Early Stories

The Kiss

On thc 20th of May, at 8 p.m., all six battcries of the N. Rcservc Artillcry Brigadc stoppcd for the night at the villagc of Mcstcchki on thcir way to summcr camp. At the very hcight of thc bustle and confusion, whcn some of thc officcrs wcrc busy round the guns and othcrs had assembled hy thc church wall in the villagc squarc to reccivc thcir billeting instructions, a man appcared from bchind thc church wcaring civilian clothcs and riding a strange horse. The horse was a small light bay, with a bcautiful neck and a short tail, and instcad of moving straight, it advanccd in a sideways fashion, taking small dancingstepsas ifit were heing lashed about the legs.The rider went up to thc officers, raiscd his hat and said:

'His Exccllcncy Licutcnant-Gencr.al von Rabbek, thc lord of the manor, requests the pleasure of your company for tca, gentlemcn, as soon as possible . . .'

The horse bobbed its head, danced, and backed sideways; the rider doffcd his hat agam. and a moment later he and his strange horse had disappcared bchind the church.

'That's all we needed!' grumbled some of the officers as they dispcrsed to their billets. 'Slecp's what we want, not an invitation to tea from this von Rabbek! "Tca"! We know what that means.'

Still fresh in the memory of the officers of all six batteries was an incident during manoeuvres the previous year, when they and the officers of a Cossack regiment had received exactly the same kind of invitation to tea from an ex-army Count-cum-landowner. The cor- dial and hospitable Count had treated them with great kindness, had plied them with food and drink, and would not let thcm return to thcir billets in the village, but insisted they stay the night. All that was fine, of course, what more could one ask for, but unfortunately the old soldier's delight in having young company had gone too far. He had stayed up until daybreak recounting to the officers episodes from his glorious past, conducting them round the rooms, showing them valuable pictures, old engravings and rare weapons, and read- ing them the originals of letters from high-ranking people, while the weary and exhausted officers looked on and listened, longed for their beds and yawned carefully to one side; when their host did finally

release them, it was too late to go to bed.

Was this von Rabbek going to be just such another? Whether he was or not, the officers had no choice in the matter. Having cleaned and spruced themselves up, they set off in a group to find the manor-house. In the square by the church they were told that his Excellency's could be approached either by the lower route - by going down hehind the church to the river, walking along the bank as far as the garden, and then taking any of the paths to the house - or by the upper route, straight from the church along a road which half a verst from the village brought you to his Excellency's granaries. The officers opted for the upper route.

'Who is he, this von Rabbek?' they debated on the way. 'Isn't he the one who commanded the N. Cavalry Division at Plevna?'

'No, that wasn't von Rahbek, thatwas j ust Rabbe and without the "von".'

'What a glorious evening!'

At the first of the granaries the road divided: one branch went straight on and disappeared into the evening haze, while the right- hand branch led to the manor-house. The officers turned right and lowered their voices . . . The road was lined on both sides by stone granaries with red roofs: grim, heavy buildings very much like a provincial barracks. Ahead shone the windows of the manor-house.

'A good omen, gentlemen!' said one of the officers. 'Our setter's leading the way. He must sense there'll be game!'

The officer leading the way, Lieutenant Lobytko, a tall, thick-set man, but completely beardless (though over twenty-five, for some reason no sign ofvegetation had yet appeared on his satisfied round face), who was famous in the brigade for his ability to sense the presence of women at a distance, turned round and said:

'Yes, there'll be women here. My instinct tells me so.'

The officers were greeted at the threshold by von Rabbek himself, a fine-looking old man of about sixty, dressed in civilian clothes. As he shook hands with his guests, he told them how happy and delighted he was, but begged the officers most earnestly, on bended knee, to excuse him: unfortunately he could not invite them to stay the night, as his two sisters and their children, his brothers and his neighbours, were visiting him, and he did not have a single spare room left.

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The General shook everyone by the hand, made his apologies and smiled, but it was clear from his face that he was nothing like so

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pleased to see his guests as last year's Count, and had invited the officers only from a sense of social obligation. And as they walked up the carpeted staircase listening to him, the officers themselves felt that they had been invited to this house only because it would have been awkward not to invite them, and the sight of the footmen hurrying to light the lamps downstairs by the entrance and upstairs in the anteroom gave them the impression that their arrival had brought with it extra worry and inconvenience. How could the presence of nineteen unknown officers be welcome in a place where rwo sisters and their children, the brothers and the neighbours, had probably gathered for some family event or celebration?

Upstairs, at the entrance to the ball-room, the visitors were greeted by a tall, upright old lady with a long face and dark eyebrows, who looked very much like the Empress Eugenie. With a welcoming, regal smile, she told the visitors how happy and delighted she was to see them, and how sorry that on this occasion she and her husband were denied the possibility of inviting the officers to stay the night. From her beautiful, regal smile, which instantly vanished whenever she had to turn away from the visitors for something, it was clear that she had seen a great many officers in her time, that there were other things on her mind now, and that if she had invited these officers to her house and was making apologies to them, this was only from a sense that her upbringing and social position obliged her to do so.

The visitors were shown into a large dining-room, where about a dozen men and women, young and old, were sitting round one end of a long table drinking tea. Behind their chairs stood a dark group of men, wreathed in thin cigar smoke, among whom a lanky young man with ginger sideburns was saying something loudly in English, slur- ring his r's. Beyond this group was an open door leading to a light room furnished in pale blue.

'Gentlemen, there are so many of you, I can't possibly introduce you all!' said the General in a loud voice, trying to sound very jovial. 'Please make your own introductions!'

The officers made their bows as best they could - some looking very serious and even stern, others giving forced smiles, and all of them feeling extremely ill at ease - and sat down to drink tea.

More ill at ease than anyone was Staff-Captain Ryabovich, a short, round-shouldered officer in spectacles and with whiskers like a lynx's. While some of his colleagues were looking serious and others giving forced smiles, his face, his lynx-like whiskers and his spectacles seemed to be saying: 'I'm the shyest, drabbest and most retiring officer in the whole brigade!' Initially, when they went into the dining-room and then sat down to tea, he was quite unable to focus his attention on any one face or object. The faces and dresses, the cut-glass brandy decanters, the steam off the glasses of tea, the moulded cornices: all these merged into one huge overall impression that filled Ryabovich with anxiety and made him want to hide his head. Like a reader giving his fi,rst performance in public, he saw everything in front of him, but what he saw somehow failed to registerproperly (physiologists refer to this condition, when a person sees but fails to comprehend what he isseeing, as 'mental blindness'). A little later on, when he felt more at ease, Ryabovich began to see normally and to look around. Being a timid and unsociable person, what struck him most about his new acquaintances was the quality completely lacking in himself: their unusual boldness. Von Rabbek, his wife, twoelderlyladies, a younggirl in a lilac dress and the young man with ginger sideburns, who turned out to be Rabbek's youngest son, positioned themselves very craftily among the officers, as if they had rehearsed it beforehand, and at once launched into a fierce argument in which the visitors could not help but be involved. The young girl in lilac argued fiercely that the artillery had a much easier life than the cavalry or infantry, while Rabbek and the elderly ladies maintained the opposite. A crossfire conversation developed. Ryabovich looked at the young girl in lilac, who was arguing so fiercely about something that must be quite alien and ofno conceiv- able interest to her, and watched the artificial smiles that came and went on her face.

Von Rabbek and his family skilfully drew the officers into the argument, while at the same time keeping a close watch on their glasses and mouths, finding out whether they all had enough tea and were enjoying their food, and why one of them had not tried the tea-biscuits or another was not drinking brandy. And the more Ryabovich watched and listened, the more this artificial but superbly disciplined family appealed to him.

After tea, the officers went into the ball-room. Lieutenant Lobytko's intuition had not deceived him: the room was full of girls and young ladies. The setter himself was already standing next to a very young little blonde in a black dress and, striking a gallant pose as if leaning on an invisible sabre, was smiling and frisking his shoulders coquettishly. He was probably telling her some very tedi- ous piece of nonsense, as the blonde was looking condescendingly into his satisfied face and saying in a bored voice: 'Really?' And had the sener had any mtelligence, he would have realised from the indifferent tone of that 'Reallv?' that he was hardly being told to 'fetch!'

The grand piano resounded; the notes of a melancholy waltz floated through the wide open windows of the ball-room, and for some reason everyone suddenly remembered that it was spring out- side now, a May evening. Everyone sensed that the air was fragrant with roses, lilac and young poplar leaves. Under the effect of the music, the brandy he had drunk was beginning to work on Ryabovich, and as he listened to the music, he glanced over to the window, smiled, and staned followmg the movements of the women; and soon it seemed to him that the scent of roses, poplar and lilac was coming not from thegarden but from the women's faces and dresses.

