord knows the state you were in - under the influencc, you wcrc . . . You just sworc at us, beat me and went off ag.iin . . . And I've been waiting and waiting -I've worn my eycs out looking for you rn come. . . Ah, Ycgor Vlasych, Ycgor Vlasych! You could have callcd in once, |ust oncc!'

'To do what?'

'Not to do anything, of course, but . . . it is your household, after all ... Just to sec how cverything is ... You .ire the hcad . . . Oh, you'vc shot a little grouse. Ye-gor Vlasych! Why not sit down and have 3 rest —'

As she says all this, Pclageya keeps laughing like a simpleton and looking up at Ycgor's face . . . Hcr own face positively brcathcs happincss . . .

'All right. I'll sit down for a bit . . .' Yegor says nonchalantly, choosing3 spot between two fir-trees growingside by side. 'What are you standing up for? You sit down too!'

Pelagcya sits a little way off in the sun and, ashamcd to show how happy she is, keeps covering her smiling mouth with her hand. A couple of minutes pass in silence.

'You could have called in just once,' Pelageya says quietly.

'What for?' sighs Yegor, taking off his cap and mopping his ruddy brow with his sleeve. 'What's the point? Calling in for an hour or two's just a bother, it justgets you worked up, and as for living in the village all the time - my soul couldn't take it ... You know yourself I've been mollvcoddled ... I need a bed to sleep in, good tea to drink, fine convers3tions ... I need everything to be just right . . . and all you'vegotthere in the village is poverty andgrime. . .I couldn'tstick it for a day. Supposing they even made a decree, saying I had to live with thee come what may, I'd either burn the hut down, or I'd lay hands on myself. I've loved the easy life since I was a kid, you won't change me.'

'And where are you living nowadays?'

'At the m3ster's, Dmitry lvanych's, as one of his shooters. I pro- vide game for his table, but really . . . he just likes having me around.'

'It's not a proper way of life, that, Yegor Vlasych . . . For other people that's their leisure, but it's as though you've made it your trade . . . like a real job . . .'

'You're stupid, you don't understand anything,' says Yegor, gaz- ing dreamily at the sky. 'Never in all your born days have you understood what kind ofa man I am, nor will you . .. You think I'm crazy, I've ruined my life, but to those as knows, I'm the top shot in the whole district. The gents know that all right, and they've even written about me in a magazine. There's not a man can compare with me when itcomes to hunting... And I don'tdespiseyour village jobs because I'm spoilt or proud. You know I never done anything else since I was small than shooting and keeping a dog, don't you? If they took my gun away, I'd use my line, if they took my line away, I'd catch things with my hands. I did a bit of horse-dealing, too, I went the round of the fairs when I had money, and you know yourself that once a peasant's joined the huntsmen and horse-dealers, it's goodbye to the plough. Once that free spirit's got into a man, there's no winkling it out. Just like when a gent goes off with the players, or one of them other arts, he can't work in an office or be a squire again. You're a woman, you don't understand, but you got to.'

'I do understand, Yegor Vlasych .. .'

'You can't do, if you're going to cry about it . . .'

'I - I'm not crying . . .' says Pelageya, turning away. 'It's a sin, Yegor Vlasych! You could at least have some pity and spend a day with me. It's twelve years now since I married you, and . . . and there's never once been love between us! . . . I'm not crying .. .'

'Love ...' mumbles Yegor, scratching the back of his hand. 'There can't be any love. We're man and wife in name only, we're not really, are we? To you I'm a wild man, and to me you're just a simple girl who doesn't understand anything. Call that a match? I'm free, I'm mollycoddled, I come and go as I please, and you're a working-girl, you trudge around in bast shoes all day, you live in dirt, your back's always bent. The way I see myself, when it comes to hunting I'm number one, but when you look at me you just feel pity . . . What kind of a match is that?'

'But we were married in church, Yegor Vlasych !' Pelageya sobs loudly.

'Not freely we weren't . . . You haven't forgonen, have you? You can thank the Count, Sergey Pavlych, for that - and yourself. Because he was so jealous I could shoot better'n him, the Count got me drunk on wine for a month, and when a man's drunk you can make him change his religion, never mind get married. He went and married me offdrunk to you, toget his own back ... A huntsman to a cowherd! You could see I was drunk, so why did you marry me? You're not a serf, youcould havegone against his will! 'Course, it'sa great thing for a cowherd, marrying a huntsman, but why didn't you stop and think first? Now it's nothing but tears and tribulation. The

c. - , 43

Count has his laugh, and you're left crying . . . banging your head against a wall . . .'

They fall silent. Three mallard fly in above the scrub. Yegor looks up and stares after them until they turn into three barely visible points, and come down far beyond the forest.

'What do you do for money?' he asks, turning back to Pelageya.

'Nowadays I work in the fields, but in winter I take in a little baby from the orphanage and feed him with a bottle. I get a rouble and a half a month for it.'

'Uhuh . . . '

Once more there is silence. Over in the cut rye, someone begins softly singing, but breaks off almost immediately. It's too hot to sing . . .

'I hear you've put up a new hut for Akulina,' says Pelageya.

Yegor does not reply.

'So she must be to your liking.'

'That's how i tis, such is life!' says the sportsman, stretching. 'Have patience, orphan. I must be going, though, I've been chatting too long . . . I've got to be in Boltovo by nightfall ...'

Yegor rises, stretches again, and slings his gun over his shoulder. Pelageya stands up.

'So when will you be coming to the village?' she asks quietly.

'No point. I'll never come sober, and a drunk's not much use to you. I get mad when I'm drunk . .. Goodbye, then!'

'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych ...'

Yegor sticks his cap on the back of his head, calls his dog over with a tweet of the lips, and continues on his way. Pelageya stays where she is and watches him go . .. She can see his shoulder-blades rippling, the rakish set of his cap, his lazy, casual walk, and her eyes fill with sadness and a deep tenderness . .. Her gaze runs all over the slim, tall figure of her husband and caresses and strokes him ... He stops, as if feeling thisgaze, and looks round ... He says nothing, but from his face and hunched-up shoulders, Pelageya can tell that he wants to say something to her. She goes up timidly to him and looks at him with pleading eyes.

'Here!' he says, turning aside.

He hands her a very worn rouble note and moves quickly away.

'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych!' she says, mechanically taking the rouble.

He walks offdown the road, which is as long and straight as a taut thong . .. Pale and still, she stands there like a statue, and her eyes devour every stride he takes. But now the red of his shirt merges with the dark of his trousers, his strides become invisible, his dog cannot be distinguished from his boots. Only his little cap can be seen, then . . . Suddenly Yegor turns off sharply to the right into the scrub and his cap disappears among the green.

'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych!' whispers Pelageya, and rises on tiptoe to try and catch a last glimpse of his little white cap.

The Malefactor

Before the examining magistrate stands a short, extremely skinny little peasant wearing a shin made of ticking and baggy trousers covered in patches. His face, which is overgrown with hair and pitted with pock-marks, and his eyes, which are barely visible beneath their heavy, beetling brows, wear a grim, sullen expression. He has a whole shock of tangled hair that has not seen a comb for ages, and this lends him an even greater, spider-like grimness. He is barefoot.

'Denis Grigoryev !' the magistrate begins. 'Stand closer and answer my questions. On July 7th of this year Ivan Semyonov Akinfov, the railway watchman, was making his morning inspection of the track, when he came across you at verst 141 unscrewing one of the nuts with which the rails are secured to the sleepers. This nut, to be precise! . .. And he detained you with the said nut in your pos- session. Is that correct?'

'Wossat?'

'Did all this happen as Akinfov has stated?'

'Course it did.'

'Right. So why were you unscrewing the nut?'

'Wossat?'

'Stop saying "Wossat?" to everything, and answer my question: why were you unscrewing this nut?' 'Wouldn't have been unscrewing it if I hadn't needed it, would I?' croaks Denis, squinting at the ceiling.

'And why did you need it?'

'What, that nut? We make sinkers out of them nuts . . .'

'Who do you mean - "we"?'

'Us folks . . . Us Klimovo peasants, I mean.'

'Listen here, my friend, stop pretending you're an idiot and talk some sense. I don't want any lies about sinkers, do you hear?'

'Lies? I never told a lie in my life . ..' mutters Denis, blinking. 'We gotto have sinkers, haven't we, yourhonour? If you put a live-bait or a worm on, he won't sink without a weight, will he? Hah, "lies" . . .' Denis sniggers. 'Ain't no use in a live-bait that floatson the top! Your perch, your pike and yourburbot always go for a bait on the bottom. Only a spockerel takes one that's floating on top, and not always then . . . There aren't no spockerel in our rivers . . . He likes the open more, does that one.'

'Why are you telling me about spockerels?'

'Wossat?You asked me, that's why! Thegents roundhere fish that way, too. Even a linle nipper wouldn't try catching fish without a sinker. 'Course, those as don't understand anything about it, they might. Fools are a law unto 'mselves .. .'

'So you are saying you unscrewed this nut in order to make a sinker out of it?'

'What else for? Not for playing fivestones with!'

'But you could have usedsomelead fora sinker, a piece ofshot . . . or a nail . . .'

'You don't find lead on the railway, you got to buy it, and a nail's no good. You won't find anything better than a nut ... It's heavy, and it's got a hole through it.'

'Stop pretending you're daft, as though you were born yesterday or fell off the moon! Don't you understand, you blockhead, what unscrewingthese nuts leads to? If the watchman hadn't been keeping a look-out, a train could have been derailed, people could have been killed! You would have killed people!'

'Lord forbid, your honour! What would I wantto kill people for? Do you take us for heathens orsome kind ofrobbers? Glory be, sir, i n all our born days we've never so much as thought of doing such things, let alone killed anyone . .. Holy Mother of Heaven save us, have mercy on us ... What a thing to say!'

'Why do you think train crashes happen, then? Unscrew two or three of these nuts, and you've got a crash!'

Denis sniggers, and peers at the magistrate sceptically.

'Hah! All these years our village's been unscrewing these nuts and the Lord's preserved us, and here you go talking about crashes - me killing people . .. Now if I'd taken a rail out, say, or put a log across that there track, then I grant you that'd brought the train off, but a little nut? Hah !'

'But don't you understand, it's the nuts and bolts that hold the rails to the sleepers!'

'We do understand ... We don't screw them all off ... we leave some . . . We're not stupid - we know what we're doing . . .'

Denis yawns and makes the sign of the cross over his mouth.

'A train came off the rails here last year,' says the magistrate. 'Now we know why . . .'

'Beg pardon?'

'I said, nowweknow why the traincame offtherails lastyear ... I understand now!'

