The Short Stories of Anton Chekhov

"It's wearisome!" came Dimov's cry from the foremost waggon, and by the tone of his voice one might conclude that he was getting angry again. "Wearisome!"

Suddenly a wind got up, and with such violence that it flearly carried away Egorooshka's bundle and mat; the mat :1prang up, straining on all sides and flapping the bales, and in Egorooshka's face. The wind whistled and tore over the steppe, whirled about frantically, and raised such a noise in the grass that it deadened the sound of the thunder and the screech of the wheels. It blew from the black cloud, bearing with it tomes of dust, and a smell of rain and damp earth. The light of the moon grew dim, or as it were dirtier, the stars became more overcast, and one saw the fog of dust and its shadow rolling hurriedly back along the side of the road. By now, in all probability, the whirlwind, in its evolutions having drawn up the dust, the dry grass, and feathers from the ground, has reached the sky itself; probably by that very dark cloud that rolling-flax are flying, and surely how frightened they must be! But through the dust which stopped up one's eyes nothing was to be seen except the flashes of lightning.

Egorooshka, thinking every minute that the rain would come, knelt up and covered himself in the mat.

"Pantel-li," cried someone in front; " . . . a . . . re ... ! "

"Can't hear!" loudly and hoarsely answered Panteli.

"A . . . a . . . re! Fa-ar!"

The thunder rolled over the sky from right to left, then back, demising somewhere near the foremost waggon.

"Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Sabaoth," whispered Ego- rooshka, crossing himself, "Heaven and earth arc full of Thy praise. . . ."

The lurid sky opened its mouth and breathed out white fire, immediately the thunder roared; hardly had it ceased when there flamed such a brilliant flash of lightning that through the rents in thc mat Egorooshka saw for an instant the whole wide road to its farthest end, all the drivers, and even Kiruha's waiscoat. The black tatters on the left were ascending, and one of them, a scraggy ugly one, like a paw with outspread toes, was approaching the moon. Egorooshka decided to close his eyes, to take no further notice, and wait till it was all over.

The rain, for some reason, was very long in coming. Ego- rooshka, in the hope that the cloud had passed away, looked out from the mat. It was terribly dark. Egorooshka could not see Panteli, nor the bales, nor himself. He glanced at thP place where lately the moon had been; as deep a gloom reigned there as over the waggons, while in the dark the flashes of lightning seemed so frequent and blinding that they hurt one's eyes.

"Panteli!" called Egorooshka.

There came no answer. But now, finally, one last time the wind harried the mat and fled some whither away. Then was heard an even calm noise. A large cold drop fell on to Ego- rooshka's knee, another crept on to his hand. He noticed that his knees were not covered up, and thought of arranging the mat; but at that moment there was a pelting and a tapping on the road, on the horses, and the bales. The rain had come. It and the mat seemed to understand each other. They spoke of something hurriedly, gaily and disputatiously like two magpies.

Egorooshka knelt up, or rather sat back on his heels. When the rain pattered on to the mat, he leant forward with his body to protect his knees, but on the other hand, in less than a minute, he felt an uncomfortable dampness behind, in the lower part of his back and in the calves. He returned to his former position, left his knees to the rain, and thought over what was to be done to adjust the invisible mat in the dark. His hands were wet and his sleeves. Water was trickling down his collar, and he was chilly about the shoulders; so he rlecided to do nothing but sit still and wait till it was all over.

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." he murmured.

Suddenly, with a fearful deafening din, the skies were smashed just above his head; he crouched and held his breath, waiting for the fragments to rattle down on his head and back. He involuntarily opened his eyes, and saw a blinding bright light as it were bursting and gleaming five times at the tips of his fingers, along his wet sleeves, and down the trickles flowing over the mat, the bales, and down on to the ground. There was another clap of thunder louder and more alarming than ever. It was no longer a rattle and a rumble overhead, but a crisp crackling noise like the dry crackle of a falling tree.

"Trrrach! Tach! Tach! Tach! " clearly rapped out the thunder, rolling about the sky, stumbling somewhere over the foremost waggon, or else somewhere far behind gave it up with a last spiteful exclamation of "Trra!"

At first the lightning had only been alarming, now with this thunder it was fraught with malice. Its magic light trans- pierced one's closed eyelids, and sent a cold shiver through one's body. What was to be done not to see it?

Egorooshka decided to turn and face the other way. Very carefully, as if afraid that he was being watched, he stood on all fours, and pressing the palms of his hands on the wet bale of wool, he turned himself round.

"Trrrach! Tach! Tach!" again sounded over his head, fell by the waggon, and died away with a "Rrr!"

Again Egorooshka involuntarily opened his eyes, and saw a new danger this time: behind the waggons walked three enonnous giants with pikes! The lightning darted about the points of their pikes and clearly admitted their forms to be descried. They were of immense size, with invisible faces, bowed heads, and a ponderous tread. They seemed to be sad and low-spirited, absorbed in deep meditation. Very likely they were not marching behind the waggons to do them any harm, yet their presence was fearsome.

Egorooshka quickly turned the other way, and, trembling alJ over, called out:

"Panteli! Dad!"

"Trrach! Tach! Tach!" answered the heavens.

He looked to see if the drivers were there: the lightning flashed on both sides, and lit up the highway to its farthest end, all the train of waggons and the drivers. Alongside the road there were flowing streams all over bubbles. Panteli was tramping along by the waggon ; he had covered his head and shoulders with a small mat, he evinced no alarm or uneasine^, no more than if he had been deaf to the thunder and blind to the lightning.

"Dad! The giants!" Egorooshka called to him, sobbing.

But the old dad did not hear. Farther on walked Emilian; he was covered in a large mat from head to foot, and formed an exact triangle. Vassia had no covering, and was stepping along as woodenly as ever, raising each foot very high and not bending his knees. At each flash of lightning it looked as if the train of waggons was at a standstill, as if the drivers had congealed and Vassia's leg was numbed. . . . Ego- rooshka again called the old man. Receiving no answer, he sat there motionless, no longer expecting it all to be over. He was convinced that the thunder would kill him the very next minute, that his eyes would open unexpectedly and he would see the dreadful giants. He no longer crossed himself, nor called the old dad, nor thought of his mother; he simply grew torpid with cold and the conviction that the thunder- storm would never end.

Suddenly there was the sound of a voice.

"Egor—ho there! Are you asleep?" shouted Panteli from below. "Come down! Are you deaf, little fool?"

"That a storm!" said an unknown deep voice, as husky as if the owner had but just swallowed an excellent glass of vodka.

Egorooshka opened his eyes. Below stood Panteli, the tri- Angular Emilian, and the giants. These latter were now of much smaller stature, and when he examined them Ego- rtoshka saw they were ordinary moujiks, carrying on their shoulders not pikes but the usual pitchforks. In the space between Panteli and Emilian shone the light from the window of a low little cottage. Evidently the waggons were standing in a village. Egorooshka threw off the mat, picked up his bundle, and hurried off the waggon. Now that people were talking quite close to him and there was the light of a window, he was no longer afraid, although the thunder was crackling as before and the lightning was streaking the skies.