Rabhk's son invited a scraggy-looking female to dance and walt- zed twice round the room with her. Gliding across the parquet, Lobytko Aew up to the young girl in lilac and whisked her offacross the ball-room. The dancing began . . . Ryabovich stood by the door among the non-dancers and looked on. In the whole of his life he had never once danced, nor had he ever put his arm round thewaist ofa respectable woman. To see a man take a strange ^irl by the waist in front of everyone and invite her to put her nand on his shoulder appealed to him enormously, but to imagine himself in that man's position was quite beyond him. There was a time when he envied the confidence and go of his comrades and suffered mental anguish; the awareness that he was timid, round-shouldered and drab, that he had lynx-like whiskers and no hips, hurt him profoundly, but with the passing of the years he had become inured to this, so that now, as he looked at his comrades dancing or conversing loudly, he no longer experienced envy, only a feeling of wistful admiration.

When the quadrille started, young von Rabbek came over to the non-dancers and asked two of the officers if they would like to play billiards. The officers accepted, and followed him out of the room. Having nothing better to do and wanting to take at least some part in the general activity, Ryabovich trailed after them. From the ball- room they went into a drawing-room, then along a narrow glass corridor, and thence into a room where the figures of three sleepy footmen jumped up quickly from the sofas at their appearance. After a whole series of other rooms, young Rabbek and the officers finally

entered a small room containing the billiard-table. The game began.

Ryabovich, whohad never played anything but cards, stood by the table and looked on impassively as the players, with jackets unbut- toned and cues in their hands, strode about, made puns and shouted out incomprehensible words. The players were unaware of him, and only occasionally one or other of them, after elbowing him or accidentally butting him with a cue, would turn round and say in French: 'Pardon!' Even before the first game was over, he began to feel bored and had the impression he was in the way and not wanted . . . He felt drawn back to the ball-room and went out.

On his way back a small adventure befell him. He realised about half-way that he was not going in the right direction. He distinctly recalled the three sleepy footman figures whom he ought to pass on his return, but he had gone through five or six rooms and these three figures seemed to have vanished into thin air. Realising his mistake, he retraced his steps a short distance, turned right and found himself in a semi-dark study which he had not seen on his way to the billiard-room; after standing there for half a minute, he hesitantly opened the first door that caught his eye and entered a room which was in total darkness. Through a chink in the door straight ahead a bright light was shining; from beyond the door came the muffled sounds of a sad muzurka. Here too, as in the ball-room, the windows were wide open and there was a scent of poplar, lilac and roses . . .

Ryabovich paused to collect his thoughts . . . Just at that moment there came the unexpected sound of hurrying footsteps and the rustle ofa dress, a woman's voice whispered breathlessly 'At last!' and two soft, fragrant, unmistakably feminine arms twined themselves round his neck; a warm cheek pressed itself to his and simultaneously there came the sound of a kiss. But at once the giver of the kiss uttered a little shriek and, so it seemed to Ryabovich, recoiled from him in horror. He too very nearly screamed, and rushed towards the bright light coming from the door . . .

When he returned to the ball-room, his heart was thumping, and his hands were trembling so noticeably that he hastily hid them behind his back. At first, tormented by a feeling of shame and fear that the whole room knew he had just been embraced and kissed by a woman, he made himself small and darted anxious glances all around him, but once he was sure they were dancing and chatting away in the ball-room as imperturbably as ever, he gave himself up entirely to a new sensation, one that he had never experienced in his life before. Something strange was happening to him . . . His neck, which had just been embraced by soft fragrant arms, seemed to have been bathed with oil; at the spot on his cheek by his left moustache where the unknown woman had kissed him, there was a slight, pleasantly cold tingling, such as you get from peppermints, and the more he rubbed the spot, the more pronounced this tingling became; whilst the whole of him, from top to toe, was filled with a new, peculiar feeling that grew and grew . . . He felt he wanted to dance, talk, run into the garden, laugh out loud . .. He forgot completely that he was drab and round-shouldered, and had lynx-like whiskers and a 'nondescript' appearance (as it had once been described in a female conversation that he had overheard). When Rabbek's wife walked past, he smiled at her so broadly and warmly that she stopped and gave him an inquiring look.

'I like your house enormously!' he said, adjusting his spectacles.

The General's wife smiled and told him that the house had origi- nally belonged to her father, then she asked whether his parents were still alive, how long he had been in the army, why he looked so thin, etc. . . . Having received answers to her questions, she moved on, while Ryabovich began to smile even more warmly after his conver- sation with her, and to think that he was surrounded by the most splendid people . . .

At supper, he ate mechanically everything he was offered, drank, and deafto the world, triedtoexplain his recent adventure to himself . . . The adventure had a mysterious, romantic qualiry to it, but its explanation was not hard to find. No doubt one ofthe girls or young ladies had arranged to meet someone in the dark room, had been waiting for a long time, and in her state of nervous excitement had mistaken Ryabovich for her hero; especially as Ryabovich, on his way through the dark room, had paused to collect his thoughts, in other words had given the impression of someone who was also waiting . . . Thus Ryabovich explained to himself the kiss he had received.

'But who was she?' he thought, looking round the female faces. 'She must be young, because you don't find old ladies making assignations. And she must be educated, because of her rustling dress, her perfume, her voice . . .'

His eye came to rest on the young girl in lilac, and he liked the look ofher very much; she had beautiful arms and shoulders, an intellig- ent face and an anractive voice. Looking at her, Ryabovich wanted her to be the unknown woman, and her alone . .. But she began laughing in an artificial kind of way and wrinkled up her long nose, which struck him as old-looking. Then he turned his attention to the little blonde in the black dress. She was younger, simpler and more sincere, had a charming forehead, and drank very prettily from her wine-glass. Now Ryabovich wanted her to be the one. But he soon found her features lifeless, and transferred his gaze to her neighbour . ..

'It's difficult to decide,' he thought dreamily. 'If you took the lilac one's ar;ns and shoulders, added the little blonde's forehead, and the eyes of the one sitting on Lobytko's left, then . . .'

He put them together in his mind and obtained an image ofthe girl who had kissed him, the image that he had searched for but been quite unable to find at the supper table ...

After supper the visitors, feeling tipsy and replete, began to thank their hosts and take their leave. The hosts started apologising again for not inviting them to stay the night.

'Delighted to have met you, gentlemen!' said the General, and this time sincerely (probably because people are much more friendly and sincere seeing visitors off than greeting them). 'Delighted! You must pay us another visit on your return journey! Informally! Which way are you going? Along the top? No, take the lower route through the garden - it's quicker from here.'

The officers went out into the garden. After all the noise and bright lights the gardenseemed very dark and quiet. They walked in silence until they reached the gate. They were half-drunk, in a cheerful mood, and contented, but the silence and darkness made them pause for a minute to reflect. Probably each of them had the same thought as occurred to Ryabovich: would there ever be a time when they too would be like Rabbek and have a large house, a family and garden, when they too would be in a position to be kind to people, if only insincerely, and to make them drunk, replete and contented?

Once through the gate, they all suddenly began talking and laugh- ing loudly for no reason. They were now walking down a footpath which descended to the river, where it ran along the water's edge, skirting round bushes growing on the bank, inlets, and willow trees overhanging the water. The near bank and path were scarcely visible, while the far bank was completely plunged in darkness. Stars were reflected here and there in the dark water; they trembled and dissol- ved, and only from this could one guess that the river was flowing swiftly. Thc air was still. From the far bank came the plaintive cry of drowsy snipe, while in one of the bushes on the ncar bank, paying no attention at all to the crowd ofofficers, a nightingale was in full song. The officers stood by the bush and shook it gently, but the nighting- ale just went on singing.

'How about that?' they exclaimed approvingly. 'We're standing right by him and the little rascal doesn't give a damn!'

At the cnd of their walk thc footpath began to climb, joining the road near the church wall. Tired by thc uphill walk, the officers sat down here for a smoke. A dim red light appeared on the far side of the river, and they spent a long time idly debating whether it was a bonfire, a lighted window, or something else . . . Ryabovich also looked at the light and fancicd that it was smiling and winking at him, as if it knew about the kiss.