'That's what you're educated for, to understand, to be our protec- tors .. . The Lord knew what he was doing, when he gave you understanding . . . You've worked out for us the whys and where- fores, but that watchman, he's just another peasant, he has no understanding, he just grabs you by the collar and hauls you off ... First work things out, then you can haul us off! It's as they say, if a man's a peasant, he thinks like a peasant . .. You can put down as well, your honour, that he hit me twice on the jaw and in the chest.'

'When your hut was searched, they found a second nut . . . Where did you unscrew that one, and when?'

'You mean the nut that was lying under the little red chest?'

'I don't know where it was lying, but they found it in your hut. When did you unscrew that one?'

'I didn't; Ignashka, One-Eye Semyon's son, gave it me. The one under the little red chest, that is. The one in the sledge out in the yard me and Mitrofan unscrewed.'

'Which Mitrofan is that?'

'Mitrofan Petrov . .. Ain't you heard of him? He makes fishing nets round here and sells them to the gents. He needs a lot of these here nuts. Reckon there must be ten to every net . ..'

'Now listen . . . Article 1081 of the Penal Code says that any damage wilfully caused to the railway, when such damage might endanger the traffic proceeding on it and the accused knew that such damage would bring about an accident -do you understand, knew, and you couldn't help but know what unscrewing these nuts would lead to - then the sentence is exile with hard labour.'

'Well, you know best, ofcourse . . . We're benighted folks ... you don't expC(.t us to understand, do you?'

'You understand perfectly! You're lying, you're putting all this on!'

'Why should I lie? You can ask in the village, if you don't believe me ... Without a smker you'II only catch bleak, and they're worse 'n gudgeon - you'll not catch gudgeon without a sinker, either.'

'Now you're going to tell me about those spockerels again!' smiles the magistrate.

'Spockerel don't live in our pans . .. If you float your line on the water with a butterfly on it, you might catch a chub, but seldom even then.'

'All right, now be quiet .. .'

There is silence. Denis shifts from foot to foot, stares at the green baize table-top, and blinks strenuously, as if he's looking into the sun rather than at a piece of cloth. The magistrate is writing quickly.

'Can I go?' asks Denis after a while.

'No. I have to take you into custody and commit you to gaol.'

Denis stops blinking and, raising his thick brows, looks at the official in disbelief.

'How do you mean, gaol? I ain't got time, your honour, I've got to go the fair, I've got to pick up three roubles off Yegor for some lard -

'Quiet, you're disturbing me.'

'Gaol . . . If there was due cause I'd go, but ... I ain't done nothing! What do I have to go for, eh? I haven't stole anything, I haven't been fighting . . . And if it's the arrears you're worried about, your honour, then don't you believe that elder of ours . . . You ask the zemstvo gentleman what deals with us ... He's no Christian, that elder of ours -'

'Be quiet!'

'I am being quiet . . .' mutters Denis. 'And I'll swear on oath that elder fiddled our assessment . .. There are three of us brothers: Kuzma Grigoryev, Yegor Grigoryev, and me, Denis Grigoryev ...'

'You're distracting me ... Hey, Semyon!' shouts the magistrate. 'Take him away!'

'There are three of us brothers,' Denis mutters, as two brawny soldiers grab hold of him and lead him from the courtroom. 'One brother doesn'thave to answer for another. .. Kuzma won't pay, so you, Denis, have to answer for him ... Call that justice! The general our old master's dead, God rest his soul, or he'd show you, you "judges" . . . A judge must know what he's doing, not hand it out any old how . .. He can hand out a flogging ifhe knows he's got to, if a man's really done wrong . ..'

A Man of Ideas

Midday. Not a sound, not a movement in the sultry air ... The whole of nature resembles some huge estate, abandoned by God and men alike. Beneath the overhanging foliage ofanold lime tree which stands near his quarters, prison superintendent Yashkin and his guest Pimfoff, the local headmaster, are sitting at a small three- legged table. They are both without jackets; their waistcoats are unbuttoned; their red, perspiring faces are immobile, rendered expressionless by the paralysing heat . .. Pimfoff's face has slumped into a state of complete apathy, his eyes are all bleary and his lower lip is hanging down loosely. Some signs of activity can still be detected, however, in Yashkin's eyes and forehead; he seems to be thinking about something . .. They gaze at each other in silence, expressing their torment by puffing and blowing and clapping in the air at flies. A carafe of vodka, some stringy boiled beef and an empty sardine tin encrusted with grey salt are standing on the table. Already they're on the founh glass . ..

'Dammit,' Yashkin exclaims suddenly and so unexpectedly that a dog dozing by the table gives a stan and runs off with its tail between its legs. 'Dammit! I don't care what you say, Filipp Maksimych, there are far too many punctuation marks in Russian!'

'How do you make that out, old man?' Pimfoff asks timidly, extracting the wing of a fly from his glass. 'There may be a large number, but each has its rightful place and purpose.'

'Oh, come off it now! Don't kid me your punctuation marks serve any purpose. It's just a lot of showing-off . . . A chap puts a dozen commas in one line and thinks he's a genius. Take old Kastratoff, the deputy prosecutor - he puts a comma after every word. What on earth for? Dear Sir, comma, while visiting the prison on such-and- such a date, comma, I observed, comma, that the prisoners, comma . . . ugh, it gives you spots before the eyes! And it's just the same in books . . . Colons, semi-colons, ordinary commas, inverted commas - it's enough to make you sick. And some smart alec isn't satisfied with one full stop, he has to go and stick in a whole row of them . . . Why, I ask you, why?'

'It's what the experts demand,' sighs Pimfoff.

'Experts? Charlatans, more likely. They only do it to show off, to pull the wool over people's eyes. Or take spelling, for example. If I spell "mediaeval" with "c" in the middle instead of "ae", docs it really make a blind bit of difference?'

'Now you're going too far, Ilya Martynych,' says Pimfoff, offended. 'How can you possibly spell "mediaeval" with "c" in the middle? This is getting beyond a joke.'

Pimfoff drains his glass, blinks with a hurt expression and starts looking in the other direction.

'Y, s, I've even been thrashed over that diphthong!' Yashkin con- tinues. 'The teacher called me up to the blackboard one day and dictated: "Our beloved teacher is an outstanding pacdagoguc." I went and wrote "pacdagogue" with just "e" at the beginning. Wrong, bend over! A week later he calls me out again and dictates: "Our beloved teacher is an outstanding paedagogue." This time I wrote "ae". Bend over again! "But sir," I said, "that's not fair. It was you told us 'ae' was correct!" "I was mistaken last week," he says, "yesterday I was reading an article by a member of the Academy which proves that 'paedagogue' is derived from the Greek paidos and should be spelt 'ai'. I am in agreement with the Academy of Sciences and it is therefore my bounden duty to give you a thrash- ing." Which he did. It's the same with my son Vasya. He's always coming home with a thick ear because of that diphthong. If I were Minister of Education, I'd soon stop you people having us on with your diphthongs.'

'I bid you good day,' sighs Pimfoff, blinking rapidly and putting on his jacket. 'When you start attacking education, that really is too much . . .'

'Oh, come, come, come . . . now you're offended,' says Yashkin, placing a restraining hand on Pimfoff's sleeve. 'You know I only say these things for something to talk about ... Come on, sit down . .. Let's have another!'

The offended Pimfoff sits down, drains his glass and looks in the other direction. Silence descends. Martha, the cook, walks past the table carrying a bucketful of slops. A loud splash is heard, immedi- ately followed by a dog's yelp. Pimfoff's lifeless face softens up even more; any moment now it will melt away completely in the heat and start running down his waistcoat. Furrows gather on Yashkin's brow. He gazes fixedly at the stringy beef and thinks ... An old soldiercomes up to the table,squintsmorosely at the carafe ofvodka and seeing that it isempty, brings a fresh supply . . . They knock back another glass.

'Yes, dammit!' Yashkin says suddenly.

Pimfoff gives a start and looks up fearfully at Yashkin, anticipat- ing new heresies.

'Yes, dammit!' Yashkin says again, gazing thoughtfully at the carafe. 'There are far too many sciences, that's what I reckon!'

'How do you make that out, old man?' Pimfoff asks quietly. '^^ich sciences do you reckon are superfluous?'

'All of'em •.. The more subjects a man knows, the more he starts thinking a lot of himself and becoming conceited . . . I'd scrap the whole lot of 'em, all the so-called learned sciences . .. Oh, come, come ... now you're offended! You're so touchy, I daren't say a single word. Sit down, have another!'

Martha comes up to the table, and bustlingabout angrily with her plump elbows, places a pot of thick nettle soup in front of the two friends. Loud slurping and champing noises ensue. Three dogs and a cat appear from nowhere. They stand in front of the table and gaze imploringly at the chewing mouths. The soup is followed by a bowl of semolina pudding, which Martha bangs down on the table so viciously that all the spoons and crusts of bread jump off. Before turning to the pudding the friends knock back another glass in silence.

'Everything's superfluous in this world!' Yashkin remarks sud- denly.

Pimfoff drops his spoon on to his lap, gazes fearfully at Yashkin and is about to protest, but his tongue has become weak from so much vodka and is all caught up in the semolina pudding . •. Instead of his usuai 'How do you make that out, old man?', the only thing he can manage is a kind of bleat.

'Everything's superfluous,' Yashkin continues. 'The learned sci- ences, human beings . . . prisons, those flies . .. this pudding . .. And you're superfluous too . . . You may be a decent fellow and believe in God, but you're superfluous too . . .' ^

'Good day to you, old man!' Pimfoff mumbles, struggling to put on his jacket but completely failing to find the sleeves.

'Here we've been, stuffing and gorging ourselves, and what on eanh for? No, it's all superfluous . . . We eat and don't know ourselves why we're eating ... Oh, come, come . . . now you're offended! You know I only say these things for something to talk about. And where can you go now? Come on, sit down and have a chat . . . Let's have another!'

Silence descends, broken only occasionally by the clinking together of glasses and by drunken burps. The sun is already begin- ning to sink in the west and the shadow of the lime tree grows longer and longer. Martha comes out and spreads a rug by the table, snoning fiercely and jabbing her arms about. The friends knock back a final glass in silence, settle themsclves on the rug and turning their backs to each other, begin to drop off ...

'Thank the Lord he didn'tget round to the creation ofthe world or the hierarchy today,' thinks Pimfoff. 'That's enough to make any- Qle's hair stand on end . ..'

Sergeant Prishibeyev

'Staff-Sergeant Prishibeyev! You are accused of using insulting lan- guage and behaviour on the 3rd of September of this year towards Police Officer Zappsky, District Elder Berkin, Police Constable Yefimov, Official Witnesses Ivanov^- and Gavrilov, and six other peasants; whereofthe first three aforenamed were insulted by you in the performance of their duties. Do you plead guilty?'