"It was a fine thunderstorm, nitchevo," mumbled Panteli. ''Thank God . . . my feet are a little better from the bit of rain—they're all right. . . . You coming, Egor? So, go into the cottage! . . . Nitchevo . . ."

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." said Emilian hoarsely. "It must have struck somewhere . . . . Are you of this place?" he asked the giants

"Nay, from Glinov. . . . \Ye are Glinovskis. \\"e work for the master Platerov."

"Threshing, eh?"

"Various things; at present we are wheat-gathering. Ancl the lightning—eh, the lightning! It's a long time since there's been such a storm. . . ."

Egorooshka went into the cottage; he was met by a lean hump-backed old woman with a pointed chin. She held in her hand a tallow candle, screwed up her eyes, and breathed heavily.

"Such a storm God sent us!" she said. "Our folk are in the steppe for the night, a bit rough, poor dears. Undress, batushka, undress. . . ."

Trembling with cold and with a squeamish hesitancy. Egorooshka discarded his soaking coat, and stood for a long while without moving, with his legs apart and his arms held far from his body. The smallest movement recalled to him the unpleasantness of being cold and wet. The sleeves and back of his shirt were wet, his trousers clave to his legs, water was dripping from his head. . . .

"How now, laddie, what do you make bandv-legs for?" said the old woman. "Come and sit down."

Keeping his legs well apart, Egorooshka walked up to the: table, and sat down on a bench close to someone's head. The head moved, heaved a deep breath through its nose, chewed a bit, and then was quiet. There was a mound stretch- ing away from the head covered in a sheep-skin coat. lt was some sleeping woman.

The old woman sighed, went out, and soh returll('d a water-melon and a melon.

"Eat, batushka, there's nothing else . . ." she said yawn- ing, then fumbling on the table she produced from there a long sharp knife, very similar to those wherewith robbers cut merchants' throats in taverns. "Eat, dear sir!"

Egorooshka, trembling as if he had fever on him, ate a slice of melon with some black bread. Then a slice of water-melon; after that he felt even colder.

"Our folk are in the steppe for the night . . ." sighed the old woman whilst he was eating. "Our Saviour's Passion! . . . I'd light the little lamp before the image, but I don't know where Stepanida has put it. Eat, batushka, eat. . . ."

The old woman yawned, and, bending her right arm, scratched her left shoulder.

"Must be two o'clock by now," she said. "Soon time to get up. Our folk are in the steppe. . . . They11 all be wet. . . ."

"Batushka," said Egorooshka, "I'm sleepy."

"Lie down, batushka, lie down . . ." sighed the old woman with a yawn. "Lord Jesus Christ! Myself I was sleeping, and heard as 'twere a knocking. I awoke and said 'It's God's own storm.' . . . I'd light the little lamp, but can't find it."

Talking to herself, she took from the bench some kind of rags—probably her unhooked two sheep-skins from a nail by the stove, and spread them out for Egorooshka.

"That storm does not abate," she mumbled on. "Howbeit till now nothing's burnt. Our folks too are in the steppe. Lie down, batushka; go to deep. . . . Christ be with you, childie. . . . 111 leave the melon, perhaps you'U eat some more."

The sighs and of the old woman, the continuous

breathing of the woman asleep, the crepuscular light of the cottage, the patter of rain on the window, all conduced to slumber. Egorooshka ^^ shy of undressing before the old woman, so he only took off his boots, then lay down and covered himself with the sheep-skins.

"The little lad has lain down?" in a few moments came a whisper from Panteli.

"He has lain down," answered the old woman in a whisper. "Our Saviour, our Saviour's Passion! It is thundering, thun- dering—when will it end? . . ."

"It'll be over soon," hoarsely whispered Panteli, seating himself. "It's got quieter. . . . The boys have gone into the tottages, and two have stayed with the horses . . . the boy? have. . . . They must . . . or the horses'd be stolen . . . . m sit a bit, then I'll take a shift. . . . We must, they'd be stolen. . . ."

Panteli and the old woman sat side by side at Egorooshka's feet speaking in sibilant whispers, interrupting their talk with sighs and yawns. l\leanwhile. Egorooshka could not get warm; he had over him that thick heavy sheep's coat, but all the same he was shivering, and he had cramp in his hands and feet. . . . He undressed himself beneath his sheep's covering, but that did not help. His feeling of cold grew worse and worse.

Panteli went out to take his shift, and then returned, and still Egorooshka could not sleep and was shivering all over, Something was pressing on his head and chest, and he did not know what it was—whether it was the old people murmuring, or the oppressive smell of the sheep-skins: also the slices of melon and water-melon had left an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth; to add to it all, he was being bitten by fleas.

"Dad, I'm cold," he said, and hardly recognised his own voice.

"Go to sleep, childie, go to sleep," sighed the old woman.

The thin-legged little Tit approached the bed, waved his arms, then grew up to the ceiling and became the windmill. Father Christopher, not as he was when he sat in the vehicle, but in full priestly vestments, with the aspergill in his hand, walked around the windmill, sprinkling it well with hoiy water, whereupon it ceased to wave its fans. Egorooshka, tealising this was delirium, opened his eyes.

"Dad," he called, "give me some water."

No one answered. Egorooshka was finding it unbearably stuffy, and very uncomfortable lying down. He got up, put on his clothes, and went outside the cottage. The dawn was rising, the sky was overcast, but it was no longer raining. Shivering and wrapping himself up in his wet coat, Ego- rooshka walked across the muddy yard, listening to the silence; he caught sight of a little shed with a grass mat over its half-open doorway. He peeped into the shed, walked in, and sat on a perch in a dark corner.

His head was aching, his thoughts were getting mixed, and his mouth was dry and unpleasant from the metallic taste. He gazed at his hat, straightened the peacock's feather and remembered how he had gone with his mother to buy that hat. He put his hand in his pocket, and extracted thence a clod of brown sticky mastic. However did ^at mastic get into his pocket? He reflected, smelt it: it smelt of honey. Ah-ha, it was the Jewess's ginger-bread! How soft the poor thing had become!

Egorooshka looked at his coat. His coat was grey, with large bone buttons arranged like those of an overcoat. Being 1 new and expensive article, it hung at home not in the vestibule but in the bedroom alongside of his mother's clothes, and he was only allowed to wear it on festivals and holidays. Egorooshka, as he looked at it now, felt sorry for it; he recollected that he and the coat were both abandoned to the buffetings of fate, that he would never go back home, and he sobbed so that he nearly fell off his perch.

A large white dog drenched by the rain, with tufts of hair on his face somewhat resembling curling-papers, entered the shed and stared very inquisitively at Egorooshka. It evidently was wondering if it should bark. Having decided not to bark, it went carefully up to Egorooshka, ate the mastic, and went out again.