On reaching the billet, Ryabovich quickly undressed and lay down. He was sharing a hut with Lobytko and Lieutenant Merz- lyakov, a quiet, taciturn young fellow who was regarded by his associates as an educated officer and who spent all his spare timt: reading The European Herald, which he carried with him wherever he wcnt. Lobytko undressed, paced up and down for a long time with the look of a man who is not satisfied, and sent the batman out for bcer. Merzlyakov lay down, stood a candle by his bed, and buried himself in The European Herald.

'But who was she?' thought Ryabovich, looking at the smoke- blackened ceiling.

His neck still seemed to be bathed with oil and he could feel the cold tingle, like that of peppermints, next to his mouth. In his imagination he glimpsed the arms and shoulders of the girl in lilac, the forehead and candid gaze of the little blonde in black, waists, dresses and brooches. He tried to fix his attention on these images, but they jumped about, dissolved, kept flickering. As these images were fading away completely on the wide black ground that everyone sees when they close their eyes, he began to hear hurrying footsteps, a rustling'dress, the sound of a kiss — and a powerful irrational joy took possession of him. He was giving himself up to this joy when he heard the batman come back and report that no beer was to be had. Lobytko became terribly indignant at this, and started pacing up and down again.

'The man's an idiot!' he said, stopping in front of Ryabovich, then in front of Merzlyakov. 'Anyone who can't find beer needs his head

examining! Well, doesn't he? The man's a rogue!'

'Of course you won't find beer here,' said Merzlyakov, without looking up from The European Herald.

'Oh? You think not?' Lobytko persisted. 'Good Lord, you could drop me on the moon and I'd soon find you beer and women! I'll go out and find some now . . . Call me a scoundrel if I come back empty-handed!'

He spent a long time dressing and pulling on his large boots, then silently finished his cigarette and wenr out.

'Rabbek, Grabbek, Labbek,' he muttered, pausing in the outer passage. 'I don't feel like going on my own, damn it! Fancy a walk, eh, Ryabovich?'

Receiving no reply, he came back, slowly undressed and lay down. Merzlyakov sighed, pushed The European Herald to one side and put out the candle.

'Ye-s . . .' murmured Lobytko, lighting a cigarette in the darkness.

Ryabovich pulled the bedding over his head, curled up in a ball, and tried to gather the fleeting images together in his mind and make them into one. But nothing came of it. Soon he fell asleep, and his last thought was that someone had been kind to him and made him happy, that something unusual, absurd, but extremely good and full of joy, had taken place in his life. This thought did nor leave him even while he slept.

When he awoke, he no longer felt the oil on his neck or the chill of peppermint next to his lips, but the same joy welled up inside him as on the previous day. With a feeling of exultation he looked at the window-frames gilded by the rising sun and listened to the sounds of activity coming from the street. A noisy conversation was taking place right by the windows. Ryabovich's battery commander, Lebedetsky, had just caught up the brigade and was talking at the top of his voice - not being in the habit of talking softly - to his sergeant-major.

'Anvthing else?' shouted the commander.

'At yesterday's re-shoeing Boy's foot was injured, your honour. The vet put on day and vinegar. He's being led separately now. Also, craftsman Artemyev got drunk yesterday, your honour, and the Lieutenant ordered him to be put on the limber of the reserve gun-carriage.'

The sergeant-major went on to report that Karpov had forgotten the new cords for the trumpets, and the tent-poles, and that yester- day evening the officers had been the guests of General von Rabbek. In the course of the conversation Lebedetsky's ginger-bearded face showed up at the window. He peered shortsightedly at the officers' sleepy faces and said good-morning.

'Everything in order?' he asked.

'The left wheeler's rubbed hcr withers sore on her new collar,' Lobytko answered, yawning.

The commander sighed, thought for a moment, then bellowed:

'I think 1*11 go on and visit Alexandra Yevgrafovna. Must look her up. Cheerio then. 1*11 catch you up this evening.'

A quarter of an hour later the brigade moved off. As they were going along the road past the estate granaries, Ryabovich looked over to his right at the house. The b1inds were down in the windows. They must all still be asleep indoors. She was asleep too: the girl who had kissed Ryabovich the evening before. He tried to imagine her sleeping. The wide open bedroom window with green branches peeping in, the early morning freshness, the scent ofpoplar, lilac and roses, her bed, a chair with the rustling dress of yesterday draped over it, her slippers, her little watch on the bedside table - all this he pictured clearly and distinctly to himself; but those things that were really vital and individual to her- her features and her sweet, drowsy smile - eluded his imagination like quicksilver before your touch. When they had covered half a verst, he glanced back: the yellow church, the house, the river and the garden were bathed in light; the river with its bright green banks looked very beautiful, reflecting the blue sky, and here and there gleaming silver in the sunlight. Ryabovich took a last look at Mestechki and felt as sad as if he were parting with something very near and dear to him.

As for the sights that lay before him on the journey, they were all only too dull and familiar . . . To right and to left fields ofyoung rye and buckwheat with rooks hopping about; ahead of him - dust and the backs ofheads, behind him - the same dust and faces ... Out in front march four men with sabres: the vanguard. Behind them in a crowd come the singers, and behind the singers the trumpeters on horseback. The vanguard and the singers, 1ike torch-bearers in a funeral procession, forget every so often about the regulation dis- tance and open up a huge gap . . . Ryabovich is with the first gun of the fifth battery. He can see all four batteries ahead of him. To a 1ayman the 1ong, 1umbering co1umn of a brigade on the move appears to be a complicated and confusing muddle; it does not make sense for one gun to have somany people round it and to be drawn by so many horses entangled in strange harness, as if it really were that heavy and terrifying. But to Ryabovich it all makes sense and is therefore extremely boring. He has known for ages why a sturdy bombardier rides alongside the officer at the head of each battery and why he is given a special name; behind this bombardier's back he can see the drivers of the first and then the middle trace; Ryabovich knows that the horses on the left, on which the drivers ride, have one name, and those on the right another - and it is all very boring. Behind the driver come the rwo wheel-horses. On one ofthem rides a driver with yesterday's dust still on his back and a very clumsy, funny-looking piece of wood on his right leg; Ryabovich knows the purpose of this piece of wood and does not find it funny at all. Every single driver brandishes his whip mechanically and from time to time gives a shout. The gun itself is ugly. Sacks of oats covered by a tarpaulin lie on the limber, while the actual gun has tea-pots, sol- diers' packs and haversacks hanging all over it, and gives the appear- ance of a small harmless creature which for some unknown reason has been surrounded by human beings and horses. On its leeward side, swinging their arms, march the six members of the guncrew. Behind the gun begins another set of leaders, drivers and wheelers, behind which another gun is being pulled, as ugly and unimpressive as the first. The second is followed by a third and a fourth; the fourth has an officer to it, and so on. The brigade has six batteries in all, and each battery has four guns. The column stretches for half a verst. Bringing up the rear is the baggage-train, and walking thoughtfully beside it, drooping his long-eared head, marches a highly sympathe- tic character: the donkey Magar, brought back from Turkey by one of the battery commanders.

Ryabovich stared with indifference in front and behind, at the backs of heads and the faces; at any other time he would have become drowsy, but now he was totally immersed in his pleasant new thoughts. At first, when the brigade had only just moved off, he tried to convince himself that the incident with the kiss could be of interest only as a mysterious linle adventure, that basically it was trivial and to give it serious thought was absurd, to say the least; but he sooncastlogicasideand abandoned himselfto dreams ... Firsthe imagined himself in Rabbek's drawing-room, next to a young girl who was like rhe girl in lilac and the little blonde in black; then he closed his eyes and saw himself with another girl, a total stranger whose features were very shadowy, imagined himself talking to her, caressing her, leaning on her shoulder, pictured war and separation, then reunion, supper with his wife, children . ..

'Brakes!' the command rang out every time they went downhill.

He too shouted 'Brakes!' and was afraid lest his shout should interrupt his dreams and bring him back to reality ...

As they were going past some large estate, Ryabovich glanced across the fencing into the grounds. His eye was met by a long avenue straight as a ruler, strewn with yellow sand and planted with young birch-trees . .. With the avidity of a man lost in daydreams he picrured small feminine feet walking on thc yellow sand, and quite unexpectedly a clear impression arose in his imagination of the girl who had kissed him and whose image he had succeeded in conjuring up at supper the day bcfore. This image fixed itself in his brain and did not leave him.

At midday a shout rang out in the rear by the baggage-train:

'Atten-tion! Eyes left! Stand by, officers!'

The Brigade General drove past in a barouche drawn by a pair of white horses. He stopped by the second battery and shouted some- thing which no one could understand. Several officers, including Ryabovich, galloped up to him.