Prishibeyev, a shrivelled little sergeant with a crabbed face, squares his shoulders and answers in a stifled, croaky voice, clipping his words as though on the parade ground:

'Your Honour MrJustice ofthe Peace-sir! What it says in the law is: every statement can be mutually contested. I'm not guilty - it's them lot. This all came about because of a dead corpse, God rest his soul. I was walking along on the 3rd - quiet and respectable like — with my wife Anfisa, when suddenly I spy this mob ofvaried persons standing on the river-bank. "What perfect right has that mob got to be assembled there?" I ask myself. "What do they think they're up to? Where's it written down that common folk can go around in droves?" So I shout, "Hey, you lot - disperse!" I started shoving them, to get them to go indoors, I ordered the constable to lay into them, and —'

just one moment. You're not a police officer or elder: is it your business to be breaking up crowds?'

'No, it ain't! It ain't!' voices cry from different corners of the courtroom. 'He's the bane ofour lives, yeronner! Fifteen years we've put up with him! Ever since he gave up work and came back here the village ain't been worth living in. He's driving us mad!'

'It's quite true, yeronner,' says the elder who is one of the witnes- ses. 'The whole village complains of him. He's impossible to live with. Whether we're taking the icons round the village, or there's a wedding, or some do on, say, he's out there shouting at us, kicking up a row and calling for order. He goes about pulling the kids' ears, he spies on our womenfolk to see they're not up to something, like he was their own father-in-law . .. The other day he went round the huts ordering everyone to stop singing and put all their lights out. "There's no law permitting you to sing songs," he says.'

'All right, you'll have time to give evidence later,' says the magis- trate.' At the moment let's hear what else Prishibeyev has to say. Go on, Prishibeyev.'

'Yessir!' croaks the sergeant. 'You were pleased to observe, your Honour, that it's not my business to be breaking up crowds ... Very g^^, sir ... But what if there's a disturbance? We can't allow them to run riot, can we? Where's it written down that the lower orders can do what they like? I can't let them get away with that, sir. And ifl don't tell them to break up, and give them what for, who will? No one round here knows what proper discipline is, you might say I'm the only one, your Honour, as knows how to deal with the lower orders, and, your Honour, I know what I'm talking about. I'm not a peasant, I'm a non-commissioned officer, a Q.M.S. retired, I served in Warsaw as a staff-sergeant, sir, after I got an honourable discharge I worked in the fire-brigade, sir, then I had to give up the fire-brigade by virtue of health and worked for the next two years as janitor in an independent classical school for young gentlemen . .. So I know all about discipline, sir. But a peasant's just a simple fellow, he doesn't know any better, so he must do what I tell him — 'cause it's for his own good. Take this business, for example. I break up the crowd and there lying in the sand on the river-bank is the drownded corpse of a dead man. On what possible grounds can he be lying there, I ask myself. Do you call that law and order? Why's the officer just standing there? "Hey, officer," I say, "why aren't you informing your superiors? Maybe this drownded corpse drowned himself, or maybe it smacks of Siberia — maybe it's a case of criminal homicide .. .'' But officer Zappsky doesn't give a damn, he just goes on smoking his cigarene. "Who's this bloke giving orders?" he says. "Is he one of yours? Where'd he spring from? Does he think we don't know what to do without his advice?" he says. "Well you can't do, can you, dimwit," says I, "if you're just standing there and don't give a damn.'' "I informed the inspector yesterday," he says. "Why the inspector?" I ask him. "According to which article of the code? In cases like this, of people being drowned or strangulated and suchlike and so forth, what can the inspector do? It's a capital offence," I says, "a case for the courts . .. You'd better send a dispatch to his Honour the examining magistrate and the justices straightaway," I says. "And first of all," I says, "you must draw up a iocument and send it to his Honour the Justice of the Peace." But the officer, he just listens to me and laughs. And the peasants the same. They were all laughing, your Honour. I'M testify to that on oath. That one there laughed - and this one - and Zappsky, he laughed too. "What are you all grinning at?" I says. Then the officer says: "Such maners," he says, "are nothing to do with the J.P." Well, the blood rushed to my head when I heard him say that. That is what you said, isn't it, officer?' the sergeant asks, turning to Zappsky.

'That's what I said.'

'Everyone heard you say them words, for all the common people to hear. "Such matters are nothing to do with the J.P." - everyone heard you say them words ... Well, the blood rushed to my head, your Honour, I went quite weak at the knees. "Repeat to me," says I, "repeat, you . .. so-and-so, what you just said!" He comes out with them same words again . .. I goes up to him. "How dare you say such things," says I, "about his Honour the Justice ofthe Peace? A police officer and you're against authority - eh? Do you know," I says, "that if he likes, his Honour thejustice ofthe Peace can have you sent to the provincial gendarmerie for saying them words and proving unreliable? Do you realise," says I, "where his Honour thejustice of the Peace can pack you offto for political words like that?" Then the elder buns in: "The J.P.," he says, "can't deal with anything outside his powers. He only handles minor cases.'' That's what he said, everyone heard him ... "How dare you," says I, "belittle authority? Oon't you come that game with me, son," I says, "or you'll find yourselfin hot water." When I was in Warsaw, or when I was janitor at the independent classical school for young gentlemen, soon as I heard any words as shouldn't be said I'd look out on the street for a gendarme and shout, "Step in here a minute, will you, soldier?" — and repon it all to him. But who can you tell things to out here in the country? . . . It made me wild. It really got me, to think of the common people of today indulging in licence and insubordination like that, so I let fly and - not hard of course, just lightly like, just proper, so's he wouldn't dare say such things about your Honour again . .. The officer sided with the elder. So I gave the officer one, too . .. And that's how it staned ... I got worked up, your Honour. But you can't get anywhere without a few clouts, can you? If you don't clout a stupid man, it's a sin on your own head. Especially if there's good reason for it - ifhe's been causing a disturbance . ..'

'But there are other people appointed to keep public order! That's what the officer, the elder and the constable are there for -'

'Ah, but the officer can't keep an eye on everybody, and he don't

understand wh.it I do . . .'

'Well understand now that it's none of your business!'

'Not my business, .sir? How do you make that out?That's queer . .. People behave improperly and it's none of my business? Whatam I supposed to do - cheer them on ? Thcy've just been complaining to you that I won't let them sing songs . . . And what good is there in songs, I'd like to know ? Instead ofgetting on with something useful, they sing songs . . . Then they've got a new craze for sitting up late with a light burning. They ought to be in bed asleep, but all you hear is laughing and talking. I've got it all written down!'

'You've got what written down?'

'Who sits up burmng a light.'

Prishibeyev takes a greasy slip of paper from his pocket, puts his spectacles on, and reads:

'Peasants what sit up burning a light: Ivan Prokhorov, Savva Mikiforov, Pyotr Pctrov. The soldier's widow Shustrova is living in illicit union with Semyon Kislov. Ignat Sverchok dabbles in black magic, and his wife Mavra is a witch, she goes around at night milking other people's cows.'

'That's enough!' says the magistrate and turns to examining the witnesses.

Sergeant Prishibeyev pushes his glasses onto his forehead and stares in amazement at theJ.P. - who is evidently not on his side. His eyes gleam and start out of his head, and his nose turns bright red. He looks from the J.P. to the witnesses and simply cannot understand why the magistrate should be so het up and why from every corner of the courtroom comes a mixture of angry murmurs and suppressed laughter. The sentence is equally incomprehensible to him: one month in custody !

'For what?!' he asks, throwing up his arms in disbelief. 'By what law?'

And he realises that the world is a changed place, a place imposs- ible to live in. Dark, gloomy thoughts possess him. But when he comes out of the courtroom he sees some peasants huddled together talking about something and by force of a habit which he can no longer control, he squares his shoulders and bawls in a hoarse, irate voice:

'You lot — break it up! Move along! Diss-perse!'

The Misfortune

Grigory Petrov, a turner with the reputation of being the best crafts- man and the most useless peasant in the whole of Galchino district, is taking his old woman to the zemstvo hospital. He has nearly thirty vcrsts to cover and the road is so atrocious that even the government mail would be unable to get through, let alone a layabout like Grigory the turner. A biting cold wind buffets straight into him. Wherever he looks, great clouds of snowflakes are whirling round in the air, so that it's difficult to make out whether thesnow is coming down from the sky or up off the earth. Forest, fields and telegraph- poles are all indistinguishable through the thick fog of snow, and whenever a particularly strong gust of wind swoops down on Grig- ory even the yoke above the shafts disappears from sight. The decrepit, feeble little nag can barely drag herself along. All her energy has been used in picking her hooves up out of the deep snow and jerkingher head forward. Theturneris in a hurry. He keeps fidgeting about on his seat and every so often lashes at the horse's back with his whip.

'Don't you cry, Matryona .. .' he mumbles. 'Just have a bit of patience. We'll get you to the hospital, God willing, and in a trice you'll - it'll be all right ... Old Pavel Ivanych'll give you some of them drops, or have you bled, or maybe his worship'll decide to rub you down with some of that spirit stuff . .. that'll draw it out ofyour side for you. Pavel Ivanych'll do his best . . . Of course, he'll holler and stamp his feet, but he'll do his best all right . . . He's a fine gent, real obliging, may the Lord preserve him . .. As soon as we get there, he'll come rushing out of his 'partments and raise hell at me, he will. "What's the meaning ofthis? Whatdo you think you're up to?" he'll shout at me. "Why didn't you come at the right time? Do you take me for a dog or something, making me run round after you blighters all day? Why didn't you come this morning? Clear out! Get out of my sight. Comeback tomorrow!" But I shall sayto him: "Pavel Ivanych! Mr Doctor, sir! Your honour!" Get up there, blast you! Hup!'

