“What am I to do now?” the scoundrel asked in a quiet voice frill of despair. “What am I to do? I have to have a drink, or I might well commit a crime... even resort to suicide... what am I going to do?”
He began pacing up and down.
The mail coach rolled up, its bells ringing. The wet post-man came in, drank a glass of vodka, and left. The mail coach drove on.
“I have something golden I’ll give you,” the scoundrel, suddenly deathly pale, said to Tikhon. “Yes, I’ll give it to you. So be it! Even if what I’m doing is low-down, vile—here, take it... I am doing this despicable deed because I’m beside myself... even if I was brought before a court of law, I would be forgiven. Take it, but only on one condition: that you give it back to me when I return. I’m giving it to you before witnesses!”
The scoundrel slid his wet hand inside his coat and took out a small gold medallion. He opened it and glanced at the portrait inside.
“I should take the portrait out, but I have nowhere to put it—I’m soaked. Damn you, take it with the portrait. But on one condition... my dear fellow... I beg you... don’t touch this face with your fingers. I beg you, my dear fellow! Forgive me for having been so rude to you, for saying the things I said... I’m an idiot... just don’t touch it with your fingers, and don’t look at the face!”
Tikhon took the medallion, inspected it, and put it in his pocket.
“Stolen goods,” he said, and filled a glass. “Well, fine! Drink!”
The drunkard took the glass in his hand. His eyes flashed, as much as his strength allowed his drunken, bleary eyes to flash, and he drank, drank with feeling, with convulsive pauses. Having drunk away the medallion with the portrait, he lowered his eyes with shame and went to a corner. There he perched on a bench next to the pilgrims, curled up, and closed his eyes.
Half an hour passed in stillness and silence. Only the wind howled, blowing its autumn rhapsody over the chimney. The women pilgrims were praying and soundlessly settling under the benches for the night. Tikhon opened the medallion and looked at the woman’s face smiling out of the golden frame, at the tavern, at Tikhon, at the bottles.
A wagon creaked outside. There was a rattling sound and then the thudding of boots in the mud. A short peasant with a pointed beard came running in. He was wet, wearing a long sheepskin coat covered in mud.
“There you go!” he shouted, banging a fiver down on the counter. “A glass of Madeira! Make it a good one!”
And rakishly swiveling around on one foot, he ran his eye over the people in the tavern. “Made of sugar, are you? Chicken feathers upon thine aunt! Scared of the rain? Ha! Poor things! Who’s this raisin here?”
He went over to the scoundrel and looked him in the face.
“Oh! Your lordship!” he said. “Semyon Sergeyitch! Good heavens! What? How come you’re hanging about here in this tavern in such a state? What are you doing here? Suffering martyr!”
The squire looked at the peasant and covered his face with his sleeve. The peasant sighed, shook his head, waved his hands about in despair, and went to the counter to finish his drink.
“That’s our master,” he whispered to Tikhon, nodding toward the scoundrel. “Our landowner, Semyon Sergeyitch. Look at him! Look what he looks like now! Ha! Just look at that! What drink can do to you!”
The peasant gulped down his drink, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and continued: “I’m from his village. Four hundred versts from here, from Akhtilovka... my folks were his fathers serfs! Sad, ain’t it! His lordship was such a splendid gentleman. This horse here, the one outside, you see it? He gave it me! Ha! That’s fate for you!”
The coachmen and pilgrims started crowding round the peasant. In a quiet voice, over the noises of autumn, he told them the story. Semyon Sergeyitch remained sitting in the same corner, his eyes closed, muttering to himself. He was listening too.
