Selected Stories

The Father

“TOTELL YOU THE TRUTH, I’ve had a drop. … Excuse me, but on my way here I passed an alehouse, and because it’s so hot I had a couple of small bottles. It’s hot, my boy!” Old Musatov pulled out of his pocket something that looked like a rag, and wiped his wasted, beardless face with it.

“I’ve come only for one little minute, Boris, my angel,” he continued, not looking at his son, “but on a highly important matter. Excuse me, maybe I’m disturbing you. … Would you, my dear, have ten rubles—only till Tuesday? You see, yesterday I was supposed to pay the rent, but the money, you see—none! Not if they hanged me for it!”

Young Musatov went out without a word and could be heard whispering outside the door with the landlady and his colleagues who rented the dacha with him. He was back within three minutes and silently handed his father a ten-ruble note. Without even glancing at it the old man thrust it into his pocket and said, “Merci. … Well, and how are things going? It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”

“Yes, a long time. Not since Easter, in fact.”

“Half a dozen times I made up my mind to come and see you, but then, there was never time. First one thing and then another. It’s simply killing!… But I’m lying. Everything I said is a lie. Don’t believe me, Borenka. I said I’d pay you back the ten rubles on Tuesday—don’t believe that either. Don’t you believe one word I say. I haven’t a thing to do; it’s simply laziness, drunkenness. … And I’m ashamed to be seen in the street in these clothes. Excuse me, Borenka. Three times now, I’ve sent the girl to you for money, and I wrote pitiful letters. I lied. I’m ashamed of fleecing you, my angel. I know you can hardly make ends meet—you live on locusts—but I’ve got more gall than I know what to do with. Such gall you could exhibit for money! Excuse me, Borenka. I tell you this in all honesty because I can’t look at your angel face and not be affected.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the old man sighed deeply and said, “Would you treat me to a beer, maybe?”

The son said nothing but went out, and again there was the sound of whispering outside the door. A little later, when the beer was brought in, the old man became animated at the sight of the bottles, and his tone abruptly changed.

“I went to the races the other day, my boy,” he said, with a furtive look in his eyes. “There were three of us; we each put up a ruble and bought a ticket on Frisky. And thanks to that Frisky, we got back thirty-two rubles apiece! I can’t live without the races, son. The sport of noblemen. My old shrew always gives me a drubbing when I go. But I go anyhow. I love it, no matter what!”

Boris, a fair-haired young man with a melancholy, impassive face, slowly paced the room and listened to his father in silence. When the old man paused to clear his throat he turned to him and said, “The other day I bought myself a new pair of boots, but they seem to be too tight for me. Won’t you take them? I’ll let you have them cheap.”

“If you like.” The old man nodded and made a face. “But for the same price. No discount.”

“All right. You can take them on credit.”

The son crawled under the bed and got them out. The father took off his own clumsy boots, which were obviously secondhand, and tried on the new ones.

“Just right!” he said. “Very well, you let me keep them, and Tuesday, when I get my pension, I’ll send you the money for them. … I’m lying again.” Suddenly he fell into his former lachrymose tone. “That was a lie about the races, too—and the pension. … And you are deceiving me, Borenka. I am aware of your generous tactics. I can see through you! Your boots are too small because your heart is too big. Ah, Borya, Borya! I see it all… and I feel it!”

“Have you moved into a new apartment?” his son interrupted him, hoping to change the subject.

“Yes, my boy, I have moved. I move every month. With her temper my old shrew can’t live long in one place.”

“I went to your old place; I wanted to invite you to stay here at the dacha with me. It might do you good, considering your health, to spend a little time in the fresh air.”

“No!” the father said, with a wave of his hand. “The old woman wouldn’t let me. And I don’t want to. You’ve tried to pull me out of the gutter a hundred times, and I’ve tried myself, but not a damned thing ever came of it. Give it up! I’ll die in a ditch. Right now I sit here looking at your angel face, but at the same time something is dragging me back to my ditch. I guess that’s fate. You can’t lure a dung beetle to a rose. No. … But it’s time I was going, my boy. It’s getting dark.”

“Wait a minute, I’ll go with you. I have to go into town myself today.”

The father and son put on their coats and went out. It was soon dark, and as they drove along in a cab, lights began to gleam in the windows.