The turner lashes the horse's back and without looking at theold woman continues to mumble into his beard:

' "Your honour! I swear, as God's my witness . .. here's the cross on it, I set out at first light I did. How could I get here before, if the Lord . . . the holy mother uf God . . . was wroth and sent down this blizzard ? You can sec yourself what it's like . . . Finer horses 'n this wouldn't get through and you can see for yourself, mine's not a horse, it's a bleeding disgrace!" Then Pavel lvanych'II frown and holler "I know you lot! You'vealways got an answer! Especially you, Grishka! I worked you out long ago! I bet you called in at half-a- dozen pubs on the way!" So I says: "Your honour! What do you take me for, a villain and a heathen or something? Do you think I'd go off round the pubs, with my old girl here giving up her ghost to God, wnh her dying? For mercy's sake, sir! May they rot, the pubs, the lot of 'em!" Then Pavel lvanych'll tell them to carry you into the hospital. And I'll go down at his feet . . . "Pavel lvanych!" I'll say. "Your honour! We're everlasting grateful to you! Forgive us fools and sinners, don't be hard on us, us peasants! I know we deserve to be thrown out on our necks, but you're so kind, you're going to all this trouble and gening your feet wet in the snow!" Then Pavel lvanych'll look at me so as you'd think he was going to clout me, and he'll say: "Instead of bashing your head up and down at my feet, you'd do better to stop swilling vodka like a bloody fool, and have a bit of feeling for your old woman. You deserve a thrashing!"-"Yes, a good thrashing, Pavel lvanych, God help me, a thrashing's what I need! But why shouldn't we bow down low to you, if you're all such benefactors and fathers to us? Your honour, sir! Mark my words -I swear before God now -you can spit in both eyes i fl tell a lie: as soon as my Matryona here, you know - recovers, finds her feet again, I'll make anything for your worship that you care to ask me for! A cigarette-case if you want, from real Karelian birch . . . or croquet balls . . . or I can turn you skinles just like those foreign ones . .. I'll make anything you want! J won't take a kopeck offyou! In Moscow they'd rook you fourroubles for a cigarene-case like that, but I won't take a kopeck." Then the doctor'll laugh and say: "All right, all right ... I believe you! It's a pity you're such a drunkard, that's all ..." I know how to handle the gents, Matryona me old mate. There isn't a gent I can't get round. Just so long as the Lord keeps me on this road all right. Cor, what a blizzard! My eyes are full of it.'

And the turner rambles endlessly on. Chattering away mechani- cally like this at least helps smother the heavy feeling he has inside him. There are many words on the tip of his tongue, but even more thoughts and questions milling in his head. Misfortune has caught the turner unawares, when he was least expecting it, and now he simply cannot come to, pull himself together, work out what has happened. Till now he had lived an unclouded, unruffled existence, in a state of drunken semi-consciousness, knowing neither grief nor joy, and now he suddenly feels this terrible ache. Without warning, the carefree layabout and drunk has found himself in the position of a man with a task to do, a worried man, a man in a hurry and even battling with the elements.

The turner recalls that the misfonune began the previous evening. When he came home yesterday evening, dead drunk as usual, and by long-established tradition staned swearing and throwing his fists about, the old woman looked at her ruffian in a way she had never looked at him before. Usually the look in her aged eyes was tor- memed, meek, like that of a dog that is underfed and often beaten, but now she stared at him sternly and unwaveringly, as saims on icons do, or people dying. Those strange, ill-boding eyes were the stan of the misfortune. Stunned, the turner begged his neighbour's horse from him and now was taking the old woman w the hospital, in the hope that Pavel lvanych would use his powders and ointments to give her back her old look.

'And if, er . . .' he mumbles, 'if Pavel lvanych asks you, Matryona, if I beat you, you say "Never, sir!" Nor I shan't, any more. Here's the cross on it. And I didn't ever beat you for spite, did I?I just beat you, like. I feel sorry for you, I do. Another man might not feel much, but here am I taking you to hospital . . . doing my best for you. Ah, this snow, this snow! Thy will be done, Lord, only grant we stay on the road,that's all ... Your side hun, does it? Matryona, why won't you say anything? Does your side hurt, I say?'

He finds it odd that the snow does not melt on the old woman's face, odd that her face seems to have stretched out unusually long, to have taken on a greyish-white, dirty waxen colour, and come over serious and forbidding.

'Ha, you're a fool, Matryona!' mutters the turner. 'I'm saying all this on my soul, before God, and you just ... Well, you're a fool, that's what! I've a mind not to take you t Pavel lvanych after all!'

Theturnerletsgoofthe reins and ponders. Toglance round at the old woman is too terrible: he can't do it! To ask her some question and get no answer is also terrible. At last, to put an end to his uncerainty, without looking round he feels for her cold hand and lifts it up. Her arm falls back like a cudgel.

'She's dead then . . . Wh.it a business!'

And the turner cries; not so much from pity as from frustrauon. He thinks to himself, how quickly everything in this world is over! His misfortune had scarcely begun before it had reached its conclu- sion. He had had no time to live with the old woman again, to talk to her properly, feel sorry for her, before she was de"!d. He had lived with her for forty years-yet these forty years had passed by in a kind of fog. Through all his drinking, brawling and poverty he had lost sight of life itself. And, as ill luck would have it, the old woman had died at the very time when he felt pity for her, when he felt that he could not live without her, that he had wronged her grievously.

'She used to go begging round the village, too!' he remembers. 'I used to send her out myself to beg bread from people. What a business ... She should have lived another ten years, the fool, or she'll think I was really like that. Holy mother, where the devil do I think I'm going? It's not a doctor she needs now, it's a burial. Whoaa! Back!'

Theturnerbrings the sled round and clouts the little horse with all his might. The road is getting worse from hour to hour. Now the yoke is completely invisible. Occasionally, thesled runsovera young fir-tree, for a second the turner glimpses some dark object which scratches him across the hands, then his vision is filled once more with swirling white.

'To live life over again . . .' thinks the turner.

He remembers that some forty years ago Matryona was young, beautiful, light-hearted, and came from a rich household. They had married her to him because they were so taken with his craftsman- ship. Everything pointed to a happy life together, but the trouble was, he seemed never to have woken up again after getting drunk at the wedding and collapsing onto the stove. He can remember the wedding, but what came after he can't for the life of him remember, except drinking, lying about on the stove, and brawling. So forty years had gone to waste.

The white clouds of snow gradually begin to go grey. Dusk is closing in.

'Where do I think I'm going?' he rouses himself with a start. 'I've got to bury her, and I'm still taking her to the hospital . .. I'm going barmy!'

The turner brings the sled round once more and once more starts whipping the horse. The little nag summons up all her strength and with a snon breaks into a very slow trot. Again and again the turner lashes her across the back . .. Behind him he can hear something clumping, and although he won't look round he knows it is the corpse's head knocking against the sled. The air gets darker and darker, the wind colder and more biting ...

'To live life over again .. .' thinks the turner. 'I'd get myself a new lathe, take in orders . . . and then give the money to the old girl. I would!'

And suddenly the reins drop from his grasp. He tries to find them again, to pick them up; but his hands won't move . ..

'That's all right . . .' he thinks. 'The horse'll get there on her own, she knows the way. I need a nap now . . . Before we get round to the burial, the funeral service, I could do with a kip.'

The turner shuts hiseyes and dozes. A linle while later he hears the horse stop. He opens his eyes and sees in front of him something dark, like a hut or a hayrick ...

He wants to get offthe sled and find out what it is, but there is such a weariness in all his limbs that he'd rather freeze than move from where he is . .. So he sinks back peacefully in sleep.

He wakes up in a large room with painted walls. Bright sunlight is streaming in through the windows. The turner sees people in front of him and immediately wants to show them he's a respectable man who knows what's what.

'A funeral, brothers, a funeral for my old woman!' he says. 'Go and fetch the priest -'

'Yes yes, all right!' someone's voice interrupts him. 'Just lie there and keep still!'

'Saviour! Pavel lvanych !' exclaims the turner in amazement, seeing the doctor in front of him. 'Your honour! My benefactor!'

He wants to leap up and throw himself down at the feet of Medicine, but can feel that his arms and legs won't obey him.

'Your honour! My legs -where are my legs? Where are my arms?'

'You can say goodbye to your arms and legs . .. You got them frostbitten! Now, now ... what are you crying for? You've had your life and be thankful! You've had your three score, haven't you? That'll do you, then!'

'Butthe pity of it! . .. Your honour, the pity ofit all! I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, but just give me another five or six years .. .'

'What for?'

'The horse isn't mine, I've got to give it back ... And to bury my old woman . .. Ah, how soon everything in this world is over! Your honour, Pavel lvanych! I'll make you a cigarette-case from Karelian birch, sir, my very best! I'll turn some croquet balls for you . . .'

The doctor shrugs impatiently and walks out of the ward. That's it, then, turner!

Pitsikatoff was making his way on foot from town to Prince Bibuloff's country villa where 'a musical evening with dancing' was to take place in celebration of the engagement of the Prince's daugh- ter. A gigantic double-bass in a leather case reposed on Pitsikatoff's back. He was walking along the bank ofa river whose coolingwaters rolled on if not majestically, then at least most poetically.

'How about a dip?' he thought.

In the twinkling of an eye he had taken off his clothes and immersed his body in the cooling stream. It was a glorious evening, and Pitsikatoff's poetic soul began to attune itself to the harmony of its surroundings. And imagine what sweet emotions filled his spirit when, swimming a few yards upstream, he beheld a beautiful young woman sitting on the steep bank fishing! A mixture offeelings welled up and made him stop and catch his breath: memories ofchildhood, regret for the past, awakening love . . . Love? But was he not con- vinced that for him love was no longer possible? Once he had lost his faith in humanity (his beloved wife having run off with his best friend, Sobarkin the bassoon), a sense of emptiness had filled his breast and he had become a misanthrope. More than once he had asked himself: 'What is life? What is it all for?Life is a myth, a dream . . . mere ventriloquy . ..'

But now, standing before this sleeping beauty (there could be no doubt she was asleep), suddenly, against his will, he felt stirring in his breast something akin to love. He stood a long time before her, devouring her with his gaze . . .

Then, sighing deeply, he said to himself: 'Enough! Farewell, sweet vision! It's time I was on my way to his Excellency's ball . ..'

He took one more look atthe fair one and was just about to swim back when an idea flashed into his mind.

'I'll leave her a token!' he thought. Tll tie somethingto her line ... It'll be a surprise - "from an unknown admirer".'

Pitsikatoff quietly swam to the bank, culled a large bouquet of wild flowers and waterlilies, bound them together with goosefoot and attached them to the end of the line.

The bouquet sank to the bottom, pulling the gaily painted float after it.

Good sense, the laws of Nature and the social station of my hero would seem to demand that the romance should come to an end at this point, but (alas!) the author's destiny is inexorable: because of circumstances beyond the author's control the romance did not end with the bouquet. In defiance of common sense and the entire natural order, our poor and plebeian Pitsikatoff was fated to play an impor- tant role in the life of a rich and beautiful young gentlewoman.

On reaching the bank, Pitsikatoff got a shock. His clothes were gone. Stolen . .. While he had been gazing in admiration at the fair one, anonymous villains had pinched everything except his double- bass and his top-hat.

'Accursed Fate!' he exclaimed. 'Oh Man, thou generation of vip- ers! It is not so much the deprivation of my garments that perturbs me (for clothing is but vanity), as the thought of having to go naked and thereby offending against public morality.'