'How goes it then?' the General asked, blinking his red eyes. 'Any sick?'

After receiving answers to his questions, the General, a skinny little man, chewed his lips thoughtfully, then turned to one of the officers and said:

'The wheel-horse driver on your third gun has taken off his knee- guard and hung it on the limber. Punish the rascal.'

He looked up at Ryabovich and went on:

'Your breechings look too slack .. .'

After making several other tedious observations, the General looked at Lobytko and grinned.

'And you're looking very down in the mouth today, Lieutenant Lobytko,' he said. 'Missing Lopukhova, are you? Eh? Gentlemen, he's pining for Lopukhova!'

Lopukhova was a very stout and very tall lady, well past forty. The General, who was partial to substantial females of whatever age, suspected a similar predilection in his officers. The officers smiled respectfully. The General, pleascd with his bitingly witty remark, guffawed, touched his coachman on the back and saluted. The

barouche rolled on its way ...

'Everything I'm dreaming about now and which seems so imposs- ible and unreal, is in fact very commonplace,' thought Ryabovich, watching the clouds ofdust raceafter theGeneral's barouche. 'It's all very ordinary and is experienced by everyone . .. That General, for instance, fell in love once and now he's married and has children. CaptainVakhter also has a wift nnd is loved,eventhough the back of his neck is so red and ugly, and he has no hips either ... Salmanov has coarse features and there's too much Tartar in him, but he had an affair and it ended in marriage . .. I'm just like everyone else and sooner or later I shall have the sameexperiences aseveryoneelse ...'

And the thought of being an ordinary person and leading an ordinary life cheered him and encouraged him. He pictured her and his happiness boldly now, as he had wished, and let nothingstand in the way of his imagination . ..

When the brigade reached its destination that evening and the officers were resting in their tents, Ryabovich, Merzlyakov and Lobytko were sitting round a box having supper. Merzlyakov ate unhurriedly, chewing slowly and reading his copy of The European Herald, which he held on his knees. Lobytko talked incessantly and kept topping up his glass with beer, while Ryabovich, dazed from dreaming all day long, drank and said nothing. After three glasses the beer went to his head, he relaxed, and felt an irresistible urge to tell his comrades about his new experience.

'A strange thing happened to me at those Rabbeks .. .' he began, trying to make his voice sound detached and ironical. 'It was like this: I went along to the billiard-room ...'

He started to relate the incident of the kiss in great detail and a minute later fell silent . .. In that minute he had told it all and was quite amazed to find that the story had taken such a short time. He had thought he could go on talking about the kiss all night. After listening to him, Lobytko, who was a great liar and therefore never believed anyone, eyed him sceptically and sniggered. Merzlyakov raised his eyebrows and said calmly, without looking up from The European Herald:

'Very odd! Throws herself on your neck without warning . .. Must have been some kind of a case.'

'Yes, I suppose so . ..' Ryabovich agreed.

'A similar thing happened to me once,' said Lobytko, looking wide eyed. 'I was travelling last year to Kovno ... I'd bought a second-class tickct . . . The carriagc was packed tight, there wasn't a hopc of getting any sleep, so I gave thc guard half a rouble and he wok mc and my luggage along to a sleepmg compartmcnt ... I lay down .ind pulled the blankct over me ... lt was dark, you undcr- stand. Suddcnly I feel someonc toiich me on thc shouldcr and breathe m my facc. I made a movcment like this with my hand and felt somcone's clbow ... I open my eyes and - would you believe it?-a woman! Black eycs, lips the colour of frcsh salmon, nostrils flaring with passion, breasts like buffcrs -'

'One momcnt,' Merzlyakov interrupted calmly, 'I understand the bit about the breasts, but how could you see her lips if it was dark?'

Lobytko began trymg to wriggle out of it and laughing at Merz- lyakov's lack of imagination. This was too much for Ryabovich. He got up from the box, lay down on his bed and vowed never to confide m anyone agam.

Camp routine set in ... The days flowed past, one very much like the next. All this long time Ryabovich feh, thought and behaved like a man in love. Every morning, whcn the batman handed him his water for washing, he would pour the cold water over his head and remember on each occasion that there was something warm and precious in his life.

In the evenings, when his comrades began talking about love and women, he would listen in, move up closer, and assume the kind of expression that appears on soldiers' faces when they are listening to a tale of a battle in which they themselves took part. And on evenings when the officers had too much to drink and carried out Don Juan-like raids on the 'suburb' with Lobytko the setter at their head, Ryabovich was always sad after taking part, felt deeply guilty and inwardly begged her forgiveness . . . In hours of idleness or during sleepless nights, when he felt a desire to recall his childhood, his father and mother, in fact everything near and dear to him, he never failed to think of Mestechki too, the strange horse, Rabbek, Rab- bek's wife who looked like the Empress Eugenic, the dark room, the bright chink in the door • ..

On the 31st of August he set off from camp on the return journey, not with the whole brigade, but with two batteries. All the way he was excited and preoccupied with his dreams, as if returning to his birthplace. He longed passionately to see the strange horse again, the church, the artificial Rabbek family, the dark room; that 'inner voice' which so often deceives lovers whispered to him for some reason that he was bound to see her . .. And questions tormented him. How would he greet her? What would he talk to her about? Would she have forgotten about the kiss? If the worst came to the worst, he thought, and their paths did not even cross, it would be pleasant for him simply to walk through the dark room and remember . . .

Towards evening the familiar church and white granaries appeared on the horizon. Ryabovich's heartbeat quickened . . . He did not hear anything the officer riding beside him said, was oblivi- ous to everything, and fastened his eyes avidly on the river gleaming in the distance, the roof of the big house and the dovecote around which doves were wheeling, catching the light of the setting sun.

When they reached the church and were receiving their billeting instructions, he expected every second to see the rider appear from behind the church wall and invite the officers to tea ... but the billeting orders were over, the officers had dismounted and wan- dered off into the village, and still there was no rider . . .

'Rabbek will soon be told by the peasants that we've arrived and will send for us,' Ryabovich thought as he went into the hut, and could not understand why his companion was lighting a candle and the batmen were hastening to put the samovars on ...

A deep anxiety came over him. He lay down, then got up and looked out of the window. Was the rider coming? No, there was no rider. He lay down again, got up half an hour later, and, unable to endure his state of anxiety any longer, went out into the street and strode along to the church. By the church wall in the square it was dark and deserted . . . Three soldiers were standing in silence next to one another right at the top of the slope. They gave a start when they saw Ryabovich and saluted. He saluted back and began to descend the familiar footpath.

On the far bank the whole sky was bathed in crimson: the moon was rising; two peasant women were talking loudly to each other as they moved across a vegetable plot picking cabbage leaves; beyond the vegetable plots a dark group ofpeasant huts could be seen . . .But on the near bank it was all just as it had been in May: the footpath, the bushes, the willow trees overhanging the water ... only there was no intrepid nightingale singing, and no scent of poplar and young grass.

Ryabovich reached the gate and looked into the garden. It was dark and quiet there . .. He could make out nothing but the white trunks of the nearest birrh trecs and a small strip of pathway; everything else mcrgcd into one bla<:k mass. Ryabovi<:h listened and looked, straining every ncrve, but when hc had stood therc for about a quarter of an hour wuhout sccing a light or he.iring a sound, hc began to wander ba<:k . . .

Hc went down to thc river. Ahead hc could make out the whitcncss of thc Gencral's bathing-housc and the whitc forms of some sheets hanging over the rail of a little bridge . . . He went up onto thc bridge, stood thcre a while and for no good reason felt one of thc shects. It was rough and cold. He glanced down at the watcr . . . The river was flowing swiftly, g;.rgling very faintly round the supports of the bathing-house. The red moon was reflected dose by the left bank; littlc wavcs ran through the reflcwon, strctching it out, breakmg it into pieces and apparently intcnt on carrying it away . . .

'How absurd! How absurd!' thought Ryabovi<:h, as he gazcd at the flowing water. 'How stupid it all is!'

Now that he was not expecting anything, he could see the incident of the kiss, his impaticnce, his vague hopcs and disappointment, in a dear hght. It no longer seemed strange that hc had waited in vain for the General's rider and that he would never see the girl who had a"identally kissed him instead of someone else; on the contrary, it would have been strange if he had seen her . . .

The water was flowing hc kncw not where or why. It had flowed |ust like this in May; from the small river it had poured in the month of May into a big one, from the big river into the sea, then had become vapour and turned into rain, and maybe what Ryabovich was looking at now was that very same water . . . Why? For what reason?

