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 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ONCEIVE the joy of a lover of nature who, leaving 
 the art galleries, wanders out among the trees and wild 
 flowers and birds that the pictures of the galleries have sen- 
 timentalised. It is some such joy that the man who 
 truly loves the noblest in letters feels when tasting for the 
 first time the simple delights of Russian literature. French 
 and English and German authors, too, occasionally, offer 
 works of lofty, simple naturalness; but the very keynote to 
 the whole of Russian literature is simplicity, naturalness, 
 veraciousness. 
 
 Another essentially Russian trait is the quite unaffected 
 conception that the lowly are on a plane of equality with 
 the so-called upper classes. When the Englishman Dickens 
 wrote with his profound pity and understanding of the poor, 
 there was yet a bit of remoteness, perhaps, even, a bit of car- 
 icature, in his treatment of them. He showed their sufferings 
 to the rest of the world with a “Behold how the other half 
 lives!” The Russian writes of the poor, as it were, from 
 within, as one of them, with no eye to theatrical effect 
 upon the well-to-do. There is no insistence upon peculiar 
 virtues or vices. The poor are portrayed just as they are, 
 as human beings like the rest of us. A democratic spirit is 
 reflected, breathing a broad humanity, a true universality, 
 an unstudied generosity that proceed not from the intel- 
 lectual conviction that to understand all is to forgive ail, 
 but from an instinctive feeling that no man has the right to 
 set himself up as a judge over another, that one can only 
 observe and record. 
 
 In 1834 two short stories appeared, The Queen of Spades, 
 by Pushkin, and The Cloak, by Gogol. The first was a fin- 
 ishing-off of the old, outgoing style of romanticism, the other 
 was the beginning of the new, the characteristically Russian 
 style. We read Pushkin’s Queen of Spades, the first story 
 in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall enjoy it greatly. 
 
 vii 
 
Vili INTRODUCTION 
 
 “But why is it Russian?” we ask. The answer is, “It is 
 not Russian.” It might have been printed in an American 
 magazine over the name of John Brown. But, now, take 
 the very next story in the volume, The Cloak. “Ah,” you 
 exclaim, ‘‘a genuine Russian story, surely. You cannot palm 
 it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith.” Why? Be- 
 cause Тйе Cloak for the first time strikes that truly Russian 
 note of deep sympathy with the disinherited. It is not yet 
 wholly free from artificiality, and so is not yet typical of the 
 purely realistic fiction that reached its perfected develop- 
 ment in Turgenev and Tolstoy. 
 
 Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made 
 the literature of their country world-famous, he was still 
 a romanticist, in the universal literary fashion of his day. 
 However, he already gave strong indication of the peculiarly 
 Russian genius for naturalness or realism, and was a true 
 Russian in his simplicity of style. In no sense an in- 
 novator, but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron and 
 for his prose from the romanticism current at that period, 
 he was not in advance of his age. He had a revolutionary 
 streak in his nature, as his Ode to Liberty and other bits 
 of verse and his intimacy with the Decembrist rebels show. 
 But his youthful fire soon died down, and he found it pos- 
 sible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high 
 functionary and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas 
 I, though, to be sure, he always hated that life. For all 
 his flirting with revolutionarism, he never displayed great 
 originality or depth of thought. He was simply an extraor- 
 dinarily gifted author, a perfect versifier, a wondrous lyrist, 
 and a delicious raconteur, endowed with a grace, ease and 
 power of expression that delighted even the exacting artistic 
 sense of Turgenev. To him aptly applies the dictum of 
 Socrates: ‘Моё by wisdom do the poets write poetry, but 
 by a sort of genius and inspiration.” 1 40 not mean to con- 
 vey that as a thinker Pushkin is to be despised. Neverthe- 
 less, it is true that he would occupy a lower position in 
 literature did his reputation depend upon his contributions 
 to thought and not upon his value as an artist. 
 
 «Те are all descended from Gogol’s Cloak,” said a Rus- 
 sian writer. And Dostoyevsky’s novel, Poor People, which 
 

 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 appeared ten years later, is, in a way, merely an extension 
 of Gogol’s shorter tale. In Dostoyevsky, indeed, the pas- 
 sion for the common people and the all-embracing, all-pene- 
 trating pity for suffering humanity reach their climax. He 
 was a profound psychologist and delved deeply into the hu- 
 man soul, especially in its abnormal and diseased aspects. 
 -Between scenes of heart-rending, abject poverty, injustice, 
 and wrong, and the torments of mental pathology, he man- 
 aged almost to exhaust the whole range of human woe. And. 
 he analysed this misery with an intensity of feeling and a 
 painstaking regard for the most harrowing details that are 
 quite upsetting to normally constituted nerves. Yet all the 
 horrors must be forgiven him because of the motive inspir- 
 ing them—an overpowering love and the desire to induce an 
 equal love in others. It is not horror for horror’s sake, not 
 a literary tour de force, as in Poe, but horror for a high 
 purpose, for purification through suffering, which was one 
 of the articles of Dostoyevsky’s faith. 
 
 Following as a corollary from the love and pity for man- 
 kind that make a leading element in Russian literature, is a 
 passionate search for the means of improving the lot of 
 humanity, a fervent attachment to social ideas and ideals. 
 A Russian author is more ardently devoted to a cause than 
 an American short-story writer to a plot. This, in turn, is 
 but a reflection of the spirit of the Russian people, especially 
 of the intellectuals. The Russians take literature perhaps 
 more seriously than any other nation. To them books are 
 not a mere diversion. They demand that fiction and poetry 
 be a true mirror of life and be of service to life. A Rus- 
 sian author, to achieve the highest recognition, must be a 
 thinker also. He need not necessarily be a finished artist. 
 Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—hu- 
 manitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of 
 the marvellous simplicity of Russian literary art. Before 
 the supreme function of literature, the Russian writer stands . 
 awed and humbled. He knows he cannot cover up poverty 
 of thought, poverty of spirit and lack of sincerity by rhe- 
 torical tricks or verbal cleverness. And if he possesses the 
 two essential requirements, the simplest language will suf- 
 fice. 
 
x INTRODUCTION 
 
 These qualities are exemplified at their best by Turgenev 
 and Tolstoy. They both had a strong social consciousness; 
 they both grappled with the problems of human welfare; 
 they were both artists in the larger sense, that is, in their 
 truthful representation of life. Tturgenev was an artist also 
 in the narrower sense—in a keen appreciation of form. 
 Thoroughly Occidental in his tastes, he sought the regen- 
 eration of Russia in radical progress along the lines of Euro- 
 pean democracy. Tolstoy, on the other hand, sought the 
 salvation of mankind in a return to the primitive life and 
 primitive Christian religion. 
 
 The very first work of importance by Turgenev, A Sports- 
 man’s Sketches, dealt with the question of serfdom, and it 
 wielded tremendous influence in bringing about its abolition. 
 Almost every succeeding book of his, from Rudin through 
 Fathers and Sons to Virgin Soil, presented vivid pictures of 
 contemporary Russian society, with its problems, the clash 
 of ideas between the old and the new generations, and the 
 struggles, the aspirations and the thoughts that engrossed 
 the advanced youth of Russia; so that his collected works 
 form a remarkable literary record of the successive move- 
 ments of Russian society in a period of preparation, fraught 
 with epochal significance, which culminated in the overthrow 
 of Czarism and the inauguration of a new and true de- 
 mocracy, marking the beginning, perhaps, of a radical trans- 
 formation the world over. 
 
 “The greatest writer of Russia.” ‘That is Turgenev’s es- 
 timate of Tolstoy. “А second Shakespeare!” was Flaubert’s 
 enthusiastic outburst. The Frenchman’s comparison is not 
 wholly illuminating. The one point of resemblance between 
 the two authors is simply in the tremendous magnitude of 
 their genius. Each is a Colossus. Each creates a whole 
 world of characters, from kings and princes and ladies to 
 servants and maids and peasants. But how vastly divergent 
 the angle of approach! Anna Karenina may have all the 
 subtle womanly charm of an Olivia or a Portia, but how 
 different her trials. Shakespeare could not have treated 
 Anna’s problems at all. Anna could not have appeared 
 in his pages except as a sinning Gertrude, the mother of 
 Наше. Shakespeare had all the prejudices of his age. 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 He accepted the world as it is with its absurd moralities, 
 its conventions and institutions and social classes. A grave- 
 digger is naturally inferior to a lord, and if he is to be pre- 
 sented at all, he must come on аз a clown. The people are al- 
 ways a mob, the rabble. Tolstoy is the revolutionist, the icon- 
 oclast. He has the completest independence of mind. He 
 utterly refuses to accept established opinions just because 
 they are established. He probes into the right and wrong 
 of things. His is a broad, generous universal democracy, his 
 is a comprehensive sympathy, his an absolute incapacity to 
 evaluate human beings according to station, rank or profes- 
 sion, or any standard but that of spiritual worth. In all 
 this he was a complete contrast to Shakespeare. Each of 
 the two men was like a creature of a higher world, possessed 
 of supernatural endowments. Their omniscience of all things 
 human, their insight into the hiddenmost springs of men’s 
 actions appear miraculous. But Shakespeare makes the im- 
 pression of detachment from his works. The works do not 
 reveal the man; while in Tolstoy the greatness of the man 
 blends with the greatness of the genius. Tolstoy was no 
 mere oracle uttering profundities he wot not of. As the 
 social, religious and moral tracts that he wrote in the latter 
 period of his life are instinct with a literary beauty of which 
 he never could divest himself, and which gave an artistic 
 value even to his sermons, so his earlier novels show a 
 profound concern for the welfare of society, a broad, hu- 
 manitarian spirit, a bigness of soul that included prince and 
 pauper alike. 
 
 Is this extravagant praise? ‘Then Jet me echo William 
 Dean Howells: “I know very well that I do not speak of 
 Tolstoy’s books in measured terms; I cannot.” 
 
 The Russian writers so far considered have made valu- 
 able contributions to the short story; but, with the exception 
 of Pushkin, whose reputation rests chiefly upon his poetry, 
 their best work, generally, was in the field of the long novel. 
 It was the novel that gave Russian literature its pre-emi- 
 nence. It could not have been otherwise, since Russia is 
 young as a literary nation, and did not come of age until the 
 period at which the novel was almost the only form of 
 literature that counted. If, therefore, Russia was to gain 
 
Xi INTRODUCTION 
 
 distinction in the world of letters, it could be only through 
 the novel. Of the measure of her success there is perhaps 
 no better testimony than the words of Matthew Arnold, 
 a critic certainly not given to overstatement. “The Rus- 
 sian novel,” he wrote in 1887, “has now the vogue, and 
 deserves to have it. . . . The Russian novelist is master of 
 a spell to which the secret of human nature—both what is 
 external and internal, gesture and manner no less than 
 thought and feeling—willingly make themselves known. ... 
 In that form of imaginative literature, which in our day is 
 the most popular and the most possible, the Russians at the 
 present moment seem to me to hold the field.” 
 
 With the strict censorship imposed on Russian writers, 
 many of them who might perhaps have contented themselves 
 with expressing their opinions in essays, were driven to con- 
 ceal their meaning under the guise of satire or allegory; 
 which gave rise to a peculiar genre of literature, a sort of 
 editorial or essay done into fiction, in which the satirist 
 Saltykov, a contemporary. of Turgenev and Dostoyevsky, 
 who wrote under the pseudonym of Shchedrin, achieved the 
 greatest success and popularity. 
 
 It was not, however, until the concluding quarter of the 
 Jast century that writers like Korolenko and Garshin 
 arose, who devoted themselves chiefly to the cultivation of 
 the short story. With Anton Chekhov the short story as- 
 sumed a position of importance alongside the larger works 
 of the great Russian masters. Gorky and Апагеуеу made 
 the short story do the same service for the active revolution- 
 ary period in the last decade of the nineteenth century 
 down to its temporary defeat in 1906 that Turgenev ren- 
 dered in his series of larger novels for the period vf prepa- 
 ration. But very different was the voice of Gorky, the man 
 sprung from the people, the embodiment of all the accumu- 
 lated wrath and indignation of centuries of social wrong and 
 oppression, from the gentlemanly tones of the cultured artist 
 _Turgenev. Like а mighty hammer his blows fell upon the 
 decaying fabric of the old society. His was no longer a 
 feeble, despairing protest. With the strength and confi- 
 dence of victory he made onslaught upon onslaught on the 
 old institutions until they shook and almost tumbled. Ana 
 
 
 

 
 INTRODUCTION xill 
 
 when reaction celebrated its short-lived triumph and gloom 
 settled again upon his country and most of his co-fighters 
 withdrew from the battle in despair, some returning to the 
 old-time Russian mood of hopelessness, passivity and apathy, 
 and some even backsliding into wild orgies of literary de- , 
 bauchery, Gorky never wavered, never lost his faith and 
 hope, never for a moment was untrue to his principles. 
 Now, with the revolution victorious, he has come into his 
 right, one of the most respected, beloved and picturesque 
 figures in the Russian democracy. 
 
 Kuprin, the most facile and talented short-story writer 
 next to Chekhov, has, on the whole, kept well to the best 
 literary traditions of Russia, though he has frequently wan- 
 dered off to extravagant sex themes, for which he seems to 
 display as great a fondness as Artzybashev. Semyonov is a 
 unique character in Russian literature, a peasant who had 
 scarcely mastered the most elementary mechanics of writing 
 when he penned his first story. But that story pleased Tol- 
 stoy, who befriended and encouraged him. His tales deal 
 altogether with peasant life in country and city, and have a 
 lifelikeness, an artlessness, a simplicity striking even in a 
 Russian author. 
 
 There is a small group of writers detached from the main 
 current of Russian literature who worship at the shrine of 
 beauty and mysticism. Of these Sologub has attained the 
 highest reputation. 
 
 Rich as Russia has become in the short story, Anton 
 Chekhoy still stands out as the supreme master, one of the 
 greatest short-story writers of the world. He was born in 
 Taganarok, in the Ukraine, in 1860, the son of a 
 peasant serf who succeeded in buying his freedom. Anton 
 Chekhov studied medicine, but devoted himself largely to 
 writing, in which, he acknowledged, his scientific train- 
 ing was of great service. Though he lived only forty- 
 four years, dying of tuberculosis in 1904, his collected works - 
 consist of sixteen fair-sized volumes of short stories, and 
 several dramas besides. A few volumes of his works have 
 already appeared in English translation. 
 
 Critics, among them Tolstoy, have often compared Chek- 
 hov to Maupassant. I find it hard to discover the resem- 
 
xiv ; INTRODUCTION 
 
 blance. Maupassant holds a supreme position as a short- 
 story writer; so does Chekhov. But there, it seems to me, 
 the likeness ends. 
 
 The chill wind that blows from the atmosphere created 
 by the Frenchman’s objective artistry is by the Russian 
 commingled with the warm breath of a great human sym- 
 pathy. Maupassant never tells where his sympathies lie, 
 and you don’t know; you only guess. Chekhov does not 
 tell you where his sympathies lie, either, but you know all 
 the same; you don’t have to guess. And yet Chekhov is 
 as objective as Maupassant. In the chronicling of facts, 
 conditions, and situations, in the reproduction of characters, 
 he is scrupulously true, hard, and inexorable. But without 
 obtruding his personality, he somehow manages to let you 
 know that he is always present, always at hand. If you — 
 laugh, he is there to laugh with you; if you cry, he is 
 there to shed a tear with you; if you are horrified, he is hor- 
 rified, too. It is a subtle art by which he contrives to make 
 one feel the nearness of himself for all his objectiveness, so 
 subtle that it defies analysis. And yet it constitutes one of 
 the great charms of his tales. 
 
 Chekhov’s works show an astounding resourcefulness and 
 versatility. There is no monotony, no repetition. Neither 
 in incident nor in character are any two stories alike. The 
 range of Chekhov’s knowledge of men and things seems to 
 be unlimited, and he is extravagant in the use of it. Some 
 great idea which many a writer would consider sufficient to 
 expand into a whole novel he disposes of in a story of a 
 few pages. Take, for example, Vanka, apparently but a 
 mere episode in the childhood of a nine-year-old boy, while 
 it is really the tragedy of a whole life in its tempting 
 glimpses into a past environment and ominous forebodings 
 of the future—all contracted into the space of four or five 
 pages. Chekhov is lavish with his inventiveness. Appar- 
 ently, it cost him no effort to invent. 
 
 I have used the word inventiveness for lack of a better 
 name. It expresses but lamely the peculiar faculty that dis- 
 tinguishes Chekhov. Chekhov does not really invent. He 
 reveals. Не reveals things that no author before him has 
 revealed. It is as though he possessed a special organ which 
 
INTRODUCTION XV 
 
 enabled him to see, hear and feel things of which we other 
 mortals did not even dream the existence. Yet when he 
 lays them bare we know that they are not fictitious, not 
 invented, but as real as the ordinary familiar facts of life. 
 This faculty of his playing on all conceivable objects, all 
 conceivable emotions, no matter how microscopic, endows 
 them with life and a soul. By virtue of this power The 
 Steppe, an uneventful record of peasants travelling day after 
 day through flat, monotonous fields, becomes instinct with 
 dramatic interest, and its 125 pages seem all too short. And 
 by virtue of the same attribute we follow with breathless 
 suspense the minute description of the declining days of a 
 great scientist, who feels his physical and mental faculties 
 gradually ebbing away. A Tiresome Story, Chekhov calls it; 
 and so it would be without the vitality conjured into it by 
 _ the magic touch of this strange genius. 
 
 Divination is perhaps a better term than invention. Chek- 
 hov divines the most secret impulses of the soul, scents out 
 what is buried in the subconscious, and brings it up to the 
 surface. Most writers are specialists. They know certain 
 strata of society, and when they venture beyond, their step 
 becomes uncertain. Chekhov’s material is only delimited by 
 humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The peas- 
 ant, the labourer, the merchant, the priest, the professional 
 man, the scholar, the military officer, and the government 
 functionary, Gentile or Jew, man, woman, or child—Chek- 
 hov is intimate with all of them. His characters are sharply 
 defined individuals, not types. In almost all his stories, 
 however short, the men and women and children who play 
 a part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities. 
 Ariadne is as vivid a character as Lilly, the heroine of Suder- 
 mann’s Song of Songs; yet Ariadne is but a single story ш а 
 volume of stories. Who that has read The Darling can ever 
 forget her—the woman who had no separate existence of her 
 own, but thought the thoughts, felt the feelings, and spoke 
 the words of the men she loved? And when there was no 
 man to love any more, she was utterly crushed until she 
 found a child to take care of and to love; and then she 
 sank her personality in the boy as she had sunk it before 
 
Xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 in her husbands and lover, became a mere reflection of him, 
 and was happy again. 
 
 In the compilation of this volume I have been guided by 
 the desire to give the largest possible representation to the 
 prominent authors of the Russian short story, and to present о 
 specimens characteristic of each. At the same time the ele- 
 ment of interest has been kept in mind; and in a few in- 
 stances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of the 
 story was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and strik- 
 ing qualities rather than as typifying the writer’s art. It 
 was, of course, impossible in the space of one book to exhaust 
 all that is best. But to my knowledge, the present volume 
 is the most comprehensive anthology of the Russian short 
 story in the English language, and gives a fair notion of the 
 achievement in that field. All who enjoy good reading, I 
 have no reason to doubt, will get pleasure from it, and 
 if, in addition, it will prove of assistance to American stu- 
 dents of Russian literature, I shall feel that the task has 
 been doubly worth the while. 
 
 Korolenko’s Shades and Andreyev’s Lazarus first appeared 
 in Current Opinion, and Artzybashev’s The Revolutionist in 
 the Metropolitan Magazine. I take pleasure in thanking 
 Mr. Edward J. Wheeler, editor of Current Opinion, and Mr. 
 Carl Hovey, editor of the Metropolitan Magazine, for per- 
 mission to reprint them. 
 

 
 “Everything is subordinated to two main requirements— 
 humanitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret 
 of the marvellous simplicity of Russian literary art.” 
 
 THOMAS SELTZER. 
 
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 THE QUEEN OF SPADES 
 
 By ALEKSANDR S. PUSHKIN 
 
 I 
 
 HERE was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of 
 the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed 
 away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning 
 before the company sat down to supper. ‘Those who had 
 won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring ab- 
 sently at their empty plates. When the champagne ap- 
 peared, however, the conversation became more animated, 
 and all tcok a part in it. 
 
 “And how did you fare, Surin?” asked the host. 
 
 “Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: 
 I play mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow any- 
 thing to put me out, and yet I always lose!” 
 
 “And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to 
 back the red? . . . Your firmness astonishes me.” 
 
 “But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the 
 guests, pointing to a young Engineer: “ре has never had a 
 card in his hand in his life, he has never in his life laid a 
 wager, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning 
 watching our play.” 
 
 “Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but 1 
 am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope 
 of winning the superfluous.” 
 
 “Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all!” 
 observed Tomsky. ‘But if there is one person that I can- 
 not understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna 
 Fedotovna.” 
 
 “How so?” inquired the guests. 
 
 я 
 
2 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “T cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is 
 that my grandmother does not punt.” 
 
 “What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty 
 not punting?” said Narumov. 
 
 “Then you do not know the reason why?” 
 
 “No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.” 
 
 “Oh! then listen. About sixty years ago, my grand- 
 mother went to Paris, where she created quite a sen- 
 sation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse 
 of the ‘Muscovite Venus.” Richelieu made love to her, and 
 my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his 
 brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies 
 used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost 
 a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On re- 
 turning home, my grandmother removed the patches from 
 her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her 
 loss at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. 
 My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort 
 of house-steward to my grandmother. Не dreaded her like 
 fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went 
 out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had 
 lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had 
 spent half a million francs, that neither their Moscow nor 
 Saratov estates were in Paris, and finally refused point blank 
 to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the 
 ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The 
 next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic 
 punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found 
 him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered 
 into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be 
 able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are 
 debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between 
 a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, my 
 grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not 
 rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She 
 had shortly before become acquainted with a very remark- 
 able man. You have heard of Count St. Germain, about 
 whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that 
 he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the dis- 
 coverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopker’s stone. and 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES 3 
 
 so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casa- 
 nova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that 
 as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding 
 him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought 
 after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my 
 grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, aid 
 becomes quite angry if any one speaks disrespectfully of him, — 
 My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums 
 of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse 
 to him, and she wrote a letter to kim asking him to come 
 to her without delay. The queer old man immediately 
 waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. 
 She described to him in the blackest colours the barbarity 
 of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole 
 hope depended upon his friendship and amiability. 
 
 “St. Germain reflected. 
 
 “<I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but 
 I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me 
 back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon 
 you. But there is another way of getting out of your 
 difficulty: you can win back your money.’ 
 
 “<But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell 
 you that I haven’t any money left.’ 
 
 “‘Мопеу is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be 
 pleased to listen to me.’ 
 
 “Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us 
 would give a good deal... .” 
 
 The young officers listened with increased attention. 
 Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and then 
 continued: 
 
 “That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles 
 to the jeu dela reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; 
 my grandmother excused herself in an off-hand manner 
 for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing some little 
 story, and then began to play against him. She chose three 
 cards and played them one after the other: all three won 
 sonika, and my grandmother recovered every farthing that 
 she had lost.” 
 
 *Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possiblé¢ 
 time. ь 
 
4 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Mere chance!” said one of the guests. 
 
 “A tale!” observed Hermann. 
 
 “Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third. 
 
 “Т do not think so,” replied Tomsky gravely. 
 
 “What!” said Narumov, “уой have a grandmother who 
 knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and 
 you have never yet succeeded in getting the secret of it 
 out of Бег?” 
 
 “That’s the deuce of it!” replied Tomsky: ‘“‘she had four 
 sons, one of whom was my father; all four were determined 
 gamblers, and yet not to one of them did she ever reveal 
 her secret, although it would not have been a bad thing 
 either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from 
 my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, and he assured me, on his 
 honour, that it was true. The late Chaplitzky—the same 
 who died in poverty after having squandered millions— 
 once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand rou- 
 bles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. 
 My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the ex- 
 travagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chap- 
 litzky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them 
 one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a 
 solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as 
 long as he lived. Chaplitzky then went to his victorious 
 opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card 
 he staked fifty thousand rubles and won sonika; he doubled 
 the stake and won again, ИП at last, by pursuing the same 
 
 tactics, he won back more than he had lost .. . 
 “But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six al- 
 ready.” 
 
 And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young 
 men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each 
 other. 
 
 II 
 
 
 
 HE old Countess A was seated in her dressing- 
 room in front of her looking-glass. Three waiting 
 maids stood around her. One held a small pot of rouge, an- 
 other a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall cap with bright 
 

 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES 5 
 
 red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pre- 
 tensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her 
 youth, dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of sev- 
 enty years before, and made as long and as careful a toilette 
 as she would have done sixty years previously. Near the 
 window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her 
 ward. 
 
 “Good morning, grandmamma,” said = young officer, en- 
 tering the room. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grand- 
 mamma, I want to ask you something.” 
 
 “What is it, Paul?” 
 
 “Т want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, 
 and to allow me to bring him to the ball on Friday.” 
 
 “Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me 
 there. Were you at B ’s yesterday?” 
 
 “Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing 
 was kept up until five o’clock. How charming Yeletzkaya 
 was!” 
 