He satdown on his instrumentcaseand began to think how he was going to get out of this dreadful situation. 'I can't go to Prince Bibuloff's without any clothes,' he mused. 'There will be ladies present. What is more, the thieves have stolen not only my trousers, but also the rosin I had in my trouser pocket!'

He thought long and painfully, until his head ached.

'Aha!' -at last he'd got it- 'not far from here there's a little bridge surrounded by bushes. I can sit under there till nightfall and then make my way in the dark to the nearest cottage . . .'

And so, having adopted this plan, Pitsikatoff put on his top-hat, swung the double-bass onto his back and padded off towards the bushes. Naked, with his musical instrument slung over his shoulders, he resembled some ancient mythological demigod.

But now, gentle reader, while our hero sits moping under the bridge, let iis lcave him for a while and turn to the young lady who was fishing. What has become of her? When the fair creature awoke and could see no sign of her float she hurriedly tugged on thc line. The linc tautened, but ncithcr float nor hook appeared. Presumably Pitsikatoff's bouquet h.id become water-logged and turncd into a dcad wcight.

'Either I'vc caught a big fish,' thought the girl, 'or the line has got entangled.'

After anothcr couple of tugs she decided it was the latter.

'What a pity!" she thought. 'They bite so much better towards dusk. What shall I do?'

In the twinkling of an cye the ecccntric young lady had cast aside her diaphanous garments and immersed hcr beauteous pcrson in the cooling strcam right up to her marble-white shoulders. The line was all tangled up in the bouquet, and it was no easy matter extricating the hook, but perseverance triumphcd in the end, and some fifteen minutes later our lovely heroine emerged from the water all glowing and happy, holding the hook in her hand.

But a malevolent fate had been watching out for her too: the wretches who had stolen Pitsikatoff's clothing had removed hers as well, leaving behind only her jar of bait.

'What am I to do?' she wept. 'Go home in this state? No, never! I would rather die! I shall wait until nightfall, then walk as far as old Agatha's cottage in the dark and send her to the house for some clothes . . . And in the meantime I'll go and hide under the little bridge.'

Our heroine scuttled off in that direction, bending low and keep- ing to where the grass was longest. She crept in under the bridge, saw a naked man there with artistic mane and hairy chest, screamed, and fell down in a swoon.

Pitsikatoff got a fright too. At first he took the girl for a naiad.

'Perhaps 'tis a water-sprite,' he thought, 'come to lure me away?', and felt flattered by the notion, since he had always had a high opinion ofhis appearance. 'But ifit is not a spritebuta human being, how is this strange metamorphosis to be explained? What is she doing here under the bridge, and what has befallen her?'

As he pondered these questions the fair one recovered conscious- ness.

'Do not kill me!' she whispered. 'I am the Princess Bibuloff. I beseech you! They'll give you lots of money! I was disentangling my fishing-hook just now and some thieves stole my new dress and shoes and everything!'

'Mademoiselle,' Pitsikatoff replied plaintively, 'they've stolen my clothes too - and the rosin I had in my trouser pocket!'

Usually people who play the double-bass or the trombone are not very inventive, but Pitsikatoff was a pleasant exception.

'Mademoiselle,' he said after a pause, 'I see that my appearance embarrasses you. You must agree, though, that there is just as good reason for me to stay under here as for you. But I have had an idea: how would it be if you were to get into the case of my double-bass and close the lid? Then you wouldn't see me . . .'

So saying, Pitsikatoff dragged the double-bass out of its case. Just for a moment he wondered whether he might be profaning Art by using his case thus, but his hesitation did not last long. The fair one lay down in the case and curled up in a ball, while he fastened the straps with a feeling of pleasure that nature had endowed him with such intelligence.

'Now, mademoiselle, you cannot see me,' he said. 'You can lie there and relax, and when it gets dark I shall carry you to your parents' house. I can come backhere for the double-bass afterwards.'

When darkness fell Pitsikatoff heaved the case with the fair one inside onto his shoulders and padded offtowards Bibuloff's villa. His plan was that he should walk as he was to the nearest cottage, get some clothing there, and then go on ...

'It's an ill wind that blows nobody good . . .' he thought, bending under his burden and stirring up the dust with his bare feet. 'No doubt Bibuloff will reward me handsomely for thedeep concern that I have shown over his daughter's fate.'

'I trust you are comfortable, mademoiselle?' he enquired with a note of gallantry in his voice like that of a gentleman inviting a lady to dance a quadrille. 'Please don't stand on ceremony. Do make yourself at home in there.'

Suddenly the gallant Pitsikatoff thought he saw ahead of him two figures shrouded in darkness. Peering more closely he assured him- selfthat it was not an optical illusion: there really were two figures walking ahead and - they were carrying bundles of some kind . ..

'The thieves!' it flashed through his mind. 'I bet that's who it is! And they're carrying something - must be our clothes!'

Pitsikatoff put the case down at the side of the road and chased after the figures.

'Stop!' he shouted. 'Stop thief!'

The figures looked round, and seeing they were pursued, took to their heels. The Princess continued to hear the sound of rapid foot- steps and cries of 'Stop, stop!' for a long timc, then all was quiet.

Pitsikatoff was quite carried away by the chase, and no doubt the fair one would have been lying out there at the roadside for a long time to come, had it not bcen for a lucky chance. It so happened that Pitsikatoff's two colleagues, Dronin the flute and Flamboisky the clarinet, were making their way along the road at that same time. Tripping over the double-bass case, they looked at each other with expressions of surprse and puzzlcment.

'A double-bass!' said Dronin. 'Why, it's old Pitsikatoffs! How could it have got here?'

'Something must have happened to him,' Flamboisky decided. 'Either he's got drunk or he's been robbed . . . Anyway we can't leave his instrument lying here. Let's take it with us.'

Dronin heaved the case onto his back and the musicians walked on.

'What a ruddy weight!' the flautist kept groaning all the way. 'I wouldn't play a monster like this for all the tea in China . . . Phew!'

When they arrived at Prince BibulofPs villa they deposited the case at the place reserved for the orchestra and went off to the buffet.

By now the chandeliers and candelabras were being lit. Princess Bibuloff's fiance, Counsellor Sikofantoff, a nice handsome official from the Mmistry of Communications, was standing in the drawing-room with his hands in his pockets, chatting to Count Tipplovitch. They were talking about music.

'You know, Count,' said Sikofantoff, 'in Naples I was personally acquainted with a violinist who could do absolute marvels. You'll hardly believe it, but he could get the most fantastic trills out of a double-bass - an ordinary double-bass -stupendous! He could play Strauss waltzes on the thing!'

'Come now, that's scarcely -' the Count objected.

'I assure you he could. He could even play Liszt's Hungarian rhapsody ! I shared a hotel room with him and to pass the time I got him to teach me Liszt's Hungarian rhapsody on the double-bass.'

'Liszt's Hungarian . . .? Come now . . . you're pulling my leg.'

'Ah, you don't believe me ?' laughed Sikofantoff. 'Then I'll prove it to you straight away. Let's get an instrument!'

Bibuloff's prospective son-in-law and the Count made for the orchestra. They went over to the double-bass, quickly undid the straps and . . . oh, calamity!

But atthis point, while the reader gives free rein tohis imagination in picturing the outcome of this musical debate, let us return to Pitsikatoff . . . The unfortunate musician, not having caught up with the thieves, went back to the spot where he had left his case but could see no sign of his precious burden. Lost in bewilderment, he walked up and down several times in vain, and decided he must be on the wrong road .. .

'How awful!' he thought, tearing his hair and feeling his blood run cold. 'She'll suffocate in that case. I've murdered her!'

Pitsikatoff tramped the roads till midnight in search of the case and then, exhausted, retired under the bridge.

Tll look for it in the morning,' he decided.

Bur his dawn search proved equally fruitless, and he decided to stay under the bridge again until nightfall . ..

'Ishall find her!' he muttered, takingoffhis top-hat and tearing his hair. 'Even if it takes me a whole year - I'll find her!'

And to this day the peasants who live in those parts will tell you that at night near the little bridge you can sometimes see a naked man all covered in hair and wearing a top-hat . . . and occasionally from beneath the bridge you can hear the melancholy groaning of a double-bass.

The Witch

It was nearing midnight. Subdeacon Savely Gykin lay on the huge bed in his watchman's lodge adjoining the church. He was wide awake, although it was his habit to drop off at the same time as the hens. From one end ofa greasypatchwork quilt his coarse gingerhair peeped out; his big unwashed feet stuck up at the other. He was listening. His lodge was built into the church wall, and its one and only window looked out on open country. Out there a veritable battle was raging. Who was hounding whom, and forwhose destruc- tion all this pother had been stirred up in nature, it was hard to say, but judging by the sinister unending roar, someone was getting very short shrift. A vanquishing force was chasing someone across the countryside, kicking up a row in the forest and on the church roof, banging its fists viciously on the window, ranting and raving, while its victim howled and whimpered . .. Thepitiful criescould be heard outside the window, then above the roof, then in the stove. They sounded not like cries for help but of despair; all hope was gone, it was too late. The snow-drifts were covered with a thin crust of ice; tear-drops trembled on them and upon the trees, while the roads and pathways were swimming in a dark sludge of mud and melted snow. In a word, the earth was thawing, but because of the dark night the sky had not noticed this, and was still pouring down fresh snow- flakes on the melting earth for all it was worth. And the wind was rampaging like a drunk . . . It would not let this snow settle on the ground but whirled it about in the darkness at its whim.

Gykin listened hard to this music and scowled. The fact was that he knew, or at least had a strong suspicion, what all the racket outside the window was leading up to and who was responsible for it.

'Oh yes, I know!' he mumbled, ticking someone off with his finger beneath the quilt. 'I know all right!'

On a stool by the windowsat Raisa Nilovna, the subdeacon's wife. A tin larnp standing on another stool cast a flickering watery light, as if shy and uncertain of itself, over her broad shoulders, the beautiful, inviting curves of her body, and her thick plait that reached to the ground. She w.as sewing some sacks out of coarse hessian. Her hands moved quickly, but the rest ofher body, her eyes, brows, full lips and white neck, engrossed in the mechanical, monotonous work, were absolutely still and might have been asleep. Only from time to time did she raise her head to ease her weary neck, glance quickly over to the window where the blizzard was raging, and then bend over the hessian again. Her beautiful face with its dimpled cheeks and turned-up nose expressed nothing at all, no desires, no joy, no sadness; just as a beautiful fountain expresses nothing when it is not playing.

But now she came to the end of a sack, cast it aside, stretched luxuriously and turned her dull motionless gaze to the window . .. The snowflakes made briefwhite blobs on the window-panes, which were swimming with tears. Each flake would fall on the glass, take a look at the subdeacon's wife and melt . . .