"It's Varlamov'sl" cried someone from the road. ^ften he had cried himself out, Egorooshka came out of the shed, skirted a large puddle, and slowly went towards the street. Exactly by the gates on the road stood the train of waggons. The wet drivers, with muddy boots, looking as sleepy as autumn flies, were hanging round or sitting on the thills of the waggons. Egorooshka looked at them, and thought, "How tiresome and uncomfortable to be a moujik!" He went up to Panteli, and sat by his side on a thill.

"Dad, I'm cold!" he said, shivering and pulling his sleeves down over his hands.

"It's all right, we'll soon be moving," yawned Panteli. "It doesn't matter—you'll soon be warm."

The waggons moved on early, as it was not too warm. Egorooshka lay on the bale of wool, trembling with cold, although the sun soon appeared in the skies and dried his clothes, the bales and the ground. Each time he closed his eyes he saw Tit and the windmill. Conscious of a languor and heaviness creeping over him, he exerted all his strength to drive away those figures, but they had hardly disappeared when the devil-may-care Dimov flung himself at Egorooshka with a shout, blood-shot eyes and upraised fists, and he heard him complaining, "It's wearisome!" Varlamov on his Cossack cob went by, and the happy Constantine walked past with his smile and his bustard. How heavy, unbearable, and irksome these people were I

Then—this was towards evening—he raised his head to ask for something to drink. The waggons were standing by a large bridge spanning a wide river. There was a smoke over the river, and through the smoke was a steamer with a barge in tow. Over the river in front was a high hill dotted with houses and churches; at the foot of the hill, by some goods vans, there was a locomotive moving about.

Never before had Egorooshka seen steamers or locomotives, or wide rivers. Gazing upon them now he felt neither fear nor astonishment, not even the faintest resemblance to curiosity was depicted on his face. He only felt giddy, and hastened to lie downwards on the edge of the bales, and was sick. Panteli, noticing this, turned round, and exclaimed:

"Our little laddie is taken ill. It must be a chill . . . the laddie has. . . . Away from home. . . . Bad affair!"

VIII

The waggons halted not far from the wharf of a large commercial inn. As he slid down from the waggon, Egorooshka recognised a very well-known voice. Someone was helping him to descend, and saying:

"But we arrived last evening. We have waited a whole day for you. They thought to overtake you last night, but it didn't work, they took another road. Eh, but how you've crumpled your coat! You'll catch it from your uncle!"

Egorooshka looked at the marble face of him who was addressing him, and recognised Deniski.

"Your uncle and Father Christopher are in their rooms," continued Deniski, "drinking tea. Come alone!"

He led Egorooshka into a large two-storied building, dark and gloomy and similar to the charitable institution in

N . They crossed the vestibule, passed up a dark stair-

case and through a long narrow passage, and entered a small room in which there indeed sat Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher drinking tea. When they saw the boy both the old fellows expressed much joy and surprise.

"Ah, Egor Nicola-aitch," half sang Father Christopher— "Mr. Lomonossov!"

"Ah, noble young man," said Kuzmitchov, "be welcome!"

Egorooshka took off his coat, kissed his uncle's hand and Father Christopher's, then sat down at the table.

"Well, how has puer bone fared?" Father Christopher began, overwhelming him with questions, pouring him out some tea, and, as usual, with a radiant smile on his face. "I'm afraid he was bored. God forbid travelling on waggons or bullocks! You go on .tnd on—the Lord forgive me—you look ahead, and the stc!ppe is just the same vast stretch as before: you can't even see the beginning of the end! It's no progres- sion, it's a scandal! What—you won't drink tea? Drink it! While you were crawling along with the waggons, we have satisfactorily settled our business, thank God! Sold the work to Tcherepahin, and God grant the like to everyone. . • . We did very well."

When he first rejoined his own again, Egorooshka's almost irresistible inclination was to complain. He did not listen to Father Christopher, but cogitated how he should begin and of what he should complain: then Father Christopher's voice sounded so unpleasant and harsh that it prevented him from concentrating his thoughts, and confused them instead. He had hardly sat five minutes at the table when he got up, went to the sofa, and lay down.

"Well, nijw!" exclaimed Father Christopher. "And what about your tea?"

Still cogiiating what he could say, Egorooshka hid his face against the back of the sofa, and burst out crying.

"Well, now!" repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going to the sofa. "Egorie, what's the matter with you? Why are yuu crying?"

"I . . . I am ill," sobbed Egorooshka.

"Ill?" sc.id Father Christopher anxiously. "But that's very wrong, lad. How do you get ill on the way? Aie, aie,—lad, what do you feel, eh ?"

He lay his hand on Egorooshka's forehead, stroked his cheek, ana said:

"Yea, your head is burning. • . . You must have got a chill, or eaten something. . . . Say a prayer to God."

"Give him some quinine," said Ivan Ivanitch, rather worried.

"Nay, b.!tter give him something hot. . . . Egorie, will you take a little soup? Eh?"

"Don't • . . don't want any," answered Egorooshka.

"Did you get cold-what?"

"Before I was cold, now . . . now I'm hot. I've pain everywhere."

Ivan Ivanitch went up to the sofa, touched Egorooshka lightly on the head, gave a troubled cough, and returned to the table.

"Come now, you'll undress and go to bed," said Father Christopher; "it's sleep you want."

He helped Egorooshka to undress, gave him a pillow, covered him up, and put Ivan lvanitch's coat over him as well, then moved away on tiptoe, and sat at the table. Ego- rooshka closed his eyes, and at once began to feel that he was not in the room at all, but on the highway by the fire. Emilian was waving his hands, and Dimov, red-eyed, was lying belly- down, looking derisively at Egorooshka.

"Beat him! Beat him!" screamed Egorooshka.

"He is delirious," said Father Christopher in an under- tone.

"What a nuisance!" sighed Ivanitch.

"We ought to rub him with oil and vinegar. God grant he be better to-morrow."

So as to shake off his heavy dreamings, Egorooshka opened his eyes, and looked into the fire. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch had finished their tea, and were whispering to- gether. The former was smiling happily, and apparently could not at all forget the good prices they had got for the wool: it was not so much the thought of the profit which cheered him, as the idea that when he got back he would collect all his large family, slily wink and laugh, at first mislead them all, and say that the wool was sold below its price, then hand to his son-in-law Michael a fat roll of papers, saying to him: "There, take it: that's the way to do business!" Kubmitchov did not seem satisfied; his face wore the same stern worried man-of-business expression as usual.

"How could one know Tcherepahin would give those prices?" he said in an undertone. "I would not have sold those three hundred pouds at home to Makarov. How vexatious! But who could know prices would have gone up here?"

A :nan in a white shirt carried away the samovar and lit the little image-lamp in the corner. Father Christopher whis- pered something in his ear, he put on a face of mystery like a conspirator—I quite understand—left the room, and te- turned shortly after bringing the required article. Ivan Ivanitch made himself a bed on the floor, yawned several times, lazily said some prayers, then lay down.

"I'm thinking of going to the Cathedral to-morrow morn- ing," said Father Christopher. "There is a sacristan there I know. I must go to his Eminence after Mass, but they say he \s ill."