And the whole world, the whole of life, struck Ryabovich as an unintelligible, pointless joke . . . Raising his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of an unknown woman had accidentally been kind to him, he remembered the dreams and images of the summer, and his life struck him as extraordinarily barren, wret<:hed and drab . . .

When he returned to his hut, not one of his fellow officers was to be found. The batman informed him that they had all gone to the house of 'General Fontryabkin', who had sent a rider for them . . . For a brief moment a feeling of joy blazed up in Ryabovich, but he immediately extinguished it, got into bed, and in defiance of his fate, as if wanting to spite it, did not go to the General's.

No Comment

In the fifth century, just as now, every morning the sun rose, and every evening it retired to rest. In the morning, as the first rays kissed the dew, the earth would come to life and the air be filled with sounds of joy, hope and delight, while in the evening the same earth would grow quiet again and be swallowed up in grim darkness. Each day, each night, was like the one before. Occasionally a dark cloud loomed up and thundergrowled angrily from it, or a star would doze off and fall from the firmament, or a monk would run by, pale-faced, to tell the brethren that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger -and that would be all, then once again each day, each night, would be just like the one before.

The monks toiled and prayed, while their Abbot played the organ, composed music and wrote verses in Latin. This wonderful old man had an extraordinary gift. Whenever he played the organ, he did so with such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown dull as they neared the end of their lives, could not restrain their tears when the sounds of the organ reached them from his cell. Whenever he spoke about something, even the most commonplace things, such as the trees, the wild beasts, or the sea, it was impossible to listen to him without a smile or a tear; it seemed that the same chords were sounding in his soul as in the organ. Whereas if he was moved by anger, or by greatjoy, or if he was talking about something terrible or sublime, a passionate inspiration would take hold of him, his eyes would flash and fill with tears, his face flush and his voice rumble like thunder, and as they listened to him the monks could feel this inspiration taking over their souls; in those magnificent, won- derful moments his power was limitless, and if he had ordered the fathers to throw themselves into the sea, then, to a man, they would all have rushed rapturously to carry out his will.

1888

His music, his voice, and the verses in which he praised God, the heavens and the earth, were for the monks a source of constant joy. As life was so unvaried, there were times when spring and autumn, the flowers and the trees, beganto pall on them,theirearstiredofthe sound of the sea, and the song of the birds became irksome; but the talents of the old Abbot were as vital to them as their daily bread.

Many years passed, and still each day, each night, was just like the one before. Apan from the wild birds and beasts, not a single living soul showed itselfnearthe monastery. The nearest human habitation was faraway, and to get to it from the monasteryor vice versa, meant crossmg a hundre-d versts or so of wilderness on foot. The only people who ventured to cross the wilderness werethose who spumed hfe, had renounced it, and were going to the monastery as though to the grave.

Imagine the ^nks' astonishment, therefore, when one night a man knocked at their gates who, it transpired, came from the town and was the most ordinary of sinful monals who love life. Before askmg the Abbot's blessmg and offering up a prayer, this man called for f^^ and wine. 'IX'hen he was asked how he, a townsman, came to be in the wilder^^, he answered wnh a long sportsman's yam about how he had gone out hunung, had too much to drink, and lost his way. To the suggestion that he take the monastic vow and save his soul, he replied with a smile and the words: Tm no mate of yours.'

After he had eaten and drunk his fill, he looked around at the monks who had been waiting on him, and shaking his hcad reproachful'y, he said:

'What a way to arry on! All you monks bother about is eating and drinking. Is that the way to save your souls? Just think, whilst you're Sining here m peace and quiet, eaung, drinlung, and dreammg of heavenly bliss, your fellow humans are perishing and going down to hell. Why don't you look at what's gomg on in the town! Some are dying of hunger there, others have more gold than they know what to do with, and wallow in debauchery till they die like flies stuck to honey. People have no faith or pnnciples! Whose job is it to save them? To preach to them? Surely not mine, when I'm drunk from morning till night? Did God give you fairh. a humble spirit and a loving hea" just to Sit around here within four walls twiddling your thumbs?'

Although the townsman's drunken words were insolent and pro- fane, they had a strange effect upon the Abbot. The old man glanced round at his monks, paled, and said:

'Brothers, what he says is right! Through their folly and their frailry, rhose por ^»ple are mdeed perishing in sin and unbelief, whilst we sit back, as though it had nothing to do with us. Should I not be the one to go and recall them to Christ whom they have forgonen?'

The townsman's words had carried the old man away, and the very next morning he took his staff in his hand, bade the brethren farewell, and set off for the town. And the monks were left without his music, his verses, and his fine speeches.

A month ofboredom went by, then another, and still the old man did not return. At last, after the third month, they heard the familiar tapping of his staff. The monks rushed to meet him and showered him with questions, but he, instead of being glad to see them again, broke into bitter tears and would not say a single word. The monks saw he had aged greatly and grown much thinner; his face was strained and full of a deep sorrow, and when he broke into tears he looked like a man who had been mortally offended.

The monks too burst into tears and began begging him to tell them why he was weeping, why he looked so downcast, but he would not say a word and locked himself away in his cell. Seven days he stayed there, would not eat or drink or play the organ, and just wept. When the monks knocked at his door and implored him to come out and share his grief with them, they were met with a profound silence.

At last he came out. Gathering all the monks about him, he began with a tear-stained face and an expression of sorrow and indignation to tell them what had happened to him in the past three months. His voice was calm and his eyes smiled while he described his journey from the monastery to the town. As he went along, he said, the birds had sung to him and the brooks babbled, and tender young hopes had stirred in his soul; as he walked, he felt like a soldier going into battle, confident of victory; and in his reverie he walked along composing hymns and verses and did not notice when his journey was over.

But his voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and his whole being burned with wrath when he started talking of the town and its people. Never in his life had he seen, never durst imagine, what confronted him when he entered the town. Only now, in his old age, had he seen and understood for the first time how mighty was the devil, how beautiful wickedness, and how feeble, cowardly and faint-hearted were human beings. As luck would have it, the first dwelling that he went into was a house of ill fame. Some fifty people with lots of money were eating and drinking immoderate quantities of wine. Intoxicated by the wine, they sang songs and bandied about terrible, disgusting words that no God-fearing person could ever bring himself to utter; completely uninhibited, boisterous and happy, they did not fear God, the devil or death, but said and did exactly as they wished, and went wherever their lusts impelled tht-m. And the wine, as dear as amber and fizzing with gold, must have been unbearably sweet and fragrant, because everyone drinking it smiled blissfully and wanted to drink more. In rcsponsc to men's smiles it smiled back, and sparkled joyfully when it was drunk, as ifit knew what devilish charm lurked in its sweetness.

More and more worked up and weeping with rage, the old man continued to describe what he had seen. On a table among the revellers, he said, stood a half-naked harlot. It would be difficult to imagme or to find in nature anything more lovely and captivating. ^is foul creature, young, with long hair, dusky skin, dark eyes and full lips, shamcless and brazen, flashed her snow-white teeth and smiled as ifto say: 'Look at me, how brazen I am and beautiful!' Silk and brocade hung down in graceful folds from her shoulders, but her beauty would not be hid, and like young shoots in the spring earth, eagerly thrust through the folds of her garments. The brazen woman drank wine, sang songs, and gave herself to anyone who wished.

Then the old man, waving his arms in anger, went on to describc the horse-races and bull fights, the theatrcs, and the artists' work- shops where they made paintings and sculptures in clay of naked women. His speech was inspired, beautiful and melodious, as if he were playing on invisible chords, and the monks, rooted to the spot, devoured his every word and could scarcely breathe for excitement . . . When he had finished describing all the devil's charms, the beauty of wickedness and the captivating graces of the vile female body, the old man denounced rhe devil, turned back to his cell and closed the door behind him . . .

When he came out of his cell next morning, there was not a single monk left in the monastery. They had all run away to the town.

Let Me Sleep

Night-time.

Varka the nursemaid, a girl ofabout thirteen, rocks the cradle with the baby in and croons very faintly:

Bayu-bayushki-bayu, I*ll sing a song for you . ..

In front of the icon burns a small green lamp; across the entire room, from one corner to another, stretches a cord with baby-clothes and a pair of big black trousers hanging on it. The icon-lamp throws a large patch of green onto the ceiling, and the baby-clothes and trousers cast long shadows on the stove, the cradle, and Varka . .. When the lamp begins to flicker, the green patch and the shadows come to life and are set in motion, as if a wind were blowing them. It is stuffy. The room smells ofcabbage soup and bootmaker's wares.