'Come and lie down!' grunted the subdeacon.

His wife did not reply. Suddenly, though, her eyelashes flicked and her eyes sprang to life. Savely, who had been studying her expression closely all the time from beneath his quilt, stuck his head out and asked:

'What's up?'

'Oh nothing . . . sounds like someone's coming,' she replied in a soft voice.

The subdeacon flung the quilt off with his arms and legs, knelt on the bed, and stared blankly at his wife. The lamp cast its timid glow over his hairy, pock-marked face and flickered upon his coarse, tousled hair.

'Can you hear it?' his wife asked.

Through the monotonous wail of the snow-storm he caught a barely perceptible sound, a thin tinkling whine, like the drone of a mosquito when it is trying to land on yourcheek and is angry at being prevented.

'It's the post,' grunted Savely, sitting back on his heels.

The post-road was three versts away from the church. When a strong wind was blowing from that direction, the inhabitants of the lodge could hear the bell of the mail-coach ringing.

'Goodness, fancy anyone wanting to be out in this weather!' sighed the subdeacon's wife.

'Their work's official. They do what they're told . ..'

The whining note hung briefly in the air, then stopped.

'They've passed!' said Savely, lying down.

But before he had time to cover himself with the quilt, his ears detected the unmistakable sound of the bell. The subdeacon glanced anxiously at his wife, sprang out of bed and began waddling up and down in from of the stove. The bell sounded for a while, then stopped oiice more, as if it had fallen off.

'Gone again .. .' muttered the subdeacon, halting and peering intently at his wife.

But just at that moment the wind beat on the window and carried the thin tinkling whine with it ... Savely turned pale, croaked and again began flopping about the floor in his bare feet.

'They're being led astray!' he rasped, with a fierce look at his wife. 'You hear me? Led astray! I know what's going on all right! D'you think - do you think I don't see it?' he spluttered. 'I see it all, damn you!'

'See what?' his wife asked in a soft voice, nottakinghereyes off the window.

'That it's all your doing, you devil! Your doing, damn you! You causcd this storm, you made the postlose its way -you did it all, all!'

'You're off your head, silly,' his wife remarked calmly.

'I've been noticing things for a long time! First day we were married, I knew there was bitch's blood in you!'

'Ugh!' Raisa exclaimed with a start, hunching her shoulders and crossing herself. 'Cross yourself too, idiot!'

'Once a witch, always a witch,'Savelywent on in a hollow, tearful voice, hastily blowing his nose on the hem ofhis nightshirt. 'You may be my wife, you may count as clergy, but I'd say what you really are even at confession . . . Why, it stands to reason, so help me! Last year we had a blizzard on the Eve of Prophet Daniel and the Three Young Men - and what happened? That craftsman dropped in to warm himself. Then on the day of Alexis the Man of God the ice broke up on the riverand in came the constable . . . Spent the whole night here nattering with you, damn him, and when he left in the morning and I took a good look at him, he had rings under his eyes and his cheeks were all hollow! Eh? During the Summer Fast there was two thunder-storms and each time the gamekeeper came in to spend the night. I saw it all, curse him! All of it! Yes, that's made her blush! Redder than a beetroot!'

'You never saw anything . ..'

'Oh yes I did! And this winter before Christmas on the Ten Marryrs of Crete, when that snow-storm lasted all day and night - remember? - the Marshal's clerk lost his way and finished up here, the blighter . . . Fancy you falling for a miserable little clerk like that! He wasn't worth stirring up God's weather for! A snotty-nosed linle devil nottwo foot offtheground, his mug covered in pimples and his neck all awry . . . Ifhe'd been handsome, it'd make sense, but he was as ugly as sin!'

The subdeacon pausedfor breath, wiped his mouth and cocked his ear. There was no sound of the bell, but then a sudden gust of wind leapt over the roof and the tinkling started again in the darkness outside.

'Same thing now!' Savely went on. 'The post hasn't lost its way by accident. Spit in my eye if they aren't looking for you! Oh, the devil knows his job, he's a good helpmate! Round and round he'll lead them and land them up here. Oh yes! I see your game! You can't hide it from me! Devil's chatter-box, lustful pagan! As soon as the storm began, I knew what you were up to.'

'What an idiot!' laughed his wife. 'Do you really think in that stupid head of yours that I cause bad weather?'

'Hm ... You can laugh! Maybe you do, maybe you don't, but what I know is this: as soon as your blood begins to itch, there's bad weather, and as soon as there's bad weather, some stupid fool or other gets blown in here. Without fail! So it must be your doing!'

To add weight to his words, the subdeacon placed one finger on his brow, closed his left eye and began intoning:

'O folly incarnate! O accursed Judas! If thou an a human being and not a witch, stop and ask yourself: suppose they weren't crafts- men, gamekeepers or clerks, butthe devil in human form? Eh? What about that?'

'Savely, this is nonsense,' Raisa sighed and looked at her husband pityingly. 'When my Papa was alive and lived here, all kinds of people used to come to him to be cured ofthe fever. They came from the village, the settlements and the Armenian farmsteads. They used to come here every day - and no one called them devils, did they ? But now if anyone so much as drops in once a yeartowarm up when the weather's rough, you think it's the end of the world, you dolt, and start getting all sorts of ideas.'

The logic of his wife's argument affected Savely. He planted his bare feet wide apart, lowered his head, and pondered. His suspicions had not yet become firm convictions, and his wife's natural, uncon- cerned tone had thrown him completely off balance; nevertheless,

after a littlc thought he shook his head and said:

It's ncvcr old mcn or cripples, either — it's always youngoncs who want to come in hcrc for thc night . . . So why's that? Nor's it just warmth they'rc aftcr, thcy're up to mischief. Nq, woman, thcre's no crcaturc on c.arth more cunning than womankind! There's not an ounce of real brain in you, a sparrow's got morc intclligence, but as for your guile - your dcvilish guile - may the Holy Mother of God prcservc us! Thcre's the hell again! The storm was only just starting, hut I kncw exactly what you wcrc up to! You've becn witching, you spidcress !'

'Oh leave off, damn you!' said his wife, losing patience. 'Why have you got your teeth into me?'

Tll tell you why. If anything happens tonight -God forbid that it should, hutifit docs . . . ifit does -are you listeningtome? -thcn I'm going off first thing tomorrow morning to Dyadkovo to see Father Nikodim and tcll him everything. It's like this, I'll say, I beg you to forgive me, Father Nikodim, hut she's a witch. How do I know? Mm . . . you wish mc to tell you? Very well thcn. It's like this, I'll say. Then you'll be for it, woman! You'll be punished not only on the Day of Judgment, but in this lifc, too! There are prayers in the prayer- book specially for dealing with the likes of you!'

Suddcnly there was a hang on the window, so loud and out of the ordinarv that Savely turned pale and his knees buckled with fright. His wife jumped up and also turned pale.

'For God's sake, let us in to thc warm!' came a deep, shaking voice. 'Who's in there? Let us in, will you, we've lost our way!'

'Who is it?' asked the subdeacon's wife, too scared to look at the window.

'The post!' a second voice replied.

'So your devilling's worked!' said Savely, turning aside. 'I was right then . . . Well, just you watch it!'

The subdeacon jumped up and down a couple of times, sprawled onto the hed and turned his face to the wall with an angry snort. Soon he felt a cold blast in the back. The door creaked and the tall figure of a man, plastered in snow from head to foot, appeared in the door- way. Standing bchind was another figure, equally white . ..

'Shall I bring in the bags?' asked the second figure in a deep hoarse voice.

'Can't leave them out there!'

So saying, the first figure began to untie his hood, but without waiting till it was undone, he wrenched it off along with his peak cap and hurled them both angrily towards the stove. Then he pulled off his greatcoat, threw it in the same direction and without a word of greeting began to stride about the room.

He was a fair-haired young post-officer in a shabby old uniform and dirty yellowish-brown boots. After warming himself by pacing to and fro, he sat down at the table, stretched his dirty boots out towards Raisa's sacks and propped his head up on his fist. His face, pale but with red blotches, still bore traces of the pain and terror he had just come through. Distorted with rage, still bearing the fresh traces of recent physical and mental suffering, and with snow melt- ing on the eyebrows, moustache and small round beard, it was beautiful.

'What a dog's life!' grumbled the postman, his eyes roaming all over the walls as if he could not believe he was in the warm. 'We almost had it! But for your light, I don't know what would have happened . . . To hell with this dog's life! When's it all going to end? Where are we then?' he asked, lowering his voice and glancing up quickly at the subdeacon's wife.

'Gulyayevsky Hill, General Kalinovsky's estate,' she replied, star- tled, and blushed.

'Hear that, Stepan?' the postman turned to the driver, who had stopped in the doorway with a large leather bag on his back. 'We're on Gulyayevsky Hill!'

'Cor . . . way off!'

After uttering the last two words in the form of a hoarse, broken sigh, the driver went out again, and soon after came in with another, smaller, mailbag; then he went out once again and this time came back with the postman's sabre on a wide belt, rather like the long flat sword with which Judith is depicted on popular woodcuts before the couch of Holofernes. Having piled the bags along the wall, he went and sat down in the outer passage and lit his pipe.

'Maybe you'd care for some tea after your journey?' asked the subdeacon's wife.

'No time for tea-drinking!' frowned the postman. 'We must warm up quickly and move on, otherwise we'll be late for the mail-train. Ten minutes and we must be off. Only I'm afraid we're going to need someone to come along as guide . . .'

'It's an infliction, this weather,' sighed the subdeacon's wife.

'Y-es . . . And you - what do you do here?'

'Oh, we live here, we're attached to the church . . . We're members of the clergy . . . That's my husband over there! Savely, get up and s;iy hello! This used to be a separate parish, but eighteen months ago they closed the church down. Of course, when the family lived on the estate and there were people here, it was wonh keeping the church open, but you can imagine, once they wem, what was there for the clergy w live on, seeing as how the nearest village is Markovka, and that's more than five versts away! Now Savely's on the unanached list and . .. and does the watchman's job. He's responsible for keeping an eye on the church . . .'

And there and then the postman also learned that if Savely were w go and see the General's wife and ask her for a note to the Bishop, he would be given a good living; but he wouldn't go to see the General's wife, because he was lazy and scared of people.

'All the same, we still coum as clergy . . .' added the subdeacon's wife.

'What do you live on?' asked the postman.

'There's a hay meadow and vegetable plots that go with the church. Not that we get much out of them . ..' sighed the sub- deacon's wife. 'Father Nikodim from Dyadkovo, he's an old grasper, he celebrates here on St Nicholas summertide and St Nicholas win- tertide, and in return he takes practically everything for himself. There's no one who'll stick up for us!'