He yawned, and put out the lamp; the only light that re- mained was the little image-lamp.

"They say he won't receive anyone," continued Father Christopher disrobing. "But I'll go even if he doesn't see me."

He removed his caftan, and Egorooshka saw before him Robinson Crusoe. Robinson mixed something in a saucer, went up to Egorooshka, and whispered to him:

"Lomonossov, you asleep? Get up a bit; I'll rub you with oil and vinegar. It'll do you good, say only a prayer to God."

Egorooshka quickly sat himself up. Father Christopher took off his shirt, and, breathing jerkily as if it was he who was being tickled, set about rubbing Egorooshka's chest.

"In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost . . ." he murmured. "Lie with your back up—that's it—you'll be quite well to-morrow, but don't do it in future. You are like a fire, you are so hot. I'm afraid you had a storm on the way?"

"\Ve had."

"That's enough to make you fall ill! In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. . . . That's quite enough!"

Having rubbed Egorooshka. Father Christopher put his shirt on, covered him up, made the Sign of the Cross, and left him. Egorooshka then saw him say his prayers. Very likely the old man knew a great number of prayers by heart, foi he stood a long time whispering before the image. When he had finished he made the Sign of the Cross to the window, the door, Egorooshka, Ivan Ivanitch; lay on a little sofa without a pillow, and covered himself over with his caftan. In the corridor the clock struck ten Egorooshka, remember- ing how many hours there would be before morning, in anguish pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa, and no longer made any attempt to rid himself of the hazy trouble- some delirium. And morning came sooner than he expected.

He seemed to have been quite a short while with his fore- head against the sofa's back, yet when he unclosed his eyes there was a streak of sunlight streaming on the floor from both windows of their room. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch were not there. The room was tidy, light and com- fortable, and smelt of Father Christopher, who always exuded a smell of cypress and cornflower (at home he always made the aspergill and ornaments for the image-cases of corn- flowers, so that he was permeated with the scent of them). Egorooshka took a look at his pillow, at the oblique sun-rays, at his boots, which had now been cleaned and had been placed by the side of the sofa—and smiled. It seemed to him odd not to be on the bales of wool, that everything around him should be dry, and that there was no thunder or lightning in the ceiling.

He sprang off the sofa, and started dressing. He felt ex- tremely well; nothing remained of yesterday's illness except a slight weakness in the legs, and a little pain in the neck. Evidently the oil and vinegar had been very effectual. He remembered the steamer, the locomotive, the broad river, which he had indistinctly seen the previous day, and now hurried through his dressing so as to turn down to the wharf and look at them. \When he had washed, and was putting on his red fustian shirt, there was a rattle at the lock of the door, and on the threshold appeared Father Christopher in his wide-brimmerl hat, his staff in his hand, and wearing his brown silk cassock over the linen caftan. Smiling and beam- ing (old men who have just returned from the church always beam), he laid his wafer and some kind of parcel on the table, and with a prayer asked:

"God be with us! Well, how are you?"

"I'm all right now," answered Egorooshka, kissing hi:. hand.

"Thank God! . . . I've just come from l\lass. ... J went and saw the sacristan I knew. He invited me to come and have some tea; I did not go. I don't like being a guest so early. God be with them!"

He took off his cassock, stroked his chest, and without haste undid his parcel, whereupon Egorooshka saw a small tin of soft caviar, a bit of dried sturgeon, and some French roll.

"There, I went past a fish-shop and bought this," said Father Christopher. "One can't live sumptuously every work and week-day, was my thought, and at home nothing like it, so it is as it were excusable. It's good caviar too—it's sturgeon."

The man in the white shirt brought in the samovar and some plates on a tray.

"Here, eat," said Father Christopher, spreading some caviar on a slice of bread and handing it to Egorooshka; "but then go for a walk—the time for your studies is drawing near. Kow see, learn carefully and diligently, that there be some result. If it is learning by heart, learn by heart, and if it is to express thoughts in your own words, no matter the form, use yo11r own words. But strive to learn all there is to be learnt. Some know mathematics very well, and never heard of Peter the Hermit: others have heard of Peter the Hermit, and cannot explain the moon. That won't do; try to learn sc. that you understand it all! Learn Latin, French, German, Geography of course—History, Theology, Philosophy, Mathematics. . . • And when you have learnt it all. not with undue haste, but with prayers and with zeal, then entei the service. When you know evervthing, any career is easy to you. Only study;'' acquire these blessings, and God will show you what you are to do—whether it is doctor or judge or engineer or what. . • ." Father Christopher spread a lit- tle caviar on a small slice of bread, placed it in his mouth, and said:

"The Apostle Paul says: 'Strive not after strange and diverse learnings.' Of course, should it be black magic, idle talk of calling-up spirits from the world beyond, like Saul, )r such like sciences, no use in themselves or to people, then it is better not to learn. It is necessary to discriminate what is favourable unto God. Do like this. . . . The holy Apostles spoke in all languages, therefore you learn languages. Vassili the Great taught mathematics and philosophy, therefore learn these; Saint Nestor wrote history, therefore learn and write history. Do as the saints did.''

Father Christopher sipped out of his saucer, wiped his lips, &.nd slowly turned his head.

"Good!" he said. "Formerly I learnt a lot. I've forgotten a good deal, yet all the same I live differently from the rest— one can't even make a comparison. For instance, if in com- pany after dinner, or at some assembly or other, someone quotes in Latin, or speaks of history or philosophy, people like it, and I too like it . . . or even when the District Judge comes round, and they have .o swear in, all the other priests are embarrassed, but I am hail-fellow with the judge and the procurators and the attorneys; I can talk learnedly with them, I have tea with them, we joke, I tell them things they don't know . . . and they like it. So there it is, lad. Learning is !ight, and ignorance darkness. Study! It is hard, of course. At the present time it is difficult to dispense with learning.

. . Your mamma is a widow, lives on a pension, and you see besides . . .''

Father Christopher looked apprehensively towards thp

"Ivan Ivanitch will help. He won't forsake you. He has no children of his own, and he will help you—don't worry!" He looked very grave, and pursued, in a still lower tone: "Only look, Egorie, God forbid that you should forget your mother and Ivan Ivanitch. Honour your mother is one of the Ten Commandments, and Ivan Ivanitch is your bene- factor and takes the place of your father; for if you really become learned, God forfend that you should be annoyed or set people at naught by reason of their being stupider than you, for then woe, woe to you!" Father Christopher raised his hand aloft, and repeated in a shrill voice: "Woe! Woe to you! "

Father Christopher, having got into his talking mood, was quite wound up, and would not have finished till dinner-time had not the door opened, and Ivan Ivanitch walked in. Uncle hastily greeted them, sat down at tbe table, and quickly began gulping down his tea.

"Well, all the business is done," he said. "We ought to go back home to-day, but then there is more bother with Egor. We must settle him. My sister said that some friend of hers, Nastasia Petrovna, lives somewhere here, and maybe will have him and look after him."

