Pavel gestured in the air with his hands as he demonstrated how they should be singing and playing the song.
A few minutes later, humming the tune that his wife was singing, he returned to his room and continued with his writing:
“Both men, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Ushakov, were young, close to the same age; they were friends who worked in the same office. Mr. Ushakov was shy and humble. Mr. Winkle was the complete opposite of his friend: he had a reputation for being rude, animallike, with terrible habits, and insatiable when it came to satisfying his own desires. He was so outlandish and selfish at times that some thought he was mentally unstable.
“How two such completely opposite characters, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Ushakov, could be friends was hard to understand. They had only one thing in common: they both were rich.
“Ushakov was the only son of a single rich mother; Winkle was the only heir of a huge estate through his aunt, a general’s widow who loved him as her only son. Money can be a good connector factor in a relationship; and it was in this case. They both wasted money on all their whims, such as beautiful women, expensive clothes, cab fare, etc., and lived in such a way that made people jealous. Indeed, it was money that united them.
“The friendship between Mr. Ushakov and Mr. Winkle did not last long. They became bitter enemies one day, when they simultaneously fell in love with an exotic dancer, Ms. Wholly, a very self-absorbed but very attractive woman, famous for her luxurious hair. She managed to become intimate with both men for their money, at almost the same time. This pretty woman was savvy and practical enough to know that the best way to get money out of her lover, or both lovers in this case, was to arouse their jealousy.
“The modest Ushakov simply looked at his rival with disgust, but the rude and wild Winkle gave in to his worst instincts.”
At this moment, a voice from the living room called,
“Come here, Pavel.”
Pavel jumped up from his chair, and proceeded next door to the ladies.
“Come, sing a duo with Michael. You sing the first voice, and he will sing the second one.”
“All right, give me the pitch.” Pavel walked to the piano, waved with his pen, which was still wet with ink, stamped his foot a couple of times, made a suffering face, and started singing “Those Crazy Nights” with the university student.
“Bravo! Bravo! We were both great!” He embraced the student. “Do you want me to sing more? No, the hell with singing! I have to get back to my writing.”
“Give us a break. Don’t be shy! Stay and sing!”
“No-no-no! I promised. My deadline for this short story is today.”
Pavel threw both his hands in the air, ran back to his study, and continued writing:
“One night at about 10 p.m., when Mr. Ushakov was on duty in the office, Mr. Winkle sneaked into the office building through the back door, entered the room quietly behind his former friend, and hit him with a little axe, right on the back of his head.
“It was obvious that at the moment of the murder he had been in a terrible fit of rage, as the medical experts found eleven wounds in the head of Mr. Ushakov. He wasn’t thinking logically before, during, or after the murder. As soon as he had eliminated his rival, covered with blood, with an axe in his hands, he climbed up to the little attic of the office building, and, then climbed through the little window all the way onto the roof. The security guards heard that someone was walking on the iron roof late that night. From the rooftop, he went down the eaves until he reached the roof of the neighboring house. And so he continued on from one roof to another, until they caught up with him.
“The whole city came to the funeral of Mr. Ushakov, filled with music and flowers.
“The public outcry was against the murderer to such an extent that people came in crowds to look at the prison wall behind which Mr. Winkle was incarcerated. Two or three days after the murder, a small monument appeared on the grave of the murdered man, with the inscription, ‘He died at the hand of a murderer.’
“But the person who was the most distressed over his death was his mother. When the poor woman found out about her son’s death, she almost went crazy.”
Pavel Sergeevich wrote one more page, smoked two cigarettes, had a nap on his couch, then returned to his desk, to continue:
“The old woman, Mrs. Ushakov, was brought into to court and gave her testimony from the witnesses’ bench. The listeners reported that her testimony was brief. She turned to the bench of the accused, trembling, and addressed him, shaking both fists at him, and cried,
“‘You killed my son, it was you!’
“‘I don’t deny it,’ mumbled Mr. Winkle, addressing the judge.