 “But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t 
 she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By 
 the way, she must be very old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.” 
 
 “How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; 
 “she died seven years ago.” | 
 
 The young lady raised her head and made а sign to the 
 young officer. He then remembered that the old Countess 
 was never to be informed of the death of any of her con- 
 temporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess 
 heard the news with the greatest indifference. 
 
 “Dead!” said she; “апа I did nct know it. We were 
 appointed maids of honour at the same time, and when we 
 were presented to the Empress. . . .” 
 
 And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her 
 grandson one of her anecdotes. 
 
 “Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, 
 “help me to get up. Lizanka, where is my snuff-box?”’ 
 
 And the Countess with her three maids went behind a 
 screen to finish her toilette. TTomsky was left alone with 
 the ying lady. 
 
 “Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Coun: 
 tess?” asked Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper. 
 
 
 
— = 
 
 5 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Narumov. Do you know him?” 
 
 “No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?” 
 
 “А soldier.” 
 
 “Is he in the Engineers?” 
 
 “No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was 
 in the Engineers?” 
 
 The young lady smiled, but made no reply. 
 
 “Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send 
 me some new novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the 
 present day style.” 
 
 “What do you mean, grandmother?” 
 
 “That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his 
 father nor his mother, and in which there are no drowned 
 bodies. Т have a great horror of drowned persons.” 
 
 “There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a 
 Russian one?” 
 
 “Ате there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, 
 pray send me one!” 
 
 “Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry. . . . Good- 
 bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Naru- 
 mov was in the Engineers?” 
 
 And Tomsky left the boudoir. 
 
 Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work 
 and began to look out of the window. A few moments 
 afterwards, at a corner house on the other side of the street, 
 a young officer appeared. А deep blush covered her cheeks; 
 she took up her work again and bent her head down over 
 the frame. At the same moment the Countess returned 
 completely dressed. | 
 
 “Order the carriage, Lizaveta,” said she; “we will go 
 out for a drive.” . 
 
 Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her 
 work. 
 
 “What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?” 
 cried the Countess. “Order the carriage to be got ready at 
 once.” 
 
 “T will do so this moment,” replied the young lady, has- 
 tening into the ante-room. 
 
 A servant entered and gave the Countess some books 
 trom Prince Paul Aleksandrovich. 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES 4 
 
 “Tell him that I am much obliged to him,” said the 
 Countess. “Lizaveta! Lizaveta! where are you running 
 to?” 
 
 “T am going to dress.” 
 
 “There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. 
 Open the first volume and read to me aloud.” 
 
 Her companion took the book and read a few lines. 
 
 “Louder,” said the Countess. “What is the matter with 
 you, my child? Have you lost your voice? Wait—give 
 me that footstool—a little nearer—that will do.” 
 
 Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned. 
 
 “Put the book down,” said she: “‘what a lot of nonsense! 
 Send it back to Prince Paul with my thanks. ... But 
 where is the carriage?” 
 
 “The carriage is ready,” said Lizaveta, looking out into 
 the street. 
 
 “How is it that you are not dressed?” said the Coun- 
 tess: “I must always wait for you. It is intolerable, my 
 dear!” 
 
 Liza hastened to her room. She had not been there two 
 minutes, before the Countess began to ring with all Бег. 
 might. The three waiting-maids came running in at one 
 door and the valet at another. 
 
 “How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for 
 you?” said the Countess. “Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that То 
 am waiting for her.” 3 
 
 Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on. 
 
 “At last you are here!” said the Countess. “But why 
 such an elaborate toilette? Whom do you intend to 
 captivate? What sort of weather is it? It seems rather 
 windy.” 
 
 “No, your Ladyship, it is very calm,” replied the valet. 
 
 “You never think of what you are talking about. Open 
 the window. So it is: windy and bitterly cold. Unharness 
 the horses. Lizaveta, we won’t go out—there was no need 
 for you to deck yourself like that.” 
 
 “What a life is mine!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna. 
 
 And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate 
 creature. ‘The bread of the stranger is bitter,” says Dante, 
 “ап his staircase hard to climb.” But who can know 
 
8 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the poor 
 companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess A 
 had by no means a bad heart, but she was capricious, like a 
 woman who had been spoilt by the world, as well as being 
 avaricious and egotistical, like all old people who have seen 
 their best days, and whose thoughts are with the past and 
 not the present. She participated in all the vanities of the 
 great world, went to balls, where she sat in a corner, painted 
 and dressed in old-fashioned style, like a deformed but in- 
 dispensable ornament of the ball-room; all the guests on 
 entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in 
 accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took 
 any further notice of her. She received the whole town at 
 her house, and observed the strictest etiquette, although she 
 could no longer recognise the faces of people. Her nu- 
 merous domestics, growing fat and old in her ante-chamber 
 and servants’ hall, did just as they liked, and vied with 
 each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare- 
 faced manner. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the 
 household. She made tea, and was reproached with using 
 too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the Countess, and 
 the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she 
 accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held an- 
 swerable for the weather or the state of the pavement. A 
 salary was attached to the post, but she very rarely re- 
 ceived it, although she was expected to dress like everybody 
 else, that is to say, like very few indeed. In society she 
 played the most pitiable где. Everybody knew her, and 
 nobody paid her any attention. At balls she danced only 
 when a partner was wanted, and ladies would only take 
 hold of her arm when it was necessary to lead her out of 
 the room to attend to their dresses. She was very self- 
 conscious, and felt her position keenly, and she looked about 
 her with impatience for a deliverer to come to her rescue; 
 but the young men, calculating in their giddiness, honoured 
 her with but very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivan- 
 ovna was a hundred times prettier than the bare-faced and 
 cold-hearted marriageable girls around whom they hovered. 
 Many a time did she quietly slink away from the glittering 
 but wearisome drawing-room, to go and cry in her own poor 
 
 
 

 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES “9 
 
 little room, in which stood a screen, a chest uf drawers, a 
 looking-glass and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow 
 candle burnt feebly in a copper candle-stick. 
 
 One morning—this was about two days after the evening 
 party described at the beginning of this story, and a week 
 previous to the scene at which we have just assisted— 
 Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the window at her em- 
 broidery frame, when, happening to look out into the street, 
 she caught sight of a young Engineer officer, standing mo- 
 tionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered 
 her head and went on again with her work. About five min- 
 utes afterwards she looked out again—the young officer was 
 still standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of 
 coquetting with passing officers, she did not continue to gaze 
 out into the street, but went on sewing for a couple of 
 hours, without raising her head. Dinner was announced. 
 She rose up and began to put her embroidery away, but 
 glancing casually out of the window, she perceived the offi- 
 cer again. This seemed to her very strange. After dinner 
 she went to the window with a certain feeling of uneasiness, 
 but the officer was no longer there—and she thought no 
 more about him. 
 
 A couple of days afterwards, just as she was stepping into 
 the carriage with the Countess, she saw him again. He was 
 standing close behind the door, with his face half-concealed 
 by his fur collar, but his dark eyes sparkled beneath his 
 cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed, though she knew not why, and 
 she trembled as she seated herself in the carriage. 
 
 On returning home, she hastened to the window—the 
 officer was standing in his accustomed place, with his 
 eyes fixed upon her. She drew back, a prey to curiosity 
 and agitated by a feeling which was quite new to her. 
 
 From that time forward not a day passed without the 
 young officer making his appearance under the window at 
 the customary hour, and between him and her there was 
 established a sort of mute acquaintance. Sitting in her 
 place at work, she used to feel his approach; and raising her 
 head, she would look at him longer and longer each day. 
 The young man seemed to be very grateful to her: she saw 
 with the sharp eye of youth, how a sudden flush covered his 
 
“`, 
 
 то BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 pale cheeks each time that their glances met. After about a 
 week she commenced to smile at him... . 
 
 When Tomsky asked permission of his grandmother the 
 Countess to present one of his friends to her, the young 
 girl’s heart beat violently. But hearing that Narumov was 
 not an Engineer, she regretted that by her thoughtless ques- 
 tion, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky. 
 
 Hermann was the son of a German who had become 
 a naturalised Russian, and from whom he had inherited a 
 small capital. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of 
 preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch his 
 private income, but lived on his pay, without allowing him- 
 self the slightest luxury. Moreover, he was reserved and 
 ambitious, and his companions rarely had an opportunity of 
 making merry at the expense of his extreme parsimony. He 
 had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but his firm- 
 ness of disposition preserved him from the ordinary errors 
 of young men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he never 
 touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow 
 him-—as he said—‘to risk the necessary in the hope of 
 winning the superfluous,” yet he would sit for nights to- 
 gether at the card table and follow with feverish anxiety the 
 different turns of the game. 
 
 The story of the three cards had produced a powerful im- 
 pression upon his imagination, and all night long he could 
 think of nothing else. “If,” he thought to himself the fol- 
 lowing evening, as he walked along the streets of St. Peters- 
 burg, “if the old Countess would but reveal her secret to me! 
 if she would only tell me the names of the three winning 
 cards. Why should I not try my fortune? I must get intro- 
 duced to her and win her favour—become her lover. ... 
 But all that will take time, and she is eighty-seven years old: 
 she might be dead in a week, in a couple of days even! ... 
 But the story itself: can it really be true? ... №! Есоп- 
 only, temperance and industry: those are my three winning 
 cards; by means of them I shall be able to double my capital 
 —increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease and in- 
 dependence.” 
 
 Musing in this manner, he walked on until he found him- 
 self in one of the principal streets of St. Petersburg, in front 
 
 | 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES It 
 
 of a house of antiquated architecture. The street wag 
 blocked with equipages; carriages one after the other drew 
 up in front of the brilliantly illuminated doorway. At one 
 moment there stepped out on to the pavement the well- 
 shaped little foot of some young beauty, at another the 
 heavy boot of a cavalry officer, and then the silk stockings 
 and shoes of a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and 
 cloaks passed in rapid succession before the gigantic por- 
 ter at the entrance. 
 
 Hermann stopped. ‘Who’s house is this?” he asked of 
 the watchman at the corner. 
 
 “The Countess A ’s,” replied the watchman. 
 
 Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards 
 again presented itself to his imagination. He began walking 
 up and down before the house, thinking of its owner and her 
 strange secret. Returning late to his modest lodging, he 
 could not go to sleep for a long time, and when at last he 
 did doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards, green 
 tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played 
 one card after the other, winning uninterruptedly, and then 
 he gathered up the gold and filled his pockets with the notes. 
 When he woke up late the next morning, ne sighed over the 
 loss of his imaginary wealth, and then sallying out into the 
 town, he found himself once more in front of the Countess’s 
 residence. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted 
 him thither. He stopped and looked up at the windows. 
 At one of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair, 
 which was bent down probably over some book or an em- 
 broidery frame. The head was raised. Hermann saw a 
 fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment de- 
 cided his fate. 
 
 
 
 Ш 
 
 IZAVETA IVANOVNA had scarcely taken ой her hat 
 and cloak, when the Countess sent for her and again 
 ordered her to get the carriage ready. The vehicle drew up 
 before the door, and they prepared to take their seats. Just 
 at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady 
 to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing 
 
 
 
12 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 close beside the wheel; he grasped her hand; alarm caused 
 her to lose her presence of mind, and the young man dis- 
 appeared—but not before he had left a letter between her 
 fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during the whole 
 of the drive she neither saw nor heard anything. It was 
 the custom of the Countess, when out for an airing in her 
 carriage, to be constantly asking such questions as: “Мо 
 was that person that met us just now? What is the name 
 of this bridge? What is written on that signboard?” On 
 this occasion, however, Lizaveta returned such vague and 
 absurd answers, that the Countess became angry with her. 
 
 “What is the matter with you, my dear?” she exclaimed. 
 “Have you taken leave of your senses, or what is it? Do 
 
 you not hear me or understand what Т say? ... Heaven 
 be thanked, I am still in my right mind and speak plainly 
 enough!” 
 
 Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home 
 she ran to her room, and drew the letter out of her glove: it 
 was not sealed. Lizaveta read it. The letter contained a 
 declaration of love; it was tender, respectful, and copied 
 word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta did not 
 know anything of the German language, and she was quite 
 delighted. 
 
 For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly un- 
 easy. For the first time in her life she was entering into 
 secret and confidential relations with a young man. His 
 boldness alarmed her. She reproached herself for her im- 
 prudent behaviour, and knew not what to do. Should she 
 cease to sit at the window and, by assuming an appearance 
 of indifference towards him, put a check upon the young 
 officer’s desire for further acquaintance with her? Should 
 she send his letter back to him, or should she answer him 
 in a cold and decided manner? There was nobody to whom 
 she could turn in her perplexity, for she had neither female 
 friend nor adviser. . . . At length she resolved to reply to 
 him. 
 
 She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and 
 paper, and began to think. Several times she began her 
 ietter, and then tore it up: the way she had expressed her- 
 self seemed to her either too inviting or too cold and ае- 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES 13 
 
 cisive. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines with 
 which she felt satisfied. 
 
 _ “T am convinced,” she wrote, “that your intentions are 
 honourable, and that you do not wish to offend me by any 
 imprudent behaviour, but our acquaintance must not begin 
 in such a manner. Т return you your letter, and I hope that 
 I shall never have any cause to complain of this undeserved 
 slight.” | 
 
 The next day, as soon as Hermann niade his appearance, 
 Lizaveta rose from her embroidery, went into the drawing- 
 room, opened the ventilator and threw the letter into the 
 street, trusting that the young officer would have the percep- 
 tion to pick it up. 
 
 Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired 
 to a confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, 
 he found inside it his own letter and Lizaveta’s reply. He 
 had expected this, and he returned home, his mind deeply 
 occupied with his intrigue. 
 
 Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a 
 milliner’s establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta 
 opened it with great uneasiness, fearing that it was a de- 
 mand for money, when suddenly she recognised Hermann’s 
 hand-writing. 
 
 “Vou have made a mistake, my dear,” said she: “‘this let- 
 ter is not for me.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, it is for you,” replied the girl, smiling very 
 knowingly. “Have the goodness to read it.” 
 
 Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an 
 jnterview. 
 
 “Tt cannot be,” she cried, alarmed at the audacious 
 request, and the manner in which it was made. ‘This 
 letter is certainly not for me.” 
 
 And she tore it into fragments. 
 
 “Tf the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?” 
 said the girl. “I should have given it back to the person 
 who sent it.” 
 
 “Be good enough, my dear,” said Lizaveta, disconcerted 
 by this remark, ‘‘not to bring me any more letters for the 
 future, and tell the person who sent you that he ought to be 
 ashamed... .” 
 
, < 
 
 14 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every 
 day Lizaveta received from him a letter, sent now in this 
 way, how in that. They were no longer translated from the 
 German. Hermann wrote them under the inspiration of 
 passion, and spoke in his own language, and they bore full 
 testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the disordered 
 condition of his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no 
 longer thought of sending them back to him: she became 
 intoxicated with them and began to reply to them, and little 
 by little her answers became longer and more affectionate. 
 At last she threw out of the window to him the following 
 letter: 
 
 “This evening there is going to be a ball at the Embassy. 
 The Countess will be there. We shall remain until two 
 o’clock. You have now an opportunity of seeing me alone. 
 As soon as the Countess is gone, the servants will very prob- 
 ably go out, and there will be nobody left but the Swiss, 
 but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Cume about half- 
 past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody 
 in the ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will 
 be told ‘No,’ in which case there will be nothing left for you 
 to do but to go away again. But it is most probable that 
 you will meet nobody. ‘The maidservants will all be to- 
 gether in one room. On leaving the ante-room, turn to 
 the left, and walk straight on until you reach the Countess’s 
 bearoom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find 
 two doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which 
 the Countess never enters; the one on the left leads to a 
 corridor, at the end of which is a little winding staircase; 
 this leads to my room.” 
 
 Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the 
 appointed time to arrive. At ten o’clock in the evening he 
 was already in front of the Countess’s house. The weather 
 was terrible; the wind blew with great violence; the sleety 
 snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a feeble light, 
 the streets were deserted; from time to time a sledge, drawn 
 Бу a sorry-looking hack, passed by, on the look-out for а. 
 belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick over- 
 coat, and felt neither wind nor snow. 
 
 At last the Countess’s carriage drew up. Hermann saw 
 

 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES 15 
 
 two footmen carry out in their arms the bent form of the 
 old lady, wrapped in sable fur, and immediately behind her, 
 clad in a warm mantle, and with her head ornamented with 
 a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door was 
 closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yield- 
 ing snow. The porter shut the street-door; the windows be- 
 came dark. | 
 
 Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted 
 house; at length he stopped under a lamp, and glanced at 
 his watch: it was twenty minutes past eleven. He remained 
 standing under the lamp, his eyes fixed upon the watch, 
 impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At 
 half-past eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of 
 the house, and made his way into the brightly-illuminated 
 vestibule. The porter was not there. Hermann hastily 
 ascended the staircase, opened the door of the .ante-room 
 and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the 
 side of а lamp. With a light firm step Hermann passed by 
 him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, 
 but a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in 
 the ante-room. 
 
 Hermann reached the Countess’s bedroom. Before a 
 shrine, which was full of old images, a golden lamp was 
 burning. Faded stuffed chairs and divans with soft cush- 
 ions stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the 
 walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of 
 the room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame 
 Lebrun. One of these represented a stout, red-faced man 
 of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform and 
 with a star upon his breast; the other—a beautiful young 
 woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in 
 her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds 
 and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop 
 _ of the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the 
 _ various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in 
 vogue at the end of the last century, when Montgolfier’s 
 balloons and Mesmer’s magnetism were the rage. Hermann 
 stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little 
 iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the 
 
16 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 cabinet; on the left—the other which led to the corridor. 
 He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase 
 which led to the room of the poor companion. . . . But he 
 retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet. 
 
 The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the 
 drawing-room struck twelve; the strokes echoed through 
 the room one after the other, and everything was quiet 
 again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He 
 was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that of a man re- 
 solved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One 
 o’clock in the morning struck; then two; and he heard the 
 distant noise of carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation 
 took possession of him. The carriage drew near and stopped. 
 He heard the sound of the carriage-steps being let down. 
 All was bustle within the house. The servants were run- 
 ning hither and thither, there was a confusion of voices, 
 and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids 
 entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards fol- 
 lowed by the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into 
 a Voltaire armchair. Hermann peeped through a chink. 
 Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him, and he heard her 
 hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral staircase. 
 For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a 
 pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, 
 and his heart became petrified as before. 
 
 The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. 
 Her rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered 
 wig was removed from off her white and closely-cut hair. 
 Hairpins fell in showers around her. Her yellow satin dress, 
 brocaded with silver, fell down at her swollen feet. 
 
 Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her 
 toilette; at last the Countess was in her night-cap and dress- 
 ing-gown, and in this costume, more suitable to her age, she 
 appeared less hideous and deformed. 
 
 Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from 
 sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the 
 window in a Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. 
 The candles were taken away, and once more the room was 
 left with only one lamp burning in it. The Countess sat 
 there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her flaccid lips 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES Га 
 
 and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete 
 vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have 
 thought that the rocking of her body was not a voluntary 
 action of her own, but was produced by the action of some 
 concealed galvanic mechanism. 
 
 Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable 
 expression. ‘The lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became 
 animated: before the Countess stood an unknown man. 
 
 “Do not be alarmed, for Heaven’s sake, do not be 
 alarmed!” said he in a low but distinct voice. ‘I have no 
 intention of doing you any harm, I have only come to ask a 
 ‘favour of you.” 
 
 The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had 
 not heard what he had said. Hermann thought that she 
 was deaf, and, bending down towards her ear, he repeated > 
 what he had said. The aged Countess remained silent as 
 before. 
 
 “You can insure the happiness of my life,’ continued 
 Hermann, “and it will cost you nothing. I know that you 
 can name three cards in order———” 
 
 Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to un- 
 derstand what he wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words 
 to reply. 
 
 “It was a joke,” she replied at last: “Т assure you it was 
 only a joke.” 
 
 “There is no joking about the matter,” replied Hermann 
 angrily. ‘Remember Chaplitzky, whom you helped to 
 win.” 
 
 The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features ex- 
 pressed strong emotion, but they quickly resumed their for- 
 mer immobility. 
 
 “Can you not name me these three winning cards?” con- 
 tinued Hermann. 
 
 The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued: 
 
 “For whom are you preserving your secret? For your 
 grandsons? ‘They are rich enough without it; they do not 
 know the worth of money. Your cards would be of no use 
 to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his paternal in- 
 heritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at 
 his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value 
 
18 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 of money. Your three cards will not be thrown away upon 
 Sern SOME! raters: 
 
 He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The 
 Countess remained silent; Hermann fell upon his knees. 
 
 “Tf your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” said 
 he, “if you remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled 
 at the cry of your new-born child, if any human feeling has 
 ever entered into your breast, I entreat you by the feelings 
 of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is most sacred in 
 life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret. 
 Of what use is it to you? . . . May be it is connected with 
 some terrible sin, with the loss of eternal salvation, with 
 some bargain with the devil. . . . Refiect,—you are old; 
 you have not long to live—I am ready to take your sins 
 upon my soul. Only reveal to me your secret. Remember 
 that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only 
 I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your mem- 
 ory and reverence you аз а saint... .” 
 
 The old Countess answered not a word. 
 
 Hermann rose to his feet. 
 
 “You old hag!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, “еп I 
 will make you answer!” 
 
 With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket. 
 
 At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second 
 time exhibited strong emotion. She shook her head and 
 raised her hands as if to protect herself from the shot... . 
 then she fell backwards and remained motionless. 
 
 “Come, an end to this childish nonsense!” said Hermann, 
 taking hold of her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will 
 you tell me the names of your three cards, or will you not?” 
 
 The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that 
 she was dead! 
 
 IV 
 
 IZAVETA IVANOVNA was sitting in her room, still 
 in her bali dress, lost in deep thought. On returning 
 home, she had hastily dismissed the chambermaid who very 
 reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying that she would 
 undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up te 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES 19 
 
 her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet 
 hoping not to find him. At the first glance she convinced 
 herself that he was not there, and she thanked her fate for 
 having prevented him keeping the appointment. She sat 
 down without undressing, and began to recall to mind ail 
 the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her 
 so far. It was not three weeks since the time when she 
 first saw the young officer from the window—and yet she 
 was already in correspondence with him, and he had suc- 
 ceeded in inducing her to grant him a nocturnal interview! 
 She knew his name only through his having written it at the 
 bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken to him, 
 had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken 
 of until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening 
 at the ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess 
 Pauline N , who, contrary to her usual custom, did not 
 flirt with him, wished to revenge himself by assuming an 
 air of indifference: he therefore engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna 
 and danced an endless mazurka with her. During the whole 
 of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality for En- 
 gineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than 
 she imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed, 
 that Lizaveta thought several times that her secret was 
 known to him. 
 
 “From whom have you learnt all this?” she asked, smiling. 
 
 “From a friend of a person very well known to you,” re- 
 plied Tomsky, “from a very distinguished man.” 
 
 “And who is this distinguished man?” 
 
 “His name is Hermann.” 
 
 Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all 
 sense of feeling. 
 
 “This Hermann,” continued Tomsky, ‘‘is a man of roman- 
 tic personality. He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the 
 soul of a Mephistopheles. т believe that he has at least 
 three crimes upon his conscience. . . . How pale you have 
 become!” 
 
 “T have a headache . . . But what did this Hermann— 
 or whatever his name is—tell you?” 
 
 ‘Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he 
 says that in his place he would act very differently ...I 
 
 
 

 
 20 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 even think that Hermann himself has designs upon you; at 
 least, he listens very attentively to all that his friend has to 
 Say about you.” , 
 
 “Апа where has he seen me?” 
 
 “In church, perhaps; or on the parade—God alone knows 
 where. It may have been in your room, while you were 
 asleep, for there is nothing that he $ 
 
 Three ladies approaching him with the question: “оибй 
 ou regret?” interrupted the conversation, which had become 
 so tantalisingly interesting to Lizaveta. 
 
 The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline 
 herself. She succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him 
 during the numerous turns of the dance, after which he 
 conducted her to her chair. On returning to his place, 
 Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or Lizaveta. 
 She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the 
 mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old 
 Countess took her departure. 
 
 Tomsky’s words were nothing more than the customary 
 small talk of the dance, but they sank degp into the soul of 
 the young dreamer. The portrait, sketched by Tomsky, 
 coincided with the picture she had formed within her own 
 mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary coun- 
 tenance of her admirer became invested with attributes ca- 
 pable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at 
 the same time. She was now sitting with her bare arms 
 crossed and with her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk 
 upon her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened and 
 Hermann entered. She shuddered. : 
 
 ““Where were you?” she asked in a terrified whisper. 
 
 “In the old Countess’s bedroom,” replied Hermann: “Т 
 have just left her. The Countess is dead.” 
 
 “My God! What do you say?” 
 
 “And I am afraid,” added Hermann, “that I am the cause 
 of her death.” 
 
 Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky’s words found an 
 echo in her soul: “This man has at least three crimes upon 
 his conscience!”” Hermann sat down by the window near 
 her, and related all that had happened. 
 
 Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passion- 
 
 
 
THE QUEEN OF SPADES 21 
 
 ate letters, those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit— 
 all this was not love! Money—that was what his soul 
 yearned for! She could not satisfy his desire and make him 
 happy! The poor girl had been nothing but the blind tool 
 of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! ... 
 She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann 
 gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent 
 emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the won- 
 derful charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could 
 produce any impression upon his hardened soul. He felt 
 no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old 
 woman. One thing only grieved him: the irreparable loss 
 of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great 
 wealth. 
 
 “You are a monster!” said Lizaveta at last. 
 
 “T did not wish for her death,” replied Hermann: “ту 
 pistol was not loaded.” 
 
 Both remained silent. 
 
 The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her can- 
 dle: a pale light illumined her room. She wiped her tear- 
 stained eyes and raised them towards Hermann: he was 
 sitting near the window, with his arms crossed and with 
 a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore 
 a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This re- 
 semblance struck Lizaveta even. 
 
 “How shall I get you out of the house?” said she at 
 last. “Т thought of conducting you down the secret stair. 
 case, but in that case it would be necessary to go through 
 the Countess’s bedroom, and I am afraid.” 
 
 “Tell me how to find this secret staircase—I will go 
 alone.” 
 
 Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to 
 Hermann and gave him the necessary instructions. Нег- 
 mann pressed her cold, limp hand, kissed her bowed head, 
 and left the room. 
 
 He descended the winding staircase, and once more en- 
 tered the Countess’s bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if 
 petrified; her face expressed profound tranquillity. Нег- 
 mann stopped before her, and gazed long and earnestly at 
 her, as if he wished to convince himself of the terrible 
 
 \ 
 
22 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the tap- 
 estry for the door, and then began to descend the dark stair- 
 case, filled with strange emotions. ‘Down this very stair- 
 case,” thought he, ‘perhaps coming from the very same 
 room, and at this very same hour sixty years ago, there may 
 have glided, in an embroidered coat, with his hair dressed 
 а l’oiseau royal and pressing to his heart his three-cornered 
 hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering in 
 the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day 
 ceased to beat... .” 
 
 At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, 
 which he opened with a key, and then traversed a corridor 
 which conducted him into the street. 
 
 : У 
 
 “THREE days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the 
 morning, Hermann repaired to the Convent of . 
 where the last honours were to be paid to the mortal remains 
 of the old Countess. Although feeling no remorse, he could 
 not altogether stifle the voice of conscience, which said to 
 him: ‘You are the murderer of the old woman!” In spite 
 of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceed- 
 ingly superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess 
 might exercise an evil influence on his life, he resolved to 
 be present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon. 
 The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann 
 made his way through the crowd of people. The coffin was 
 placed upon a rich catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. 
 The deceased Countess lay within it, with her hands crossed 
 upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her head and dressed 
 in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque stood the mem- 
 bers of her household: the servants in black caftans, with 
 armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their 
 hands; the relatives—children, grandchildren, and great- 
 grandchildren—in deep mourning. 
 Nobody wept; tears would have been une affectation. The 
 Countess was so old, that her death could have surprised 
 
 
 

 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES oh eae 
 
 nobody, and her relatives had long looked upon her as be. 
 ing out of the world. A famous preacher pronounced the 
 funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he described 
 the peaceful passing away of the righteous, who had passed 
 long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. “The 
 angel of death found her,” said the orator, “engaged in 
 pious meditation and waiting for the midnight bridegroom.” 
 
 The service concluded amidst profound silence. ‘The rela- 
 tives went forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then 
 followed the numerous guests, who had come to render the 
 last homage to her who for so many years had been а 
 participator in their frivolous amusements. After these fol- 
 lowed the members of the Countess’s household. The last 
 of these was an old woman of the same age as the de- 
 ceased. Two young women led her forward by the hand. 
 She had not strength enough to bow down to the ground—~ 
 she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold hand of her 
 mistress. 
 
 Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt 
 down upon the cold stones and remained in that position 
 for some minutes; at last he arose, as pale as the deceased 
 Countess herself; he ascended the steps of the catafalque 
 and bent over the corpse. . . . At that moment it seemed 
 to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him 
 and winked with one eye. Hermann started back, took a 
 false step and fell to the ground. Several persons hurried 
 forward and raised him up. At the same moment Lizaveta 
 Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the church, 
 This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the 
 gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep 
 murmur, and a tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the 
 deceased, whispered in the ear of an Englishman who was 
 standing near him, that the young officer was a natural son 
 of the Countess, to which the Englishman coldly replied: 
 “Ohi 
 
 During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely ex- 
 cited. Repairing to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, 
 he drank a great deal of wine, contrary to his usual custom. 
 in the hope of deadening his inward agitation. But the 
 wine only served to excite his imagination still more. On 
 
24 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 returning home, he threw himself upon his bed without 
 undressing, and fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was 
 shining into the room. He looked at his watch: it was a 
 quarter to three. Sleep had left him; he sat down upon 
 his bed and thought of the funeral of the old Countess. 
 
 At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his 
 window, and immediately passed on again. Hermann paid 
 no attention to this incident. A few moments afterwards he 
 heard the door of his ante-room open. Hermann thought 
 that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some 
 nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard footsteps that 
 were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over 
 the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed 
 in white, entered the room. Hermann mistook her for his 
 old nurse, and wondered what could bring her there at that 
 hour of the night. But the white woman glided rapidly 
 across the room and stood before him—and Hermann recog- 
 nised the Countess! | 
 
 “Т have come to you against my wish,” she said in a firm 
 voice: “but I have been ordered to grant your request. 
 Three, seven, ace, will win for you if played in succession, 
 but only on these conditions: that you do not play more 
 than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play 
 again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, 
 on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta 
 Ivanovna.” 
 
 With these words she turned round very quietly, walked 
 with a shuffling gait towards the door and disappeared. Her- 
 mann heard the street-door open and shut, and again he 
 saw some one look in at him through the window. 
 
 For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He 
 then rose up and entered the next room. His orderly was 
 lying asleep upon the floor, and he had much difficulty in 
 waking him. The orderly was drunk as usual, and no in- 
 formation could be obtained from him. The street-door was 
 locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and 
 wrote down all the details of his vision. 
 
| 
 | 
 
 
 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES 25 
 
 VI 
 
 WO fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral 
 world than two bodies can occupy one and the same 
 place in the physical world. ‘Three, seven, асе,” soon 
 drove out of Hermann’s mind the thought of the dead Coun- 
 tess. ‘Three, seven, ace,’ were perpetually running 
 through his head and continually being repeated by his lips. 
 If he saw a young girl, he would say: ‘How slender she is! 
 quite like the three of hearts.” If anybody asked: ‘What 
 is the time?” he would reply: ‘Five minutes to seven.” 
 Every stout man that he saw reminded him of the ace. 
 “Three, seven, ace” haunted him in his sleep, and assumed 
 all possible shapes. The threes bloomed before him in the 
 forms of magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented 
 by Gothic portals, and the aces became transformed into 
 gigantic spiders. One thought alone occupied his whole mind 
 —to make a profitable use of the secret which he had 
 purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a fur- 
 lough so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris 
 and tempt fortune in some of the public gambling-houses 
 that abounded there. Chance spared him all this trouble. 
 
 There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, pre, 
 sided over by the celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed 
 all his life at the card-table and had amassed millions, ac- 
 cepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying his 
 losses in ready money. His long experience secured for 
 him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, 
 his famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating man- 
 ners gained for him the respect of the public. He came to 
 St. Petersburg. The young men of the capital flocked to his 
 rooms, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the emotions 
 of faro to the seductions of flirting. Narumov conducted 
 Hermann to Chekalinsky’s residence. 
 
 They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled 
 with attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Gener- 
 als and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist; young men 
 were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating , 
 ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room, at the head 
 
26 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 of a iong table, around which were assembled about a score 
 of players, sat the master of the house keeping the bank. 
 He was a man of about sixty years of age, of a very digni- 
 fied appearance; his head was covered with silvery-white 
 hair; his full, florid countenance expressed good-nature, and 
 his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile. Narumovy intro- 
 duced Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook him by the 
 hand in a friendly manner, requested him not to stand on 
 ceremony, and then went on dealing. 
 
 The game occupied some time. On the table lay more 
 than thirty cards. Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in 
 order to give the players time to arrange their cards and 
 note down their losses, listened politely to their requests, 
 and more politely still, put straight the corners of cards 
 that some player’s hand had chanced to bend. At last the 
 ame was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and pre- 
 pared to deal again. 
 
 “Will you allow me to take a card?” said Hermann, 
 stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who 
 was punting. 
 
 Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acqui- 
 escence. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on 
 his abjuration of that abstention from cards which he had 
 practised for so long a period, and wished him a lucky be- 
 ginning. 
 
 “Stake!”? said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk 
 on the back of his card. 
 
 “How much?” asked the banker, contracting the muscles 
 of his eyes; “ехсизе me, I cannot see quite clearly.” 
 
 “‘Forty-seven thousand rubles,” replied Hermann. 
 
 At these words every head in the room turned suddenly 
 round, and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann. 
 
 “He has taken leave of his senses!” thought Narumov. 
 
 “Allow me to inform you,” said Chekalinsky, with his 
 eternal smile, “that you are playing very high; nobody here 
 has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five 
 rubles at once.” 
 
 “Very well,” replied Hermann; “but do you accept my 
 card ог not?” 
 
 Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent. 
 

 
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES 27 
 
 “TI only wish to observe,” said he, “‘that although I have 
 the greatest confidence in my friends, I can only play agains‘ 
 ready money. For my own part, I am quite convinced that 
 your word is sufficient, but for the sake of the order of the 
 game, and to facilitate the reckoning up, I must ask you 
 to put the money on your card.” 
 
 Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed 
 it to Chekalinsky, who, after examining it in a cursory 
 manner, placed it on Hermann’s card. 
 
 He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on 
 the left a three. 
 
 “T have won!” said Hermann, showing his card. 
 
 A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Che- 
 kalinsky frowned, but the smile quickly returned to his face. 
 
 “Do you wish me to settle with you?” he said to Her- 
 mann. | 
 
 “Tf you please,” replied the latter. 
 
 Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of bank- 
 notes and paid at once. Hermann took up his money and 
 left the table. Narumov could not recover from his aston- 
 ishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned 
 home. 
 
 The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky’s. The 
 host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the 
 _ punters immediately made room for him. Chekalinsky 
 _ greeted him with a gracious bow. 
 
 _ Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed 
 upon it his forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his 
 _ winnings of the previous evening. 
 
 Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the 
 right, a seven on the left. 
 
 Hermann showed his seven. 
 
 There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evi- 
 dently ill at ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thou- 
 sand rubles and handed them over to Hermann, who pock- 
 eted them in the coolest manner possible and immediately 
 left the house. 
 
 The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. 
 Every one was expecting him. The generals and Privy Coun- 
 sellors left their whist in order & watch such extraordinary 
 
28 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 play. The young officers quitted their sofas, and even the 
 servants crowded into the room. All pressed round Her- 
 mann. ‘The other players left off punting, impatient to see 
 how it would end. Hermann stood at the table and pre- 
 pared to play alone against the pale, but still smiling Cheka- 
 linsky. Each opened a pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuf- 
 fled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of 
 bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around. 
 
 Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the 
 right a queen turned up, and on the left an ace. 
 
 “Ace has won!” cried Hermann, showing his card. 
 
 “Your queen has lost,’”’ said Chekalinsky, politely. 
 
 Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him 
 the queen of spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor 
 could he understand how he had made such a mistake. 
 
 At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades 
 smiled ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck 
 by her remarkable resemblance. ... 
 
 “The old Countess!” he exclaimed, seized with terror. 
 
 Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, 
 Hermann remained perfectly motionless. When at last he 
 left the table, there was a general commotion in the room. 
 
 “Splendidly punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky 
 shuffled the cards afresh, and the game went on as usual. 
 
 Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in 
 room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital. He never an- 
 swers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual 
 rapidity: ‘“Three, seven, ace!” ‘Three, seven, queen!” 
 
 Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young 
 man, a son of the former steward of the old Countess. He 
 is in the service of the State somewhere, and is in receipt 
 of a good income. Lizaveta is also supporting a poor rela- 
 tive. 
 
 Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and 
 has become the husband of the Princess Pauline. 
 
THE CLOAK 
 
 By №коглу У. Сосот, 
 
 
 
 N the department of , but it is better not to mention 
 the department. The touchiest things in the world are 
 departments, regiments, courts of justice, in a word, all 
 branches of public service. Each individual nowadays 
 thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently, a 
 complaint was received from a district chief of police in 
 which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institu- 
 tions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name 
 was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the 
 complaint a romance, in which the district chief of police 
 is made to appear about once in every ten pages, and some- 
 times in a downright drunken condition. Therefore, in order 
 to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to designate the 
 department in question, as a certain department. 
 
 So, in a certain department there was a certain official— 
 not a very notable one, it must be allowed—short of stat- 
 ure, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and mole-eyed, 
 with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of 
 the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate 
 was responsible for this. As for his official rank—with us 
 Russians the rank comes first—he was what is callea a per- 
 petual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some 
 writers make merry and crack their jokes, obeying the 
 praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite 
 back. 
 
 His family name was Bashmachkin. This name is evi- 
 dently derived from bashmak (shoe); but, when, at what 
 time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and 
 grandfather, and all the Bashmachkins, always wore boots, 
 which were resoled two or three times a year. His name 
 was Akaky Akakiyevich. It may strike the reader as rather 
 _ singular and far-fetched; but he may rest assured that it 
 was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances 
 
 sf 
 ‘ез 
 
30 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 were such that it would have been impossible to give him any 
 other. 
 
 This was how it came about. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich was born, if my memory fails me not, 
 in the evening on the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife 
 of a Government official, and a very fine woman, made all 
 due arrangements for having the child baptised. She was 
 lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right stood the 
 godfather, Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin, a most estimable man, 
 who served as the head clerk of the senate; and the god- 
 mother, Arina Semyonovna Bielobrinshkova, the wife of an 
 officer of the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues. They 
 offered the mother her choice of three names, Mokiya, Sos- 
 siya, or that the child should be called after the martyr 
 Khozdazat. “No,” said the good woman, ‘“‘all those names 
 are poor.” In order to please her, they opened the calendar 
 at another place; three more names appeared, Triphily, 
 Ри, and Varakhasy. “This is awful,” said the old woman. 
 “What names! I truly never neard the like. I might have 
 put up with Varadat or Varukh, but not Triphily and Varak- 
 hasy!” They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhy 
 and Vakhtisy. ‘‘Now I see,” said the old woman, ‘“‘that it 
 is plainly fate. And since such is the case, it will be better 
 to name him after his father. His father’s name was Akaky, 
 so let his son’s name be Akaky too.” In this manner he 
 became Akaky Akakiyevich. They christened the child, 
 whereat he wept, and made a grimace, as though he foresaw 
 that he was to be a titular councillor. 
 
 In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned 
 it in order that the reader might see for himself that it was 
 a case of necessity, and that it was utterly impossible to 
 give him any other name. 
 
 When and how he entered the department, and who ap- 
 pointed him, no one could remember. However much the 
 directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was al-— 
 ways to be seen in the same place, the same attitude, the 
 same occupation—always the letter-copying clerk—so that 
 it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in uni- 
 form with a bald head. No respect was shown him in the 
 department. The porter not only did not rise from his 
 
THE CLOAK 53 
 
 у 
 
 seat when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any 
 more than if a fly had flown through the reception-room. 
 His superiors treated him in coolly despotic fashion. Somé 
 insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust a pa- 
 per under his nose without so much as saying, “Copy,” or, 
 ““Here’s an interesting little case,” or anything else agree- 
 able, as is customary amongst well-bred officials. And he 
 took it, looking only at the paper, and not observing who 
 _handed it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; 
 simply took it, and set about copying it. 
 
 The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so 
 far as their official wit permitted; told in his presence vari- 
 ous stories concocted about him, and about his landlady, an 
 old woman of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked 
 when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of paper 
 over his head, calling them snow. But Akaky Akakiyevich 
 answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one 
 there besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work. 
 Amid all these annoyances he never made a single mistake 
 in a letter. But if the joking became wholly unbearable, 
 as when they jogged his head, and prevented his attending 
 to his work, he would exclaim: 
 
 “Leave me alone! Why do you insult ше?” 
 
 And there was something strange in the words and the 
 voice in which they were uttered. There was in it some- 
 thing which moved to pity; so much so that one young 
 man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, had 
 permitted himself to make sport of Akaky, suddenly stopped 
 short, as though all about him had undergone a transfor- 
 mation, and presented itself in a different aspect. Some un- 
 seen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquain- 
 tance he had made, on the supposition that they were de- 
 cent, well-bred men. Long afterwards, in his gayest mo- 
 ments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the 
 bald forehead, with his heart-rending words, ‘Leave me 
 alone! Why do you insult me?” In these moving words, 
 other words resounded—‘I am thy brother.” And the 
 young man covered his face with his hand; and many a time 
 afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing 
 how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage 
 
le: BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 ‘coarseness is concealed beneath refined, cultured, worldly re- 
 finement, and even, O God! in that man whom the world 
 acknowledges as honourable and upright. 
 
 It would be difficult to find another man who lived se 
 entirely for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaky 
 laboured with zeal; no, he laboured with love. In his copy- 
 ing, he found a varied and agreeable employment. Enjoy- 
 ment was written on his face; some letters were even fa- 
 vourites with him; and when he encountered these, he 
 smiled, winked, and worked with his lips, till it seemed as 
 though each letter might be read in his face, as his pen 
 traced it. If his pay had been in proportion to his zeal, 
 he would, perhaps, to his great surprise, have been made 
 even a councillor of state. But he worked, as his compan- 
 ions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill. 
 
 However, it would be untrue to say that no attention 
 was paid to him. One director being a kindly man, and 
 desirous of rewarding him for his long service, ordered him 
 to be given something more important than mere copying. 
 ло he was ordered to make a report of an already concluded 
 iiffair, to another department; the duty consisting simply 
 in changing the heading and altering a few words from the 
 first to the third person. This caused him so much toil, that 
 he broke into a perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally 
 said, “Мо, give me rather something to copy.” After that 
 they let him copy on forever. 
 
 Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for 
 him. He gave no thought to his clothes. His uniform was 
 not green, but a sort of rusty-meal colour. The collar was 
 low, so that his neck, in spite of the fact that it was not 
 long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged from it, like the 
 necks of the plaster cats which pedlars carry about on 
 their heads. And something was always sticking to his 
 uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he 
 had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of ar- 
 riving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish was 
 being flung out of it; hence he always bore about on his hat 
 scraps of melon rinds, and other such articles. Never once 
 in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day 
 in the street; while it is well known that his young brother 
 
THE CLOAK 33 
 
 officials trained the range of their glances till they could see 
 when any one’s trouser-straps came undone upon the oppo- 
 site sidewalk, which always brought a malicious smile to 
 their faces. But Akaky Akakiyevich saw in all things the 
 clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only when a 
 horse thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his 
 shoulder, and sent а whole gust of wind down bis neck from 
 his nostrils, did he observe that he was not in the middle 
 of a line, but in the middle of the street. 
 
 On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, 
 sipped his cabbage-soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of 
 beef with onions, never noticing their taste, and gulping 
 down everything with flies and anything else which the 
 Lord happened to send at the moment. When he saw that. 
 
 ot ee 
 
 “his stomach was beginning to swell, he rose from the table, 
 
 _ ап copied papers which he had brought home. If there 
 
 happened to be none, he took copies for himself, for his own 
 
 _ gratification, especially if the document was noteworthy, not 
 
 
 
 on account of its style, but of its being addressed to some 
 distinguished person. 
 
 Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had 
 quite disappeared, and all: the official world had eaten or 
 dined, each as he could, in accordance with the salary he 
 received and his own fancy; when all were resting from 
 the department jar of pens, running to and fro, for their 
 own and other people’s indispensable occupations, and from 
 all the work that an uneasy man makes willingly for him. 
 self, rather than what is necessary; when officials hasten 
 to dedicate to pleasure the time which is left to them, one 
 bolder than the rest going to the theatre; another, into 
 the street looking under the bonnets; another wasting his 
 evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the star of a 
 small official circle; another—and this is the common case 
 of all—visiting his comrades on the third or fourth floor, in 
 two small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and some pre- 
 tensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle which 
 has cost many a Sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a 
 word, at the hour when all officials disperse among the 
 contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they 
 sip their tea from glasses with a kopek’s worth of sugar, 
 
34 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 smoke long pipes, relate at time some bits of gossip which 
 a Russian man can never, under any circumstances, refrain 
 from, and when there is nothing else to talk of, repeat eter- 
 nal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had 
 sent word that the tails of the horses on the Falconet Monu- 
 ment had been cut off; when all strive to divert themselves, 
 Akaky Akakiyevich indulged in no kind of diversion. No 
 one could even say that he had seen him at any kind of 
 evening party. Having written to his heart’s content, he 
 lay down to sleep, smiling at the thought of the coming 
 day—of what God might send him to copy on the morrow. 
 
 Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a 
 salary of four hundred rubles, understood how te be content 
 with his lot; and thus it would have continued to flow on, 
 perhaps, to extreme old age, were it not that there are 
 various iils strewn along the path of-life for titular coun- 
 cillors as well as for private, actual, court, and every other 
 species of councillor, even to those who never give any 
 advice or take any themselves. 
 
 There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who 
 receive a salary of four hundred rubles a year, or there- 
 abouts. This foe is no other than the Northern cold, 
 although it is said to be very healthy. At nine o’clock in 
 the morning, at the very hour when the streets are filled 
 with men bound for the various official departments, it 
 begins to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all 
 noses impartially, that the poor officials really do not know 
 what to do with them. At an hour when the foreheads of 
 even those who occupy exalted positions ache with the 
 cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular coun- 
 cillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salva- 
 tion lies in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin 
 little cloaks, five or six streets, and then warming their 
 feet in the porter’s room, and so thawing all their talents 
 and qualifications for official service, which had become 
 frozen on the way. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich had felt for some time that his back 
 and shoulders were paining with peculiar poignancy, in 
 spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the distance with 
 all possible speed. He began finally to wonder whether 
 
THE CLOAK 35 
 
 the fault did not lie in his cloak. He examined it ог: 
 oughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely. 
 on the back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze. 
 The cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see 
 through it, and the lining had fallen into pieces. You must 
 know that Akaky Akakiyevich’s cloak served as an object 
 of ridicule to the officials. They even refused it the noble 
 name of cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it was of 
 singular make, its collar diminishing year by year to servé 
 to patch its other parts. The patching did not exhibit 
 great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy 
 and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akaky Akakiyevich 
 decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to 
 Petrovich, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth 
 floor up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having 
 but one eye and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself 
 with considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats 
 of officials and others; that is to say, when he was sober 
 and not nursing some other scheme in his head. 
 
 It is not necessary to say much about this tailor, but as 
 it is the custom to have the character of each personage in 
 a novel clearly defined there is no help for it, so here is 
 Petrovich the tailor. At first he was called only Grigory, 
 and was some gentleman’s serf. He commenced calling 
 himself Petrovich from the time when he received his free 
 papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays, 
 at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivals 
 without discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the cal- 
 endar. On this point he was faithful to ancestral custom; 
 and when quarrelling with his wife, he called her a low 
 female and a German. As we have mentioned his wife, it 
 will be necessary to say a word or two about her. Un- 
 fortunately, little is known of her beyond the fact that | 
 
 Petrovich had a wife, who wore a cap and a dress, but 
 
 could not lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the 
 soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they 
 
 met her. 
 
 Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovich’s room—: 
 
 _which staircase was all soaked with dish-water and reeked 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is an 
 
36 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg 
 houses—ascending the stairs, Akaky Akakiyevich pondered 
 how much Petrovich would ask, and mentally resolved not 
 to give more than two rubles. The door was open, for the 
 mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke 
 in the kitchen that not even the beetles were visible. Akaky 
 Akakiyevich passed through the kitchen unperceived, even 
 by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he 
 beheld Petrovich seated on a large unpainted table, with 
 his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet 
 were bare, after the fashion of tailors as they sit at work; 
 and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with 
 a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle’s shell. About 
 Petrovich’s neck hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon 
 his knees lay some old garment. He had been trying 
 unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and 
 was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread, growling 
 in a low voice, “It won’t go through, the barbarian! you 
 pricked me, you rascal!” - 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich was vexed at arriving at the precise 
 moment when Petrovich was angry. Не liked to order 
 something of Petrovich when he was a little downhearted, 
 or, as his wife expressed it, “when he had settled himself 
 with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such circum- 
 stances Petrovich generally came down in his price very 
 readily, and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards, 
 to. be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her hus- 
 band had been drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; 
 but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added then the matier 
 would be settled. But now it appeared that Petrovich was 
 in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and 
 inclined to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akaky 
 Akakiyevich felt this, and would gladly have beat a re- 
 treat, but he was in for it. Petrovich screwed up his one — 
 eye very intently at him, and Akaky Akakiyevich involun- 
 tarily said, “Ноу do you do, Petrovich?” 
 
 “T wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovich squint- 
 ing at Akaky Akakiyevich’s hands, to see what sort of booty 
 he had brought. 
 