The baby is crying. It grew hoarse and wore itself out crying ages ago, but still it goes on screaming and goodness knows when it will stop. And Varka wants to sleep. Her eyes keep closing, her head droops, her neck aches. She can scarcely move her lips or eyelids, her face feels all parched and wooden, and her head seems to have become no bigger than a pin*s.

'Bayu-bayushki-bayushe croons, 'I'll cook some groats for you .. .*

The cricket chirps in the stove. Behind the door, in the next room, the master and his apprentice Afanasy are snoring gently . . . And these sounds, along with the plaintive squeaking of the cradle and Varka's own soft crooning, all blend into that soothing night music which is so sweet to hear when you yourself are going to bed. But now that music merely irritates and oppresses Varka, because it makes her drowsy, and sleeping*s forbidden; please God she doesn*t drop off, or master and mistress will thrash her.

The icon-lamp flickers. The green patch and the shadows are set in motion, steal into Varka's half-open, motionless eyes, and form themselves into misty visions in her half-sleeping brain. She sees dark clouds, chasing each other across the sky and screaming like the baby. But now the wind gets up, the clouds vanish, and Varka sees a broad highway swimming in mud; along this highway strings of carts arc moving, pcoplc trudging with knapsacb on thcir backs, and vagut- shadows flitting to and fro; on eithcr side, through thc gnm, cold mist shc can scc forests. Suddcnly thc shadows and the pcoplc with the knapsacks all fall down in the wct mud. 'What are you doing?' asks Varka. 'Going to slccp, going to sleep!' thcy reply. And they fall into a sweet, dcep slumbcr, whilst on the tclcgraph wircs crows and magpies sit, scrcaming likc the baby and trying to wakc thcm.

'Uavu-ha_vujht/-ha)'i<, I'll sing a song for you . . .' croons Varka and sces herself now in a dark, stuffy hut.

Yefim Stcpanov, her dead father, is tossing and turning on thc tloor. She cannot see him, but she he.irs him rolling abom on the floor and groan ing. Hc says his 'rupture's burst'. The pain is so great that he cannot utter a single word, only draw in sharp breaths and bcat a tattoo with his tccth:

'Bm-bm-bm-bm-bm . . .'

Pdageya, Varka's mother, has run up to the big house to tell them that Yefim is dying. She's becn gone agcs, it's time she was back. Varka lies awake on thc stovc, listening to her father's 'bm-bm-bm'. But now she hears someone drive up to the hut. Thcy've sent along the young doctor from town who is staying with them. The doctor comes into the hut; it's too dark to see him, but Varka hears him cough and fumble with the door.

'Let's have some light,' he says.

'Bm-bm-bm . . .' Yefim answers.

Pdageya rushes to the stove and begins looking for the broken pot with the matches. A minute passes in silence. The doctor rummages in his pockets and lights his own match.

'I won't be a minute, sir,' says Pelageya, rushes out of the hut and returns soon after with a candle-end.

Yefim's cheeks are pink and his eyes have a strange steely glint, as if he can see right through the hut and the doctor.

'Well now, what have you been up to?' says the doctor, bending over him. 'Ah! Been like this long, have you.?'

'Beg pardon, sir? My hour has come, your honour . . . I'm not for this world . . .'

'Nonsense . . . We'll get you better!'

'That's as you please, your honour, and we're much obliged to you, but we know the way it is ... When death comes, it comes.'

The doctor is busy for about a quarter of an hour bending over

Yefim; rhen he gets up and says:

'There's no more I can do - you musr go to the hospiral and they'll operate on you. And you must go straight away, without fail! lt's rarher late, they'll all be asleep ar the hospital, but never mind, I'll give you a note. Right?'

'Buthowcan heget there, sir?'says Pelageya. 'Wehaven't a horse.'

'Don't worry, I'll ask them at the house to let you have one.'

The doctor leaves, the candle goes our, the 'bm-bm-bm' begins again . .. Half an hour later someone drives up to the hur. They've sent along a cart ro take Yefim to the hospital. He gets ready and goes . . .

But now it's morning, fine and bright. Pelageya is nor there: she's walked to rhe hospital to find our what's happening to Yefim. Somewhere a baby's crying, and Varka can hear someone with her voice singing:

'Bjyu-bjyusfcki-bjy«, I'll sing a song for you . . .'

Pelageya comes back; she crosses herself and whispers:

'They put him to rights last night, but early this morning he gave up the ghost . . . May he rest in everlasting peace . . . They got him too late, they said . . . He should have come before . . .'

Varka goes into the wood and cries there, but all of a sudden someone strikes her so violently on the back of the head rhat she bangs her forehead against a birch trunk. She raises her eyes and sees her master, the bootmaker, standing in front of her.

'What are you up to,' he says, 'you lousy slur? Sleep while the kid's crying, would you?'

And he gives her ear a painful twisr. Varka tosses her head, rocks rhe cradle and croons her song. The green patch and the shadows from rhe rrousers and baby-clothes sway, wink at her, and soon possess her brain once more. Once more she sees rhe highway, swimming in mud. The people with knapsacks on their backs and the shadows are sprawled out fast asleep. Looking ar them, Varka feels so dreadfully sleepy; how lovely it would be to lie down, but Pelageya, her morher, is walking along beside her, urging her on. They are hurrying to the town together to look for work.

'Give us alms, for the dear Lord's sake!' her mother begs the passers-by. 'Be merciful unto us, good people!'

'Give the baby here!' someone's familiar voice answers. 'Give the baby here!' the same voice repeats, now harsh and angry. 'You asleep, you little wretch?'

Varka jumps up, looks round and realises what's going on: there's no highway, no Pelageya, no passers-by, there's no one but the mistress who's standing in the middle of the little room and hascome to feed the baby. While the mistress, fat and broad-shouldered, feeds the baby and tries to soothe it, Varka stands looking at her, waiting for her to finish. Already there's a bluish light outside, and the shadows and green patch on the ceiling are growing noticeably paler. Soon it will be morning.

'Here!' says the mistress, buttoning up her night-dress. 'He's cry- ing. He's had a spell put on him.'

Varka takes the baby, puts it in the cradle and begins rocking again. The green patch and the shadows gradually disappear, so now there is no one to steal into her head and befuddle her brain. But she wants to sleep as badly as before, oh so badly! Varka rests her head on the edge of the cradle and rocks it with her whole body to overcome her sleepiness, but her lids still stick together and her head is heavy.

'Varka, make up the stove!' the master's voice resounds from the other room. Time to get up, then, and start the day's work. Varka leaves the cradle and runs to the shed for firewood. She is glad. Running and moving about are easier than sitting down: you don't feel so sleepy. She brings in the wood, makes up the stove, and begins to feel her shrivelled face smoothing out again and her thoughts clearing.

'Varka, put on the samovar!' bawls the mistress.

Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely had time to light the splinters and poke them into the samovar before there comes a fresh order:

'Varka, clean the master's galoshes!'

She sits down on the floor, cleans the galoshes and thinks it would be nice to poke her head into the big deep galosh and have a quick doze . . . All of a sudden the galosh starts to grow, swells, fills the whole room, Varka drops her brush, but immediately gives a toss of the head, opens her eyes wide and forces herself to stare at things hard, so that they don't stan growing and moving about.

'Varka, wash down the outside steps! The customers mustn't see them in that state.'

Varka washes the steps, tidies the rooms, then makes up the other stove and runs round to the shop. There's lots to be done, she doesn't have a moment to herself.

But what she finds hardest of all is standing on one spot at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. Her head keeps falling towards the table, the potatoes dance before her eyes, the knife slips from her hands, while the mistress, fat and bad-tempered, crowds round her with her sleeves rolled up, talking so loudly that it makes Varka's ears ring. Waiting at table, doing the washing, sewing: these, too, are agonising. There are moments when she simply wants to forget everything, flop down on the floor and sleep.

The day goes by. Watching the windows grow dark, Varka rubs her hardening temples and smiles without herself knowing why. The evening gloom caresses her heavy eyes and promises her a deep sleep soon. In the evening there are visitors.

'Varka, samovar!' bawls the mistress.

The samovar is a small one and has to be heated half a dozen times before the visitors have finished drinking. After the tea, Varka stands on the same spot for an hour on end, looking ar the visitors and awaiting orders.

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

She darts off and tries to run as fast as possible, to drive her sleepiness away.

'Varka, run and fetch some vodka! Varka, where's the corkscrew? Varka, clean some herrings!'