He fumbled among his papers, and produced a crumpled letter and read:

" 'Malaya Nijnaya Street, Nastasia Petrovna Toskunova, lier own house.' We must go and look for it at once. What a bother!"

Directly they had finished their tea, Ivan Ivanitch and Egorooshka left the commercial inn.

"What a bother!" mumbled the uncle. "You've fastened on to me like a burdock—to God with you! You want educa- tion and nobility, and I only have worries with you. . . ."

When they crossed the yard, there were no longer any waggons or drivers—they had all left the wharf early in the morning. In the farthest corner of the yard stood the familiar britchka; by it were the bays eating some oats.

"Good-bye, britchka!" thought Egorooshka.

They first had a long climb up a hill along the boulevard, then they crossed a large market-place: nere Ivan Ivanitch inquired of a constable where the Malaya Nijnaya was.

"Ugh!" smiled the constable. "It's a long way, over by the pasture."

On the way they met several little open cabs, but such a weakness as to drive in a cab uncle did not allow hi^^lf, save on very exceptional occasions, or on very high holidays. He and Egorooshka walked a long way through paved streets, and streets where there was only a footpath and no paved road, and finally they reached a street where there was neither footpath nor paved roadway. When, by means of their legs and their tongues, they had reached the Malaya Nijnaya Street, they were both crimson, and removed their hats to mop their perspiring foreheads.

"Tell me, if you please," Ivan Ivanitch accosted an old man sitting by the door of his shop, "which is the house of Nastasia Petrovna Toskunova?"

"There is no Toskunova here," answered the old man after a little reflection. "Perhaps it is Timoshenko?"

"No, it is Toskunova."

"Excuse me, there is no Toskunova."

Ivan Ivanitch shrugged his shoulders, and walked slowly on.

"It's no good looking!" shouted the old man. "I tell you there isn't, and that means there isn't."

"Listen, auntie," said Ivan Ivanitch, addressiTig an old woman at a corner by a fruit-stand selling dried sunflower seeds and pears, "which is the house of Nastasia Petrovna Toskunova?"

The old woman looked at him in surprise, and laughed.

"Ay, but Nastasia Petrovna doesn't live in her own house .,ow," she said. "Lord, it's eight years since she married her daughter and left the house to her son-in-law. Her son-in- law is there now."

With her eyes she was clearly saying: "How could you, silly iolk, not know that simple fact?"

"And where is she now living?" asked Ivan Ivanitch.

"Oh, Lord!" in surprise, and clasping her hands, said the old woman. "She has been in lodgings a long time. Since eight years, when she left the house to her son-in-law. Eh, you!"

She very likely expected Ivan Ivanitch also to be surprised and exclaimed: "No, not possible!" but he very quietly in- quired:

"And where is her lodging?"

The vendor turned up a sleeve, and, pointing in the direc- tion with her bare arm, said in a piercing shrill voice.

"Go on quite straight, straight, straight . . . till you pass a little red house, and there will be a little alley on your left. Go by this little alley, and look for the third gate on the right. . . ."

Ivan Ivanitch and Egorooshka went to the little red house, turned to the left into the alley, and directed their steps to- wards the third gateway on the right. A grey wooden fence, with very wide rifts in it, extended on either side of these grey and very old gates; the right half of the fence inclined very far forward and threatened to fall down altogether, the left inclined back into the yard; the gates stood upright, and seemed to be choosing which would be the most comfortable way to lie down, forwards or backwards. Ivan Ivanitch undid the latch, and together with Egorooshka saw a large yard overgrown wit"n steppe-grass and burrs. A hundred steps from the gates stood a small house with a red roof and green window-shutters. A plump woman with tucked-up sleeves, holding up the corner of her apron and strewing something ()n the ground, was standing in the middle of the yard, and screaming in as piercing shrill a voice as the vendswoman:

"Chick! . . . Chick! . . . Chick!"

Behind her sat a chestnut-coloured dog with pointed ears. When it saw the visitors, it ran towards the gates and barked in a tenor voice (all chestnut-coloured dogs bark in a tenor voice).

"What do you want?" shouted the woman, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

"Good-day!" also shouted Ivan Ivanitch, warding off the chestnut-coloured dog with his stick. "Tell me, if you please, does Nastasia Petrovna Toskunova live here?"

"She does—and what do you want?"

Ivan Ivanitch and Egorooshka went up to her; she looked at them suspiciously, and repeated:

"What do you want with her?"

"Oh, maybe you are Nastasia Petrovna?"

"Well, I am!"

"Very pleased . • . you see, your very old friend Olga 1 vanovna Kniazeva greets you. This is her son. And I, maybe ^ou remember, am her brother Ivan Ivanitch . . . . For you

are from N ; you were brought up with us, and married

from there. . . ."

There was a silence. The plump woman stared idiotically at Ivan Ivanitch, as if she did not believe or understand; then it flashed on her, she clasped her hands, the oats fell out of her apron, and tears welled in her eyes.

"Olga Ivanovna!" she screamed, breathing heavily with emotion. "My very own dear! Ah, batushka, what am I doing standing here like an idiot? And you little angel mine. . . ." She threw her arms round him, bedewed his cheeks with tears, and wept heartily.

"Lord!" she said wringing her hands. "Little Olga's son! What a love! Just like his mother! Exactly like her! But what are you standing here for? Pray come in!"

Crying and breathless, and talking as she went, she hur- ried into the house, the guests following her slowly.

"Nothing is tidy here," she said, ushering her guests into a small stuffy room, all adorned with pictures and flower-pots. "'Ahl Mother of God's Vassilissa open at least the window- shutters! Angel mine! Beauty ineffable! And I did not know that Olga had such a dear little son!"

When she was quieter. and had got accustomed to her guests, Ivan Ivanitch begged to speak to her alone. Egor- ooshka went into the next room; there he found a sewing- machine, in the window a birdA little girl with flushed and puffy cheeks like Tit's, and wearing a clean print dress, sat motionless by the sewing- machine. She stared at Egorooshka, and apparently felt very shy. Egorooshka looked at her in silence for a. little while, then asked:

"What's your name?"

The girl moved her lips, looked ready to cry, and answered softly:

" 'Atka. . . ."

That meant: Katka.

"He will live with you," whispered Ivan Ivanitch in the other room, "if you will be so kind, and we will pay you ten roubles a month for him. He is not a spoiled little boy—very quiet. . . ."

"I don't know what to say, Ivan Ivanitch!" with a whim- per sighed Nastasia Petrovna. "Ten roubles is a lot of money, but someone else's child is a dreadful responsibility, suppose he suddenly falls ill or something."

When they called Egorooshka back into the parlour, Ivan Ivanitch was standing with his hat in his hand taking his leave.

"So, then, it means for che present he can stay with you?" he said. "Good-bye! You'll stop, Egor . . ." he said, turning towards his nep!.rw. "Don't give trouble, and obey Nastasia Petrovna. . . . Good-bye! I'll come again to-morrow."