 “Ah! I—to you, Petrovich, this—”’ It must be known 
 

 
 THE CLOAK 87 
 
 that Akaky Akakiyevich expressed himself chiefly by ргеро- 
 sitions, adverbs, and scraps of phrases which had no mean- 
 ing whatever. If the matter was a very difficult one, he 
 had a habit of never completing his sentences, so that fre- 
 quently, having begun a phrase with the words, ‘This, in 
 fact, is quite—” he forgot to go on, thinking he had already 
 finished it. 
 
 “What is it?” asked Petrovich, and with his one eye 
 scanned Akaky Akakiyevich’s whole uniform from the col- 
 lar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails and the button- 
 holes, all of which were well known to him, since they 
 were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors; it 
 is the first thing they do on meeting one. 
 
 “But I, here, this—Petrovich—a cloak, cloth—here you 
 see, everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong—it is 
 a little dusty and looks old, but it is new, only here in 
 one place it is a little—on the back, and here on one of 
 the shoulders, it is a little worn, yes, here on this shoulder 
 it is a littk—do you see? That is all. And a little 
 work—” 
 
 Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, or. 
 the table, looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out 
 his hand to the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with 
 the portrait of some general, though what general is un- 
 known, for the place where the face should have been had 
 been rubbed through by the finger and a square bit of 
 paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of 
 snuff, Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against 
 the light, and again shook his head. Then he turned 1, lin- 
 ing upwards, and shook his head once more. After which 
 he again lifted the general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted 
 paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, closed and 
 “put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “Мо, it is im- 
 possible to mend it. It is a wretched garment!” 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart sank at these words. 
 | “Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in 
 the pleading voice of a child. “АП that ails it is, that 
 It is worn on the shculders. You must have some 
 pieces o 
 “Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” 
 
 
 
38 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 said Petrovich, “but there’s nothing to sew them to. The 
 thing is completely rotten. If you put a needle to it-— 
 see, it will give way.” 
 
 “Let it give way, and you can put on another patch 
 at once.” 
 
 “But there is nothing to put the patches оп to. There’s 
 no use in strengthening it. It is too far gone. It’s lucky 
 that it’s cloth, for, if the wind were te blow, it would fly 
 away.” 
 
 “Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact 
 
 “No,” said Petrovich decisively, “there is nothing to be 
 done with it. It’s a thoroughly bad job. You'd better, 
 when the cold winter weather comes on, make yourself 
 some gaiters out of it, because stockings are not warm. 
 The Germans invented them in order to make more money.” 
 Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the 
 Germans. “But it is plain you must havea new cloak.” 
 
 At the word ‘“‘new” all grew dark before Akaky Akakiye- 
 vich’s eyes, and everything in the room began to whirl 
 round. The only thing he saw clearly was the general 
 with the paper face on the lid of Petrovich’s snuff-box. “A 
 new one?” said he, as if still in a dream. “Why, I have 
 no money for that.” 
 
 “Yes, a new one, 
 posure. 
 
 “Well, if it came to a new one, how—it 
 
 “You mean how much would it cost?” 
 
 ives? 
 
 “Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty 
 or more,” said Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. 
 He liked to produce powerful effects, liked to stun utterly 
 and suddenly, and then to glance sideways to see what face 
 the stunned person would put on the matter. 
 
 “А hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor 
 Akaky Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, 
 for his voice had always been distinguished for softness. 
 
 “Ves, sir,” said Petrovich, ‘for any kind of cloak. If 
 you have a marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, 
 it will mount up to two hundred.” 
 
 “Petrovich, please,”’ said Akaky Akakiyevich in a beseech- 
 
 
 
 ” said Petrovich, with barbarous com- 
 
 7? 
 
 
 
THE CLOAK 39 
 
 ing tone, not hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovich’s 
 words, and disregarding all his “effects,” ‘some repairs, in 
 order that it may wear yet a little longer.” 
 
 “Мо, it would only be a waste of time and money,” said 
 Petrovich. And Akaky Akakiyevich went away after these 
 words, utterly discouraged. Rut Petrovich stood for some 
 time after his departure, with significantly compressed lips, 
 and without betaking himself to his work, satisfied that he 
 would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor employed. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich went out into the street as if in a 
 dream. “Such an affair!” he said to himself. “I did not 
 think it had come to—” and then after a pause, he added, 
 “Well, so it is! see what it has come to at last! and I 
 never imagined that it was so!” ‘Then followed a long 
 silence, after which he exclaimed, “‘Well, so it is! see what 
 _already—nothing unexpected that—it would be nothing— 
 what a strange circumstance!” So saying, instead of going 
 home, he went in exactly the opposite direction without 
 suspecting it. On the way, a chimney-sweep bumped 
 up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a whole 
 hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house 
 which was building. Не did not notice it, and only when - 
 he ran against a watchman, who, having planted his halberd 
 beside him, was shaking some snuff from his box into his 
 horny hand, did he recover himself a little, and that be- 
 cause the watchman said, “Why are you poking yourself 
 into a man’s very face? Haven’t you the pavement?” This 
 caused him to look about him, and turn towards home. 
 
 There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and 
 to survey his position in its clear and actual light, and to 
 argue with himself, sensibly and frankly, as with a rea- 
 sonable friend, with whom one can discuss private and 
 personal matters. “Мо,” said Akaky Akakiyevich, “‘it is 
 impossible to reason with Petrovich now. He is that—evi- 
 dently, his wife has been beating him. I’d better go to 
 him on Sunday morning. After Saturday night he wil! 
 be a little cross-eyed and sleepy, for he will want to get 
 drunk, and his wife won’t give him any money, and at 
 such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will—he will 
 become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak and 
 
40 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 that ” Thus argued Akaky Akakiyevich with himself, 
 regained his courage, and waited until the first Sunday, 
 when, seeing from afar that Petrovich’s wife had left the 
 house, he went straight to him. 
 
 Petrovich’s eye was indeed very much askew after Satur- 
 day. His head drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for 
 all that, as soon as he knew what it was a question of, it 
 seemed as though Satan jogged his memory. “Impossible,” 
 said he. “Please to order a new one.” ‘Thereupon Akaky 
 Akakiyevich handed over the ten-kopek piece. ‘Thank 
 you, sir. I will drink your good health,” said Petrovich. 
 “But as for the cloak, don’t trouble yourself about it; it 
 is good for nothing. I will make you a capital new one, 
 so let us settle about it now.” 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich was still for mending it, but Petrovich 
 would not hear of it, and said, “I shall certainly have 
 to make you a new one, and you may depend upon it 
 that I shall do my best. It may even be, as the fashion 
 goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks under 
 a flap.” 
 
 Then Akaky Akakiyevich saw that it was impossible to 
 get along without a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. 
 How, in fact, was it to be done? Where was the money 
 to come from? He must have some new trousers, and pay 
 a debt of long standing to the shoemaker for putting new 
 tops to his old boots, and he must order three shirts from 
 the seamstress, and a couple of pieces of linen. In short, al! 
 his money must be spent. And even if the director should 
 be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five or even 
 fifty rubles instead of forty, it would be a mere nothing, 
 a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for 
 a cloak, although he knew that Petrovich was often wrong- 
 headed enough to blurt out some outrageous price, so that 
 even his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, ‘‘Have 
 you lost your senses, you fool?” At one time he would 
 not work at any price, and now it was quite likely that 
 he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost. 
 
 But although he knew that Petrovich would undertake 
 to make a cloak for eighty rubles, still, where was he to 
 get the eighty rubles from? He might possibly manage 
 
 
 

 
 THE CLOAK 41 
 
 half. Yes, half might be procured, but where was the 
 other half to come from?- But the reader must first be 
 told where the first half came from. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich had a habit of putting, for every 
 ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box, fastened with 
 lock and key, and with a slit in the top for the reception 
 of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over 
 the heap of coppers, and changed it for silver. This he 
 had done for a long time, and in the course of years, the 
 sum had mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had 
 one half on hand. But where was he to find the other 
 half? Where was he to get another forty rubles from? 
 | Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought, and decided that 
 it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for 
 the space of one year at least, to dispense with tea in 
 the evening, to burn no candles, and, if there was anything 
 which he must do, to go into his landlady’s room, and 
 work by her light. When he went into the street, he must 
 walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the 
 stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels 
 down in too short a time. He must give the laundress as 
 little to wash as possible; and, in order not to wear out 
 his clothes, he must take them off as soon as he got home, 
 and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had been 
 long and carefully saved. 
 
 To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to 
 accustom himself to these deprivations. But he got used 
 to them at length, after a fashion, and all went smoothly. 
 He even got used to being hungry in the evening, but he 
 made up for it by treating himself, so to say, in spirit, by 
 bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak. From 
 that time forth, his existence seemed to become, in some 
 way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other mar. 
 lived in him, as if, in fact, he were not alone, and some 
 pleasant friend had consented to travel along life’s path witk 
 him, the friend being no other than the cloak, with thick 
 wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing vut. He 
 became more lively, and even his character grew firmer, 
 like that of a man who has made up his mind, and set him- 
 self a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision, 
 
 са 
 
42 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 all hesitating and wavering disappeared of themselves. Fire 
 gleamed in his eyes, and occasionally the boldest and most 
 daring ideas flitted through his mind. Why not, for in- 
 stance, have marten fur on the collar? The thought of this 
 almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a letter, 
 he nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed almost 
 aloud, ‘““‘Ugh!” and crossed himself. Once, in the course 
 of every month, he had a conference with Petrovich on the 
 subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the 
 cloth, and the colour, and the price. He always returned 
 home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the time 
 would come at last when it could all be bought, and then 
 the cloak made. 
 
 The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. 
 For beyond all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty 
 nor forty-five rubles for Akaky Akakiyevich’s share, but 
 sixty. Whether he suspected that Akaky Akakiyevich 
 ’ needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance, at all 
 events, twenty extra rubles were by this means provided. 
 This circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months 
 more of hunger and Akaky Akakiyevich had accumulated 
 about eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began 
 to throb. On the first possible day, he went shopping in 
 company with Petrovich. They bought some very good 
 cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been con- 
 sidering the matter for six months, and rarely let a month 
 pass without their visiting the shops to enquire prices. 
 Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had. 
 For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and 
 thick, that Petrovich declared it to be better than silk, 
 and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy the 
 marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, 
 they picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be 
 found in the shop, and which might, indeed, be taken for 
 marten at a distance. 
 
 Petrovich worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for 
 there was a great deal of quilting; otherwise it would have 
 been finished sooner. He charged twelve rubles for the 
 job, it could not possibly have been done for less. It was 
 all sewed with silk, in small, double seams, and Petrovich 
 
 = 
 — 
 

 
 THE CLOAK 43 
 
 ‘vent over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamp- 
 ing in various patterns. 
 
 It was—-it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but 
 probably the most glorious one in Akaky Akakiyevich’s life, 
 when Petrovich at length brought home the cloak. He 
 brought it in the morning, before the hour when it was 
 necessary to start for the department. Never did a cloak 
 arrive so exactly in the nick of time, for the severe cold 
 had set in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petro- 
 vich brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On 
 his countenance was a significant expression, such as Akaky 
 Akakiyevich had never beheld there. He seemed fully 
 sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a 
 gulf separating tailors who put in linings, and execute ге. 
 ‘pairs, from those who make new things. Не took the cloak 
 out of the pocket-handkerchief in which he had brought it. 
 The handkerchief was fresh from the laundress, and he 
 put it in his pocket for use. Taking out the cloak, he 
 gazed proudly at it, held it up with both hands, and flung 
 it skilfully over the shoulders of Akaky Akakiyevich. Then 
 he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and 
 he draped it around Akaky Akakiyevich without buttoning 
 it. Akaky Akakiyevich, like an experienced man, wished 
 to try the sleeves. Petrovich helped him on with them, and 
 it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also. In 
 short, the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most season- 
 able. Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was 
 only because he lived in a narrow street, and had no 
 signboard, and had known Akaky Akakiyevich sc long, that 
 he had made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in busi- 
 ness on the Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged зеу- 
 enty-five rubles for the making alone. Akaky Akakiyevich 
 did not care to argue this point with Petrovich. He paid 
 him, thanked him, and set out at once in his new cloak for 
 the department. Petrovich followed him, and pausing in 
 the street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after 
 which he went to one side expressly to run through a crooked 
 alley, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once 
 more upon the cloak from another point, namely, directly 
 in front. 
 
44 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Meantime Akaky Akakiyevich went on in holiday mood. 
 He was conscious every second of the time that he had 
 a new cloak on his shoulders, and several times he laughed 
 with internal satisfaction. In fact, there were two 
 advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He 
 saw nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at 
 the department. Не took off his cloak in the ante-room, 
 looked it over carefully, and confided it to the special care 
 of the attendant. It is impossible to say precisely how it 
 was that every one in the department knew at once that 
 Akaky Akakiyevich had a new cloak, and that the “cape” 
 no longer existed. All rushed at the same moment into the 
 ante-room to inspect it. They congratulated him, and said 
 pleasant things to him, so that he began at first to smile, 
 and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and 
 said that the new cloak must be “christened,” and that 
 he must at least give them all a party, Akaky Akakiyevich 
 lost his head completely, and did not know where he stood, 
 what to answer, or how to get out of it. He stood blushing 
 all over for several minutes, trying to assure them with great 
 simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it was in fact 
 the old “cape.” 
 
 At length one of the officials, assistant to the head clerk, 
 in order to show that he was not at all proud, and on good 
 terms with his inferiors, said: 
 
 “So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akaky 
 Akakiyevich; I invite you all to tea with me to-night. It 
 just happens to be my name-day too.” 
 
 The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk 
 their congratulations, and accepted the invitation with 
 pleasure. Akaky Akakiyevich would have declined; but all 
 declared that it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin 
 and a shame, and that he could not possibly refuse. Ве- 
 sides, the notion became pleasant to him when he recollected 
 that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his new 
 cloak in the evening also. 
 
 That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for 
 Akaky Akakiyevich. He returned home in the most happy 
 frame of mind, took off his cloak, and hung it carefully 
 on the wall, admiring afresh the cloth and the lining. Then 
 
 о. 
 

 
 THE CLOAK 45 
 
 he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for comparison. He 
 looked at it, and laughed, so vast was the difference. And 
 long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of 
 the “cape” recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and 
 after dinner wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while 
 ‘on the bed, until it got dark. Then he dressed himself 
 leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped out into the street. 
 _ Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say. Our 
 ‘memory begins to fail us badly. The houses and streets in 
 St. Petersburg have become so mixed up in our head that 
 it is very difficult to get anything out of it again in proper 
 form. This much is certain, that the official lived in the 
 best part of the city; and therefore it must have been 
 anything but near to Akaky Akakiyevich’s residence. 
 Akaky Akakiyevich was first obliged to traverse a kind of 
 wilderness of deserted, dimly-lighted streets. But in pro- 
 portion as he approached the official’s quarter of the city, 
 the streets became more lively, more populous, and more 
 brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to appear; hand- 
 somely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the 
 men had otter skin collars to their coats; shabby sleigh-men 
 with their wooden, railed sledges stuck over with brass- 
 headed nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more 
 and more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and 
 bear-skin coats began to appear, and carriages with rich 
 bammer-cloths flew swiftly through the streets, their wheels 
 scrunching the snow. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich gazed upon all this as upon a novel 
 sight. He had not been in the streets during the evening 
 for years. He halted out of curiosity before a shop-window, 
 to look at a picture representing a handsome woman, who 
 had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her whole foot in 
 a very pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man 
 with whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through 
 the doorway of another room. Akaky Akakiyevich shook 
 his head, and laughed, and then went on his way. Why 
 did he laugh? Either because he had met with a thing 
 utterly unknown, but for which every one cherishes, never- 
 theless, some sort of feeling, or else he thought, like many 
 officials, “Well, those French! What is to be said? If 
 
46 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 they do go in for anything of that sort, why——” But 
 possibly he did not think at all. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich at length reached the house in which 
 the head clerk’s assistant lodged. Не lived in fine style. 
 The staircase was lit by a lamp, his apartment being on 
 the second floor. On entering the vestibule, Akaky Akakiye- 
 vich beheld a whole row of goloshes on the floor. Among 
 them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar, humming 
 and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all sorts 
 of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some 
 with beaver collars, or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of 
 conversation was audible, and became clear and loud, when 
 the servant came out with a trayful of empty glasses, cream- 
 jugs and sugar-bowls. It was evident that the officials had 
 arrived long before, and had already finished their first 
 glass of tea. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich, having hung up his own cloak, en- 
 tered the inner room. Before him all at once appeared 
 lights, officials, pipes, and card-tables, and he was bewil- 
 dered by a sound of rapid conversation rising from all the 
 tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted very 
 awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he 
 ought to do. But they had seen him. They received him 
 with a shout, and all thronged at once into the ante-room, 
 and there took another look at his cloak. Akaky Akakiye- 
 vich, although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted, and 
 could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they 
 praised his cloak. ‘Then, of course, they all dropped him 
 and his cloak, and returned, as was proper, to the tables 
 set out for whist. 
 
 All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people, 
 was rather overwhelming to Akaky Akakiyevich. He simply 
 did not know where he stood, or where to put his hands, 
 his feet, and his whole body. Finally he sat down by the 
 players, looked at the cards, gazed at the face of one and 
 another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel that 
 it was wearisome, the more so, as the hour was already 
 long past when he usually went to bed. He wanted to 
 take leave of the host, but they would not let him go, say- 
 ing that he must not fail to drink a glass of champagne, in 
 
THE CLOAK 47 
 
 honour of his new garment. In the course of an hour, supper, 
 consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, confectioner’s 
 pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akaky 
 Akakiyevich drink two glasses of champagne, after which 
 he felt things grow livelier. 
 
 Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and 
 that he should have been at home long ago. In order that 
 the host might not think of some excuse for detaining him, 
 he stole out of the room quickly, sought out, in the ante- 
 room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on 
 the floor, brushed it, picked off every speck upon it, put 
 it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to the street. 
 
 In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those 
 permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of folks, were 
 open. Others were shut, but, nevertheless, showed a streak 
 of light the whole length of the door- crack, indicating that 
 they were not yet free. of company, and that probably some 
 domestics, male and female, were finishing their stories and 
 conversations, whilst leaving their masters in complete igno- 
 rance as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakiyevich went on 
 in a happy frame of mind. He even started to run, without 
 knowing why, after some lady, who flew past like a flash of 
 lightning. But he stopped snort, and went on very quietly 
 as before, wondering why he had quickened his pace. Soon 
 there spread before him those deserted streets which are not 
 cheerful in the daytime, to say nothing of the evening. Now 
 they were even more dim and lonely. The lanterns began 
 to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally supplied. 
 Then came wooden houses and fences. Not a soul any- 
 where; only the snow sparkled in the streets, and mourn- 
 fully veiled the low-roofed cabins with their closed shutters. 
 He approached the spot where the street crossed a vast 
 Isquare with houses barely visible on its farther side, a 
 |square which seemed a fearful desert. 
 
 Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman’s-box, 
 |which seemed to stand on the edge of the world. Akaky 
 |Akakiyevich’s cheerfulness diminished at this point in a 
 jmarked degree. Не entered the square, not without an in- 
 jvoluntary sensation of fear, as though his heart warned him 
 jof some evil. He glanced back, and on both sides it was 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
48 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 like a sea about him. “No, it is better not to look,” he 
 thought, and went on, closing his eyes. When he opened 
 them, to see whether he was near the end of the square, 
 he suddenly beheld, standing just before his very nose, 
 some bearded individuals of precisely what sort, he could 
 not make out. All grew dark before his eyes, and his heart 
 throbbed. 
 
 “Of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a 
 loud voice, seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakiyevich 
 was about to shout “Help!” when the second man thrust a 
 fist, about the size of an official’s head, at his very mouth, 
 muttering, ‘Just you dare to scream!” 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich felt them strip off his cloak, and give 
 him a kick. He fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no 
 more. 
 
 In a few minutes he recovered consciousness, and rose to 
 his feet, but no one was there. He felt that it was cold in 
 the square, and that his cloak was gone. Не began to 
 shout, but his voice did not appear to reach the outskirts of 
 the square. In despair, but without ceasing to shout, he 
 started at a run across the square, straight towards the 
 watch-box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his 
 halberd, and apparently curious to know what kind of 
 ‘a--customer was running towards him shouting. Akaky 
 Akakiyevich ran up to him, and began in a sobbing voice 
 to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing, and 
 did not see when a man was robbed. The watchman re- 
 plied that he had seen two men stop him in the middle of 
 the square, but supposed that they were friends of his, and 
 that, instead of scolding vainly, he had better go to the 
 police on the morrow, so that they might make a search 
 for whoever had stolen the cloak. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich ran home and arrived in a state of 
 complete disorder, his hair which grew very thinly upon 
 his temples and the back of his head all tousled, his body, 
 arms and legs, covered with snow. The old woman, who 
 was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking, 
 sprang hastily from her bed, and, with only one shoe on, 
 ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to 
 her bosom out of modesty. But when she had opened it, 
 
 АЕ 
 № в 
 
THE CLOAK 49 
 
 she fell back on beholding Akaky Akakiyevich in such a 
 condition. When he told her about the affair, she clasped 
 her hands, and said that he must go straight to the district 
 chief of police, for his subordinate would turn up his nose, 
 promise well, and drop the matter there. The very best 
 thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the district chief, 
 whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, 
 was now nurse at his house. She often saw him passing 
 the house, and he was at church every Sunday, praying, but 
 at the same time gazing cheerfully at everybody; so that 
 he must be a good man, judging from all appearances. 
 Having listened to this opinion, Akaky Akakiyevich betook 
 himself sadly to his room. And how he spent the night 
 there, any one who can put himself in another’s place may 
 readily i imagine. 
 
 | Early in the morning, he presented Birndale at the dis- 
 trict chief’s, but was told the official was asleep. He went 
 again at ten and was again informed that he was asleep. 
 At eleven, and they said, ‘The superintendent is not at 
 home.” At dinner time, and the clerks in the ante-room 
 would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon Кпом- 
 ing his business. So that at last, for once in his life, 
 Akaky Akakiyevich felt an inclination to show some spirit, 
 
 and said curtly that he must see the chief in person, that ie 
 
 they ought not to presume to refuse him entrance, that he 
 came from the department of justice, and that when he 
 complained of them, they would see. 
 
 The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them 
 went to call the chief, who listened to the strange story of 
 the theft of the coat. Instead of directing his attention to 
 the principal points of the matter, he began to question 
 Akaky Akakiyevich. Why was he going home so late? Was 
 he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some dis- 
 orderly house? So that Akaky Akakiyevich got thoroughly 
 confused, and left him, without knowing whether the affair 
 of his cloak was in proper train or not. 
 
 All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went 
 aear the department. The next day he made his appear- 
 ince, very pale, and in his old cape, which had become 
 2ven more shabby. ‘The news of the robbery of the cloak 
 
50 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 touched many, although there were some officials present 
 who never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the 
 present, of ridiculing Akaky Akakiyevich. They decided to 
 make a collection for him on the spot, but the officials had 
 already spent a great deal in subscribing for the director’s 
 portrait, and for some book, at the suggestion of the head 
 of that division, who was a friend of the author; and so the 
 sum was trifling. 
 
 One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky 
 Akakiyevich with some good advice, at least, and told him 
 that he ought not to go to the police, for although it might 
 happen that a police-officer, wishing to win the approval of 
 his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some means, 
 still, his cloak would remain in the possession of the police 
 if he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him, 
 The best thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a 
 certain prominent personage; since this prominent person- 
 age, by entering into relation with the proper persons, could 
 greatly expedite the matter. 
 
 As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakiyevich 
 decided to go to the prominent personage. What was the 
 exact official position of the prominent personage, remains 
 unknown to this day. ‘The reader must know that the 
 prominent personage had but recently become a prominent 
 personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant 
 person. Moreover, his present position was not considered 
 prominent in comparison with others still more so. But 
 there is always a circle of people to whom what is insig- 
 nificant in the eyes of others, is important enough. Моге- 
 over, he strove to increase his importance by sundry de- 
 vices. For instance, he managed to have the inferior officials 
 meet him on the staircase when he entered upon his service; 
 no one was to presume to come directly to him, but the 
 strictest etiquette must be observed; the collegiate recorder 
 must make a report to the government secretary, the govern- 
 ment secretary to the titular councillor, or whatever other 
 man was proper, and all business must come before him in 
 this manner. In Holy Russia, all is thus contaminated 
 with the love of imitation; every man imitates and copies 
 fis superior. They even say that a certain titular coun- 
 
THE CLOAK SI 
 
 cillor, when promoted to the head of some small separate 
 office, immediately partitioned off a private room for him- 
 self, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door 
 a lackey with red collar and braid, who grasped the handle 
 ef the door, and opened to all comers, though the audience 
 chamber would hardly hold an ordinary writing table. 
 
 The manners and customs of the prominent personage 
 were grand and imposing, but rather exaggerated. The 
 main foundation of his system was strictness. ‘‘Strictness, 
 strictness, and always strictness!” he generally said; and 
 at the last word he looked significantly into the face of 
 the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity 
 for this, for the halfscore of subordinates, who formed the 
 entire force of the office, were properly afraid. On catch- 
 ing sight of him afar off, they left their work, and waited, 
 drawn up in line, until he had passed through the room. 
 His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of stern- 
 ness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: ‘How dare 
 you?” “Do you know whom you are speaking to?” “Оо 
 you realise who is standing before you?” 
 
 Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his 
 comrades, and ready to oblige. But the rank of general 
 threw him completely off his balance. On receiving any 
 ‘one of that rank, he became confused, lost his way, as it 
 were, and never ‘knew what to do. If he chanced to be 
 amongst his equals, he was still a very nice kind of man, 
 a very good fellow in many respects, and not stupid, but 
 the very moment that he found himself in the society of 
 people but one rank lower than himself, he became silent. 
 And his situation aroused sympathy, the more so, as he 
 felt himself that he might have been making an incom- 
 parably better use of his time. In his eyes, there was some- 
 times visible a desire to join some interesting conversation 
 or group, but he was kept back by the thought, “Would 
 it not be a very great condescension on his part? Would 
 it not be familiar? And would he not thereby lose his 
 importance?” And in consequence of such reflections, he 
 always remained in the same dumb state, uttering from time 
 to time a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby earning 
 the name of the most wearisome of men. 
 
 
 
52 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 To this prominent personage Akaky Akakiyevich pre- 
 sented himself, and this at the most unfavourable time for 
 himself, though opportune for the prominent personage. 
 The prominent personage was in his cabinet, conversing 
 very gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his 
 childhood, whom he had not seen for several years, and 
 who had just arrived, when it was announced to him that 
 а person named Bashmachkin had come. He asked 
 abruptly, ““Who is he?”—‘‘Some official,” he was informed. 
 “Ah, he can wait! This is no time for him to call,” said 
 the important man. 
 
 It must be remarked here that the important man lied 
 outrageously. He had said all he had to say to his friend 
 long before, and the conversation had been interspersed for 
 some time with very long pauses, during which they merely 
 slapped each other on the leg, and said, “You think so, 
 Ivan Abramovich!” “Just so, Stepan Varlamovich!” 
 Nevertheless, he ordered that the official should be kept 
 waiting, in order to show his friend, a man who had not 
 been in the service for a long time, but had lived at home 
 in the country, how long officials had to wait in his ante- 
 room. 
 
 At length, having talked himself completely out, and 
 more than that, having had his fill of pauses, and smoked 
 a cigar in a very comfortable arm-chair with reclining back, 
 he suddenly seemed to recollect, and said to the secretary, 
 who stood by the door with papers of reports, “Зо it seems 
 that there is an official waiting to see me. ‘Tell him that 
 he may come in.” On perceiving Akaky Akakiyevich’s 
 modest mien and his worn uniform, he turned abruptly to 
 him, and said, ‘““‘What do you want?” in a curt hard voice, 
 which he had practised in his room in private, and before 
 the looking-glass, for a whole week before being raised to 
 his present rank. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich, who was already imbued with a 
 due amount of fear, became somewhat confused, and as 
 well as his tongue would permit, explained, with a rather 
 more frequent addition than usual! of the word “that” that 
 his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the most 
 inhuman manner; that he had applied to him, in order that 
 
 rape” 1 
 
THE CLOAK 53 
 
 he might, in some way, by his intermediation—that he 
 might enter into correspondence with the chief of police, 
 and find the cloak. 
 
 For some inexplicable reason, this conduct seemed familiar 
 to the prominent personage. 
 
 “What, my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “are you not 
 acquainted with etiquette? ‘То whom have you come? 
 Don’t you know how such matters are managed? You 
 should first have presented a petition to the office. It 
 would have gone to the head of the department, then te 
 the chief of the division, then it would have been handed 
 over to the secretary, and the secretary would have given 
 
 it to me.” 
 
 “But, your excellency,” said Akaky Akakiyevich, trying 
 
 to collect his small handful of wits, and conscious at the 
 same time that he was perspiring terribly, “I, your excel- 
 
 lency, presumed to trouble you because secretaries—are an 
 untrustworthy race.” 
 
 “What, what, what!” said the important personage. 
 “Where did you get such courage? Where did you get 
 
 such ideas? What impudence towards their chiefs and 
 
 superiors has spread among the young generation!” ‘The 
 prominent personage apparently had not observed that 
 Akaky Akakiyevich was already in the neighbourhood of 
 fifty. If he could be called a young man, it must have 
 been in comparison with some one who was seventy. ‘Do 
 you know to whom you are speaking? Do you realise 
 who is standing before you? Do you realise it? Do you 
 realise it, I ask you!” Then he stamped his foot, and 
 raised his voice to such a pitch that it would have frightened 
 even a different man from Akaky Akakiyevich. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich’s senses failed him. Не staggered, 
 trembled in every limb, and, if the porters had not run in 
 to support him, would have fallen to the floor. They car- 
 ried him out insensible. But the prominent personage, 
 gratified that the effect should have surpassed his expec- 
 tations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his 
 word could even deprive a man of his senses, glanced side- 
 ways at his friend in order to see how he looked upon this, 
 and perceived, not without satisfaction, that his friend was 
 
54 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 in a most uneasy frame of mind, and even beginning on 
 his part, to feel a trifle frightened. 
 
 Akaky Akakiyevich could not remember how he de- 
 scended the stairs, and got into the street. He felt neither 
 his hands nor feet. Never in his life had he been so rated 
 by any high official, let alone a strange one. He went 
 staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing 
 in the streets, with his mouth wide open. The wind, in St. 
 Petersburg fashion, darted upon him from all quarters, 
 and down every cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown 
 a quinsy into his throat, and he reached home unable to 
 utter a word. His throat was swollen, and he lay down 
 on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding! 
 
 The next day a violent fever developed. Thanks to the 
 generous assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady 
 progressed more rapidly than could have been expected, 
 and when the doctor arrived, he found, on feeling the sick 
 man’s pulse, that there was nothing tc be done, except to 
 prescribe a poultice, so that the patient might not be left 
 entirely without the beneficent aid of medicine. But at the 
 same time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After 
 this he turned to the landlady, and said, “And as for you, 
 don’t waste your time on him. Order his pine coffin now, 
 for an oak one will be too expensive for him.” 
 
 Did Akaky Akakiyevich hear these fatal words? And if 
 he heard them, did they produce any overwhelming effect: 
 upon him? Did he lament the bitterness of his lifep—We 
 know not, for he continued in a delirious condition. Visions 
 incessantly appeared to him, each stranger than the other. 
 Now he saw Petrovich, and ordered him to make a cloak, 
 with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be 
 always under the bed; and he cried every moment to the 
 landlady to pull one of them from under his coverlet. Then 
 he inquired why his old mantle hung before him when he 
 had a new cloak. Next he fancied that he was standing 
 before the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting- 
 down and saying, “Forgive me, your excellency!” but at 
 last he began to curse, uttering the most horrible words, 
 so that his aged landlady crossed herself, never in her life 
 having heard anything of the kind from him, and more so. 
 
THE CLOAK 55 
 
 as these words followed directly after the words “your 
 -excellency.” Later on he talked utter nonsense, of which 
 nothing could be made, all that was evident being that 
 these incoherent words and thoughts hovered ever about 
 one thing, his cloak. 
 
 ’® At length poor Akaky Akakiyevich breathed his last 
 They sealed up neither his room nor his effects, because, 
 in the first place, there were no heirs, and, in the second, 
 there was very little to inherit beyond a bundle of goose- 
 quills, a quire of white official paper, three pairs of socks, 
 two or three buttons which had burst off his trousers, and 
 the mantle already known to the reader. To whom all this 
 fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me 
 this tale took no interest in the matter. They carried Akaky 
 Akakiyevich out, and buried him. 
 
 And St. Petersburg was left without Akaky Akakiyevich, 
 ‚аз though he had never lived there. A being disappeared, 
 who was protected by none, dear to none, interesting to 
 ‘none, and who never even attracted to himself the atten- 
 tion of those students of human nature who omit no oppor- 
 
 tunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly and examin- 
 
 ing it under the microscope. A being who bore meekly the 
 jibes of the department, and went to his grave without 
 having done one unusual deed, but to whom, nevertheless, 
 ‘at the close of his life, appeared a bright visitant in the 
 form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life, 
 and upon him, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune de- 
 scended, just as it descends upon the heads of the mighty 
 of this world! 
 
 Several days after his death, the porter was sent from 
 the department to his lodgings, with an order for him to 
 present himself there immediately, the chief commanding it. 
 But the porter had to return unsuccessful, with the answer 
 that he could not come; and to the question, “Why?” re- 
 plied, “Well, because he is dead! he was buried four days 
 ago.” In this manner did they hear of Akaky Akakiye- 
 vich’s death at the department. And the next day a new 
 official sat in his place, with a handwriting by no means 
 so upright, but more inclined and slanting. 
 
 _ But who could have imagined that this was not really the 
 
56 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 end of Akaky Akakiyevich, that he was destined to raise 
 a commotion after death, as if in compensation for his 
 utterly insignificant life? But so it happened, and our 
 poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending. 
 
 A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg, that 
 a dead man had taken to appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge, 
 and its vicinity, at night in the form of an official seeking 
 a stolen cloak, and that, under the pretext of its being 
 the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to rank or 
 calling, every one’s cloak from his shoulders, be it cat- 
 skin, beaver, fox, bear, sable, in a word, every sort of fur 
 and skin which men adopted for their covering. One of 
 the department officials saw the dead man with his own 
 eyes, and immediately recognised in him Akaky Akakiye- 
 vich. This, however, inspired him with such terror, that 
 he ran off with all his might, and therefore did not scan 
 the dead man closely, but only saw how the latter threat- 
 ened him from afar with his finger. Constant complaints 
 poured in from all quarters, that the backs and shoulders, 
 not only of titular but even of court councillors, were ex- 
 posed to the danger of a cold, on account of the frequent 
 dragging off of their cloaks. , 
 
 Arrangements were made by the police to catch the 
 corpse, alive or dead, at any cost, and punish him as an 
 example to others, in the most severe manner. In this 
 they nearly succeeded, for a watchman, on guard in Kirinsh- 
 kin Lane, caught the corpse by the collar on the very 
 scene of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the 
 frieze cloak of a retired musician. Having seized him by 
 the collar, he summoned, with a shout, two of his com- 
 rades, whom he enjoined to hold him fast, while he him- 
 self felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out 
 his snuff-box, and refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff 
 was of a sort which even a corpse could not endure. The 
 watchman having closed his right nostril with his finger, 
 had no sooner succeeded in holding half a handful up to 
 the left, than the corpse sneezed so violently that he com- 
 pletely filled the eyes of all three. While they raiséd their 
 hands to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so 
 that they positively did not know whether they had actually 
 
THE CLOAK 57 
 
 ‘had him in their grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen 
 conceived such a terror of dead men that they were afraid 
 even to seize the living, and only screamed from a distance. 
 “Hey, there! go your way!” So the dead official began to 
 ‘appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little 
 terror to all timid people. 
 But we have totally neglected that certain prominent 
 personage who may really be considered as the cause of the 
 fantastic turn taken by this true history. First of all, jus- 
 tice compels us to say, that after the departure of poor, 
 ‘annihilated Akaky Akakiyevich, he felt something like re- 
 ‘morse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was 
 accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact that 
 his rank often prevented his showing his true self. As soon 
 as his friend had left his cabinet, he began to think about 
 poor Akaky Akakiyevich. And from that day forth, poor 
 Akaky Akakiyevich, who could not bear up under an 
 official reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day. 
 The thought troubled him to such an extent, that a week 
 later he even resolved to send an official to him, to learn 
 whether he really could assist him. And when it was re- 
 ported to him that Akaky Akakiyevich had died suddenly 
 of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the reproaches of his 
 ‘conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day. 
 | Wishing to divert his mind in some way and drive away 
 the disagreeable impression, he set out that evening for 
 one of his friends’ houses, where he found quite a large 
 party assembled. What was better, nearly every one was 
 of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in 
 the least constrained. This had a marvellous effect upon 
 his mental state. He grew expansive, made himself agree- 
 able in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful eve: 
 ning. After supper he drank a couple of glasses of cham- 
 pagne—not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as every one 
 knows. The champagne inciined him to various adven- 
 tures, and he determined not to return home, but to ge 
 and see a certain well-known lady, of German extraction, 
 Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears, with whom he was 
 on a very friendly footing. 
 
 It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was 
 
 
 
58 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 no longer a young man, but a good husband and respected 
 father of a family. Two sons, one of whom was already 
 in the service, and a good-looking, sixteen-year-old daughter, 
 with a slightly arched but pretty little nose, came every 
 morning to kiss his hand and say, “Bon jour, papa.” His 
 wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him 
 her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed 
 his. But the prominent personage, though perfectly sat- 
 isfied in his domestic relations, considered it stylish to 
 have a friend in another quarter of the city. This friend 
 was scarcely prettier or younger than his wife; but there 
 are such puzzles in the world, and it is not our place to 
 judge them. So the important personage descended the 
 stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman, “То 
 КагоПпа Ivanovna’s,” and, wrapping himself luxuriously in 
 his warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of 
 шша than which a Russian can conceive nothing better, 
 namely, when you think of nothing yourself, yet when the 
 thoughts creep into your mind of their own accord, each 
 more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either 
 to drive them away, or seek them. Fully satisfied, he re- 
 called all the gay features of the evening just passed and all 
 the mots which had made the little circle laugh. Many of 
 them he repeated in a low voice, and found them quite as 
 funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should laugh 
 heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted 
 by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows 
 whence or why, cut his face, drove masses of snow into it, 
 filled out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly blew it 
 over his head with supernatural force, and thus caused 
 him constant trouble to disentangle himself. 
 
 Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch 
 him firmly by the collar. Turning round, he perceived a 
 man of short stature, in an old, worn uniform, and recog- 
 nised, not without terror, Akaky Akakiyevich. The of- 
 ficial’s face was white as snow, and looked just like a 
 corpse’s. But the horror of the important personage trans- 
 cended all bounds when he saw the dead man’s mouth 
 open, and heard it utter the following remarks, while it 
 breathed upon him the terrible odour of the grave: “АБ, 
 
 ‘ 
 
 ® 
 
here you are at last! I have you, that—by the collar! 
 I need your cloak. You took no trouble about mine, but 
 reprimanded me. So now give up your own.’ 
 _ The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. 
 Brave as he was in the office and in the presence of 
 inferiors generally, and although, at the sight of his manly 
 form and appearance, every one said, “Ugh! how much 
 character he has!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed 
 of an heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not 
 ` without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. Не 
 flung his cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to 
 his coachman in an unnatural voice, “Ноше at full speed!” 
 The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally em- 
 ployed at critical moments, and even accompanied by some- 
 : thing much more tangible, drew his head down between 
 his shoulders in case of an emergency, flourished his whip, 
 and flew on like an arrow. In a little more than six 
 minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of 
 his own house. Pale, thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he 
 went home instead of to Karolina Ivanovna’s, reached his 
 : room somehow or other, and passed the night in the direst 
 distress; so that the next morning over their tea, his 
 daughter said, “You are very pale to-day, papa.” But papa 
 remained silent, and said not a word to any one of what 
 : had happened to him, where he had been, or where he had 
 intended to go. 
 
 This occurrence made a deep impression upon fan He 
 even began to say, “How dare you? Do you realise who 
 is standing before you?” less frequently to the under-of- 
 ficials, and, if he did utter the words, it was only after 
 first having learned the bearings of the matter. But the 
 most noteworthy point was, that from that day forward 
 the apparition of the dead official ceased to be seen. Evi- 
 dently the prominent personage’s cloak just fitted his 
 shoulders. At all events, no тоге instances of his dragging 
 cloaks from people’s shoulders were heard of. But many 
 active and solicitous persons could by no means reassure 
 themselves, and asserted that the dead official still showed 
 himself in distant parts of the city. 
 
 In fact, one watchman in Kolomen saw with his own 
 
 THE CLOAK 59 
 : 
 | 
 
‘60 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 eyes the apparition come from behind a house. But the 
 watchman was not a strong man, so he was afraid to arrest 
 him, and followed him in the dark, until, at length, the 
 apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, “‘What do 
 you want?” at the same time showing such a fist as is 
 never seen on living men. The watchman said, “Nothing,” 
 and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much 
 too tall, wore huge moustaches, and, directing its steps 
 apparently towards the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared in 
 the darkness of the night. 
 
Pee Ol PRI lL DOOLOR 
 
 By Ivan $. TuRGENEV 
 
 | NE day in autumn on my way back from a remote part 
 | of the country I caught cold and fell ili. Fortunately 
 the fever attacked: me in the district town at the inn; I 
 ‘sent for the doctor. In half-an-hour the district doctor 
 appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He 
 prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster 
 to be put on, very deftly slid a five-ruble note up his 
 sleeve, coughing drily and looking away as he did so, and 
 then was getting up to go home, but somehow fell into 
 talk and remained. I was exhausted with feverishness; I 
 foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat with 
 a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began 
 to converse freely. He was a sensible fellow, and expressed 
 himself with vigour and some humour. Queer things hap- 
 pen in the world: you may live a long while with some 
 people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once 
 speak openly with them from your soul; with others you 
 have scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you 
 are pouring out to him—or he to you—all your secrets, 
 as though you were at confession. I don’t know how I 
 gained the confidence of my new friend—anyway, with 
 nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious in- 
 cident; and here I will report his tale for the information 
 of the indulgent reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor’s 
 own words. 
 
 “You don’t happen to know,” he began in a weak and 
 quavering voice (the common result of the use of unmixed 
 Berezov snuff); “уои don’t happen to know the judge here, 
 Mylov, Pavel Lukich? . . . You don’t know him? 
 
 Well, it’s all the same.” (He cleared his throat 
 and rubbed his eyes.) ‘Well, you see, the thing happened, 
 to tell you exactly without mistake. in Lent. a’ the very 
 
 or 
 
62 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 time of the thaws. I was sitting at his house—our judge’s, 
 you know—playing preference. Our judge is a good fel- 
 low, and fond of playing preference. Suddenly” (the 
 doctor made frequent use of this word, suddenly) “they 
 tell me, ‘There’s a servant asking for you.’ I say, ‘What 
 does he want?’ They say, ‘He has brought a note—it 
 must be from a patient.’ ‘Give me the note,’ I say. So 
 it is from a patient—well and good—you understand—it’s 
 our bread and butter. ... But this is how it was: a 
 lady, a widow, writes to me; she says, ‘My daughter is 
 dying. Come, for God’s sake!’ she says, ‘and the horses 
 have been sent for you.’ . . . Well, that’s all right. 
 But she was twenty miles from the town, and it was mid- 
 night out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word! 
 And as she was poor herself, one could not expect more 
 than two silver rubles, and even that problematic; and 
 perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and a 
 sack of oatmeal in payment. However, duty, you know, 
 before everything: a fellow-creature may be dying. I hand 
 over my cards at once to Kalliopin, the member of the 
 provincial commission, and return home. I look; a wretched 
 little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant’s horses, 
 fat—too fat—and their coat as shaggy as felt; and the 
 coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well, I 
 think to myself, ‘It’s clear, my friend, these patients 
 aren’t rolling in riches.’ . . . You smile; but I tell 
 you, a poor man like me has to take everything into con- 
 sideration. . . . If the coachman sits like a prince, 
 and doesn’t touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind 
 his beard, and flicks his whip—then you may bet on six 
 rubles. But this case, I saw, had a very different air. 
 However, I think there’s no help for it; duty before every- 
 thing. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off. 
 Will you believe it? I only just managed to get there at 
 all. The road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, 
 and the dyke had suddenly burst there—that was the worst 
 of it! However, I arrived at last. It was a little thatched 
 house. There was a light in the windows; that meant they 
 expected me. I was met by an old lady, very venerable, 
 in a cap. ‘Save her!’ she says; ‘she is dying.’ I say, 
 
THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 03 
 
 *Pray don’t distress yourself—Where is the invalid?’ 
 “Come this way.’ I see a clean little room, a lamp in 
 the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious. She 
 was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily—it was fever. 
 There were two other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. 
 ‘Yesterday,’ they tell me, ‘she was perfectly well and had 
 a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, 
 and this evening, suddenly, you see, like this.’ I say 
 again: ‘Pray don’t be uneasy.’ It’s a doctor’s duty, you 
 know—and I went up to her and bled her, told them ta 
 put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture. Mean- 
 time I looked at her; I looked at her, you know—there, 
 by God! I had never seen such a face!—-she was a beauty, 
 in a word! I felt quite shaken with pity. Such lovely 
 features; such eyes! . . . But, thank God! she be- 
 came easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come 
 to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand 
 Over Бег face... + . kderssisters;bent' over, Беги ‘They 
 ask, ‘How are you?’ ‘АП right,’ she says, and -turns 
 away. I looked at her; she had fallen asleep. ‘Well,’ I 
 say, ‘now the patient should be left alone.’ So we all 
 went out on tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she 
 was wanted. In the parlour there was a samovar standing 
 on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one 
 can’t get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to _ 
 stop the night. . . . I consented: where could I go, 
 indeed, at that time of night? The old lady kept groaning. 
 ‘What is it?’ I say; ‘she will live; don’t worry yourself; 
 you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about twe 
 o'clock.’ ‘But will you send to wake me if anything hap- 
 pens?’ ‘Yes, yes.’ The old lady went away, and the 
 girls too went to their own room; they made up a bed for 
 me in the parlour. Well, I went to bed—but I could not 
 get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality I was very tired. 
 I could not get my patient out of my head. At last I could 
 not put up with it any longer; I got up suddenly; I think 
 to myself, ‘I will go and see how the patient is getting on.’ 
 Her bedroom was next to the parlour. Well, I got up, and 
 gently opened the jJoor—how my heart beat! I looked in: 
 the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snor- 
 
64 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 ing, the wretch! but the patient lay with her face towards 
 me, and her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! I went up 
 to her . . . when suddenly she opened her eyes and 
 stared at me! ‘Who is it? who is it?’ I was in confusion. 
 ‘Don’t be alarmed, madam,’ I say; ‘I am the doctor; I 
 have come to see how you feel.’ ‘You the doctor?’ ‘Yes, 
 the doctor; your mother sent for me from the town; we 
 have bled you, madam; now pray go to sleep, and in a day 
 or two, please God! we will set you on your feet again.’ 
 ‘Ah, yes, yes, doctor, don’t let me die. . .`. please; 
 please.’ ‘Why do you talk like that? God bless you!’ 
 She is in a fever again, I think to myself; I felt her pulse; 
 yes, she was feverish. She looked at me, and then took 
 me by the hand. ‘I will tell you why I don’t want to die; 
 I will tell you. . . . Now we are alone; and only, please 
 don’t, you’. . . not to anyone .’.’." Listen). ee bene 
 down; she moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my 
 cheek with her hair—I confess my head went round—and 
 began to whisper. . . . I could make out nothing of it... . 
 Ah, she was delirious! . . . She whispered and whispered, 
 but so quickly, and as if it were not in Russian; at last she 
 finished, and shivering dropped her head on the pillow, and 
 threatened me with her finger: ‘Remember, doctor, to no 
 one.’ I calmed her somehow, gave her something to drink, ' 
 waked the servant, and went away.” 
 
 At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated 
 energy, and for a moment seemed stupefied by its effects. 
 