“‘You can’t deny it! You killed him!’ cried the old woman.
“After her, the old general’s widow, Mr. Winkle’s aunt, came to courtroom to give her testimony. She looked senselessly around herself for several minutes, and then asked her nephew in a tone of voice that made everyone in the courtroom suddenly tremble,
“‘Nicholas, what have you done?’
After that, she was not able to speak.
The appearance of both women in court had a very depressing effect on the public.
When these two old women met outside in the courthouse corridors, they caused such an emotional scene that even the court couriers had tears in their eyes.
The old woman, Mrs. Ushakov, who had become very bitter after all her misfortunes, jumped closer to the general’s widow, and started scolding her. Her previous testimony was brief in court; however, in the hall she started talking and shouting at the old widow, using all kinds of swear words. She reproached her, she swore at her; she made all kinds of references to God’s punishment, etc.
Mrs. Winkle listened very patiently, without saying a word, until Mrs. Ushakov was finished, and then said,
“‘Have mercy, please! We have already been punished!’ Then, she could not bear it any more, and began to answer the accusations.
“‘If this were not for your son, my Nicholas would not have been sitting here. It was your son who destroyed him, etc.,’ she cried.
“They pulled the two old women to opposite sides of the hallway.
“The jury found Mr. Winkle guilty, and sentenced him to ten years of hard labor.”
“‘You know that Nikonov has a wonderful voice, a very nice-sounding voice indeed, a deep bass. Yes, a very nice-sounding voice,’ Pavel overheard his wife telling one of the guests. ‘I can’t understand my dear, why does he sing in the opera?’
“Pavel made a face, jumped up, and ran into the living room.
“‘You said that Nikonov has a good bass?’
“‘Yes, he does.’
“‘Then my dear, you do not understand anything.’ Pavel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nikonov sings like a cow; growls like a dog; and neighs in a horselike voice, as if someone were pulling out his intestines. His voice is wobbly like a cork in an empty bottle. I cannot explain it to you in any plainer terms; your Nikonov has the same musical pitch as these springs in my sofa.’
“‘Hmm, they say Nikonov is a singer!’ he muttered indignantly, as he came back to his desk five minutes later and sat down to read what he just written. ‘Nikonov should be a street singer, not an opera singer.’”
Irritated, he grabbed his pen and continued to write:
“The old general’s widow, Mrs. Winkle, went to St. Petersburg, the capital, in an attempt to get his punishment reduced, so that her nephew would not be embarrassed so in public. During her absence, Mr. Winkle managed to escape from prison.”
“What wonderful weather we are having!” The student made a deep sigh in the living room.
“They finally caught him at the railroad station,” Pavel continued, “under the freight train, and it took a huge effort to pull him out. It seemed that this poor man still wanted to live. The poor man grinned at the guard who brought him back to prison, and cried bitterly.”
“Yes, it is nice to be out of town on a day lik
e this, “ said Sofia Vasilievna. “Hey, Pavel, stop writing, for God’s sake!”
Pavel nervously rubbed his forehead with his hand and continued:
“The efforts of the general’s widow were in vain. Her appeal was denied, and her nephew had to serve out his sentence in the city square. He could not bear this humiliation, and just before he was to begin his sentence, Mr. Winkle poisoned himself. He was buried behind the cemetery, in the place where they bury those who commit suicide.”
Pavel looked out at the weather through his window, cleared his throat, and went out into the living room.
“Yes, it could be nice to go out of town,” he said a few minutes later, sitting in his favorite chair. “The weather is beautiful.”
“So, let us go out together! Where shall we go?” The women were talking excitedly.
“I have to finish my short story first. I have hardly written half of it. It would be nice to order a couple of cabs, and get out of town for a nice walk, but I would need to start with a couple of drinks.”
“Excellent! Let us go, now!”
“No-no, I cannot go before I finish my short story. Do not even ask me about this!”