“It happened because of weakness,” the peasant said, gesticulating with his hands. “Too much good life! He was a rich gentleman—powerful, in the whole province! Eat, drink, cartloads! How many times he drove past this very tavern in his car-riage—you must have seen him! He was rich! Five years ago he was going through Mikishkinski on a barge, and instead of a fiver he gave the man a whole ruble! His ruin was so stupid. Mainly because of a woman. He fell in love, head over heels, with a woman from town—he loved her more than his life. But he didn’t fall in love with a shining falcon. She was a black crow. Marya Egorovna, that was that damn woman’s name, and with a strange last name too—you can’t even pronounce it. He loved her and proposed to her, all God-fearing and correct. Then, they say, she said yes. After all, his lordship wasn’t just anybody—he was sober and rolling in money.... Then one evening, I remember well, I’m walking through the garden. I look, and there they are sitting on the bench kissing. He gives her one kiss, and she, the viper, gives him two back! He kisses her hand, and her, she blushes. Then she squeezes herself close to him, damn her! I love you, she says, Semyon... and Semyon goes about as if bewitched, boasting of his happiness like a fool... handing out a ruble here, two there, and me he gave this horse outside! He was so happy, he dropped everyone’s debts! Then came the wedding. They got married all nice and proper. Then, as everyone’s at the dinner, she gets up and goes with the carriage into town to the attorney, who’s her lover. Right after the wedding, the harlot! At the high point! Ha! Then he went nuts, started drinking! Look at him! He’s running around like a half-wit thinking of nothing but that harlot! He loves her! I bet he’s on his way to town just so he can get a glimpse of her... But the other thing, let me tell you, the thing that really ruined him, was his brother-in-law—his sister’s husband. The squire took it into his head to guarantee his brother-in-law with the bank—around thirty thousand he guaranteed! They say the scoundrel of a brother-in-law knows how to squeeze a stone—he just sat back and waited, and our master had to pay the whole thirty thousand! A fool suffers for his foolishness! His wife had children with her attorney, his brother-in- law bought an estate near Poltava, and our master wanders around from one tavern to the next like a fool, making us all listen to his moaning: “Lost have I, dear brothers, my faith in mankind! There is no one I can, how shall I put it, believe in!” Weakness, that’s what it is! We all have problems! So what are we supposed to do—start drinking? There’s this corporal we used to have in the army. His wife brings the schoolmaster to her house in broad daylight—she spends all her husband’s money on drink. And that corporal walks about grinning. The only effect was he lost some weight!”
“The Lord does not provide everyone with that kind of strength!” Tikhon said.
“Yeah, everyone’s strength is different, that’s true!”
The peasant spoke for a long time. When he finished, the tavern was silent.
“Hey, you... how’re you feeling? You unlucky man! Here, drink!” Tikhon said, turning to the squire.
The squire came up to the counter and drank the vodka with delight.
“Give me the medallion for a second!” he whispered to Tikhon. “Just one look and... I’ll give it back to you!”
Tikhon frowned, and without saying a word handed him the medallion. The fellow with the pockmarked face sighed, shook his head, and asked for a vodka.
“Have a drink, your lordship! Hmm! Life is good without vodka, but it’s even better with it! With vodka even sorrows not sorrow! Drink up!”
After five glasses the squire sat down in his corner, opened the medallion, and with clouded, drunken eyes looked for the beloved face. But the face was gone. It had fallen out of the medallion when Tikhon opened it.
The lantern flared up and went out. In the corner a woman pilgrim was mumbling in delirium. The fellow with the pockmarked face prayed aloud and then lay down on the bench. Another traveler came in. The rain poured and poured. It got colder and colder, and it seemed as if there would be no end to this vile, dark autumn. The squire was still staring at the medallion, looking for the woman’s face. The candle went out
.
Spring, where are you?
THE
GRATEFUL
GERMAN
IONCE KNEW A GRATEFUL GERMAN. The first time I met him was in Frankfurt-am-Main. He was walking along Dummstrasse with a monkey on a leash. One could read on the Germans face hunger, love of the father- land, and resignation. He sang a plaintive song, and the monkey danced. I took pity on them and gave them a coin.
“Thank you!” the German said to me, pressing it to his heart. “I shall remember your kindness to my dying day!”
The second time I met the German was in Frankfurt-an- der-Oder. He was walking along the Eselstrasse selling fried sausages. The moment he saw me tears ran down his cheeks, and he lifted his eyes to heaven.
