Great Russian Short Stories

by Unknown

  “That’s right, your excellency,” he says, “that’s my name.”

  “Yes, yes, my dear fellow, it is indeed your name, but I remember something—there seems to have been another Laputin. Perhaps it’s your father who was Laputin?”

  The gentleman replied that indeed his father had been Laputin.

  “That’s why I remember it, I do. Laputin. It’s quite possible that it was your father. I have a very good memory; come, Laputin, come tomorrow. I’ll leave orders for you to be admitted, Laputin.”

  The latter was beside himself with joy and the very next day went there.

  XIII

  But Count Zakrevsky, even though he had boasted of his memory, nevertheless had slipped up on this occasion and said nothing about admitting Mr. Laputin.

  The latter came flying.

  “I’m So-and-So,” says he, “and I wish to see the Count.”

  But the doorman would not let him in.

  “There are no orders,” he says, “to admit anyone.”

  The gentleman tries to argue with him this way and that. “I haven’t come on my own,” he says, “but at the invitation of the Count.” The doorman remains adamant.

  “I have no orders to admit anyone,” he says. “And if you’ve come on business go to the office.”

  “I have not come on business,” the gentleman says, “but through personal acquaintance. The Count must have given you my name—Laputin, and you must have mixed it up.”

  “The count didn’t give me any name yesterday.”

  “That can’t be. You’ve simply forgotten the name—Laputin.”

  “I never forget anything, and as for this name I am not likely to forget it because I am Laputin myself.”

  The gentleman simply boiled over.

  “What do you mean,” says he, “you’re Laputin yourself! Who put you onto calling yourself that?!”

  And the doorman replies:

  “No one put me onto it, but that’s our stock, and there is any number of Laputins in Moscow, only the others are of no account and I’m the only one who has come up in the world.”

  And at that moment, while they were arguing, the Count comes down the stairs and says:

  “That’s right, he is the one I had in mind, he is that very Laputin, and in my house he’s a scoundrel, too. And you come some other time, I am busy now. Good day.”

  Well, naturally, how can you pay a call after this?

  XIV

  Maître tailleur Lepoutant told me this story with an air of compassionate modesty, adding by way of finale that the very next day, as he walked along the boulevard with his work, he happened to run into anecdotic Laputin himself, whom Vasily Konych had reason to regard as his benefactor.

  “He is sitting on a bench,” he said, “very sad. I wanted to slip past, but the moment he noticed me he said:

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Lepoutant. How’s life treating you?’

  ‘Very well, by the grace of God and with your help. And you, sir, how are you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be worse. A most wretched thing happened to me.’

  ‘I have heard about it, sir,’ I say, ‘and was glad that at least you didn’t lay hands on him.’

  ‘I couldn’t lay hands on him because he is not a man of free profession but the Count’s knave; but what I want to know is: Who bribed him to play this filthy trick on me?’ ”

  And Konych, in his simplicity, began to comfort the gentleman.

  “Don’t look, sir,” he says, “for instigation. There really are many Laputins and among them some very honest folk, as for example my late grandfather; he used to sell insoles all over Moscow. . . .”

  “And at those words he suddenly let me have it across the back with his stick. I ran away, and since then I haven’t seen him, but have heard that he and his spouse went abroad, to France, and there he got ruined and died, and she erected a monument to him and they say that the inscription happened to be the same as that on my sign: ‘Lepoutant.’ Thus we became namesakes once more.”

  XV

  Vasily Konych concluded and I asked him why he wouldn’t now change his sign and display his lawful Russian name.

  “Well, sir,” he says, “why should I stir up that which brought me new fortune—this way I can harm the whole neighborhood.”

  “But what harm will it do the neighborhood?”

  “Well, you see, my French sign, even though, I suppose, everybody knows that it is mere formality, yet because of it our neighborhood has got a different stamp, and the houses of all my neighbors have now a different value from what they had before.”

  Thus Konych has remained a Frenchman for the good of the residents of his little side-lane beyond the Moscow River while his aristocratic namesake has rotted away at Père-Lachaise, under a pseudonym, without doing any good.

  THE SIGNAL

  Vsevolod M. Garshin

  SEMYON IVANOV was a track-walker. His hut was ten versts away from a railroad station in one direction and twelve versts away in the other. About four versts away there was a cotton mill that had opened the year before, and its tall chimney rose up darkly from behind the forest. The only dwellings around were the distant huts of the other track-walkers.

  Semyon Ivanov’s health had been completely shattered. Nine years before he had served right through the war as servant to an officer. The sun had roasted him, the cold frozen him, and hunger famished him on the forced marches of forty and fifty versts a day in the heat and the cold and the rain and the shine. The bullets had whizzed about him, but, thank God! none had struck him.

  Semyon’s regiment had once been on the firing line. For a whole week there had been skirmishing with the Turks, only a deep ravine separating the two hostile armies; and from morn till eve there had been a steady cross-fire. Thrice daily Semyon carried a steaming samovar and his officer’s meals from the camp kitchen to the ravine. The bullets hummed about him and rattled viciously against the rocks. Semyon was terrified and cried sometimes, but still he kept right on. The officers were pleased with him, because he always had hot tea ready for them.