 “However,” he continued, “Фе next day, contrary to my 
 expectations, the patient was no better. I thought and 
 thought, and suddenly decided to remain there, even though 
 my other patients were expecting me. . . . And you know 
 one can’t afford to disregard that; one’s practice suffers if 
 one does. But, in the first place, the patient was really in 
 danzer; and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn 
 to her. Besides, I liked the whole family. Though they 
 were really badly off, they were singularly, I may say, culti- 
 vated people. . . . Their father had been a learned man, an 
 author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had man- 
 aged before he died to give his children an excellent edu- | 
 cation; he left a lot of books too. Either because I looked > 
 
THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 65 
 
 after the invalid very carefully, or for some other reason; 
 anyway, I can venture to say all the household loved me 
 as if I were one of the family. . . . Meantime the roads 
 were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to 
 say, were cut off completely; even medicine could with diffi- 
 culty be got from the town. . . . The sick girl was not get: 
 ting better. ... Day after day, and day after day... 
 but ... here... .” (The doctor made a brief pause.) 
 “I declare I don’t know how to tell you.” ... (He again 
 took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) “Т will tell 
 you without beating about the bush. My patient ... how 
 should I say? . . . Well she had fallen in love withme... 
 or, no, it. was not that she was in love ... however... 
 really, how should one say?” (The doctor looked down 
 and grew red.) “No,” he went on quickly, “in love, indeed! 
 A man should not over-estimate himself. She was an edu- 
 cated girl, clever and well-read, and I had even forgotten 
 my Latin, one may say, completely. As to appearance” 
 (the doctor looked himself over with a smile) “I am nothing 
 to boast of there either. But God Almighty did not make 
 me a fool; I don’t take black for white; I know a thing 
 or two; I could see very clearly, for instance that Aleksandra 
 Andreyevna—that was her name—did not feel love for me, 
 but had a friendly, so to say, inclination—a respect or some- - 
 thing for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this 
 sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form 
 your own judgment of it. But,” added the doctor, who had 
 brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking 
 breath, and with obvious embarrassment, “I seem to be 
 wandering rather—you won’t understand anything like 
 this ... There, with your leave, I will relate it all in 
 order.” 
 He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice. 
 “Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. 
 You are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand 
 what passes in a poor fellow’s heart, especially at first, when 
 he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper 
 hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? 
 You suddenly grow so timid; it’s indescribable. You fancy 
 then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that 
 
66 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin 
 to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symp- 
 toms with reluctance; that they are looking at you sus- 
 piciously, whispering ... Ah! it’s horrid! There must 
 be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find 
 it. Isn’t this it? You try—no, that’s not it! You 
 don’t allow the medicine the necessary time to do good .. . 
 You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you 
 take up a book of medical prescriptions—here it is, you 
 think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, 
 thinking to leave it to fate. . . . But meantime a fellow- 
 creature’s dying, and another doctor would have saved him. 
 ‘We must have a consultation,’ you say; ‘I will not take 
 the responsibility on myself.’ And what а fool you look at 
 such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it’s noth- 
 ing to you. A man has died—but it’s not your fault; you 
 treated him by the rules. But what’s still more torture 
 to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that 
 you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind 
 faith that the whole of Aleksandra Andreyevna’s family had 
 in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was 
 in danger. I, too, on my side assure them that it’s noth- 
 ing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. To add to 
 our troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coach- 
 man was gone for whole days together to get medicine. And 
 I never left the patient’s room; I could not tear myself 
 away; I tell her amusing stories, you know, and play cards 
 with her. I watch by her side at night. The old mother 
 thanks me with tears in her eyes; but I think to myself, 
 ‘I don’t deserve your gratitude.’ I frankly confess to you— 
 there is no object in concealing it now—I was in love with 
 my patient. And Aleksandra Andreyevna had grown fond of 
 me; she would not sometimes let any one be in her room 
 but me. She began to talk to me, to ask me questions; 
 where I had studied, how I lived, who are my people, whom 
 I go to see. I feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid 
 Бег to—to forbid her resolutely, you know—lI could not. 
 Sometimes I held my head in my hands, and asked myself, 
 “What are you doing, villain?” ... And she would take my 
 hand and hold it, give me a long, long look, and turn away, 
 
THE DiSTRICT DOCTOR 67 
 
 sigh, and say, ‘How good you are!’ Her hands were so fe- 
 ` verish, her eyes so large and languid. . . . ‘Yes,’ she says, 
 ‘you are a good, kind man; you are not like our neigh- 
 _bours. . . . No, you are not like that. . . . Why did I not 
 know you till now!’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, calm yourself,’ 
 I say. ... ‘I feel, believe me, I don’t know how I have 
 gained ... but there, calm yourself. . . . All will be right; 
 you will be well again.’ And meanwhile I must tell you,” 
 continued the doctor, bending forward and raising his eye- 
 brows, “that they associated very little with the neighbours, 
 because the smaller people were not on their level, and 
 pride hindered them from being friendly with the rich. I 
 tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so you 
 know it was gratifying for me. She would only take her 
 medicine from my hands .. . she would lift herself up, 
 poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me... . My 
 heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile she was 
 growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; 
 she will die, I think to myself; she must die. Believe me, 
 I would sooner have gone to the grave myself; and here were 
 her mother and sisters watching me, looking into my eyes 
 
 . and their faith in me was wearing away. ‘Well? how 
 is she?’ ‘Oh, all right, all right!’ All right, indeed! My 
 mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone 
 again by my patient. The maid was sitting there’ too, 
 and snoring away in full swing; I can’t find fault with the 
 poor girl, though; she was worn out too. Aleksandra Ап’. 
 dreyevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she was very 
 feverish. Until midnight she kept tossing about; at last 
 she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without 
 stirring. The lamp was burning in the corner before the 
 holy image. I sat there, you know, with my head bent; I 
 even dozed a little. Suddenly it seemed as though some one 
 touched me in the side; I turned round. . . . Good God! 
 Aleksandra Andreyevna was gazing with intent eyes at ше 
 ... her lips parted, her cheeks seemed burning. ‘What is it?’ 
 ‘Doctor, shall I die?’ ‘Merciful Heavens!’ ‘No, doctor, no; 
 please don’t tell me I shall live . . . don’t say so. ... If 
 you knew. ... Listen! for God’s sake don’t conceal my 
 real position,’ and her breath came so fast. ‘If I can know 
 
08 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 for certain that I must Фе... then I will tell you all— 
 all!’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, I beg!’ ‘Listen; I have not 
 been asleep at all . . . I have been looking at you a long 
 while. . . . For God’s sake! ... I believe in you; you are 
 a good man, an honest man; I entreat you by all that is 
 sacred in the world—tell me the truth! If you knew how 
 important it is for me. ... Doctor, for God’s sake tell 
 me. ...Am I in danger?’ ‘What can I tell you, Aleksan- 
 dra Andreyevna, pray?’ ‘For God’s sake, I beseech you!’ ‘T 
 can’t disguise from you,’ I say, ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna; you 
 are certainly in danger; but God is merciful.’ ‘I shall die, 
 I shall die.’ And it seemed as though she were pleased; her 
 face grew so bright; I was alarmed. ‘Don’t be afraid, 
 don’t be afraid! Iam not frightened of death at all.’ She 
 suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. ‘Now... yes, 
 now I can tell you that I thank you with my whole 
 heart ... that you are kind and good—that I love you!’ I 
 stare at her, like one possessed; it was terrible for me, you 
 know. ‘Do you hear, I love you!’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, 
 how have I deserved ? ‘No, no, you don’t—you don’t 
 understand me.’ . . . And suddenly she stretched out her 
 arms, and taking my head in her hands, she kissed it... . 
 Believe me, I almost screamed aloud. . . . I threw myself 
 on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow. She did 
 not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she 
 is weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her. ... I 
 really don’t know what I did say to her. ‘You will wake up 
 the girl,’ I say to her; ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, I thank 
 you... believe ше... саша yourself.’ ‘Enough, 
 enough!’ she persisted; ‘never mind all of them; let them 
 wake, then; let them come in--it does not matter; I am 
 dying, you see. . . . And what do you fear? why are you 
 afraid? Lift up your head. ... Or, perhaps, you don’t 
 love me; perhaps I am wrong. ... In that case, forgive 
 me.’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, what are you saying! ...I 
 love you, Aleksandra Andreyevna.’ She looked straight into 
 my eyes, ам opened her arms wide. ‘Then take me in 
 your arms.’ I tell you frankly, I don’t know how it was 
 I did not g( mad that night. I feel that my patient is kill- 
 ing herse:f; I see that she is not fully herself; I under- 
 
 
 
THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 69, 
 
 stand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point 
 of death, she would never have thought of me; and, in- 
 deed, say what you will, it’s hard to die at twenty without 
 having known love; this was what was torturing her; this 
 was why, in despair, she caught at me—do you understand 
 ‘now? But she held me in her arms, and would not let me go. 
 “Have pity on me, Aleksandra Andreyevna, and have pity 
 ‘on yourself,’ I say. ‘Why,’ she says; ‘what is there to think 
 ‘of? You know I must die.’ . . . This she repeated: inces- 
 santly. . . . ‘If I knew that I should return to life, and be 
 ‘a proper young lady again, I should be ashamed ... of 
 course, ashamed ... but why now?’ ‘But who has said 
 you will die?’ ‘Oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive 
 me; you don’t know how to lie—look at your face.’ 
 “You shall live, Aleksandra Andreyevna; I will cure you; we 
 will ask your mother’s blessing . . . we will be united— 
 we will be happy.’ ‘No, no, I have your word; I must 
 Че... you have promised ше... you have told me.’ 
 . It was cruel for me—cruel for many reasons. And see 
 what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at 
 all, but it’s painful. It occurred to her to ask me, what is 
 my name; not my surname, but my first name. I must 
 needs be so unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed; 
 Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called me doctor. 
 However, there’s no help for it. I say, ‘Trifon, madam.’ 
 She frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in 
 French—ah, something unpleasant, of course!—and then she 
 laughed—disagreeably too. Well, I spent the whole night 
 with her in this way. Before morning I went away, feeling 
 as though I were mad. When I went again into her room 
 it was daytime, after morning tea. Good God! I could 
 scarcely recognise her; people are laid in their grave looking 
 better than that. I swear to you, on my honour, I don’t 
 understand—-I absolutely don’t understand—now, how I 
 lived through that experience. Three days and nights my 
 patient still lingered on. And what nights! What things 
 she said to me! And on the last night—only imagine to 
 yourself—I was sitting near her, and kept praying to God 
 for one thing only: ‘Take her,’ I said, ‘quickly, and me 
 with her.’ Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly 
 
 
 
70 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 into the room. I had already the evening before told her— 
 the mother—there was little hope, and it would be well to 
 send for a priest. When the sick girl saw her mother she 
 said: ‘It’s very well you have come; look at us, we love 
 one another—we have given each other our word.’ ‘What 
 does she say, doctor? what does she say?’ Т turned livid. 
 ‘She is wandering,’ I say; ‘the fever.’ But she: ‘Hush, hush; 
 you told me something quite different just now, and have 
 taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My mother is good 
 —she will forgive—she will understand—and I am dying. 
 . .. I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand.’ I 
 jumped up and ran out of the room. The old lady, of course, 
 guessed how it was. 
 
 “ТГ will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me 
 too, of course, it’s painful to recall all this. My patient 
 passed away the next day. God rest her soul!” the doctor 
 added, speaking quickly and witha sigh. “Before her death 
 she asked her family to go out and leave me alone with 
 Ber! 
 
 “ “Forgive me,’ she said; ‘I am perhaps to blame towards 
 you... my illness . . . but believe me, I have loved no 
 one more than you... do not forget ше... keep my 
 ring 
 
 The doctor turned away; I took his hand. 
 
 “Ah!” he said, “let us talk of something else, or would 
 you care to play preference for a small stake? It is not for 
 people like me to give way to exalted emotions. There’s 
 only one thing for me to think of; how to keep the children 
 from crying and the wife from scolding. Since then, you 
 know, I have had time to enter into lawful wedlock, as 
 they say....Oh...I took a merchant’s daughter— 
 seven thousand for her dowry. Her name’s Akulina; it goes 
 well with Trifon. She is an ill-tempered woman, I must 
 tell you, but luckily she’s asleep all day. . . . Well, shall 
 it be preference?” 
 
 We sat down to preference for halfpenny points. Trifon 
 Ivanich won two rubles and a half from me, and went 
 home late, well pleased with his success, 
 
| THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE 
 : WEDDING 
 
 By Friopor М. DostTovEvsky 
 
 HE other day I saw a wedding. ... But no! I would 
 | rather tell you about a Christmas tree. The wedding 
 “was superb. I liked it immensely. But the other incident 
 
 was still finer. I don’t know why it is that the sight of the 
 wedding reminded me of the Christmas tree. This is the 
 way it happened: 
 
 Exactly five years ago, on New Year’s Eve, I was invited 
 to a children’s ball by a man high up in the business world, 
 who had his connections, his circle of acquaintances, and his 
 intrigues. So it seemed as though the children’s ball was 
 merely a pretext for the parents to come together and discuss 
 matters of interest to themselves, quite innocently and 
 casually. 
 
 I was an outsider, and, as I had no special matters to air, 
 I was able to spend the evening independently of the others. 
 There was another gentleman present who like myself had 
 just stumbled upon this affair of domestic bliss. He was the 
 first to attract my attention. His appearance was not that 
 of a man of birth or high family. He was tall, rather thin, 
 very serious, and well dressed. Apparently he had no heart 
 for the family festivities. The instant he went off into a 
 corner by himself the smile disappeared from his face, and 
 his thick dark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one 
 except the host and showed every sign of being bored to 
 death, though bravely sustaining the role of thorough en- 
 joyment to the end. Later I learned that he was a provin- 
 cial, had come to the capital on some important, brain- 
 racking business, had brought a letter of recommendation 
 to our host, and our host had taken him under his protec: 
 tion, not at all con amore. It was merely out of politenes: 
 that he had invited him to the children’s ball. 
 
 qi 
 
72 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him 
 cigars. No one entered into conversation with him. Pos- 
 sibly they recognised the bird by its feathers from a dis- 
 tance. Thus, my gentleman, not knowing what to do with 
 his hands, was compelled to spend the evening stroking 
 his whiskers. His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked 
 them so assiduously that one got the feeling that the whis- 
 kers had come into the world first and afterwards the man 
 in order to stroke them. 
 
 There was another guest who interested me. But he was 
 of quite a different order. He was a personage. ‘They 
 called him Julian Mastakovich. At first glance one could 
 tell he was an honoured guest and stood in the same relation 
 to the host as the host to the gentleman of the whiskers. 
 The host and hostess said no end of amiable things to him, 
 were most attentive,,wining him, hovering over him, bring- 
 ing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to 
 any one else. I noticed tears glisten in our host’s eyes when 
 Julian Mastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such 
 a pleasant evening. Somehow I began to feel uncomfort- 
 able in this personage’s presence. So, after amusing myself 
 with the children, five of whom, remarkably well-fed young 
 persons, were our host’s, I went into a little sitting-room, 
 entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end that was 
 a conservatory and took up almost half the room. 
 
 The children were charming. They absolutely refused to 
 resemble their elders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers 
 and governesses. In a jiffy they had denuded the Christ* 
 mas tree down to the very last sweet and had already suc- 
 ceeded in breaking half of their playthings before they 
 even found out which belonged to whom. 
 
 One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark- 
 eyed, curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at 
 me with his wooden gun. But the child that attracted the 
 ereatest attention was his sister, a girl of about eleven, lovely 
 as a Cupid. She was quiet and thoughtful, with large, full, 
 dreamy eyes. The children had somehow offended her, and 
 she left them and walked into the same room that I had 
 withdrawn into. There she seated herself with her doll in 
 a corner. 
 

 
 THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 73 
 
 “Her father is an immensely wealthy business man,” the 
 guests informed each other in tones of awe. “Three hun- 
 dred thousand rubles set aside for her dowry already.” 
 
 As I turned to look at the group from which I heard 
 
 this news item issuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich’s. 
 He stood listening to the insipid chatter in an attitude of 
 concentrated attention, with his hands behind his back and 
 his head inclined to one side. 
 _ All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewd- 
 ness our host displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The 
 little maid of the many-rubled dowry received the hand- 
 somest doll, and the rest of the gifts were graded in value 
 according to the diminishing scale of the parents’ stations 
 in life. The last child, a tiny chap of ten, thin, red-haired, 
 freckled, came into possession of a small book of nature 
 stories without illustrations or even head and tail pieces. 
 He was the governess’s child. She was a poor widow, and 
 her little boy, clad in a sorry-looking little nankeen jacket, 
 looked thoroughly crushed and intimidated. He took the 
 book of nature stories and circled slowly about the chil- 
 dren’s toys. He would have given anything to play with 
 them. But he did not dare to. You could tell he already 
 knew his place. 
 
 I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch the 
 individuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could 
 see that the other children’s things had tremendous charm 
 for the red-haired boy, especially a toy theatre, in which 
 he was so anxious to take a part that he resalved to fawn 
 upon the other children. He smiled and began to play with 
 them. His one and only apple he handed over to a puffy 
 urchin whose pockets were already crammed with sweets, 
 and he even carried another youngster pickaback—all 
 simply that he might be allowed to stay with the theatre. 
 
 But in a few moments an impudent young person fell 
 on him and gave him a pummelling. He did not dare even 
 to cry. The governess came and told him to leave off inter- 
 fering with the other children’s games, and he crept away to 
 the same room the little girl and I were in. She let him 
 sit down beside her, and the two set ets busily + 
 dressing the expensive doll. 
 
74 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Almost half an hour passed, and I was nearly dozing 
 off, as I sat there in the conservatory half listening to the 
 chatter of the red-haired boy and the dowered beauty, when 
 Julian Mastakovich entered suddenly. He had slipped out 
 of the drawing-room under cover of a noisy scene among the 
 children. From my secluded corner it had not escaped my 
 notice that a few moments before he had been eagerly con- 
 versing with the rich girl’s father, to whom he had only 
 just been introduced. 
 
 He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to 
 himself, as if counting something on his fingers. 
 
 “Three hundred—three hundred—eleven—twelve—thir- 
 teen—-sixteen—in five years! Let’s say four per cent—five 
 times twelve—sixty, and on these sixty Let us assume 
 that in five years it will amount to—well, four hundred. 
 Hm—hm! But the shrewd old fox isn’t likely to be satisfied 
 with four per cent. He gets eight or even ten, perhaps. 
 Let’s suppose five hundred, five hundred thousand, at 
 least, that’s sure. Anything above that for pocket money— 
 nn 
 
 He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when 
 he spied the girl and stood still. I, behind the plants, 
 escaped his notice. He seemed to me to be quivering with 
 excitement. It must have been his calculations that upset 
 him so. He rubbed his hands and danced from place to 
 place, and kept getting more and more excited. Finally, 
 however, he conquered his emotions and came to a stand- 
 still. He cast a determined look at the future bride and 
 wanted to move toward her, but glanced about first. Then, 
 as if with a guilty conscience, he stepped over to the child 
 on tip-toe, smiling, and bent down and kissed her head. 
 
 His coming was so unexpected that she uttered a shriek 
 of alarm. 
 
 “What are you doing here, dear child?” he whispered, 
 looking around and pinching her cheek. 
 
 “We're playing.” 
 
 “What, with him?” said Julian Mastakovich with a look 
 askance at the governess’s child. “You should go into 
 the drawing-room, my lad,” he said to him. 
 
 The boy remained silent and looked up at the man with 
 
 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 75 
 
 wide-open eyes. Julian Mastakovich glanced round again 
 cautiously and bent down over the girl. 
 
 _ “What have you got, a doll, my dear?” 
 
 ’ “Yes, sir.” The child quailed a little, and her brow 
 wrinkled. 
 
 “А doll? And do you know, my dear, what dolls are mad¢ 
 of?” 
 
 _ €No, sir,”’ she said weakly, and lowered her head. 
 
 “Out of rags, my dear. You, boy, you go back to the 
 drawing-room, to the children,” said Julian Mastakovich, 
 looking at the boy sternly. 
 
 _ The two children frowned. They caught hold of each 
 | other and would not part. 
 
 “And do you know why they gave you the doll?” asked 
 Julian Mastakovich, dropping his voice lower and lower. 
 
 SOI cy 27 
 
 “Because you were a good, very good little girl the whole 
 week,”’ 
 
 Saying which, Julian Mastakovich was seized with a 
 paroxysm of agitation. He looked round and said in a tone 
 faint, almost inaudible with excitement and impatience: 
 “ТЕТ come to visit your parents will you love me, my 
 dear?” 
 
 He tried to kiss the sweet little creature, but the red- 
 haired boy saw that she was on the verge of tears, and he 
 caught her hand and sobbed out loud in sympathy. That 
 enraged the man. 
 
 “Go away! Go away! Go back to the other room, to 
 your playmates.” 
 
 “Т don’t want him to. J don’t want him to! You go 
 away!” cried the girl. “Let him alone! Let him alone!” 
 She was almost weeping. 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. Julian 
 Mastakovich started and straightened up his respectable 
 body. The red-haired boy was even more alarmed. He let 
 go the girl’s hand, sidled along the wall, and escaped through 
 the drawing-room into the dining-room. 
 
 Not to attract atention, Julian Mastakovich also made 
 for the dining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight 
 of himself in a mirror seemed to embarrass him. Presum- 
 
 
 
 
 
76 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 ably he was annoyed at his own ardour and impatience. 
 Without due respect to his importance and dignity, his calcu- 
 lations had lured and pricked him to the greedy eagerness 
 of a boy, who makes straight for his object—though this 
 was not as yet an object; it only would be so in five years’ 
 time. I followed the worthy man into the dining-room, 
 where I witnessed a remarkable play. 
 
 Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in 
 his look, began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red- 
 haired boy retreated farther and farther until there was no 
 place left for him to retreat to, and he did not know where 
 to turn in his fright. 
 
 “Get out of here! What are you doing here? Get out, 
 I say, you good-for-nothing! Stealing fruit, are you? Oh, 
 so, stealing fruit! Get out, you freckle face, go to your 
 likes!” 
 
 The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled 
 quickly under the table. His persecutor, completely in- 
 furiated, pulled out his large linen handkerchief and used 
 it as a lash to drive the boy out of his position. 
 
 Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a some- 
 what corpulent man, heavy, well-fed, puffy-cheeked, with a 
 paunch and ankles as round as nuts. Не perspired and 
 puffed and panted. So strong was his dislike (or was it 
 jealousy?) of the child that he actually began to carry 
 on like a madman. 
 
 I laughed heartily. Julian Mastakovich turned. He was 
 utterly confused and for a moment, apparently, quite obliv- 
 ious of his immense importance. At that moment our host 
 appeared in the doorway opposite. The boy crawled out 
 from under the table and wiped his knees and elbows. 
 Julian Mastakovich hastened to carry his handkerchief, 
 which he had been dangling by the corner, to his nose. 
 Our host looked at the three of us rather suspiciously. 
 But, like a man who knows the world and can readily adjust 
 himself, he seized upon the opportunity to lay hold of his 
 very valuable guest and get what he wanted out of him. = 
 
 “Here’s the boy I was talking to you about,” he said, 
 indicating the red-haired child. “I took the ee of pre-j | 
 suming on your goodness in his behalf.” 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 77 
 
 “Oh,” replied Julian Mastakovich, still not quite master 
 of himself. 
 
 “Не’з my governess’s son,” our host continued in a be- 
 seeching tone. ‘“She’s a poor creature, the widow of an 
 honest official. That’s why, if it were possible for you—” 
 
 “Impossible, impossible!” Julian Mastakovich cried has- 
 Шу. “You must excuse me, Philip Alexeyevich, I really 
 cannot. Гуе made inquiries. There are no vacancies, and 
 there is a waiting list of ten who have a greater right—I’m 
 sorry.” 
 
 ’ “Too bad,” said our host. “Нез a quiet, unobtrusive 
 child.” 
 
 “A very naughty little rascal, I should say,” said Julian 
 -“Mastakovich, wryly. “Со away, boy. Why are you here 
 ‘still? Be ой with you to the other children.” 
 
 Unable to control himself, he gave me a sidelong glance. 
 Nor could I control myself. I laughed straight in his face. 
 ‘He turned away and asked our host, in tones quite audible 
 ‘to me, who that,odd young fellow was. They whispered to 
 each other and left the room, disregarding me. 
 
 { shook with laughter. Then I, too, went to the drawing- 
 room. ‘There the great man, already surrounded by the 
 fathers and mothers and the host and the hostess, had begun 
 to talk eagerly with a lady to whom he had just been intro- 
 'duced. The lady held the rich little girl’s hand. Julian 
 'Mastakovich went into fulsome praise of her. He waxed 
 ecstatic over the dear child’s beauty, her talents, her grace, 
 her excellent breeding, plainly laying himself out to flatter 
 the mother, who listened scarcely able to restrain tears of 
 joy, while the father showed his delight by a gratified smile. 
 
 The joy was contagious. Everybody shared in it. Even 
 the children were obliged to stop playing so as not to disturb 
 the conversation. The atmosphere was surcharged with awe. 
 I heard the mother of the important little girl, touched to 
 her profoundest depths, ask Julian Mastakovich in the - 
 choicest language of courtesy, whether he would honour 
 them by coming to see them. I heard Julian Mastakovich 
 accept the invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm. Then 
 the guests scattered decorously to different parts of the room, 
 and I heard them, with veneration in their tones, extol 
 
 )) 
 
 
 
78 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 the business man, the business man’s wife, the business 
 man’s daughter, and, especially, Julian Mastakovich. 
 
 “Ts he married?” I asked out loud of an acquaintance of 
 mine standing beside Julian Mastakovich. 
 
 Julian Mastakovich gave me a venomous look. 
 
 “No,” answered my acquaintance, profoundly shocked 
 by my—intentional—indiscretion. 
 
 
 
 Not long ago I passed the Church of . I was struck by 
 the concourse of people gathered there to witness a wedding. 
 It was a dreary day. A drizzling rain was beginning to come 
 down. I made my way through the throng into the church. 
 The bridegroom was a round, well-fed, pot-bellied little man, 
 very much dressed up. He ran and fussed about and gave 
 orders and arranged things. Finally word was passed that 
 the bride was coming. I pushed through the crowd, and I 
 beheld a marvelicus beauty whose first spring was scarcely 
 commencing. But the beauty was pale and sad. She looked 
 distracted. It seemed to: me even that her eyes were red 
 from recent weeping. The classic severity of every line of 
 her face imparted a peculiar significance and solemnity to 
 her beauty. But through that severity and solemnity, 
 through the sadness, shone the innocence of a child. There 
 was something inexpressibly naive, unsettled and young in 
 her features, which, without words, seemed to plead for 
 mercy. 
 
 They said she was just sixteen years old. I looked at 
 the bridesroom carefully. Suddenly I recognised Julian 
 Mastakovich, whom I had not seen again in all those five 
 years. Then I looked at the bride again—Good God! I 
 made my way, аз quickly as I could, out of the church. I 
 heard gossining in the crowd about the bride’s wealth— 
 about he~ dowry of five hundred thousand rubles—so and 
 so much fo" pocket money. 
 
 “Then his calculations were correct,” I thought, as I 
 pressed out into the street. 
 