“I’ve swindled you, Borenka!” muttered the old father. “My poor, poor children! It must be a great sorrow to have such a father! Borenka, my angel, when I look at your face I cannot lie. Excuse me. … What my shamelessness has come to! My God! Here I have just come to you and swindled you, and embarrassed you by my drunken condition. I swindle your brothers, too, and disgrace them. … And you should have seen me yesterday! I won’t conceal it from you, Borenka. Some neighbors dropped in on my old shrew—riffraff, the whole lot—I got drunk with them, too, and I was swearing like a heathen, cursing you children. I abused you, and complained as if you had deserted me. I wanted to make those drunken wenches feel sorry for me, so I played the unhappy father. That’s what I always do. When I want to hide my own vices I heap all the blame on my innocent children. I can’t lie to you, Borenka, or hide things from you. I came swaggering to you, but when I saw your gentleness, your compassion, I was tongue-tied, my whole conscience turned inside out.”

“That’s enough, now, Papa. Let’s talk of something else.”

“Mother of God, what children I have!” the old man continued, not heeding his son. “What splendor the Lord hath bestowed on me! Such children shouldn’t belong to a good-for-nothing like me, but to a real man, with a soul and feelings! I’m not worthy!”

The old man took off his little cap with a button on top, and crossed himself several times.

“Praise be to Thee, Lord!” he sighed, glancing from side to side as though looking for an ikon. “Rare and remarkable children! Three sons I have, and every one alike. Sober, steady, businesslike—what brains! Cabby, what brains! Grigory alone has enough brains for ten men. He speaks French, he speaks German—and he can talk better than any of your lawyers. You could listen to him forever. … My children, my children, I can’t believe you’re mine! You, my Borenka, you’re a martyr. I’m ruining you, and I’ll go on ruining you. … You give to me endlessly, even though you know your money’s thrown away. The other day I sent you a pitiful letter, describing my illness to you, but I was lying—I wanted the money for rum. And you give it to me because you’re afraid of hurting me by refusing. I know all that. I feel it. Grisha, too, is a martyr. On Thursday, my boy, I went to his office, drunk, dirty, ragged—smelling like a cellar from vodka. I went right up to him—a fine figure—broke in on him with my filthy talk, and his colleagues, his boss, and clients, all standing there. I disgraced him for life. And he wasn’t a bit embarrassed, he only turned a little pale; but he smiled at me and came up to me as if nothing was wrong. He even introduced me to his friends. Then he took me all the way home—and not one word of reproach! I swindle him worse than I do you. Now, you take your brother Sasha, he’s a martyr, too. He married a colonel’s daughter, you know, from an aristocratic circle—he got a dowry with her. … You’d think he wouldn’t be up to seeing me. No, son, as soon as he got married, right after the wedding, he and his young spouse paid their first visit to me—in my hole! As God’s my witness!”

The old man sobbed, then suddenly began to laugh.

“At the time, as if it happened on purpose, we were eating grated radish with kvass, and frying fish, and there was a stink in the place that would have turned the devil’s own stomach! I was lying down—I’d had a drop—and my old shrew leaped out at the young people with her red mug … disgraceful, in fact. But Sasha rose above it all.”

“Yes, our Sasha’s a good fellow,” said Boris.

“Magnificent! You’re all pure gold—you, and Grisha, and Sasha, and Sonya. I plague you, torment you, disgrace and rob you, and never in my life have I heard one word of reproach, never have I seen a cross look. It would be all right if I’d been a decent father to you, but as it is—tfoo! You’ve had nothing but evil from me. I’m a bad, depraved man. … Now, God be thanked, I’ve drawn in my horns, I’ve no more spirit. But in former days, when you were all little, there was strength in me—character. Whatever I said or did, I always thought it was right. Sometimes I’d come home from the club, drunk and mean, and yell at your poor departed mother for the money she spent. I’d rail at her all night, but I thought I was right. And in the morning when you got up to go to school, I was still at it, showing character. Heavenly kingdom, how I tortured her, poor martyr! And when you came home from school, and I was sleeping, you didn’t dare have dinner till I got up. At dinner, again the music. You probably remember. I wouldn’t wish such a father on anyone. God sent me to you to test you. Exactly, for a trial. Hold out, children, to the end! Honor thy father and thy days shall be long. For your deeds may God send you long life. … Cabby, stop!”

The old man hopped down from the droshky and ran into a tavern. He returned half an hour later, drunkenly clearing his throat, and climbed into the cab beside his son.

“And where’s Sonya now?” he asked. “Still in boarding school?”

“No, she finished in May; she’s living with Sasha’s mother-in-law now.”

“Well!” the old man exclaimed in surprise. “She’s a fine girl, she’s following in her brothers’ footsteps. Ah, Borenka… and no mother, no one to comfort her. Listen, Borenka, she … does she know how I live? Eh?”

Boris did not answer. Five minutes passed in deep silence. The old man gave a sob, wiped his face with the rag, and said, “I love her, Borenka. You know, she’s my only daughter, and there’s no comfort like a daughter in your old age. I’d like to see her. Could I, Borenka?”