  He returned from the campaign with limbs unbroken but crippled with rheumatism. He had experienced no little sorrow since then. He arrived home to find that his father, an old man, and his little four-year-old son had died. Semyon remained alone with his wife. They could not do much. It was difficult to plough with rheumatic arms and legs. They could no longer stay in their village, so they started off to seek their fortune in new places. They stayed for a short time on the line, in Kherson and Donshchina, but nowhere found luck. Then the wife went out to service, and Semyon continued to travel about. Once he happened to ride on an engine, and at one of the stations the face of the station-master seemed familiar to him. Semyon looked at the station-master and the station-master looked at Semyon, and they recognized each other. He had been an officer in Semyon’s regiment.

  “You are Ivanov?” he said.

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  “How do you come to be here?”

  Semyon told him all.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I cannot tell you, sir.”

  “Idiot! What do you mean by ‘cannot tell you?’ ”

  “I mean what I say, your Excellency. There is nowhere for me to go to. I must hunt for work, sir.”

  The station-master looked at him, thought a bit, and said: “See here, friend, stay here a while at the station. You are married, I think. Where is your wife?”

  “Yes, your Excellency, I am married. My wife is at Kursk, in service with a merchant.”

  “Well, write to your wife to come here. I will give you a free pass for her. There is a position as track-walker open. I will speak to the Chief on your behalf.”

  “I shall be very grateful to you, your Excellency,” replied Semyon.

  He stayed at the station, helped in the kitchen, cut firewood, kept the yard clean, and swept the platform. In a fortnight’s time his wife arrived, and Semyon went on a hand-tro
lley to his hut. The hut was a new one and warm, with as much wood as he wanted. There was a little vegetable garden, the legacy of former track-walkers, and there was about half a desyatin of ploughed land on either side of the railway embankment. Semyon was rejoiced. He began to think of doing some farming, of purchasing a cow and a horse.

  He was given all necessary stores—a green flag, a red flag, lanterns, a horn, hammer, screw-wrench for the nuts, a crow-bar, spade, broom, bolts, and nails; they gave him two books of regulations and a time-table of the trains. At first Semyon could not sleep at night, and learnt the whole time-table by heart. Two hours before a train was due he would go over his section, sit on the bench at his hut, and look and listen whether the rails were trembling or the rumble of the train could be heard. He even learned the regulations by heart, although he could only read by spelling out each word.

  It was summer; the work was not heavy; there was no snow to clear away, and the trains on that line were infrequent. Semyon used to go over his verst twice a day, examine and screw up nuts here and there, keep the bed level, look at the water-pipes, and then go home to his own affairs. There was only one drawback—he always had to get the inspector’s permission for the least little thing he wanted to do. Semyon and his wife were even beginning to be bored.

  Two months passed, and Semyon commenced to make the acquaintance of his neighbors, the track-walkers on either side of him. One was a very old man, whom the authorities were always meaning to relieve. He scarcely moved out of his hut. His wife used to do all his work. The other track-walker, nearer the station, was a young man, thin, but muscular. He and Semyon met for the first time on the line midway between the huts. Semyon took off his hat and bowed. “Good health to you, neighbor,” he said.

  The neighbor glanced askance at him. “How do you do?” he replied; then turned around and made off.

  Later the wives met. Semyon’s wife passed the time of day with her neighbor, but neither did she say much.

  On one occasion Semyon said to her: “Young woman, your husband is not very talkative.”

  The woman said nothing at first, then replied: “But what is there for him to talk about? Every one has his own business. Go your way, and God be with you.”

  However, after another month or so they became acquainted. Semyon would go with Vasily along the line, sit on the edge of a pipe, smoke, and talk of life. Vasily, for the most part, kept silent, but Semyon talked of his village, and of the campaign through which he had passed.

  “I have had no little sorrow in my day,” he would say; “and goodness knows I have not lived long. God has not given me happiness, but what He may give, so will it be. That’s so, friend Vasily Stepanych.”

  Vasily Stepanych knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a rail, stood up, and said: “It is not luck which follows us in life, but human beings. There is no crueller beast on this earth than man. Wolf does not eat wolf, but man will readily devour man.”

  “Come, friend, don’t say that; a wolf eats wolf.”

  “The words came into my mind and I said it. All the same, there is nothing crueller than man. If it were not for his wickedness and greed, it would be possible to live. Everybody tries to sting you to the quick, to bite and eat you up.”

  Semyon pondered a bit. “I don’t know, brother,” he said; “perhaps it is as you say, and perhaps it is God’s will.”

  “And perhaps,” said Vasily, “it is waste of time for me to talk to you. To put everything unpleasant on God, and sit and suffer, means, brother, being not a man but an animal. That’s what I have to say.” And he turned and went off without saying good-bye.

  Semyon also got up. “Neighbor,” he called, “why do you lose your temper?” But his neighbor did not look round, and kept on his way.