'Liar!' rasped Savely. 'Father Nikodim is a holy man, a luminary of the church, and whatever he takes, he's emitled w.'

'You've an angry one there!' chuckled the postman. 'Been married long?'

'Three years last Sunday before Lent. My Papa used to be sub- deacon here and when his life was drawing to its close, to make sure the living was passed on to me, he went t the Consistory and asked them to send me an unmarried subdeacon as a bridegroom. And I married him.'

'Aha, so you killed two birds with one stne!' said the postman to Savely's back. 'A job and a wife in one go.'

Savely's foot twitched impatiemly and he pressed himselfcloser to the wall. The postman got up from the table, stretched and sat down on a mailbag. Then, after a moment's thought, he plumped up the mailbags, transferred the sabre to a differem position and stretched himself out full-length with one leg reaching to the floor.

'A dog's life,' he muttered, putting his hands behind his head and

closing his eyes. 'I wouldn't wish it on the boldest Tartar.'

All was soon silent. The only sounds were ofSavely wheezing and the postman breathing slowly and evenly in his sleep and emining a deep, prolonged 'k-hhhh' each time he breathed out. Every so often some kind of little wheel creaked in his throat, or his leg jerked and brushed against the mailbag.

Savely rolled over beneath the quilt and gazed slowly round the room. Hiswife was sitting on the stool looking at the postman's face, her cheeks pressed between the palms of her hands. Her eyes were staring, as if she had been taken by surprise and had a fright.

'What are you gawping at?' Savely whispered angrily.

'Ncver you mind! Go to sleep!' his wife replied, without taking her eyes off the fair head.

Savely emptied his lungs in one angry breath and turned abruptly to the wall. Three minutes later he rolled over restlessly again, knelt up in bed, sat back with his hands on the pillow, and peered suspici- ously at his wife. She was still staring at the visitor, motionless. Her cheeks looked paler and her eyes burned with a strange fiery light. The subdeacon made a noise in his throat, crawled across the bed on his stomach, went over to the postman and put a piece ofcloth over his face.

'What's that for?' asked his wife.

'To keep the light off his eyes.'

'The light? Why not put it ouc altogether then?'

Glancing sceptically at his wife, Savely bent down to blow out the lamp, but straightway checked himself and flung up his hands.

'If that's not the devil's own cunning!' he exclaimed. 'Eh? I ask you, is there a creature on earth more cunning than you women?'

'Ahh, you black-robed devil!' hissed his wife, grimacing with annoyance. 'Just you wait!'

And senling herself more comfortably, she went back to gazing at the postman.

No matter that his face was hidden. It was not so much this man's face that she found absorbing, as his general appearance, his novelty. His chest was broad and powei ful, his hands slender and beautiful, his legs straight and muscular, much more beautiful and manly than Savely's 'two little stubs'. There was simply no comparison.

'I may be a black-robed unclean spirit,' Savely said after standing there a while, 'but it's no good them sleeping here . . . No . . . Their work's official - we'll be the ones get the blame ifwe hold them up.

They've a job to do and they must do it, it's no good them sleeping . . . Hey, you!' Savely shouted into the outer passage. 'You, driver . . . what's your name? Want me to guide you? Get up, it's no good you sleeping in charge of the mail!'

And in his temper Savely daned towards the postman and tugged at his sleeve.

'Sir, sir! Ifyou're going, go, ifnot, then you . . . You oughtn't to be asleep.'

The postman leapt up, sat down again, looked round the room bleary-eyed and lay down once more.

'You've got to be off,' Savely gabbled away, tugging at his sleeve. 'What's the mail for, eh, ifnot to get to places in good time? I'll guide you.'

The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and enervated by the sweetness of first sleep, still not fully awake, he had a hazy vision of the white neck and steady voluptuous gaze of the subdeacon's wife, closed his eyes and smiled, as if it were all a dream.

'How can they travel in weather like this?' he heard a woman's soft voice say. 'What they need is a good long sleep!'

'And the mail?' Savely said in alarm. 'Who'll take that then? Are you going to? You?'

The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the way the dimples were moving on the face ofthe subdeacon's wife, remembered where he was, understood what Savely was saying. The thought of having to drive on in the cold dark night sent a chill through his whole body, and he shuddered.

'Five more minutes' sleep won't matter . . .' he yawned. 'We've missed the connection anyway . . .'

'We might just make it!' came a voice from the outer passage. 'You never know, if we're lucky the train may be late, too.'

The postman stood up, stretched luxuriously and started to put on his greatcoat.

At the sight of the visitors preparing to leave, Savely positively neighed with pleasure.

'Give us a hand then!' rhe driver shouted to him, heaving a mailbag off the floor.

The subdeacon darted forward and helped him drag all the mail outside. The postman began unpicking the knot on hishood. And the subdeacon'swifelooked deep into hiseyes, as ifshe intended stealing right into his soul.

'Stay and have some tea .. .' she said.

'I'd be glad to,' he conceded, 'but they're all ready. We've missed the connection anyway.'

'Do stay then!' she whispered, looking down and touching his sleeve.

The postman finally undid the knot and flung the hood hesitantly over his arm. He felt warm standing by the subdeacon's wife.

'What a ... lovely neck you have . . .'

And he touched her neck with two fingers. She did not resist, so with his whole hand he stroked her neck, her shoulder . ..

'You beauty .. .'

'Don't go . .. stay and have some tea.'

'Hey you, Black Pudding!' came the driver's voice from outside. 'What do you think you're doing? Lay them crossways.'

'Don't go ... Hark at that wind howling!'

And the postman, who was still not fully awake and had not had time to shake off the enchantment of languid young sleep, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire which makes one forget mailbags, mail-trains ... absolutely everything. With a frightened glance at the door, as if wanting to hide or run away, he seized the subdeacon's wife by the waist, and had j ust leaned over to put out the lamp when there came the tramp of boots in the outer passage and the driver appeared in the doorway . . . Savely was peeping round his shoulder. The postman hastily dropped his arms and looked thoughtful.

'All ready!' said the driver.

The postman paused briefly, roused himselfonce and for all with a jerk of the head, and followed the driver out. The subdeacon's wife was left on her own.

'Well get in then and show us the route!' she heard a voice say.

First one bell began to ring sluggishly, then another, and the tinkling notes sped forth from the lodge in a long fine chain.

When they had very gradually died away, the subdeacon's wife sprang up and began walking nervously to and fro. At first she was pale, then she flushed all over. Her face disfigured with hate, her breathing coming in starts, her eyes flashing with a fierce, wild anger, she paced up and down like a tigress in a cage being tormented with a red-hot iron. For a minute she stopped and looked around at the place where she lived. Almost halfthe room was taken up by the bed, which stretched the whole length of the wall and consisted of a dirty feather-mattress, hard grey pillows, the quilt, and various nameless old bits and pieces. The bed was an ugly, shapeless lump, very much like that which stuck up on Savely's head whenever the latter felt an urge to put oil on his hair. In the space from the end of the bed to the door, which opened into the cold outer passage, stood the dark stove with its pots and hanging rags. Everything-including Savely, when he was present - was impossibly dirty, greasy and grimy, so that it struck one as strange to see the white neck and fine, delicate skin ofa woman amid such surroundings. The subdeacon's wife ran over to the bed and flung out her hands as if wanting to sweep all this aside, to stamp on it and trample it to dust, but then the thought of coming into contact with the dirt seemed to scare her, she jumped back and began pacing again . . .

When Savely returned some two hours later, plastered in snow and worn out, she was already lying in bed undressed. Her eyes were shut, but from the faint twitchingof the muscles on her face he could tell that she was still awake. On his way home he had vowed to say nothing and to leave her alone until morning, but now he could not resist the temptation to say something wounding.

'So much for your sorcery - he's gone!' he said with a malicious smirk.

She did not reply, but her chin quivered. Savely slowly undressed, climbed over her and lay down next to the wall.

'And tomorrow I shall explain to Father Nikodim what sort of a wife you are!' he muttered, curling up in a ball.

His wife rolled over to face him, her eyes flashing.

'You've got the living,' she said, 'what more do you want? If you want a wife, go and look forone in the forest! What sort ofwife am I ? May you drop dead! Why should I be lumbered with an idle, bumbl- ing oaf like you, so help me?'

'That'll do ... Go to sleep!'

'Oh how wretched I am!' she sobbed. 'But for you I might have married a merchant or a gentleman, even! But for you I'd love my husband now! Why weren't you buried in a snowdrift, why weren't you frozen to death out there on the highroad - you tyrant!'

The subdeacon's wife cried for a long time. Eventually she gave a deep sigh and quietened down. Outside, the storm was still raging. Something was crying in the stove, the chimney and round every wall, but to Savely the crying seemed to be within him, in his own ears. That evening had finally convinced him that his theories were right. He no longer had any doubt that his wife was in league with the devil and could make winds and post-troikas do as she wished. But to his utter dismay, this mysteriousness, this wild, supernatural power lent the woman lying beside him an especial, incomprehensible charm that he had not been aware of before. Because in his stupid fashion he had unconsciously poeticised her, she now seemed whiter, sleeker, lnore inaccessible . . .

'Witch!' he muttered to himself indignantly. 'Repulsive witch!'

But when she had fallen quiet and begun to breathe evenly, he reached out a finger and touched the back of her head . . . and hehl her thick plait in his hand. She didn't feel it ... Then he became bolder and stroked her neck.

'Get off!' she yelled and gave him such a thump on the nose with her elbow that he saw stars.

The pain in his nose soon passed but his torment continued.

Grisha

Grisha, a chubby little boy born two years and eight months ago, is out for a walk in the park with his nanny. He is wearing a long felt pelisse, a scaff, a big cap with a fur bobble, and warm overshoes. He feels hot and stuffy, and to make matters worse the April sun is shining with cheerful abandon straight into his eyes and making his eyelids smart.

Everything about Grisha's ungainly appearance and timid, uncer- tain steps, expresses extreme bewilderment.