“I thank you, mein Herr!” he said. “I will never forget the coin with which you saved both me and my late monkey from starving! Your coin gave us comfort!”
The third time I met him was here in Russia. He was teaching Russian children ancient languages, trigonometry, and musical theory. In his free time, after classes, he was trying to get a job as a railroad inspector.
“Ah, I remember you!” he said to me, shaking my hand. “All Russians are bad people, except for you. I can’t stand the Russians, but I shall remember that coin you gave me to my dying day!”
We never met again.
A
SIGN
OF
THE
TIMES
THEY DECLARED THEIR LOVE in a drawing room with light blue wallpaper.
The young man of pleasant appearance knelt before the young woman and vowed his love.
“I can not live without you, my dearest!” he sighed. “I swear, the moment I set eyes on you I was lost! Dearest, tell me... tell me... yes or no?”
The girl opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment her brothers head appeared at the door.
“Lily, can you come here a minute?” her brother asked.
“What is it?” Lily replied, and followed him out of the room.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I am your brother, and it’s my sacred duty to caution you... Be careful with that man. Say as little as possible—only what you have to.”
“But he’s proposing!”
“That’s fine! Declare your love, marry him, but for God’s sake be careful! I know what I’m talking about—he’s a complete scoundrel! Give him half a chance, and he’ll sell us out!” “Oh, Max, thank you! I had no idea!”
The young woman went back into the living room, answered the young man with a yes, kissed him, let him embrace her, and vowed she would be his. But she stepped carefully—she spoke only of love.
FROM
THE
DIARY
OF A
YOUNG
GIRL
OCTOBER 13TH Finally something is happening on my street too! I look out and can’t believe my eyes. A tall, stately, brownhaired man with dark, fiery eyes is pacing up and down beneath my window. His mustache—exquisite! He’s been pacing there for five days now, from early morning till late at night, and he’s constandy looking up at our windows! I pretend not to notice.
OCTOBER 15TH
It’s been pouring rain since early this morning, and the poor man is still walking up and down. As a reward I made eyes at him and blew him a kiss. He answered with the most charming smile. Who is he? My sister Varya says he’s in love with her, and that it’s because of her that he’s out there in the rain. She’s so naive! Is a dark-haired man likely to fall in love with a darkhaired girl? Mama sent us to put on something more elegant and sit by the window. “He might be a swindler or something, but he could well be a respectable gendeman,” she said. A swindler! Quel... Mummy, you are so silly!
OCTOBER 16TH
Varya says I’ve ruined her life. As if it were my fault that he loves me and not her! I unintentionally dropped a note onto the sidewalk. The naughty man—he wrote “later” with chalk on his sleeve! Then he walked up and down, and wrote on the gate across the way: “Yes, let’s meet! Later!” He wrote it in chalk, and then quickly erased it. Oh, why does my heart beat thus?
OCTOBER 17TH
Varya hit me in the chest with her elbow, the mean, despicable, jealous beast! Today he stopped a policeman and spoke to him for a long time about something or other, pointing up at our windows. The plot thickens! He must be bribing him... O men, you are such tyrants and despots, and yet how cunning and wonderful you are!
OCTOBER 18TH
After a long absence, my brother Sergei came back tonight. He didn’t even have time to lie down before they summoned him to the police station.
OCTOBER 19TH
The vermin! The beast! It turns out that for the past twelve days he’s been trying to catch my brother Sergei, who seems to have embezzled some money.
Today he wrote on the gate: “I’m free now, we can meet.” The swine! I stuck my tongue out at him!
THE
STATIONMASTER
THE STATIONMASTER AT Drebesky is called Stephan Stephanitch—his family name is Sheptunov. Last summer he was involved in a minor scandal. Insignificant though it was, this scandal cost him a great deal. Because of it he lost his new stationmaster s cap and his trust in humanity.
In the summer, train number 8 would pass his station at 2:40 in the morning, the most inconvenient time possible. Instead of sleeping, Stephan Stephanitch had to walk up and down the platform and stick around the telegraph office until morning.