He went out, Nastasia Petrovna once more gave Egor- ooshka a hug, called him an angel, and, still shedding tears of joy, began to arrange for the dinner. Not long afterwards, Egorooshka was sitting at the table by her side, answering oer endless questions, and eating greasy hot sour cabbage- soup.

That evening he sat again at that same table with his head in his hand listening to Nastasia Petrovna. She, between laughing and crying, was telling him about his mother's youth; about her own marriage, her children. . . . A cricket chirped by the stove and the lamp-burner droned in an in- audible way. The woman spoke in a low voice, and every now and again dropped her thimble in her emotion; each time her grandchild Katka slid under the table after it, and spent a long time there, probably looking at Egorooshka's feet. Egorooshka sat and listened, musing and gazing at the old woman's face, her wart and its several hairs, and at her tearstains. And he felt sad, very sad! They allowed him the coffer to sleep on, and informed him if he felt hungry in the night, that he was to get up and go himself into the passage, and take some chicken from a covered plate in the window.

The next morning early, Ivan Ivanitch and Father Chris- topher came to say good-bye. Nastasia Petrovna was over- joyed, and was preparing to bring in the samovar, but Ivan Ivanitch, in a great hurry, waved his hand and said:

"Some other time we'll have tea and sugar with you! We are starting at once."

Before saying farewell, they all sat down a moment and remained silent. Nastasia Petrovna heaved a deep sigh, and looked with tearful eyes at the image.

"Well," began Ivan Ivanitch, rising, "so then you'll re- main. . . ."

The stern business-look disappeared from his face, he flushed a little, laughed sadly, and said:

"Mind now, you study. . . . Don't forget your mother, and listen to Nastasia Petrovna. If you are a good boy, Egor, and study well, I won't forsake you."

He drew his purse from his pocket, turned his back to Egorooshka, fumbled a long time among his small change, then finding a ten-kopeck piece, handed it to Egorooshka.

Father Christopher sighed, and slowly gave his blessing to Egorooshka. "In the Kame of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghos: . . . study," he said. "Try hard, lad. . . . If I die, say a prayer for me. And here is a grivenik (ten-kopeck) also from me."

Egorooshka kissed his hand, and cried a little. Something whispered to him that he would never see the old man again.

"I have already, Nastasia Petrovna, forwarded the peti- tion to the Gymnasium," said Ivan Ivanitch in a voice as if there was a corpse in the room. "You'll take him for his examination on the 7th of August. . . . Well, good-bye. God be with you! Good-bye, Egor!"

"If only you'd wait for some tea!" sobbed Nastasia Petrovna.

His eyes were so full of tears that Egorooshka did not see his uncle and Father Christopher leave the room. When he rushed to the window, they had already left the yard, and the chestnut-coloured dog was running back from the gates with the air of having fulfilled his duty of barking at someone. Egorooshka himself, not knowing why, tore from the window and fled from the room. When he got to the gates, Ivan Ivan- itch and Father Christopher, the one waving his crooked stick, and the other his staff, were vanishing round the corner. Egorooshka felt that when these two people went, all that phase of life which he had known up to now was gone for ever. like smoke. . . . In sheer impotency he returned to the house, greeting with bitter tears the new unknown life which was now beginning for him. • . . What will that life be?

ROTHSCHILD'S FIDDLE

THE town was smaU—no better than a village—and it inhabited almost entirely by old people who died so seldom that it was positively painful. In the hospital, and even in the prison, coffins were required very seldom. In one word, busi- ness was bad. If Yakov Ivanov had been coffin-maker in the ^overnment town, he would probably have owned his own house, and called himself Yakov Matveyich; but, as it was, he was known only by the name of Yakov, with the street nickname of "Bronza" given for some obscure reason; and he lived as poorly as a simple muzhik in a little, ancient cabin with only one room; and in this room lived he, Marfa, the stove, a double bed, the coffins, a joiner's bench, and all the rlomestic utensils.

Yet Yakov made admirable coffins, durable and good. For muzhiks and petty tradespeople he made them all of one size, taking himself as model ; and this method never failed him, for though he was seventy years of age, there was not a taller or stouter man in the town, not even in the prison. For women and for men of good birth he made his coffins to measure, using for this purpose an iron yardwand. Orders for children's coffins he accepted very unwillingly, made them without neas- urement, as if in contempt, and every time when paid for his work exclaimed:

"Thanks. But I confess I don't care much for wasting time on trifles."

In addition to coffin-making Yakov drew a small income from his skill with the fiddle. At weddings in the town there -sually played a Jewish orchestra, the conductor of which •as the tinsmith Mo!ies Hyich Shakhkes, who kept more than

438

half the takings for himself. As Yakov played very well upot. the fiddle, being particularly skillful with Russian songs_ Shakhkes sometimes employed him in the orchestra, paying him fifty kopecks a day, exclusive of gifts from the guests. When Bronza sat in the orchestra he perspired and his face grew purple; it was always hot, the smell of garlic was suffo- cating; the fiddle whined, at his right ear snored the double- bass, at his left wept the flute, played by a lanky, red-haired Jew with a whole network of red and blue veins upon his face, who bore the same surname as the famous millionaire Roth- schild. And even the merriest tunes this accursed Jew managed to play sadly. Without any tangible cause Yakov had become. slowly penetrated with hatred and contempt for Jews, and especially for Rothschild; he began with irritation, then swore at him, and once even was about to hit him ; but Rothschild flared up, and, looking at him furiously, said:

"If it were not that I respect you for your talents, I should send you flying out of the window."

Then he began to cry. So Bronza was employed in the or, chestra very seldom, and only in cases of extreme need whe11 one of the Jews was absent.

Yakov had never been in a good humour. He was alway; overwhelmed by the sense of the losses which he suffered. F01 instance, on Sundays and saints' days it was a sin to work, Monday was a tiresome day—and so on; so that in one way or another, there were about two hundred davs in the year when he was compelled to sit with his hands idle. That was one loss. If anyone in town got married without music, or if Shakhkes did not emp)oy Yakov, that was another loss. The Inspector of Police was ill for two years, and Yakov waited with impatience for his death, yet in the end the Inspector transferred himself to the government town for the purpose of treatment, where he got worse and died. There was anothet loss, a loss at the very least of ten rubles, as the Inspector's coffin would have been an expensive one lined with brocade Regrets for his losses generally overtook Yakov at night; be lay in bed with the fiddle beside him, and, with his head full of such speculations, would take the bow, the fiddle giving out through the darkness a melancholy sound which made Yakov feel better.

On the sixth of May last year Marfa was suddenly taken ill. She breathed heavily, drank much water and staggered. Yet next morning she lighted the stove, and even went for water. Towards evening she lay down. All day Yakov had played on the fiddle, and when it grew dark he took the book in which every day he inscribed his losses, and from want of something better to do, began to add them up. The total amounted to more than a thousand rubles. The thought of such losses so horrified him that he threw the book on the floor and stamped his feet. Then he took up the book, snapped his fingers, and sighed heavily. His face was purple, and wet with perspiration. He reflected that if this thousand rubles had been lodged in the bank the interest per annum would ilave amounted to at least forty rubles. That meant that the forty rubles were also a loss. In one word, wherever you turn everywhere you meet with loss, and profits none.