Hitherto the only world known to Grisha has been a rectangular one, with his bed in one corner, Nanny's trunk in another, the table in the third and the icon-lamp burning in the fourth. If you look under the bed, you can see a doll with one arm missing, and a drum, and if you look behind the trunk, you can see all sorts of different things: cotton-reels, pieces of paper, a box without a lid, and a broken toy clown. Apart from Nanny and Grisha, Mamma and the cat often appcar in this world. Mamma looks like a doll, and the cat looks like Papa's fur coat, only the fur coat doesn't have eycs and a tail. From this world, which is called the nurscry, a door leads to the spacc whcre thcy eat and drink tea. Here Grisha's high chair stands .and on the wall hangs the clock, whosc sole purpose is to swing its pcndulum and strike. From the dining-room you can go through into a room with red armchairs. There is a dark stain here on the carpct which they still point to and wag their fingcrs at Grisha. Beyond this room is another onc, which Grisha must not enter, and wherc Papa is somctimes to be seen -a most mysterious kmd ofperson! Nanny and Mamma arc easy to undcrstand: they are there to dress Grisha, to feed him and put him to bed, but what Papa is there for-Grisha has no idea. Thcn there's anothcr mysterious person, and that is Auntie, who gave Grisha the drum. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Where does shc disappcar to? Grisha has lookcd several times under thc bcd, behind the trunk and undcr the settee, but she was nevcr there . . .

In this new world, though, where the sun hurts your eyes, there are so many Papas, Mammas and Aunties that you don't know which one to run up to. But the oddest, funnicst things of all are the horses. Grisha looks at the way their legs move and is completely baffled. He looks at "lanny to see if she is going to explain it for him, but Nanny says nothing.

Suddcnly he hears a terrible tramping sound . . . A crowd of soldiers is bearing straight down upon him, marching in step through the park. Their faces are red from the steam baths and under their arms they are carrying bundles of birch twigs. Grisha turns cold with horror and looks enquiringly at Nanny to see if they are dangerous. But Nanny doesn't run away or burst into tears, so they can't be dangerous after all. Grisha watches the soldiers go past and starts marching along in time with them.

Two big cats with pointed faces dash across the path, their tongues lolling out and their tails curling upwards. Grisha thinks he must start running, too, and hurries after them.

'Hey!' shouts Nanny, grabbing hold of him roughly by the shoul- ders. 'Where do you think you're going?Just you behave yourself!'

By the path another nanny is sittingwith a little tub of oranges on her knees. As he walks past, Grisha quietly helps himself to one.

'What do you think you're up to?' shouts his companion, smack- ing him on the fingers and snatching away the orange. 'Stupid child!'

Grisha would love to pick up that piece of glass which he now sees lying at his feet and gleaming like the lamp in the corner of the room, but he's afraid of getting another smack on the fingers.

'My humble respects!' — he suddenly hears a loud, deep voice say almost above his ear, and sees a tall man with bright buttons.

Much to Grisha's joy, this man offers Nanny his hand and stands there talking to her. The brilliant light of the sun, the noise of the carriages, the horses, the bright buttons- all this is so astonishingly new and unfrightening that Grisha's whole being fills with delight and he starts chuckling.

'Come on! Come on!' he shouts at the man with the bright but- tons, tugging at his coat-tails.

'Come on where?' the man asks.

'Come on!' Grisha insists. What he wants to say is that it would be nice to take Papa, Mamma and the cat along with them as well; but his tongue says something completely different.

After a while Nanny leaves the park and takes Grisha into a large courtyard, where there is still snow lying about. The man with the bright buttons follows, too. Carefully they pick their way round the blocks of snow and the puddles, then they go down a dark, dirty staircase and enter a room. It's very smoky inside, there's a strong smell ofcooking, and a woman is standing by the stove frying some chops. The cook and Nanny kiss each other, then they and the man sit down on a bench and start talking quietly. Wrapped up in his warm clothes, Grisha begins to feel unbearably hot and stuffy.

'What's all this for?' he thinks, as he looks round.

Hesees a dark ceiling, anoven-prongwith curly horns, and a stove which looks like a big black hole . . .

'Ma-a-ma!' he wails.

'Now stop that!' shouts Nanny. 'You'll just have to wait!'

The cook places on the table a bottle, three glasses and a pie. The two women and the man with bright buttons clink their glasses and drink several times, and the man keeps embracing first Nanny, then the cook. And then all three of them start singing quietly.

Grisha stretches his hand out towards the pie and is given a small piece. As he eats it, he watches Nanny drinking . . . He feels like a drink, too.

'Me, Nanny, me!' he pleads.

The cook lets him have a sip from her glass. His eyes start, he frowns, coughs and for a long time afterwards waves his arms about, while the cook looks at him and laughs.

Back home again, Grisha starts tellmg Mamma, the walls and his bed about where he h.is been today and what he's seen. He talks more with his face and hands than with his tongue. He shows them the sun shining brightly and the horses trotting along, the horrible stove and the cook drinking.

That evening he just can't get to sleep. The soldiers with their birch twigs, the big cats, the horscs, the piece of glass, the tub of oranges, the bright buttons - all these are rolled into one and prcss on his brain. He turns from side to side, babbles away and cventually, unable to bear his state of excitement any longer, starts to cry.

'You've got a temperature,' says Mamma, placing the palm of her hand on his forehead. 'I wonder how that came about?'

"Stove!' howls Grisha. 'Go away, horrid stove!'

'It's probably something he's eaten . . .' Mamma decides.

And so Grisha, bursting with impressions of the new life he has just discovered, is given a teaspoonful ofcastor-oil by his Mamma.

Papa, Mamma and Aunt Nadya are all out. They've gone to a christening party at the house of that old officer who rides about on the little grey horse. Grisha, Anya, Alyosha, Sonya and the cook's son, Andrey, are sitting round the dining-room table playing lotto, waiting for them to return. To tell the truth, it's well past their bedtime; but how can you be expected to go to sleep without finding out from Mamma what the new baby was like, and what kind of supper they were given? The table, lit by a hanging lamp, is covered with a colourful assortment of numbers, nutshells, bits of paper and glass counters. In front of each player are two cards and a pile of counters for covering the numbers. In the middle of the table is a gleaming white saucer with five one-kopeck pieces, and next to it a half-eaten apple, a pair of scissors and a plate in which they are supposed to put the nutshells. The children are playing for money. The stake is one kopeck. If anybody cheats, the rule is they're out of the game at once. The players have the dining-room to themselves. Agafya lvanovna, the children's nanny, is downstairs in the kitchen teaching the cook how to cut out a dress pattern, while Vasya, their elder brother, who is in the fifth form at school, is reclining in a state of boredom on a sofa in the lounge.

They are passionately involved in thegame. Judging from his face, the most passionately involved is Grisha-a small nine-year-old with a completely shaven head, chubby cheeks and fleshy lips like a negro's. He's already in the preparatory class at school, so he's looked upon as the most grown-up and the cleverest. Grisha is playing purely and simply for the money. But for those kopecks in the saucer, he'd have been asleep long ago. He keeps darting anxious, jealous glances at the other players' cards with his hazel-coloured eyes. Envy, fear of losing, and the financial considerations that fill his shaven head, prevent him from sitting still and concentrating. He is like a cat on hot bricks. Once he has won, he scoops the money up greedily and shoves it straight into his pocket. His eight-year-old sister, Anya, with her sharp little chin and gleaming, intelligent eyes, is similarly afraid of losing. Flushed and pale by turns, she watches the other players' every move. The kopecks mean nothing to her. For Anya winning is a matter of personal prestige. For the other sister, six-year-old Sonya, who has a curly head of hair and the kind of complexion that you see only in very healthy children, expensive dolls and on the lids of sweet boxes, it is the actual process ofplaying that is absorbing. Her face is a picture of bliss. No matter who wins, she shrieks with laughter and claps her hands with equal abandon. Alyosha, a round, chubby little chap, keeps puffing and blowing and goggling at his cards. For him, self-interest and prestige do not enter into it. He hasn't been shooed away from the table or put to bed — and is thankful for that. He's a quiet type to look at, but inside he's a proper linle devil. It's not so much the lotto that interests him, as the misunderstandings that are bound to occur during the game. If one player hits another or calls him names, he's absolutely delighted. He should have popped out for a certain purpose long ago, but he won't leave the table for a moment in case someone steals his counters or his kopecks. Since he only knows numbers under ten and those ending in nought, Anya is covering his numbers for him. The fifth player, the cook's son, Andrey, a sickly dark-skinned boy wearing a calico shirt and with a bronze cross round his neck, stands there motionless and gazes dreamily at the numbers. He is quite uncon- cerned with who wins or loses, being completely absorbed in the mathematics of the game, in its simple logic: what a lot of different numbers there are in the world, and how extraordmary that they don't all get mixed up!

The children take it in tum to act as caller, except for Sonya and Alyosha. To avoid monotony, a great many special terms and funny nicknames have been worked out for the numbers. For instance, number seven is always called 'the poker', eleven 'two little sticks', seventy-seven is 'Semyon Semyonych', ninety - 'grandpa', and so on. The game proceeds at a lively pace.

'Thirty-two!' shouts Grisha, pulling the small yellow cylinders out of his father's hat. 'Seventeen! The poker! Twenty-eight - shut the gate!'

Anya notices that Andrey has missed number twenty-eight on his card. At any other time she would have pointed this out to him, but now that her personal prestige is lying there in the saucer with her kopeck, she is secretly triumphant.

'Twenty-three!' Grisha continues. 'Semyon Semyonych! Number nine!'

'A cockroach, a cockroach!' screams Sonya, pointing to an insect running across the table. 'Help!'

'Don't hurt him,' says Alyosha in his deep voice. 'Maybe he's got babies ...'

Sonya watches the cockroach and thinks: how tiny those cock- roach babies must be!

'Forty-three! Number one!' continues Grisha, suffering agonies because Anya already has two rows of four. 'Number six!'

'Lotto! Lotto!' shouts Sonya, flashing her eyes coquettishly and shrieking with laughter.

All the others' faces drop.

'Show us!' says Grisha, turning towards Sonya with a look of hatred.

As the most grown-up and the cleverest Grisha always has the last word. What he says, goes. A long time is spent thoroughly checking Sonya's numbers, and to the extreme disappointment of her fellow- players it turns out that she has not been cheating. They start a new game.

'You'll never guess what I saw yesterday!' says Anya, as if to herself. 'Old Philip pulled his eyelids right back and his eyes went all red and horrible, just like the Devil's.'

'I saw him too,' says Grisha. 'Number eight! There's a boy at school can move his ears. Twenty-seven!'

Andrey looks up at Grisha, ponders for a moment and says:

'I can wiggle my ears, too . . .'

'Go on then, wiggle them!'

Andrey moves his eyes, lips and fingers about, and thinks his ears are moving too. Laughter all round.

'I don't like that old Philip,' says Sonya, with a sigh. 'Do you know, he came into the nursery yesterday when I had nothing on but my night-dress ... I felt so embarrassedV

'Lotto!' yells Grisha all of a sudden, grabbing the money from the saucer. 'Lotto! Check if you like!'

The cook's son looks up with a wan expression.

'I'll have to stop playing now,' he says quietly.

'Why?'

'Because I've - I've run out of money.'