Every summer Aleutov, his assistant, would leave to get married, and poor Sheptunov had to hold the fort on his own. Fate had dealt him a harsh blow! But not every evening was boring. Sometimes Marya Ilinishna, the bailiff Kutsapyetov’s wife, would come over from the neighboring estate and visit him at the station. She was not particularly young, or particularly beautiful, but gendemen, let’s face it: at night you can mistake a pillar for a policeman, or as the saying goes, “Bui - dom, like hunger, doth not a bosom buddy make.” So anything will do. When Madam Kutsapyetov came to the station, Sheptunov would take her by the arm, climb down the platform, and head for the freight cars. There by the cars, waiting for train number 8, he would begin declaiming vows, and keep it up right to the moment the train whisde blew.
One fine night he was standing by the cars with Marya Ilinishna, waiting for the train. The cloudless sky was quiet, and the moon shimmered gendy, casting its rays on the station, the field, the boundless expanse. All around them was quiet, serene. Sheptunov held his arm around Marya’s waist and was silent. She too was silent. Both stood in some kind of sweet light, quiet like the moon, forgotten.
“What fabulous weather!” Sheptunov would sigh from dme to time. “You’re not cold, are you?”
Instead of answering, she would snuggle up closer and closer to his uniform.
At 2:20 in the morning the stationmaster looked at the clock and said, “The train will be coming any minute. Come on, Marya, let’s gaze at the tracks: whoever sees the train lights first will be the one whose love is stronger... lets watch.”
They stared into the wide expanse. Here and there faint lights shone softly along the endless tracks. The train was not yet to be seen. Looking off into the distance, Sheptunov saw something strange. He saw two long shadows striding over the rails. The shadows were moving right toward him, becoming bigger and wider.... One of the figures seemed to emanate from a persons body, the second from a long stick, which the figure was holding.
The shadow was coming closer. It was whisding an aria from Madam Ango.
“Do not walk on the rails! It is forbidden!” Sheptunov shouted. “Get off the tracks!”
“Don’t order me about, you swine!” the answer came back.
Outraged, Sheptunov rushed forward, but Marya Ilinish- na grabbed his coattail.
“For God’s sake, Stepa!” she whispered. “It’s my husband! Nazark!”
She had barely uttered the words when Kutsapyetov appeared in front of the stunned stationmaster. The stunned stationmaster cried out, banged
his head against something metallic, and dove under a car. He wiggled out from under it on his belly and ran along the right-of-way. Jumping across the ties, stumbling over the rails, he ran toward the water tower like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail.
“That sdck... that stick he’s carrying!” he thought as he bolted.
At the water tower he stopped to catch his breath, but he heard footsteps behind him. He looked back and saw the fast- moving shadow of a man with the shadow of a stick. Panic- stricken, he ran on.
“Wait a minute! Stop!” he heard Kutsapyetov’s voice behind him. “Stop! Watch out! The train!”
Sheptunov looked forward and saw the train with its ter-rifying, fiery eyes. His hair stood on end. His pounding heart suddenly froze. Gathering all his strength, he jumped into the darkness. For about four seconds he flew through the air, and then fell on something hard and slanted and began rolling down, snatching at burdocks.
“I’m on the embankment!” he thought. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Better a safe fool rolling down an embankment than a nobleman beaten black and blue by a lout!”
A large, heavy boot stepped into a puddle by his right ear. He felt two hands prodding his back.
“Is that you?” he heard Kutsapyetov’s voice. “Is that you, Stephan Stephanitch?”
“Have mercy!” Sheptunov moaned.
“What’s wrong with you, my dear fellow? What is it that frightened you? Its me, Kutsapyetov! Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize me! I ran after you as fast as I could. I even called out! My dear fellow, that train almost ran over you! When Marya saw you run like that, she too was seized with fright, and fainted on the platform. Maybe my calling you a swine frightened you! Please don’t be offended! I thought you were a railroad worker!” “Do not mock me! If you are here for vengeance, go ahead! I am in your hands!” Sheptunov moaned. “Beat me, maim me!”
The Undiscovered Chekhov: Forty-Three New Stories Page 7