 
 
GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 
 By Leo №. Тотзтох 
 
 N the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant namea 
 Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house 
 of his own. 
 
 Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fel- 
 low, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a 
 young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when 
 he had had too much; but after he married he gave up 
 drinking, except now and then. 
 
 One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, 
 and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, 
 “Tyan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad 
 dream about you.” 
 
 Aksionov laughed, and said, ‘‘You are afraid that when 1 
 get to the fair I shall go on a spree.” 
 
 His wife replied: ‘I do not know what I am afraid of; 
 all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you re- 
 turned from the town, and when you took off your cap 1 
 saw that your hair was quite grey.” 
 
 Aksionov laughed. ‘“That’s a lucky sign,” said he. “Зее 
 if I don’t sell out all my goods, and bring you some pres-— 
 ents from the fair.” 
 
 _ So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away. 
 
 When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom 
 he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. 
 They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoin- 
 ing rooms. 
 
 It was not Aksionov’s habit to sleep late, and, wishing to 
 travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before 
 lawn, and told him to put in the horses. 
 
 Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn 
 (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and con- 
 tinued his journey. 
 
 - af") 
 
80 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for 
 the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage | 
 of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, order- 
 ing а samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began 
 to play. 
 
 Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an 
 official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to 
 Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he 
 was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, 
 and said, “\Уоп”* you have some tea with me?” But the 
 official went on cross-questioning him and asking him, 
 “Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with 
 a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this 
 morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?” 
 
 Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, 
 but he described all that had happened, and then added, 
 ‘“Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief ог a 
 robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there 
 is no need to question me.” 
 
 Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, “Т am the 
 police-officer of this district, and I question you because 
 the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found 
 with his throat cut. We must search your things.” 
 
 They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-offi- 
 cer unstrapped Aksionov’s luggage and searched it. Sud- 
 denly the officer drew a knife out of а bag, crying, “Whose 
 knife is this?” 
 
 Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken 
 from his bag, he was frightened. 
 
 “Ном is it there is blood on this knife?” 
 
 Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, 
 and only stammered: ‘‘I—don’t know—not mine.” 
 
 Then the police-officer said: ‘This morning the merchant 
 was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only 
 person who could have done it. The house was locked from 
 inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained 
 knife in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! 
 Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you 
 stole?” 
 
 Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen 
 
 
 
GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS SI 
 
 the merchant after they had had tea together; that he had 
 no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and 
 that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, 
 his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he were 
 guilty. 
 
 The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov 
 
 and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together 
 and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and 
 wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he 
 was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. En- 
 quiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The 
 merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in 
 former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that 
 he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged 
 with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him 
 of twenty thousand rubles. 
 _ His wife was in despair, and did not know what to be- 
 lieve. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby 
 at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the 
 town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not 
 allowed to see him; but after much begging, she obtained 
 ‘permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When 
 ‘she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up 
 with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come 
 ‘to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children 
 ‘to her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at 
 ‘home, and asked about what had happened to him. Не 
 told her all, and she asked, ‘“‘What can we do now?” 
 
 “We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man 
 perish.” 
 
 His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, 
 but it had not been accepted. 
 
 Aksionoy did not reply, but only looked downcast. 
 
 Then his wife said, “It was not for nothing I dreamt your 
 hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not 
 have started that day.” And passing her fingers through his 
 hair, she said: “Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; 
 was it not you who did it?” 
 
 “So you, too, suspect me!” said Aksionov, and, hiding his 
 face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came 
 
 
 
82 bitol RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksio- 
 nov said good-bye to his family for the last time. 
 
 When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been 
 said, and when he remembered that his wife also had sus- 
 pected him, he said to himself, “It seems that only God 
 can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and 
 from Him alone expect mercy.” 
 
 And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, 
 and only prayed to God. 
 
 Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the 
 mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds 
 made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia 
 with other convicts. 
 
 For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Si- 
 beria. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew 
 long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he 
 walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often 
 prayed. 
 
 In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a 
 little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints. 
 He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; 
 and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and 
 sang in the choir; for his voice was still good. 
 
 The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, 
 and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him 
 *“‘Grandfather,” and “The Saint.” When they wanted to pe- 
 tition the prison authorities about anything, they always 
 made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quar- 
 rels among the prisoners they came to him to put things 
 right, and to judge the matter. 
 
 No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he 
 did not even know if his wife and children were still 
 alive. 
 
 One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In 
 the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones 
 and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and 
 what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov 
 sat down near the newcomers, and listened with Brena 
 air to what was said. 
 
 One of the new convicts. a tall, strong man of sixty; with 
 

 
 GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 83 
 
 a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what 
 he had been arrested for. 
 
 “Well, friends,” he said, “I only took a horse that was 
 tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. 
 I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had 
 then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of 
 mine. So I said, ‘It’s all right.’ ‘No,’ said they, ‘you stole 
 it.’ But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once 
 really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have 
 come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. 
 Now I have been sent here for nothing at all. . . . Eh, but 
 it’s lies I’m telling you; I’ve been to Siberia before, but I 
 did not stay long.” | 
 
 “Where are you from?” asked some one. 
 
 “From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name 
 is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich.” 
 
 Aksionov raised his head and said: ‘Tell me, Semyo- 
 ~nich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of 
 Vladimir? Are they still alive?” 
 
 “Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, 
 though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it 
 seems! As for you, Gran’dad, how did you come here?” 
 
 Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only 
 sighed, and said, “Еог my sins I have been in prison these 
 twenty-six years.” 
 
 “What sins?” asked Makar Semyonich. 
 
 But Aksionov only said, ‘Well, well—I must have de- 
 served it!” He would have said no more, but his compan- 
 ions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; 
 how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife 
 among Aksionov’s things, and Aksionov had been unjustly 
 condemned. | 
 
 When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksio- 
 nov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, ‘Well, this is 
 wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you’ve grown, 
 Gran’dad!” 
 
 The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where 
 he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar’ Semyonich did 
 not reply. He only said: “It’s wonderful that we should 
 meet here, lads!” 
 
7 84 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man 
 knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, ‘Perhaps, 
 Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you’ve 
 seen me before?” 
 
 “How could I help hearing? The world’s full of ru- 
 mours. But it’s a long time ago, and I’ve forgotten what I 
 heard.” 
 
 “Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked 
 Aksionov. 
 
 Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: “It must have 
 been him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one 
 else hid the knife there, ‘He’s not a thief till he’s caught,’ as 
 the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag 
 while it was under your head? It would surely have woke 
 you up.” 
 
 When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was 
 the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went 
 away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly 
 unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There 
 was the image of his wife as she was when he parted from 
 her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; 
 her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak 
 and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they 
 were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his 
 mother’s breast. And then he remembered himself as he 
 used to be—young and merry. He remembered how he sat 
 playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was ar- 
 rested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his 
 mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and 
 the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the 
 twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old 
 age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that he 
 was ready to kill himself. 
 
 “And it’s all that villain’s doing!” thought Aksionov. 
 And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that 
 he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for — 
 
 it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no | 
 peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyo- | 
 nich, пог even look at him. 
 
 A ‘fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep | 
 
* 
 
 GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 85 
 
 at night, and was so miserable that he did not know what 
 to do. 
 
 One night аз he was walking about the prison he noticed 
 some earth that came rolling out from under one of the 
 shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what 
 it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under 
 the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. 
 Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar 
 seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under 
 the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high- 
 boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the 
 prisoners were driven to their work. 
 
 “Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. 
 If you blab, they’ll flog the life out of me, but I will kill 
 you first.” 
 
 Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. 
 He drew his hand away, saying, “Т have no wish to escape, 
 and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! 
 As to telling of you—I may do so or not, as God shall 
 direct.” 
 
 Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the 
 convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners 
 emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was 
 
 searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and 
 
 questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the 
 hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who 
 knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he 
 would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor 
 turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and 
 
 ‚ said: 
 
 “You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who 
 dug the hole?” 
 
 Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, 
 looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at 
 Aksionoy. Aksionov’s lips and hands trembled, and for a 
 long time he could not utter a word. Не thought, “Why 
 should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for 
 what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog 
 the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. 
 And, after all, what good would it be to me?” 
 
у. 
 
 86 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Well, old man,” repeated the Governor, “tell me the 
 truth: who has been digging under the wall?” 
 
 Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, “I can- 
 not say, your honour. It is not God’s will that I should 
 tell! Do what you like with me; I am in your hands.” 
 
 However much the Governor tried, Aksionov would say no 
 more, and so the matter had to be left. 
 
 That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just 
 beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on 
 his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised 
 Makar. 
 
 ‘“‘What more do you want of me?” asked Aksionov. “Why 
 have you come here?” 
 
 Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and 
 said, ‘‘What do you want? Go away, or I will call the 
 guard!” 
 
 Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whis- 
 vered, “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” 
 
 “What for?” asked Aksionov. 
 
 “It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among 
 your things. J meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise 
 outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of 
 the window.” 
 
 Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. 
 Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the 
 ground. “Ivan Dmitrich,” said he, ‘forgive me! For the 
 love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who 
 killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go 
 to your home.”’ 
 
 “Tt is easy for you to talk,” said Aksionov, “but I have 
 suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go 
 to now? ... My wife is dead, and my children have for- 
 gotten me. I have nowhere to go... .” 
 
 Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the 
 floor. ‘Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” he czied. “When they 
 flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is : 
 to see you now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not — 
 tell. For Christ’s* sake forgive me, wretch ‘that I am!” | 
 And he began to sob. 
 
 When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, perce to weep. 
 

 
 GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 8 
 
 “God will forgive you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hun: 
 dred times worse than you.” And at these words his heart 
 grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no 
 longer had any desire to leave the prison, but отм hoped 
 for his last hour to come. 
 
 In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich 
 confessed his guilt. But when the order for his release came, 
 Aksionov was already dead. 
 
НОМ А MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 
 
 BywiMi o¥: SAutTyRov 
 [N. Shchedrin] 
 
 NCE upon a time there were two Officials. They were 
 
 hoth empty-headed, and so they found themselves one > 
 
 day suddenly transported to an uninhabited isle, as if on a 
 magic carpet. 
 
 They had passed their whole life in a Government De- 
 partment, where records were kept; had been born there, 
 bred there, grown old there, and consequently hadn’t the 
 least understanding for anything outside of the Department; 
 and the only words they knew were: “With assurances of 
 the highest esteem, I am your humble servant.” 
 
 But the Department was abolished, and as the services 
 of the two Officials were no longer needed, they were given 
 their freedom. So the retired Officials migrated to Pody- 
 acheskaya Street in St. Petersburg. Each had his own 
 home, his own cook and his pension. 
 
 Waking up on the uninhabited isle, they found themselves 
 lying under the same cover. At first, of course, they couldn’, 
 understand what had happened to them, and they spoke as 
 if nothing extraordinary had taken place. 
 
 “What a peculiar dream I had last night, your Excel- 
 lency,”’ said the one Official. “It seemed to me as if I were 
 on an uninhabited isle.” 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words, when he jumped to his 
 feet. The other Official also jumped up. 
 
 “Good Lord, what does this mean! Where are we?” they 
 cried out in astonishment. 
 
 They felt each other to make sure that they were no 
 longer dreaming, and finally convinced themselves of the 
 sad reality. | 
 
 Before them stretched the ocean, and behind them was a 
 
 ЯР. 
 
HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 89 
 
 little spot of earth, beyond which the ocean stretched again. 
 They began to cry—the first time since their Department 
 had been shut down. 
 
 They looked at each other, and each noticed that the other 
 was clad in nothing but his night shirt with his order hang- 
 ing about his neck. 
 
 “We really should be having our coffee now,’ observed 
 the one Official. Then he bethought himself again of the 
 strange situation he was in and a second time fell to weeping. 
 
 “What are we going to do now?” he sobbed. “Even sup- 
 posing we were to draw up a report, what good would that 
 do?” 
 
 “You know what, your Excellency,” replied the other Offi- 
 cial, ‘“you go to the east and I will go to the west. Toward 
 evening we will come back here again, and, perhaps, we shall 
 have found something.” 
 
 They started to ascertain which was the east and which 
 was the west. They recalled that the head of their Depart- 
 ment had once said to them, “If you want to know where 
 the east is, then turn your face to the north, and the east will 
 be on your 11201.” But when they tried to find out which 
 was the north, they turned to the right and to the left and 
 looked around on all sides. Having spent their whole life in 
 the Department of Records, their efforts were all in vain. 
 
 “To my mind, your Excellency, the best thing to do would 
 be for you to go to the right and me to go to the left,” said 
 one Official, who had served not only in the Department 
 of Records, but had also been teacher of handwriting in the 
 School for Reserves, and so was a little bit cleverer. 
 
 So said, so done. The one Official went to the right. He 
 came upon trees bearing all sorts of fruits. Gladly would 
 he have plucked an apple, but they all hung so high that he 
 would have been obliged to climb up. He tried to climb up 
 in vain. All he succeeded in doing was tearing his night 
 shirt. Then he struck upon a brook. It was swarming with 
 fish, 
 
 “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had all this fish in Pody- 
 acheskaya Street!” he thought, and his mouth watered. 
 Then he entered woods and found partridges, grouse and 
 hares. | 
 
40 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 ‘Good Lord, what an abundance of food!” he cried. His 
 hunger was going up tremendously. 
 
 But he had to return to the appointed spot with empty 
 hands. He found the other Official waiting for him. 
 
 _ (Мей, Your Excellency, how went it? Did you find any- 
 thing?” р 
 
 “Nothing but an old number of the Moscow Gazette, 
 not another thing.” 
 
 The Officials lay down to sleep again, but their empty 
 stomachs gave them no rest. They were partly robbed of 
 their sleep by the thought of who was now enjoying their 
 pension, and partly by the recollection of the fruit, fishes, 
 partridges, grouse and hares that they had seen during the 
 day. 
 
 “The human pabulum in its original form flies, swims and 
 grows on trees. Who would have thought it your Excel- 
 lency?” said the one Official. 
 
 “То be sure,” rejoined the other Official. “I, too, must 
 admit that I had imagined that our breakfast rolls came 
 into the world just as they appear on the table.” 
 
 “From which it is to be deduced that if we want to eat 
 a pheasant, we must catch it first, kill it, pull its feathers 
 and roast it. But how’s that to be done?” 
 
 “Yes, how’s that to be done?” repeated the other Offi- 
 cial. 
 
 They turned silent and tried again to fall asleep, but their 
 hunger scared sleep away. Before their eyes swarmed 
 flocks of pheasants and ducks, herds of porklings, and they 
 were all so juicy, done so tenderly and garnished so deli- 
 ciously with olives, capers and pickles. 
 
 “TI believe I could devour my own boots now,” said the 
 one Official. 
 
 “Gloves are not bad either, especially if they have been 
 vorn quite mellow,” said the other Official. 
 
 The two Officials stared at each other fixedly. In their 
 glances gleamed an evil-boding fire, their teeth chattered and - 
 a dull groaning issued from their breasts. Slowly they 
 crept upon each other and suddenly they burst into a fear- 
 ful frenzy. There was a yelling and groaning, the rags 
 flew about, and the Official who had been teacher of hand- 
 
HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 91 
 
 writing bit off his colleague’s order and swallowed it. How- 
 ever, the sight of blood brought them both back to their 
 senses. 
 
 “God help us!” they cried at the same time. ‘We сег- 
 tainly don’t mean to eat each other up. How could we 
 have come to such a pass as this? What evil genius is 
 making sport of us?” 
 
 “We must, by all means, entertain each other to pass 
 the time away, otherwise there will be murder and death,” 
 said the one Official. 
 
 “You begin,” said the other. 
 
 “Can you explain why it is that the sun first rises and 
 then sets? Why isn’t it the reverse?” 
 
 ““Aren’t you а funny man, your Excellency? You get up 
 first, then you go to your office and work there, and at, 
 
 night you lie down to sleep.” 
 
 
 
 “But why can’t one assume the opposite, that is, that 
 
 "one goes to bed, sees all sorts of dream figures, and then 
 
 gets up?” 
 “Well, yes, certainly. But when I was still an Official, 
 
 _ I always thought this way: ‘Now it is dawn, then it will 
 
 be day, then will come supper, and finally will come the 
 
 time to go to bed.’” 
 
 The word “supper” recalled that incident in the day’s 
 
 _ doings, and the thought of it made both Officials melan- 
 choly, so that the conversation came to a halt. 
 
 “А doctor once told me that human beings can sustain 
 themselves for a long time on their own juices,” the one 
 Official began again. 
 
 “What does that mean?” 
 
 “It is quite simple. You see, one’s own juices generate 
 other juices, and these in their turn still other juices, and so 
 it goes on until finally all the juices are consumed.” 
 
 “And then what happens?” 
 
 “Then food has to be taken into the system again.” 
 
 “The devil!” 
 
 “No matter what topic the Officials chose, the conversa- 
 tion invariably reverted to the subject of eating; which only 
 increased their appetite more and more. So they decided 
 to give up talking altogether, and, recollecting the Moscow 
 
92 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Gazette that the one of them had found, they picked it up 
 and began to read it eagerly. 
 
 BANQUET GIVEN BY THE MAYOR 
 
 “The table was set for one hundred persons. The mag- 
 nificence of it exceeded all expectations. ‘The remotest prov- 
 inces were represented at this feast of the gods by the cost- 
 liest gifts. The golden sturgeon from Sheksna and the silver 
 pheasant from the Caucasian woods held a rendezvous with 
 strawberries so seldom to be had in our latitude in win- 
 a Sas Rn 
 
 “The devil! For God’s sake, stop reading, your Excel- 
 lency. Couldn’t you find something else to read about?” 
 cried the other Official in sheer desperation. Не snatched 
 the paper from his colleague’s hands, and started to read 
 something else. 
 
 “Our correspondent in Tula informs us that yesterday a 
 sturgeon was found in the Upa (an event which even the 
 oldest inhabitants cannot recall, and all the more remark- 
 able since they recognised the former police captain in this 
 sturgeon). This was made the occasion for giving a ban- 
 quet in the club. The prime cause of the banquet was 
 served in a large wooden platter garnished with vinegar 
 pickles. A bunch of parsley stuck out of its mouth. Doctor 
 р who acted аз toast-master saw to it that everybody 
 present got a piece of the sturgeon. The sauces to go with 
 it were unusually varied and delicate И 
 
 “Permit me, your Excellency, it seems to me you are not 
 so careful either in the selection of reading matter,” inter- 
 rupted the first Official, who secured the Gazette again and 
 started to read: 
 
 “One of the oldest inhabitants. of Viatka has discovered a 
 new and highly original recipe for fish soup. A live cod- 
 fish (lota vulgaris) is taken and beaten with a rod until its 
 liver swells up with anger. .. .” 
 
 The Officials’ heads drooped. Whatever their eyes fell 
 upon had something to do with eating. Even their own 
 thoughts were fatal. No matter how much they tried to 
 
 
 
 
 
HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 93 
 
 keep their minds off beefsteak and the like, it was all in 
 vain; their fancy returned invariably, with irresistible force, 
 back to that for which they were so painfully yearning. 
 
 Suddenly an inspiration came to the Official who had once 
 taught handwriting. | 
 
 “T have it!” he cried delightedly. ‘What do you say to 
 this, your Excellency? What do you say to our finding 
 a muzhik?” 
 
 “А muzhik, your Excellency? What sort of a muzhik?”’ 
 
 “Why а plain ordinary muzhik. A muzhik like all other 
 muzhiks. He would get the breakfast rolls for us right 
 away, and he could also catch partridges and fish for us.” 
 
 “Hm, a muzhik. But where are we to fetch one from, if 
 there is no muzhik here?” 
 
 “Why shouldn’t there be a muzhik here? There are mu- 
 zhiks everywhere. All one has to do is hunt for them. There 
 certainly must be a muzhik hiding here somewhere so as 
 to get out of working.” 
 
 This thought so cheered the Officials that they instantly 
 jumped up to go in search of a muzhik. 
 
 For a long while they wandered about on the island with- 
 out the desired result, until finally a concentrated smell of 
 black bread and old sheep skin assailed their nostrils and 
 guided them in the right direction. There under a tree was 
 a colossal muzhik lying fast asleep with his hands under his 
 head. It was clear that to escape his duty to work he had 
 impudently withdrawn to this island. The indignation of 
 the Officials knew no bounds. 
 
 “What, lying asleep here, you lazy-bones you!” they raged 
 at him. “It is nothing to you that there are two Officials 
 here who are fairly perishing of hunger. Up, forward, 
 march, work.” 
 
 The Muzhik rose and looked at the two severe gentle- 
 men standing in front of him. His first thought was to 
 make his escape, but the Officials held him fast. 
 
 He had to submit to his fate. He had to work. 
 
 First he climbed up on a tree and plucked several dozen 
 of the finest apples for the Officials. He kept a rotten one 
 for himself. Then he turned up the earth and dug out 
 some potatoes. Next he started a fire with two bits of 
 
94 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 wood that he rubbed against each other. Out of his own 
 hair he made a snare and caught partridges. Over the fire, 
 by this time burning brightly, he cooked so many kinds of 
 food that the question arose in the Officials’ minds whether. 
 they shouldn’t give some to this idler. 
 
 Beholding the efforts of the Muzhik, they rejoiced in their 
 hearts. They had already forgotten how the day before 
 they had nearly been perishing of hunger, and all they 
 thought of now was: “What a good thing it is to be an 
 Official. Nothing bad can ever happen to an Official.” 
 
 “Аге you Satisfied, gentlemen?” the lazy Muzhik asked. 
 
 “Yes, we appreciate your industry,” replied the Officials. 
 
 “Then you will permit me to rest a little?” 
 
 “Со take а little rest, but first make a good strong cord.” 
 
 The Muzhik gathered wild hemp stalks, laid them in 
 water, beat them and broke them, and toward evening a 
 good stout cord was ready. The Officials took the cord and 
 bound the Muzhik to a tree, so that he should not run 
 away. ‘Then they laid themselves to sleep. 
 
 Thus day after day passed, and the Muzhik became so 
 skilful that he could actually cook soup for the Officials 
 in his bare hands. The Officials had become round and 
 well-fed and happy. It rejoiced them that here they needn’t 
 spend any money and that in the meanwhile their pensions 
 were accumulating in St. Petersburg. 
 
 “What is your opinion, your Excellency,” one said to 
 the other after breakfast one day, “1$ the Story of the 
 Tower of Babel true? Don’t you think it is simply an 
 allegory?” 
 
 “By no means, your Excellency, I think it was some- 
 thing that really happened. What other explanation is 
 there for the existence of so many different languages on 
 earth?” 
 
 “Then the Flood must really have taken place, too?” 
 
 “Certainly, else how would you explain the existence of 
 Antediluvian animals? Besides, the Moscow Gazette 
 says és 
 
 They made search for the old number of the Moscow 
 Gazette, seated themselves in the shade, and read the whole | 
 sheet from beginning to end. They read of festivities in 
 
 | 
 
 
 
HOW A MUZHIK FE) тно OFFICIALS 95 
 
 Moscow, Tula, Penza and Riazan, and strangely enough felt 
 no discomfort at the description of the delicacies served. 
 
 There is no saying how long this life might have lasted. 
 Finally, however, it began to bore the Officials. They often 
 thought of their cooks in St. Petersburg, and even shed a few 
 tears in secret. 
 
 “T wonder how it looks in Podyacheskaya Street now, your 
 Excellency,” one of them said to the other. 
 
 “Oh, don’t remind me of it, your Excellency. I am pining 
 away with homesickness.” 
 
 “It is very nice here. There is really no fault to be found 
 with this place, but the lamb longs for its mother sheep. 
 And it is a pity, too, for the beautiful uniforms.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, a uniform of the fourth class is no joke. 
 The gold embroidery alone is enough to make one dizzy.” 
 
 Now they began to importune the Muzhik to find somal 
 way of getting them back to Podyacheskaya Street, and 
 strange to say, the Muzhik even knew where Podyacheskaya 
 Street was. He had once drunk beer and mead there, and 
 as the saying goes, everything had run down his beard, alas, 
 but nothing into his mouth. The Officials rejoiced and said: 
 “We are Officials from Podyacheskaya Street.” 
 
 “And I am one of those men—do you remember?—who 
 sit on a scaffolding hung by ropes from the roofs and paint 
 the outside walls. I am one of those who crawl about on 
 the roofs like flies. That is what I am,” replied the Muzhik. 
 
 The Muzhik now pondered long and heavily on how to 
 give great pleasure to his Officials, who had been so gracious 
 to him, the lazy-bones, and had not scorned his work. And 
 he actually succeeded in constructing a ship. It was not 
 really a ship, but still it was a vessel that would carry them 
 across the ocean close to Podyacheskaya Street. 
 
 “Now, take care, you dog, that you don’t drown us,” said 
 the Officials, when they saw the raft rising and falling on 
 the waves. 
 
 “Don’t be afraid. We muzhiks are used to this,” said 
 the Muzhik, making all the preparations for the journey. 
 He gathered swan’s-down and made a couch for his two 
 Officials, then he crossed himself and rowed off from shore. 
 