“Certainly, whenever you like.”

“Really? And she wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, she has been trying to find you. She wanted to see you.”

“By God! What children! Eh, cabby? … You arrange it, Borenka, my darling. She’s a young lady now, delicatesse, consommé, everything very genteel; and I don’t want to show up before her in such a disgraceful condition. I tell you what, Borenka, we’ll organize it with strategy. For three days I’ll stay off the spirits, to get my dirty drunken mug in shape, then I’ll come to you, and you’ll give me one of your nice suits for the occasion. I’ll shave and get a haircut, then you’ll go and bring her to your place. All right?”

“Very well.”

“Cabby, stop!”

Once again the old man sprang out and ran into a tavern. Before they reached his apartment he jumped down twice more; each time his son silently and patiently waited for him. When they had dismissed the cab, and were making their way through a long, filthy yard to the “old shrew’s” apartment, the father’s face took on an utterly confused and guilty look; timidly he began clearing his throat and smacking his lips.

“Borenka,” he said in an ingratiating tone, “if my old shrew starts saying anything to you, don’t pay any attention, and … and try to be, you know, polite to her. She’s ignorant and she’s brazen, but … she’s a good old woman. There’s a warm, kind heart beating in her breast.”

When they came to the end of the long yard, Boris found himself in a dark entry. The door creaked on its hinges, there was a smell of cooking and smoke from the samovar, and shrill voices were heard. Going from the entry through the kitchen Boris could see nothing but thick smoke, a line with washing hanging on it, and the chimney of a samovar through a crack of which gold sparks were falling.

“Here’s my cell,” the old man said, as he bent down to enter a low-ceilinged room, which, because of its proximity to the kitchen, was insufferably stifling.

Here three women sat at a table regaling themselves; on seeing a guest they exchanged glances and stopped eating.

“Well, did you get it?” asked one of the women, evidently “the old shrew,” in a harsh voice.

“I got it, I got it,” mumbled the old man. “Well, Boris, welcome, sit down! We’re plain people, young man. … We live simply.”

He began to fuss about aimlessly. The presence of his son made him feel ashamed, but at the same time he wanted to strut before the women and act his accustomed role of the unfortunate, forsaken father.

“Yes, my friend … young man. … We live simply, nothing fancy,” he muttered. “We’re simple people, young man. … We’re not like you, we don’t care to put up a show.

We’re simple people, young man. … Yes, sir! … Shall we have a drink of vodka?”

One of the women—she was ashamed to drink before a stranger—sighed and said, “Well, I’ll have one, on account of the mushrooms. … Mushrooms like that, they make you drink, even if you don’t want to. Ivan Gerasimych, ask the young gentleman there, maybe he’ll have a drink.” She articulated the last word in a mincing drawl.

“Have a drink, young man!” said the father, without looking at his son. “We have no wines or liqueurs, my friend, we’re simple people.”

“He don’t like our ways,” sighed the “shrew.”

“Never mind, never mind, he’ll have a drink.”

Not wishing to offend his father, Boris took a glass and drank it off in silence. When the samovar was brought, he drank two cups of revolting tea silently, with a sad expression, to please the old man, and listened without a word to the “shrew” making insinuations about there being cruel and heartless children in this world who abandon their parents.

“I know what you’re thinking now!” cried the old man, who had reached his habitual state of drunken excitability. “You think I’ve debased myself, sunk into the mire, that I’m pitiful. But in my opinion, this simple life is a good deal more normal than your life, young man. I don’t need anybody, and … and I don’t intend to humble myself. I can’t stand seeing some young puppy looking at me with pity!”

After tea he cleaned a herring and sprinkled onion on it; this he did with so much emotion that his eyes filled with tears. He again began to talk of the races, his winnings, and of a Panama hat he had bought himself for sixteen rubles the day before. He lied with the same zest he displayed in drinking or eating a herring. His son sat in silence for an hour before taking his leave.

“I won’t venture to keep you,” said the old man haughtily. “You must excuse me, young man, for not living as you would like.” He bristled, gave a dignified sniff, and winked at the women.

“Good-bye, young man!” he said, accompanying his son into the entry. “Attendez!”

There, where it was dark, he suddenly pressed his face against his son’s sleeve and sobbed.

“I’d like to have a look at Sonyushka,” he whispered. “You arrange it, Borenka, my angel. I’ll shave, I’ll wear your nice suit, and I’ll put on a strict face. … I won’t talk when she’s there. Truly, I promise, I won’t say a word.”

He glanced timidly at the door through which the women’s voices could be heard, and, repressing his sobs, in a loud voice said, “Good-bye, young man! Attendez!”

—1887