“Then go back into your study and finish it faster! In the meantime, Michael will order the wine delivery and by the time the cabs come to pick us up, you will have finished it five times over!”
The ladies surrounded Pavel, asking him questions about the place they should go. He waved at them with his hand in the air, and then finally agreed. The student was sent to fetch the cabs and the wine, and the ladies were kept busy getting ready.
When he ran back to his study, Pavel Sergeevich hastily grabbed his pen, hit his manuscript with his fist, and quickly wrote:
“Every day the old woman, Mrs. Ushakov, went to the cemetery to visit her son’s grave. No matter the weather, rain or snow, every morning around ten o’clock, her cab would be in front of the cemetery gate. She could be found sitting in front of the grave, crying, eagerly looking at the inscription, as if she were admiring it: ‘He died at the hand of a murderer.’”
When the student returned, Pavel quickly downed a glass of wine in a single gulp, and continued:
“For five years in a row, she went to the cemetery, not missing a single day. The gravesite became a second home to her. The sixth year, she fell ill with a severe lung infection, and she was not able to make it to her son’s grave for a month.”
“Stop writing! Stop! Let’s go! Come over here and have another drink!” He heard the voices calling to him.
“I cannot go yet. Wait a few more minutes, my dear, do not interfere,” he replied, and went on writing:
“When she returned to the cemetery after her illness, the old woman, to her horror, found she completely forgot where her son’s grave was located. Her illness had removed her memory. She was running across the cemetery, deep in snow up to her waist, imploring the guards to show her the grave. ‘Where is the place where my son was buried?’ she cried.
“But during her absence, the cross marking the grave had been stolen by lowlife thieves who specialize in stealing and reselling cemetery items.
“‘Where is he? Where is my son?’ the old woman cried. ‘You took him away from me for a second time.’”
“Are you going, or what?” Sofia Vasilievna cried at the study door. “It is not nice of you to make five people wait for you! Quit keeping us waiting!”
“Wait, just one more second,” mumbled Pavel as he gulped his second glass of wine. “Just a moment, hold on.”
Pavel rubbed his forehead intensely, cast a meaningless glance at everyone waiting and, nervously tapping his shoe against the floor, wrote the following:
“She could not find her son’s grave, and pale, bare-headed, tired, with her eyes half closed, she walked unsteadily back to the cemetery entrance, to go home. Before getting into her cab, she had to experience one more problem. She encountered Mrs. Winkle.”
One of the lady guests ran through the study, snatching the manuscript from his desk, as she yelled, “Let us go!”
Pavel weakly attempted to protest, threw his hands helplessly into the air, tore his manuscript into small pieces, for no reason swore at the editor, then happily whistled as he ran out into the hall to help the ladies finish getting ready and depart.
FIRE IN THE STEPPE: AN EVIL NIGHT
You can hear the dogs barking and howling in an alarming way, as dogs usually do when they sense an enemy but cannot understand who it is or where it is coming from. There are unclear, muffled sounds flying though the dark autumn air, disturbing the silence of the night: muttering of human voices from far off, the busy rush of footsteps, front gates squeaking, the clomping of horseshoes, and noises made by their riders.
Three dark figures stand motionless in the Dadkins’ estate garden, right in the middle of its main allée, in an empty flower bed. The first recognizable as the night guard on watch, Sam. A distinct figure in his bell-shaped sheepskin coat, tied with a rope instead of a belt, with pieces of fur hanging from it. A tall, thin-legged man in a jacket, with enormous ears, stands next to him. This is Gabriel the butler. The third is dressed in a vest over a loosely hanging shirt, a strongly built, but rather clumsy man, whose angular form brings to mind a wooden doll. He is also known as Gabriel the groom.
All three men grip the top of a short picket fence tightly and look off in the distance.
“Holy mother, save and protect us from this evil!” mumbles Sam in an excited voice. “Just look at that! God is furious at us. Oh, Holy Mother!”