"Yakov," cried Marfa unexpectedly, "I am dying."

He glanced at his wife. Her face was red from fever and unusually clear and joyful; and Bronza, who was accustomed to see her pale, timid, and unhappy-looking, felt confused. It seemed as if she were indeed dying, and were happy in the knowledge that she was leaving for ever the cabin, the coffins, and Yakov. And now she looked at the ceiling and twitched her lips, as if she had seen Death her deliverer, and were whispering with him.

Morning came; through the window might be seen the rising of the sun. Looking at his old wife, Yakov somehow remem- bered that all his life he had never treated her kindly, never caressed her, never pitied her, never thought of buying her a kerchief for her head, never carried away from the weddings a piece of tasty food, but only roared at her, abused her for his losses, and rushed at her with shut fists. True, he had never beaten her, but he had often frightened her out of her life and left her rooted to the ground with terror. Yes, and he had forbidden her to drink tea, as the losses without that were great enough; so she drank always hot water. And now, beginning to understand why she had such a strange, enrap- tured face, he felt uncomfortable.

When the sun had risen high he borrowed a cart from a neighbour, and brought Marfa to the hospital. There were not many patients there, and he had to wait only three hours. To his joy he was received not by the doctor but by the feldscher, l\Iaksim Kikolaich, an old man of whom it was said that, although he was drunken and quarrelsome, he knew more than the doctor.

"May your health be good!" sa:d Yakov, leading the old woman into the dispensary. "Forgive me, Maksim Kikolaich, for troubling you with my empty affairs. But there, you can see for yourself my object is ill. The companion of my life, as they say, excuse the expression . . ."

Contracting his grey brows and smoothing his whiskers, the feldscher began to examine the old woman, who sat on the tabouret, bent, skinny, sharp-nosed, and with open mouth so that she resembled a bird that is about to drink.

"So . . ." said the feldscher slowly, and then sighed. "In- fluenza and may be a bit of a fever. There is typhus now in the town . . . What can I do? She is an old woman, glory be to God. . . . How old?"

"Sixty-nine years, Maksim Nikolaich."

"An old woman. It's high time for her."

"Of course! Your remark is very just," said Yakov, smiling out of politeness. "And I am sincerely grateful for your kind- ness; but allow me to make one remark; every insect is fond of life."

The feldscher replied in a tone which implied that upon him alone depended her life or death. "I wili tell you what you'll do, friend; put on her head a cold compress, and give her these powders twice a day. And good-bye to you."

By the expression of the feldscher's face, Yakov saw that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make it any better; it was quite plain to him that Marfa was beyond repair, and would assuredly die, if not to-day, then to-morrow. He touched the feldscher on the arm, blinked his eyes, ancl ,;aid in a whisper:

"Yes, Maksim Nikola"ich, but you will let her blood."

"I have no time, no time, friend. Take your old woman, and God be with you!"

"Do me this one kindness!" implored Yakov. "You your- self know that if she merely had her stomach out of order, or some internal organ wrong, then powders and mixtures would cure; but she has caught cold. In cases of cold the first thing is to bleed the patient."

But the feldscher had already called for the next patient, and into the dispensary came a peasant woman with a little boy.

"Be off!" he said to Yakov, with a frown.

"At least try the effect of leeches. I will pray God eternally for you."

The feldscher lost his temper, and roared:

"Xot another word."

Yakov also lost his temper, and grew purple in the face; but he said nothing more and took Marfa under his arm and l.ed her out of the room. As soon as he had got her into the cart, he looked angrily and contemptuously at the hospital and said :

"What an artist! He will let the blood of a rich man, but for a poor man grudges even a leech. Herod! "

When they arrived home, and entered the cabin, Marfa stood for a moment holding on to the stove. She was afraid that if she were to lie down Yakov would begin to complain about his losses, and abuse her for lying in bed and doing no work. And Yakov looked at her with tedium in his soul and remembered that to-morrow was John the Baptist, and the day after Nikolay the Miracle-worker, and then came Sunday.

.snd after that Monday—another idle day. For four days na work could be done, and Marfa would be sure to die on one of these days. Her coffin must be made to-day. He took tho iron yardwand, went up to the old woman and took her measure. After that she lay down, and Yakov crossed himself, and began to make a coffin.

WhWhen the work was finished, Bronza put on his spectacle! and wrote in his book of losses:

"Marfa Ivanovna's coffin—2 rubles, 40 kopecks." And he sighed. All the time Marfa had lain silently with her eyes closed. Towards evening, when it was growing dark, she called her husband:

"Rememberest, Yakov?" she said, looking at him joyfully. "Rememberest, fifty years ago God gave us a baby with yellow hair. Thou and I then sat every day by the river . . . under the willow . . . and sang songs." And laughing bitterly she added: "The child died."

"That is all imagination," said Yakov. Later on came the priest, administered to Marfa the Sao rament and extreme unction. Marfa began to mutter some- thing incomprehensible, and towards morning, died.

The old-women neighbours washed her, wrapped her iq her winding sheet, and laid her out. To avoid having to pay the deacon's fee, Yakov himself read the psalms; and escaped a fee also at the graveyard, as the watchman there was his godfather. Four peasants carried the coffin free, out of respect for the deceased. After the coffin walked a procession of old women, beggars, and two cripples. The peasants on the road crossed themselves piously. And Yakov was very satisfied that everything passed off in honour, order, and cheapness, without offence to anyone. When saying good-bye for the last time to Marfa, he tapped the coffin with his fingers, and thought "An excellent piece of work."

But while he was returning from the graveyard he wa,t overcome with extreme weariness. He felt unwell, he breathed feverishly and heavily, he could hardly stand on his feet. His brain was full of unaccustomed thoughts. He remembered again that he had never taken pitv on Marfa and never caressed her. The fifty-two years during which they had lived in the same cabin stretched back to eternity, yet in the whole of that eternity he had never thought of her, never paid any attention to her, but treated her as if she were a cat or a dog. Yet every day she had lighted the stove, boiled and baked, fetched water, chopped wood, slept with him on the same bed; and when he returned drunk from weddings, she had taken his fiddle respectfully, and hung it on the wall, and put him to bed—all this silently with a timid, worried expression on her face. And now he felt that he could take pity on her, and would like to buy her a present, but it was too late. . . .

Towards Yakov, smiling and bowing, came Rothschild.

"I was looking for you, uncle," he said. "Moses Ilyich sends his compliments, and asks you to come across to him at once."

Yakov felt inclined to cry.

"Begone!" he shouted, and continued his path.

"You can't mean that," cried Rothschild in alarm, running after him. "Moses Ilyich will take offence! He wants you at once."

The way in which the Jew puffed and blinked, and the multitude of his red freckles awoke in Yakov disgust. He felt disgust, too, for his green frock-coat, with its black patches, and his whole fragile, delicate figure.

"What do you mean by coming after me, garlic?" he shouted. "Keep off!"