  Semyon gazed after him until he was lost to sight in the cutting at the turn. He went home and said to his wife: “Arina, our neighbor is a wicked person, not a man.”

  However, they did not quarrel. They met again and discussed the same topics.

  “Ah, friend, if it were not for men we should not be poking in these huts,” said Vasily, on one occasion.

  “And what if we are poking in these huts? It’s not so bad. You can live in them.”

  “Live in them, indeed! Bah, you! . . . You have lived long and learned little, looked at much and seen little. What sort of life is there for a poor man in a hut here or there? The cannibals are devouring you. They are sucking up all your life-blood, and when you become old, they will throw you out just as they do husks to feed the pigs on. What pay do you get?”

  “Not much, Vasily Stepanych—twelve rubles.”

  “And I, thirteen and a half rubles. Why? By the regulations the company should give us fifteen rubles a month with firing and lighting. Who decides that you should have twelve rubles, or I thirteen and a half? Ask yourself! And you say a man can live on that? You understand it is not a question of one and a half rubles or three rubles—even if they paid us each the whole fifteen rubles. I was at the station last month. The director passed through. I saw him. I had that honor. He had a separate coach. He came out and stood on the platform.... I shall not stay here long; I shall go somewhere, anywhere, follow my nose.”

  “But where will you go, Stepanych? Leave well enough alone. Here you have a house, warmth, a little piece of land. Your wife is a worker.”

  “Land! You should look at my piece of land. Not a twig on it—nothing. I planted some cabbages in the spring, just when the inspector came along. He said: ‘What is this? Why have you not reported this? Why have you done this without permission? Dig them up, roots and all.’ He was drunk. Another time he would not have said a word, but this time it struck him. Three rubles fine! . . .”

  Vasily kept silent for a while, pulling at his pipe, then added quietly: “A little more and I should have done for him.”

  “You are hot-tempered.”

  “No, I am not hot-tempered, but I tell the truth and think. Yes, he will still get a bloody nose from me. I will complain to the Chief. We will see then!” And Vasily did complain to the Chief.

  Once the Chief came to inspect the line. Three days later important personages were coming from St. Petersburg and would pass over the line. They were conducting an inquiry, so that previous to their journey it was necessary to put everything in order. Ballast was laid down, the bed was levelled, the sleepers carefully examined, spikes were driven in a bit, nuts screwed up, posts painted, and orders given for yellow sand to be sprinkled at the level crossings. The woman at the neighboring hut turned her old man out to weed. Semyon worked for a whole week. He put everything in order, mended his caftan, cleaned and polished his brass plate until it fairly shone. Vasily also worked hard. The Chief arrived on a trolley, four men working the handles and the levers making the six wheels hum. The trolley traveled at twenty versts an hour, but the wheels squeaked. It reached Semyon’s hut, and he ran out and reported in soldierly fashion. All appeared to be in repair.

  “Have you been here long?” inquired the Chief.

  “Since the second of May, your Excellency.”

  “All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?”

  The traffic inspector (he was traveling with the Chief on the trolley) replied: “Vasily Spiridov.”

  “Spiridov, Spiridov. . . . Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note last year?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!” The workmen laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way. Semyon watched it, and thought, “There will be trouble between them and my neighbor.”

  About two hours later he started on his round. He saw some one coming along the line from the cutting. Something white showed on his head. Semyon began to look more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick in his hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was bound up in a handkerchief.

  “Where are you off to?” cried Semyon.

  Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as chalk, a
nd his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he muttered: “To town—to Moscow—to the head office.”

  “Head office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose. Give it up! Vasily Stepanych, forget it.”

  “No, mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He struck me in the face, drew blood. So long as I live I will not forget. I will not leave it like this!”

  Semyon took his hand. “Give it up, Stepanych. I am giving you good advice. You will not better things. . . .”

  “Better things! I know myself I shan’t better things. You were right about Fate. It would be better for me not to do it, but one must stand up for the right.”

  “But tell me, how did it happen?”

  “How? He examined everything, got down from the trolley, looked into the hut. I knew beforehand that he would be strict, and so I had put everything into proper order. He was just going when I made my complaint. He immediately cried out: ‘Here is a Government inquiry coming, and you make a complaint about a vegetable garden. Here are privy councillors coming, and you annoy me with cabbages!’ I lost patience and said something—not very much, but it offended him, and he struck me in the face. I stood still; I did nothing, just as if what he did was perfectly all right. They went off; I came to myself, washed my face, and left.”

  “And what about the hut?”

  “My wife is staying there. She will look after things. Never mind about their roads.”

  Vasily got up and collected himself. “Good-bye, Ivanov. I do not know whether I shall get any one at the office to listen to me.”

  “Surely you are not going to walk?”

  “At the station I will try to get on a freight train, and to-morrow I shall be in Moscow.”

  The neighbors bade each other farewell. Vasily was absent for some time. His wife worked for him night and day. She never slept, and wore herself out waiting for her husband. On the third day the commission arrived. An engine, luggage-van, and two first-class saloons; but Vasily was still away. Semyon saw his wife on the fourth day. Her face was swollen from crying and her eyes were red.