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

'Varka, rock the baby!' echoes the final order.

The cricket chirps in the stove; the green patch on the ceiling and the shadows from the trousers and baby-clothes steal once more into Varka's half-open eyes, wink at her and befuddle her brain.

'Bayu-bayushki-bayu,' she croons, 'I'll sing a song for you . . .'

And the baby screams and wears itself out screaming. Varka sees once more the muddy highway, the people with knapsacks, Pelageya, her father Yefim. She understands everything, she recog- nises everyone, but through her half-sleep there is one thing that she simply cannot grasp: the nature of the force that binds her hand and foot, that oppresses her and makes life a misery. She looks all round the room, searching for this force in order to rid herself of it; but cannot find it. Worn out, she makes one last, supreme effort to concentrate her attention, looks up at the winkinggreen patch, and, as she listens to the sound of the crying, finds it, this enemy that is making life a misery.

c. - 10 195

lt is the baby.

She laughs in astonishment: how could she have failed to notice such a simple little thing before! The green patch, the shadows, and the cricket, also seem to be laughing in astonishment.

The delusion takes possession of Varka. She gets up from her stool, and walks up and down the room. There is a broad smile on her face and her eyes are unblinking. The thought that in a moment she will be rid of the baby that binds her hand and foot, tickles her with delight . . . To kill the baby, then sleep, sleep, sleep . . .

Laughing, winking at the green patch and wagging her finger at it, Varka creeps up to the cradle and bends over the baby. Having smothered it, she lies down quickly on the floor, laughs with joy that now she can sleep, and a minute later is sleeping the sleep of the dead ...

Notes

We give below the original titles in transliteration of all the stories in this volume, with brief notes on points in some of them that may be of help or interest to English readers.

The texts from which the translations were made are those of A.P. Chekhov: Complete Collection of the Works and Letters in Thirty Volumes published by the Gorky Institute of World Literature of the USSR Academy of Sciences (Moscow, 1974-82). These are the revised versions prepared by Chekhov for his Collected Works pub- lished in 1899-1902.

The system of transliteration used throughout is that of The Oxford Chekhov, with the following qualification.

In many of the early stories Chekhov uses proper names that sound comic, carry comic allusions, or are in other ways meaningful. Simply to transliterate such names fails to convey to the English reader an element that is present in the original and sometimes extremely important. To convert a comic Russian name into a comic English one is not satisfactory, either, since the intrusion of an English form into a Russian story is bound to jar. Moreover, in English comic surnames are comparatively rare and immediately stand out, whereas in Russian they are common and there is nothing very unusual about being called Toothless (Bezzubov) or Parsnip (Pasternak). In rendering these names, therefore, we have tried to convey something of the meaning and flavour of the original, to make the names sound plausibly Russian, and not to let them stand out more in English than they do in Chekhov's Russian. Often this involved a complicated juggling act. It inevitably meant that in the comic stories we have departed from the strict system oftranslitera- tion.

Anglicised spellings have been preferred for 'britchka', 'datcha', 'icon', 'kopeck' and 'Tartar'. With the exception ofverst (two-thirds of a mile), units of measurement have been converted into British standards.

rapture Radost (1883)

p.9 'clerical officer of the founeenth grade'. The bonom rung m the

Table of Ranks instituted for the civil service by Peter the Great.

THE DEATH OF A CIVIL SERVANTSmert chmovnika (1883)

pl I 'The Chimes of Normandy'. Comic opera to music by Planquene.

AN INCIDENT AT LAwSluchay iz sudebnoy praktiki (1883)

FAT AND THIN Tolsty i tonky (1883)

p. 17 'Herostratos'. Ephesian who set fire to the temple of Diana. 'Ephialu:s'. Greek traUor at Thermopylae, 480 B.C. 'I've got my St Stanislas'.The order of St Stanislas, a standard award for government service.

THE DAUCHTER OF ALBION Doch Albiorra (1883)

p.20 'Wilka Charlesovna Tvice'. Our partial repatriation of the strictly transliterated Uilka Charlzovna Tfays. 'Uilka' is perhaps Gryabov's version of Willa, 'Charlzovna' is the patronymic meaning 'daughter of Charles', and 'Tfays' perhaps Gryabov's attempt at pronouncing Twiss or Thwaites; although the general opinion is that Chekhov coined the surname from 'twice'. p.2 I 'Bit different from England, eh?!' Now a set expression, applied scathingly to things Russian.

OYSTERS Ustritsy (I 884)

A DREADFUL NIGHT Strashnaya Noch (1884)

Horror stories, spiritualism and the paranormal were much in vogue in the Moscow of the I 880s. The words 'The end of your life is at hand' (p.26) were addressed to Chekhov himself at a seance by the spirit ofTurgenev. This was one of the very first of Chekhov's early works to be translated into English (Fugitive coffins: a weird Rus- sian tale by Anton Petrovitch (sic) Tschechoff. Translated from the Russian by Grace Eldredge. Short Stories: a magazine of select stories. New York, 1902, July, p. 50-53).

MINDS IN FERMENT (FROM THE ANNALS OF A TOWN)Brozheniye umov (lz letopisi odnogo goroda) (1884)

THE COMPLAINTS BOOK Zhalobnaya kniga (1884)

THE CHAMELEON Khameleon (1884)

THE HUNTSMAN Yeger (1885)

THE MALEFACTOR Zloumyshlennik (1885)

p.46 'a spockerel'. The Russian fish known to science as the 'asp' (Aspius aspius).

A MAN OF IDEAS Myslitel (1885)

p.50 'Or take spelling, for example.' What Yashkin objects to in Russ1an spelling concerns the redundant letter yat, which was abolished m the spelling reform of 1918. We have translated this into a roughly comparable feature of English spelling.

SERGEANT PRISHIBEYEV Unter Prishibeyev (1885)

We have not rendered this meaningful name, partly because it appears to be impossible (it manages to convey bruising, intimidat- ing, depressing and actually killing all in one word), and partly because the story is already well known in English by this title.

THE MISFORTUNE Gore (1885)

ROMANCE WITH DOUHLE BASS Roman s kontrabasom (1886)

THE WITCH Vedma (1886)

GRISHA Grisha (1886)

KIDS Detvora (1886)

REVENGE Mest (1886)

p.88 "vim'. Popular Russian card 1\ame of the whist family.

EASTER NIGHT Svyatoyu nochyu (1886)

Although Chekhov skilfully implies that the canticles quoted by leronim are the work of Nikola}' the monk, they are in fact accepted Russian Orthodox canticles (akafisty) that he would have known well from his religious upbringing. p.96 *ikos\ The part of the canticle following the first collect-hymn. It sets out the acts performed by the subject of the canticle.

THE LITTLE JOKEShutochka (1886)

THE OBJET D ART Proizvedeniye iskusstva (1886) p. 106 'No. 223 of the Stock Exchange Gazette' This No. contained an instalment of Zola's novel L'Oeuvre, which concerns a paimer who transfers his affections from his wife to his paintings of the female nude.

THE CHORUS-GIRL Khoristka (1886) DREAMS Mechty (1886) THE ORATOR Orator (1886)

p. 123 'aut mortuis nihil beiie'. Nonsense version of De mortuis aut nihil aut bene ('Of the dead speak well or not at all'}.

VANKA Vanka (1886)

VEROCHKA Vrrochka (18117)

p.lJf. 'as fony thousand others'. Common humorous expression of the time adapted from Hamlet's phrase 'forry thousand brothers' (Act V, Scene 1).

A DRAMA Drama (1887)

p. l4l. 'The Cause'. Radical literary periodical pubhshed in St Petersburg from 1866 to 1888. Medusina's play is a parody of rhe 'ideologically commnted' drama of Chckhov's day.

TYPHUS Ti( (1887)

NOTtS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A QUICK-TEMPF.RLD MAN lz Mpisok vipyl-

chivngo cheloveka (1887)

THE REED-PIPESvire/ (1887)

THE KISS Potse!uy ( 1887)

p. 171 'Plevna'. Town in northern Bulgaria (now Pleven) besieged by the Kussians in the Russo-Turkish war of 1877-1878.

NO COMMENT Bez wglaviya (1888)

let me SLEEPSpat khochetsya (1888)

The story has become famous in English under Constance Garnett's title Slupy. This is neither very accurate, however, nor does its whimsical tone do justice to the spirit of the work. Katherine Mans- field's Tht> Child-Who-Was-Tired, published in her collection ln a German Pension (1911 ), is a creative imitation of Chekhov's story, which she appears to have read first in a German translation.