The Jew also grew angry, and cried:

"If you don't take care to be a little politer I will send you flying over the fence."

"Out of my sight!" roared Yakov, rushing on him with clenched fists. "Out of my sight, abortion, or I will beat the soul out of your cursed body! I have no peace with Jews."

Rothschild was frozP.n with terror; he squatted down and waved his arms above his head, as if warding off blows, and then jumped up and ran for his life. While running he hopped, and flourished his hands; and the twitching of his long, flesh- less spine could plainly be seen. The boys in the street were delighted with the incident, and rushed after him, crying, "Jew! Jew!" The dogs pursued him with loud barks. Someone laughed, then someone whistled, and the dogs barked louder and louder. Then, it must have been, a dog bit Rothschild, for there rang out a sickly, despairing cry.

Yakov walked past the common, and then along the out- skirts of the town; and the street boys cried, "Bronza! Bronza!" With a piping note snipe flew around him, and ducks quacked. The sun baked everything, and from the water came scintillations so bright that it was painful to look at. Yakov walked along the path by the side of the river, and watched a stout, red-cheeked lady come out of the bathing- place. Not far from the bathing-place sat a group of boys catching crabs with meat; and seeing him they cried mali- ciously, "Bronza! Bronza!" And at this moment before him rose a thick old willow with an immense hollow in it, and on it a raven's nest. . . . And suddenly in Yakov's mind awoke the memory of the child with the yellow hair of whom Marfa had spoken. . . . Yes, it was the same willow, green, silent, sad. . . . How it had aged, poor thing!

He sat underneath it, and began to remember. On the other bank, where was now a flooded meadow, there then stood a great birch forest, and farther away, where the now bare hill glimmered on the horizon, was an old pine wood. Up and down the river went barges. But now everything was flat and smooth; on the opposite bank stood only a single birch, young and shapely, like a girl; and on the river were only ducks and geese where once had floated barges. It seemed that since those days even the geese had become smaller. Yakov closed his eyes, and in imagination saw flying towards him an im- mense flock of white geese.

He began to wonder how lt was that in the last forty 01 fifty years of his life he had never been near the river, or if he had, had never noticed it. Yet it was a respectable river, and by no means contemptible; it would have been possible to fish in it, and the fish might have been sold to tradesmen, officials, and the attendant at the railway station buffet, and the money could have been lodged in the bank; he might have used it for rowing from country-house to country-house and playing on the fiddle, and everyone would have paid him money; he might even have tried to act as bargee—it would have been better than making coffins; he might have kept geese, killed them and sent them to Moscow in the winter- time—from the feathers alone he would have made as much as ten rubles a year. But he had yawned away his life, and done nothing. What losses! Akh, what losses! and if he had done all together—caught fish, played on the fiddle, acted as bargee, and kept geese—what a sum he would have amassed! But hehad never even dreamed of this; life had passed with- out profits, without any satisfaction; everything had passed away unnoticed; before him nothing remained. But look backward—nothing but losses, such losses that to think of them it makes the blood run cold. And why cannot a man live without these losses? Why had the birch wood and the pine forest both been cut down? Why is the common pasture un- used? Why do people do exactly what they ought not to do? Why did he all his life scream, roar, clench his fists, insult his wife? For what imaginable purpose did he frighten and insult the Jew? Why, indeed, do people prevent one another living in peace? All these are also losses! Terrible losses! If it were not for hatred and malice people would draw from one another incalculable profits.

Evening and night, twinkled in Yakov's brain the willow, the fish, the dead geese, Marfa with her profile like that of a bird about to drink, the pale, pitiable face of Rothschild, and an army of snouts thrusting themselves out of the dark- Des and muttering about lo^es. He shifted from side to side, and five times in the night rose from his bed and played on the fiddle.

In the morning be rose with an effort and went to the hospital. The same Maksim Kikolaich ordered him to bind his head with a cold compress, and gave him powders; and by the expression of his face, and by his tone Yakov saw that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make it any better. But upon his way home he reflected that from death at least there would be one profit; it would no longer be neces sary to eat, to drink, to pay taxes, or to injure others; and as a man lies in his grave not one year, but hundreds and thou- sands of years, the profit was enormous. The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit. Yet this considera- tion, though entirely just, was offensive and bitter; for why in this world is it so ordered that life, which is given to a man only once, pas:;es by without profit?

He did not regret dying, but as soon as he arrived home and saw his fiddle, his heart fell, and he felt sorry. The fiddle could not be taken to the grave; it must remain an orphan, and the same thing would happen with it as had happened with the birchwood and the pine forest. Everything in this world decayed, and would decay! Yakov went to the door of the hut and sat upon the threshold stone, pressing his fiddle to his shoulder. Still thinking of life, full ot decay and full of losses, he began to play, and as the tune poured out plain- tively and touchingly, the tears flowed down his cheeks. And the harder he thought, the sadder was the song of the fiddle.

The latch creaked twice, and in the wicket door appeared Rothschild. The first half of the yard he crossed boldly, but seeing Yakov, he stopped short, shrivelled up, and apparently from fright began to make signs as if he wished to tell the time with his fingers.

"Come on, don't be afraid," said Yakov kindly, beckoning him. "Come!"

With a look of distrust and terror Rothschild drew ne&? and stopped about two yards away.

"Don't beat me, Yakov, it is not my fault!" he said, with

bow. "Moses Ilyich has sent me again. 'Don't be afraid!' he said, 'go to Yakov again and tell him that without him we cannot possibly get on.' The wedding is on Wednesday. Shapovalov's daughter is marrying a wealthy man. . . . It will be a first-class wedding," added the Jew, blinking one eye.

"I cannot go," answered Yakov, breathing heavily. "I am ill, brother.''

And again he took his bow, and the tears burst from his eyes and fell upon the fiddle. Rothschild listened attentively, standing by his side with arms folded upon his chest. The distrustful, terrified expression upon his face little by little changed into a look of suffering and grief, he rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy of torment, and ejaculated "Wachchch!" And the tears slowly rolled down his cheeks and made little black patches on his green frock-coat.

All day long Yakov l2y in bed and worried. With evening came the priest, and, confessing him, asked whether he had any particular sin which he would like to confess; and Yakov exerted his fading memory, and remembering Marfa's un- happv face, and the Jew's despairing cry when he was bitten by tfie dog, said in a hardly audible voice:

"Give the fiddle to Rothschild.''

And now in the town everyone asks: Where did Rothschild get such an excellent fiddle? Did he buy it or steal it . . . or did he get it in pledge? Long ago he abandoned his flute, and now plays on the fiddle only. From beneath his bow issue the same mournful sounds as formerly came from the flute; but when he tries to repeat the tune that Yakov played when be sat on the threshold stone, the fiddle emits sounds so pas- sionately sad and full of grief that the listeners weep; and he himself rolls his eyes and ejaculates "Wachchch!" . . . But this new song so pleases everyone in the town that wealthy traders and officials never fail to engage Rothschild for their social gatherings, and even force him to play it as many as ten times.