“This is not far from us,” says Gabriel the butler in a bass voice. “Six miles, not more. I believe it is happening at the German farms.”
“No, the German farms are further to the left,” Gabriel the groom interrupts him. “The German farms should be behind this birch tree. No, it must be the Kreshensky village.”
“Yes, it is,” agrees Sam.
They hear someone with bare feet running across the terrace, stomping his feet on the floor and closing the door with a crash. The big house is immersed in sleep. The windows are as black as tar and look eerily gloomy, with only one window barely lit from the inside by a pink night lamp. The young landlady, Maria Sergeevna, sleeps in that room. Her husband, Nikolai Alexeevich, went out to play cards, and has not yet returned.
“Anastasia!” they hear someone crying.
“The landlady is awake,” says Gabriel the butler.
“Wait, brothers, I want to ask her to give me a few horses, and all the farmhands available on the estate, and we will head to the fire as fast as we can. People in that village are stupid, and they will need someone to tell them what to do.”
“Really? Just look at you! You’re going to tell them what to do. Look at yourself—your teeth are chattering from fear! There are enough people there without you. Policemen, chiefs, other landlords—they should all be there already.”
A glass door leading to the terrace opens with a clinking sound, and the landlady herself comes out.
“What is this? What is the meaning of all this noise?” she asks, as she comes closer to the three figures. “Sam, is it you?”
Before Sam has a chance to answer her, she jumps back, horrified, and clasps her hands. “Oh my God, what a terrible misfortune,” she cries. “How long it has been going on? And where is it? Why didn’t you wake me up?”
The southern part of the sky is densely filled with a red glow. The sky looks inflamed, irritated, with the evil red color flickering and trembling across it, almost pulsing in its appearance. They can see the hills and the bare trees against this huge crimson background. They hear a convulsive, hurrying noise of the church bells ringing with the fire warning.
“This is terrible, terrible,” says the landlady.
“Where is the fire?”
“Not far, in the Kreshensky village.”
“Oh my God! Nikolai is not at home, and I don’t know what to do. Does the manager know?”
“He already left,
with three barrels.”
“Those poor people!”
“And most important, madam, they don’t have a river. There is only one pond nearby, but it isn’t in the village itself.”
“Is it possible to put out a fire like this with water?” asks Gabriel the butler. “The most important thing is not to let the fire grow bigger. The people who know how to fight fires should go and take command. Madam, please let me go there.”
“You should not go,” answers Maria Sergeevna. “You will only interfere.”
Gabriel coughs disappointingly, and takes a step back. Sam and Gabriel the groom both don’t like the too-clever remarks of the arrogant-speaking butler in the jacket, and are satisfied hearing the landlady’s remark.
“We could not do much anyway,” says Sam.
Then both of them, trying to look smart in the madam’s eyes, start talking about the fire, using many religious words, appealing for God’s help, “Look, this is how God is punishing us people for our sins. That’s it! A man sins and does not know what he is doing, but God, you know, he knows everything …”
The sight of this glow has the same effect on all of them. The landlady and the servants alike feel inner cold—the kind of cold where the hands, the head, and the voice start to tremble. The fear is great, but their impatience is even greater. They want to get to a higher elevation to see the fire, its smoke, and the people better. Their desire to experience this emotional situation and its stress becomes stronger than their compassion for the misfortunes of others.
When the glow becomes pale, seemingly smaller, Gabriel happily proclaims: “It looks like they have put the fire out. God helps them!”
However, a note of disappointment can be heard in his voice. When the glow in the sky grows, becoming larger, he sighs and desperately waves his hand in the air. From the loud breaths he is making while trying to stand up on his tiptoes, it is obvious that he is expressing some sort of pleasure.
They all know that they are observing a terrible disaster, but they are not satisfied with their vantage point, wanting to get a better view. This dubious feeling is a natural one, and it should not be reproached.
A Night in the Cemetery Page 14