Select Bibliography

Compiled by Patrick Miles

To date at least 264 of Chckhov's early works have been translated into English. The following is a list in chronological order of anthologies containing more than one storv. In brackets is given the number of early stories the anthologv contains, with the titles of those that also feature in the present volume. Only six anthologies are currently in print.

The Black Munk, andother stories. Translated from the Russian by R.E.C. Long. London, Duckworth & Co., 1903. (7 stories, includingLer Me Sleep).

The Kiss, and other stories. Translated from the Russian by R.E.C. Long. London, Duckworth & Co., 190!;. (10 storits, including The Kiss. Ver- ochka, The Reed-Pipe, Oysters, The Misfortune.)

Stories ofRussian Life. Translated from the Russian by Manan Fell. Lon- don, Duckworth & Co., 1915. (20 stories, including Easter Night, The Malefnctor, Vanka, Dreams, The Deulh of a Civil Servant, Kids. Fat and Thin, No Comment.)

Russian Silhouettes; more stories of Russian life. Translatcd from thc Rus- sian by Marian Fell. London, Duckworth & Co., 1915. ( 19 stories, includ- ing Grisha, Rapture, The Chorus-Girl, The Orator.)

The Steppe, and other stories. Translated by Adeline Lister Kaye. London, W. Heinemann, 1915. (4 stories, including Vanka.)

The Bet and other stones. Translated by 5. Koreliansky and J.M. Murry. Dublin, Maunsel & Co., Ltd., 1915. (9 stories.)

The Tales ofTchehov. Translated by Constance Garnett. London, Chatto & Wind us, 1916-22. 13 volumes. ( 147 stories, including all but An Incident at Law, A Dreadful Night, The Complaints Book, A Man of Ideas, Sergeant Prishibeyev, Romance with Double-Bass, Revenge.)

Nine Humorous Tales. Translated by Isaac Goldberg and Henry T. Schnitt- kind. Boston, The Stratford Company, 1918. (9 stories, includingThc Objet d'Art, Revenge.)

The Grasshopper and other stories. Translated with introduction by A.E. Chamot. London, S. Paul & Co.,Ltd., 1926. (6 stories, includingA Dreadful Night.)

Pl.iys aml stories. Translatrd l>y S.S. Kotdiansky. London, J.M. Denl & Sons, Ltd., 1937. (Everyman's Library.) (4 slories, including Typhus.)

SIJort storivs. English translation l>y A.E. Chamot. London, The Commo- dore Press, 1941. (10 stories.)

The Portable CIJekhov. Edited, and with an introduction by Avrahm Yar- molinsky. New York, The Viking Press, 1947. ( 14 siories, including Vanka, The Chamdeoti, Sergcant l'rishii>eyev, The Malefactor, Dreams, The Kiss.)

TIJe Woan in the Glse, aml other stories. Translated l>yApril FitzLyon and Kyril Zinovieff and with an introduction l>y Andrew G. Colin. London, Spearman-Calder, 19.53. (21 stories, including Romatice with Double- Bass.)

Short novels and stories. Translaied l>y Ivy Litvinov. Moscow, Foreign Languages Puhlishing House, 1954. (6 stories, including The Death of a Cwil Servant, The Chameleon, The \Usfortutw, Vanka.)

The Unknoun Chekhov; stories aml other mritmgs hitherto untranslated. Translated with an introduction by Avrahm Yarmolinsky. New York, N'uonday Press, 1954. (14 stories.)

St. l'eter's lJ.Jy, and other tales. Translated with an introduction by Frances H. Jones. New York, Capricorn Books, 1959. (22 stories.)

Selec/edStories. N'ewly Translated hy Ann Dunnigan. With a Foreword by Ernest J. Simmons. New York, New American Library, 1960. (A Signet Classic.) (15 stories, including The Kiss.)

Early Stories. Translated l>y Nora Gottlieb. London, Bodley Head, 1960. ( 14 stories, including Sergeant Prishibeyev.)

Selected Stortes. Translated with an inrroduction by Jessie Coulson. Lon- don, Oxford Umversity Press, 1963. (3 stories.)

The Image of Chekhov. Forty stories. Translated by Robert Payne. New York, Knopf, 1963. (24 stories, including Rapture, The Death of a Civil Servant, The Huntsman, The Malefactor, Sergeant Prishibeyev, Vanka, Typhus, Let Me Sleep.)

Late-blooming flowers and other stories. Translated by I.C. Chertok and Jean Gardner. New York, McGraw-Hill, 1964. (3 stories, including The Little Joke, Verochka.)

Lady with Lapdog, and other stories. Translated with an Introduction by David Magarshack. Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1964. (Penguin Classics.) (3 stories, including The Misfortune.)

The Thief, and othcr tales. Translated by Ursula Smith. New York, Vantage Press, 1964. (19 stories.)

Shadows and Light. Translated by Miriam Morton. New York. Doubleday, 1968. (8 stories, including The Malefactor, Vanka, Oysters.)

TheSinner from Toledo, audother stories. Translated by Arnold Hinchliffe. Rutherford, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1972. (17stories, includ- ing The Witch, Romance with Double-bass, The LittleJoke, No Comment.)

The Short Stories o( Anton Chekhov. Translated by Helen Muchnic. Avon (Connecticut), Carda von Press, 1973. (7 stories, including The Malefactor, Let Me Sleep, Dreams, Vanka.)

Short Stories. Translated and with an introduction by Elizaveta Fen. Lon- don, Folio Society, 1974. (5 stories, including Romance with Double-Bass, Let Me Sleep.)

Chuckle with Chekhov. A Selection ofComic Stories. Chosen and translated from the Russian by Harvey Pitcher in collaboration with James Forsyth. Cromer, Swallow House Books, 1975. (19 stories, including Romance with Double-Bass, An Incident at Law, A Man of Ideas, Revenge, The Objet d'Art, A Dreadful Night, Notes from the Jourtial of a (Juick-Tempered Man, A Drama, No Comment, The Complaints Book. Harvcy Pitcher wishes to thank James Forsyth for his kindness in agreeing to allow these ten translations to he used as working drafts in preparing the prcsent volume.)

A Chronology of Anton Chekhot;

All dates are given Old Style.

1860 16 or 17 January. Born in Taganrog, a port on the Sea of Azov

in the south of Russia.

1876 His father goes bankrupi. The family movcs to Moscow,

le.iving Anton to finish his schooling.

1879 Joins family and enrols in the Medical faculty of Moscow

Umversity.

111110 Rcgins to contrihute to Strekoza ('Dragonfly'), a St Pctersburg

comic weekly.

111112 Slarts to write short stones and a gossip column for Oskolki

('Splinters') and to depcnd on writing for an income.

18H4 Graduates in medicine. Shows early sympioms of tuberculosis.

1885-6 Contributes to Peterbitrgskaya gazeta ('St Pelersburg Gazette') and Novoye vremya ('New Time').

1886 March. Letter from D. V. Gngorovich encourages him to take

writing senously.

First collection of stories: Motley Stories.

1H87 Literary reputation grows fast. Second collection of stories: In

the Twilight.

19 November. First Moscow performance of Ivanov; mixed reception.

1888 First publication (The Steppe) in a serious literary journal,

Severny vestnik ('The Northern Herald').

1H119 31 January. First St Petersburg performance of Ivanov: widely

and favourably reviewed.

June. Death of brother Nicholas from tuberculosis.

April-December. Crosses Siberia to visit the penal settlement on Sakhalin Island. Returns via Hong Kong, Singapore, and Ceylon.

First trip to western Europe: Italy and France.

March. Moves with family to small country estate at Melikhovo, 50 miles south of Moscow.

First meeting with Tolstoy.

17 October. First-disastrous-performance of TheSeagullin St Petersburg.

Suffers severe haemorrhage.

1897-8 Winters in France. Champions Zola's defence of Dreyfus.

Beginning of collaboration with the newly founded Moscow Art Theatre. Meets Olga Knipper. Spends the winter in Yalta, where he meets Gorky.

17 December. First Moscow Art Theatre performance of The Seagull: successful.

Completes the building of a house in Yalta, where he senles with mother and sister.

26 October. First performance by Moscow Art Theatre of Uncle Vanya (wrmen ?1896).

1899-1901 First collected edition of hii works (10 volumes).

1901 31 January. Three Sisters first performed.

25 May. Marries Olga Knipper.

1904 17 January. First performance of The Cherry Orchard.

2 July. Dies in Badenweiler, Germany.