 How frightened the Officials were on the way, how sea- 
 
Аа ы о a ‘ 
 96 BEST коз SHORT STORIES 
 
 sick they were during the storms, how they scolded the 
 coarse Muzhik for his idleness, can neither be told nor 
 described. The Muzhik, however, just kept rowing on and 
 » fed his Officials on herring. At last, they caught sight of 
 dear old Mother Neva. Soon they were in the glorious 
 Catherine Canal, and then, oh joy! they struck the grand 
 Podyacheskaya Street. When the cooks saw their Officials 
 so well-fed, round and so happy, they rejoiced immensely. 
 The Officials drank coffee and rolls, then put on their uni- 
 forms and drove to the Pensign Bureau... Ho ow much money 
 they collected there is another thing + ВА: can neither be 
 ‘told nor described. Nor was the ‘Muzhik forgotten. The 
 Officials sent a glass of whiskey out to him and five kopeks. 
 
 ‚ Now, Muzhik, rejoice. 
 
oe 
 
 THE SHADES, A PHANTASY ‘ 
 By VLADIMIR G. KoROLENKO 
 
 I \х 
 и... № 
 MONTH and two days had elapsed since the judges, 
 amid the loud acclaim of the Athenian peop had 
 pronounced the death sentence against the philosoplfe Е wok 
 rates because he had sought to destroy faith in the 
 What the gadfly is to the horse Socrates was to Аа \ 
 The gadfly stings the horse in order to prevent it from dong 
 ing off and to keep it moving briskly on its course. The 
 philosopher said to the people of Athens: 
 
 “Т am your gadfly. My sting pricks your conscience and 
 -arouses you when you are caught napping. Sleep not, sleep 
 10%, people of Athens; awake and seek the truth!” 
 
 The people arose in their exasperation and cruelly de- 
 manded to be rid of their gadfly. 
 
 “Perchance both of his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, 
 are wrong,” said the citizens, on leaving the court after sen- 
 fence had been pronounced. 
 
 “But after all whither do his doctrines tend? What 
 would he do? Не has wrought confusion, he overthrows 
 beliefs that have existed since the beginning, he speaks of 
 new virtues which must be recognised and sought for, he 
 speaks of a Divinity hitherto unknown to us. The blas- 
 phemer, he deems himself wiser than the gods! No, ’twere 
 better we remain true to the old gods whom we know. They 
 may not always be just, sometimes they may flare up in 
 unjust wrath, and they may also be seized with a wanton 
 lust for the wives of mortals; but did not our ancestors 
 live with them in the peace of their souls, did not our fore- 
 fathers accomplish their heroic deeds with the help of these 
 very gods? And now the faces of the Olympians have paled 
 and the old virtue is out of joint. What does it all lead ta? 
 
 94. 
 
we — 
 к 
 98 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Should not an end be put to this impious wisdom once for 
 all?” 
 
 Thus the citizens of Athens spoke to one another as they 
 left the place, and the blue twilight was falling. They had 
 determined to kill the restless gadfly in the hope that the 
 countenances of the gods would shine again. And yet 
 before their souls arose the mild figure of the singular 
 philosopher. “There were some citizens who recalled how 
 courageously he had shared their troubles and dangers at 
 Potidea; how he alone had prevented them from commit- 
 ting the sin of unjustly executing the generals after the vic- 
 tory over the Arginuse; how he alone had dared to raise 
 his voice against the tyrants who had had fifteen hundred 
 people put to death, speaking to the people on the market- 
 
 
 
 Pes. concerning shepherds and their sheep. 
 
 “Ts not he a good shepherd,” he asked, “who guards his 
 flock and watches over its increase? Or is it the work of 
 the good shepherd to reduce the number of his sheep and 
 disperse them, and of the good ruler to do the same with his 
 people? Men of Athens, let us investigate this question!” 
 
 And at this question of the solitary, undefended philoso- 
 pher, the faces of the tyrants paled, while the eyes of the 
 youths kindled with the fire of just wrath and indignation. 
 
 Thus, when on dispersing after the sentence the Athenians 
 recalled all these things of Socrates, their hearts were op- 
 pressed with heavy doubt. 
 
 “Науе we not done a cruel wrong to the son of Sophron- 
 iscus?” 
 
 But then the good Athenians looked upon the harbour and 
 the sea, and in the red glow of the dying day they saw the 
 purple sails of the sharp-keeled ship, sent to the Delian fes- 
 tival, shimmering in the distance on the blue Pontus. The 
 ship would not return until the expiration of a month, and 
 the Athenians recollected that during this time no blood 
 might be shed in Athens, whether the blood of the inno- 
 cent or the guilty. A month, moreover, has many days and 
 still more hours. Supposing the son of Sophroniscus had 
 оееп unjustly condemned, who would hinder his escaping 
 irom the prison, especially since he had numerous friends 
 to help him? Was it so difficult for the rich Plato, for 
 

 
 м NY. THE UlyAnUY. FR 
 THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 99 
 
 Eschines and others to bribe the guards? Theri the rest- 
 less gadfly would flee from Athens to the barbarians in 
 Thessaly, or to the Peloponnesus, or, still farther, to Egypt; 
 Athens would no longer hear his blasphemous speeches; 
 his death would not weigh upon the conscience of the 
 worthy citizens, and so everything would end for the best 
 of all. 
 
 Thus said many to themselves that evening, while aloud 
 
 they praised the wisdom of the demos and the heliasts. 
 
 In secret, however, they cherished the hope that the rest- 
 less philosopher would leave Athens, fly from the hemlock 
 to the barbarians, and so free the Athenians of his trouble. 
 some presence and of the pangs of conscience that smote 
 them for inflicting death upon an innocent man. 
 
 Two and thirty times since that evening had the sun 
 risen from the ocean and dipped down into it again. The 
 ship had returned from Delos and lay in the harbour with 
 sadly drooping sails, as if ashamed of its native city. The 
 moon did not shine in the heavens, the sea heaved under 
 
 а heavy fog, and on the hills lights peered throvgh the 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 obscurity like the eyes of men gripped.by a sense of guilt. 
 
 The stubborn Socrates did not spare the conscience of 
 the good Athenians. 
 
 “We part! You go home and I go to death,” he said 
 to the judges after the sentence had been pronounced. “1 
 
 know not, my friends, which of us chooses the better lot!”’ 
 
 As the time had approached for the return of the ship, 
 many of the citizens had begun to feel uneasy. Must that 
 obstinate fellow really die? And they began to appeal to 
 the consciences of Aéschines, Phedo, and other pupils of Soc- 
 rates, trying to urge them on to further efforts for their 
 master. 
 
 “Will you permit your teacher to die?” they asked re- 
 proachfully in biting tones. “Or do you grudge the few 
 coins it would take to bribe the guard?” 
 
 In vain Crito besought Socrates to take to flight, and 
 complained that the public was upbraiding his disciples 
 with lack of friendship and with avarice. The self-willed 
 philosopher refused to gratify his pupils or the good people 
 of Athens. 
 
 “Let us investigate.” he said. “If it turns out that I must 
 
 q 
 
100 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 flee, I will flee; but if I must die, I will die. Let us re- 
 member what we once said—the wise man need not fear 
 death, he need fear nothing but falsehood. Is it right to 
 abide by the laws we ourselves have made so long as they 
 are agreeable to us, and refuse to obey those which are 
 disagreeable? If my memory does not deceive me, I be- 
 lieve we once spoke of these things, did we not?” 
 
 “Ves, we did,” answered his pupil. 
 
 “Ара I think all were agreed as to the answer?” 
 
 Veg 2? 
 
 “But perhaps what is true for others is not true for us?” 
 
 “No, truth is alike for all, including ourselves.” 
 
 “But perhaps when we must die and not some one else, 
 _ truth becomes untruth?” 
 
 “No, Socrates, truth remains the truth under all circum- 
 stances.” 
 
 After his pupil had thus agreed to each premise of Soc- 
 rates in turn, he smiled and Maver his conclusion. 
 
 “Tf that is so, my friend, mustn’t I die? Or has my 
 head already become 50 weak that I am no longer in a con- 
 dition to draw a logical conclusion? Then correct me, my 
 friend, and show my erring brain the right way.” 
 
 His pupil covered his face with his mantle and turned 
 aside. 
 
 “Ves,” he said, “now I see you must die.” 
 
 And on that evening, when the sea tossed hither and 
 thither and roared dully under the load of fog, and the 
 whimsical wind in mournful astonishment gently stirred the 
 sails of the ships; when the citizens meeting on the streets 
 asked one another: ‘Is he dead?” and their voices timidly 
 betrayed the hope that he was not dead; when the first 
 breath of awakened conscience touched the hearts of the 
 Athenians like the first messenger of the storm; and when, 
 it seemed, the very faces of the gods were darkened with 
 shame—on that evening at the sinking of the sun the self- 
 willed man drank the cup of death! 
 
 The wind increased in violence and shrouded the city 
 more closely in the veil of mist, angrily tugging at the sails 
 of the vessels delayed in the harbour. And the Erinyes sang 
 their gloomy songs to the hearts of the citizens and whippec 
 

 
 THE SHADES, A PHANTASY тот 
 
 up in their breasts that tempest which was later to оуег- 
 whelm the denouncers of Socrates. 
 
 But in that hour the first stirrings of regret were still un- 
 certain and confused. The citizens found more fault with 
 Socrates than ever because he had not given them the sat- 
 isfaction of fleeing to Thessaiy; they were annoyed with his 
 pupils because in the last days they had walked about in 
 sombre mourning attire, a living reproach to the Athenians; 
 they were vexed with tne judges because they had not had 
 the sense and the courage to resist the blind rage of the 
 excited people; they bore even the gods resentment. 
 
 “To you, ye gods, have we brought this sacrifice,” spoke 
 many. ‘Rejoice, ye unsatiable!” 
 
 “T know not which of us chooses the better lot!” 
 
 Those words of Socrates came back to their memory, 
 those his last words to the judges and to the people gathered 
 in the court. Now he lay in the prison quiet and motion- 
 less under his cloak, while over the city hovered mourning, 
 horror, and shame. 
 
 Again he became the tormentor of the city, he who was 
 himself no longer accessible to torment. The gadfly had 
 been killed, but it stung the people more sharply than ever 
 —sleep not, sleep not this night, О men of Athens! Sleep 
 not! You have committed an injustice, a cruel injustice, 
 which can never be erased! 
 
 II 
 
 During those sad days Xenophon, the general, a pupil of 
 Socrates, was marching with his Ten Thousand in a dis- 
 tant land, amid dangers, seeking a way of return to his be- 
 loved fatherland. 
 
 ZEschines, Crito, Critobulus, Phedo, and Apollodorus 
 were now occupied with the preparations for the modest 
 funerai. 
 
 Plato was burning his lamp and bending over a parch- 
 ment; the best disciple of the philosopher was busy in- 
 scribing the deeds, words, and teachings that marked the 
 end of the sage’s life. A thought is never lost, and the 
 
102 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 truth discovered by a great intellect illumines the way for 
 future generations like a torch in the dark. 
 
 There was one other disciple of Socrates. Not long be- 
 fore, the impetuous Ctesippus had been one of the most 
 frivolous and pleasure-seeking of the Athenian youths. He 
 had set up beauty as his sole god, and had bowed bcfore 
 Clinias as its highest exemplar. But since he had become 
 acquainted with Socrates, all desire for pleasure and all 
 light-mindedness had gone from him. He looked on indiffer- 
 ently while others took his place with Clinias. The grace 
 of thought and the harmony of spirit that he found in Soc- 
 rates seemed a hundred times more attractive than the 
 graceful form and the harmonious features of Clinias. With 
 all the intensity of his stormy temperament he .hung оп 
 the man who had disturbed the serenity of his virginal soul, 
 which for the first time opened to doubts as the bud of a 
 young oak opens to the fresh winds of spring. 
 
 Now that the master was dead, he could find peace 
 neither at his own hearth nor in the oppressive stillness 
 of the streets, nor among his friends and fellow-disciples. 
 The gods of hearth and home and the gods of the people 
 inspired him with repugnance. 
 
 “Т know not,” he said, “whether ye are the best of all 
 the gods to whom numerous generations have burned in- 
 cense and brought offerings; all I know is that for your 
 sake the blind mob extinguished the clear torch of truth, 
 and for your sake sacrificed the greatest and best of 
 mortals!” 
 
 It almost seemed to Ctesippus as though the streets 
 and market-places still echoed with the shrieking of that 
 unjust sentence. And he remembered how it was here 
 that the people clamoured for the execution of the gen- 
 erals who had led them to victory against the Argunisz, 
 and how Socrates alone had opposed the savage sentence of 
 the judges and the blind rage of the mob. But when 
 Socrates himself needed a champion, no one had been 
 found to defend him with equal strength. Ctesippus blamed 
 himself and his friends, and for that reason he wanted 
 ta avoid everybody—even himself, if possible. 
 
 That evening he_went to the sea. But his grief grew 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY _ 103 
 
 only the more violent. It seemed to him that the mourn 
 ing daughters of Nereus were tossing hither and thithei 
 on the shore bewailing the death of the best of the Athenians 
 and the folly of the frenzied city. The waves broke on 
 the rocky coast with a growl of lament. Their booming 
 sounded like a funeral dirge. 
 
 He turned away, left the shore, and went on further 
 without looking before him. Не forgot time and space 
 and his own ego, filled only with the afflicting thought of 
 Socrates. 
 
 “Vesterday he still was, yesterday his mild words still 
 could be heard. How is it possible that to-day he no longer 
 is? O night, O giant mountain shrouded in mist, O heav- 
 ing sea moved by your own life, O restless winds that carry 
 the breath of an immeasurable world on your wings, О 
 ‘starry vault flecked with flying clouds—take me to you, 
 disclose to me the mystery of this death, if it is revealed 
 to you! And if ye know not, then grant my ignorant soul 
 your own lofty indifference. Remove from me these tor- 
 turing questions. I no longer have strength to carry them 
 in my bosom without an answer, without even the hope 
 of an answer. For who shall answer them, now that the 
 lips of Socrates are sealed in eternal silence, and eternal 
 darkness is laid upon his 14$?” 
 
 Thus Ctesippus cried out to the sea and the mountains, 
 and to the dark night, which followed its invariable course, 
 ceaselessly, invisibly, over the slumbering world. Many 
 hours passed before Ctesippus glanced up and saw whither 
 his steps had unconsciously led him. А dark horror seized 
 his soul as he looked about him. 
 
 Ш 
 
 It seemed as if the unknown gods of eternal night had 
 heard his impious prayer. Ctesippus looked about, without 
 being able to recognise the place where he was. The lights 
 of the city had long been extinguished by the darkness. 
 The roaring of the sea had died away in the distance; his 
 janxious soul had even lost the recollecticn of having heard 
 
104 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 it. No single sound—no mournful cry of nocturnal bird, 
 nor whirr of wings, nor rustling of trees, nor murmur of 
 a merry stream—broke the deep silence. Only the blind 
 will-o’-the-wisps flickered here and there over rocks, and 
 sheet-lightning, unaccompanied by any sound, flared up and 
 died down against crag-peaks. This brief illumination 
 merely emphasised the darkness; and the dead light dis- 
 closed the outlines of dead deserts crossed by gorges like 
 crawling serpents, and rising into rocky heights in a wild 
 chaos. 
 
 All the joyous gods that haunt green groves, purling 
 brooks, and mountain valleys seemed to have fied forever 
 from these deserts. Pan alone, the great and mysterious 
 Pan, was hiding somewhere nearby in the chaos of nature, 
 und with mocking glance seemed to be pursuing the tiny 
 ant that a short time before had blasphemously asked to 
 know the secret of the world and of death. Dark, sense- 
 less horror overwhelmed the soul of Ctesippus. It is thus 
 that the sea in stormy floodtide overwhelms a rock on the 
 shore. 
 
 Was it a dream, was it reality, or was it the revelation 
 of the unknown divinity? Ctesippus felt that in an instant 
 he would step across the threshold of life, and that his 
 soul would melt into an ocean of unending, inconceivable 
 horror like a drop of rain in the waves of the grey sea on 
 a dark and stormy night. But at this moment he sud- 
 denly heard voices that seemed familiar to him, and in 
 the glare of the sheet-lightning his eyes recognised human} 
 figures. 
 
 
 
 IV 
 
 Or. a rocky slope sat a man in deep despair. He had 
 throw:. a cloak over his head and was bowed to the ground. | 
 Another figure approached him softly, cautiously climbing 
 upward and carefully feeling every step. The first man} 
 uncovered his face and exclaimed: 
 
 “Ts that vor I just now saw, my good Socrates? 13| 
 that you passing by me in this cheerless place? I have 
 already spent many hours here without knowing when day} 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 105 
 
 will relieve the night. I have been waiting in vain for the 
 dawn.” 
 
 “Yes, I am Socrates, my friend, and you, are you not 
 Elpidias who died three days before me?” 
 
 “Yes, I am Elpidias, formeriy the richest tanner in 
 Athens, now the most miserable of slaves. For the first 
 time I understand the words of the poet: ‘Better to be a 
 slave in this world than a ruler in gloomy Hades.’ ” 
 
 “My friend, if it is disagreeable for you where you are, 
 why don’t you move to another spot?” 
 
 “О Socrates, I marvel at you—-how dare you wander 
 about in this cheerless gloom? I—I sit here overcome with 
 grief and bemoan the joys of a fleeting life.” 
 
 “Friend Elpidias, like you, I, too, was plunged in this 
 gloom when the light of earthly life was removed from 
 my eyes. But an inner voice told me: ‘Tread this new 
 path without hesitation,’ and I went.” 
 
 “But whither do you go, O son of Sophroniscus? Here 
 there is no way, no path, not even a ray of light; nothing 
 but a chaos of rocks, mist, and gloom.” 
 
 “True. But, my Elpidias, since you are aware of this 
 sad truth, have you not asked yourself what is the most 
 distressing thing in your present situation?” 
 
 “Undoubtedly the dismal darkness.”’ 
 
 “Then one should seek for light. Perchance you will 
 find here the great law—that mortals must in darkness seek 
 the source of life. Do you not think it is better so to 
 seek than to remain sitting in one spot? J think it is, 
 therefore I keep walking. Farewell!” 
 
 “Oh, good Socrates, abandon me not! You go with sure 
 steps through the pathless chaos in Hades. Hold out to 
 me but a fold of your mantle у 
 
 “Tf you think it is better for you, too, then follow me, 
 friend Elpidias.”’ 
 
 _ And the two shades walked on, while the soul of Ctesip- 
 pus, released by sleep from its mortal envelop, flew after 
 them, greedily absorbing the tones of the clear Socratic 
 speech. 
 
 _ “Are you here, good Socrates?” the voice of the Athenian 
 again was heard. ‘Why are you silent? Converse shortens 
 
 | 
 
 
 
106 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 the way, and I swear, by Hercules, never did I have to 
 traverse such a horrid way.” 
 
 “Put questions, friend Elpidias! The question of one 
 who seeks knowledge brings forth answers and produces 
 conversation.” 
 
 Elpidias maintained silence for a moment, and then, after 
 he had collected his thoughts, asked: 
 
 “Yes, this is what I wanted to say—tell me, my poor 
 Socrates, did they at least give you a good burial?” 
 
 “Т must confess, friend Elpidias, Г cannot satisfy your 
 ‚ curiosity.” 
 
 “T understand, my poor Socrates, it doesn’t help you cut 
 a figure. Now with me it was so different! Oh, how they 
 buried me, how magnificently they buried me, my poor 
 fellow-wanderer! Т still think with great pleasure of those 
 lovely moments after my death. First they washed me 
 and sprinkled me with well-smelling balsam. Then my 
 faithful Larissa dressed me in garments of the finest weave. 
 The best mourning-women of the city tore their hair from 
 their heads because they had been promised good pay, and 
 in the family vault they placed an amphora—a crater with 
 beautiful, decorated handles of bronze, and, besides, a 
 vial——” 
 
 “Stay, friend Elpidias. I am convinced that the faith- 
 fu] Larissa converted her love into several minas. Yet Г 
 
 “Exactly ten minas and four drachmas, not counting the 
 drinks for the guests. I hardly think that the richest tanner 
 can come before the souls of his ancestors and boast of 
 such respect on the part of the living.” 
 
 “Friend Elpidias, don’t you think that money would 
 have been of more use to the poor people who are still 
 alive in Athens than to you at this moment?” 
 
 “Admit, Socrates, you are speaking in envy,” responded 
 Elpidias, pained. “I am sorry for you, unfortunate Soc- 
 rates, although, between ourselves, you really deserved 
 your fate. I myself in the family circle said more than 
 once that an end ought to be put to your impious doings, 
 because a 
 
 “Stay, friend, I thought you wanted to draw a con- 
 elusion, and I fear you gyre straying from the straight 
 
 
 
 7; 
 
 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 107 
 
 path. Tell me, my good friend, whither does your waver- 
 ing thought tend?” 
 
 “T wanted to say that in my goodness I am sorry for 
 you. A month ago I myself spoke against you in the 
 assembly, but truly none of us who shouted so loud wanted 
 such a great ill to befall you. Believe me, now I am all 
 the sorrier for you, unhappy philosopher!” 
 
 “Т thank you. But tell me, my friend, de you perceive 
 a brightness before your eyes?” 
 
 “М о, on the contrary such darkness lies before me that 
 I must ask myself whether this is not the misty region 
 of Orcus.” 
 
 “This way, therefore, is just as dark for you as for 
 me?” 
 
 “Quite right.” 
 
 “Tf I am not mistaken, you are even holding on to the 
 folds of my cloak?” 
 
 “Also true.” 
 
 “Then we are in the same position? You see your 
 ancestors are not hastening to rejoice in the tale of your 
 pompous burial. Where is the difference between us, my 
 good friend?” 
 
 “But, Socrates, have the-gods enveloped your reason in 
 such obscurity that the difference is not clear to you?” 
 
 “Friend, if your situation is clearer to you, then give me 
 your hand and lead me, for I swear, by the dog, you let 
 me go ahead in this darkness.” 
 
 “Cease your scoffing, Socrates! Do not make sport, 
 and do not compare yourself, your godless self, with a man 
 who died in his own bed——”’ 
 
 “Ah, I believe I am beginning to understand you. But 
 tell me, Elpidias, do you hope ever again to rejoice in 
 your bed?” 
 
 “Oh, I think not.” 
 
 “And was there ever a time when you did not sleep 
 in it?” 
 
 “Yes. That was before I bought goods from Agesilaus 
 at half their value. You see, that Agesilaus is really a 
 deep-dyed rogue 3 
 
 “Ah, never mind about Agesilaus! Perhaps he is gettin, 
 
 
 
108 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 them back from your widow at a quarter their value. Then 
 wasn’t I right when I said that you were in possession of 
 your bed only part of the time?” 
 
 “Ves, you were right.” 
 
 “Well, and I, too, was in possession of the bed in which 
 I died part of the time. Proteus, the good guard of the 
 prison, lent it to me for a period.” 
 
 “Oh, if I had known what you were aiming at with your 
 talk, I wouldn’t have answered your wily questions. By 
 Hercules, such profanation is unheard of—he compares him- 
 self with me! Why, I could put an end to you with two 
 words, if it came to it——”’ 
 
 “Say them, Elpidias, without fear. Words can scarcely 
 be more destructive to me than the hemlock.” 
 
 “Well, then, that is just what I wanted to say. You 
 unfortunate man, you dicd by the sentence of the court 
 and had to drink hemlock!” 
 
 “But I have known that since the day of my death, even 
 long before. And you, unfortunate Elpidias, tell me what 
 caused your death?” 
 
 “Oh, with me it was different, entirely different! You 
 see I got the dropsy in my abdomen. An expensive physi- 
 cian from Corinth was called who promised to cure me for 
 two minas, and he was given half that amount in advance. 
 I am afraid that Larissa in her lack of experience in such 
 things gave him the other half, too 2 
 
 “Then the physician did not keep his promise?”’ 
 
 erhatsat.”’ 
 
 “Апа you died from dropsy?” 
 
 “АБ, Socrates, believe me, three times it wanted to van- 
 quish me, and finally it quenched the flame of my life!” 
 
 “Then tell me—did death by dropsy give you great 
 pleasure?” | 
 
 “Oh, wicked Socrates, don’t make sport of me. I told 
 you it wanted to vanquish me three times. I bellowed 
 like a steer under the knife of the slaughterer, and begged 
 the Parc to cut the thread of my life as quickly as роз- 
 sible.” 
 
 “That doesn’t surprise me. But from what do you con- 
 clude that the dropsy was pleasanter to you than the hem- 
 
 
 
t 
 
 THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 10g 
 
 lock to me? ‘The hemlock made an end of me in a mo- 
 “ment.” 
 
 “Т see, I fell into your snare again, you crafty sinner! 
 i won’t enrage the gods still more by speaking with you, 
 you destroyer of sacred customs.” 
 
 Both were silent, and quiet reigned. But in a short 
 while Elpidias was again the first to begin a conversation. 
 
 “Why are you silent, good Socrates?” 
 
 “My friend; didn’t you yourself ask for silence?” 
 
 “Т am not proud, and I can treat men who are worse 
 than I am considerately. Don’t let us quarrel.” 
 
 “Т did not quarrel with you, friend Elpidias, and did 
 not wish to say anything to insult you. I am merely ac- 
 customed to get at the truth of things by comparisons. 
 My situation is not clear to me. You consider your situa- 
 tion better, and I should be glad to learn why. On the 
 other hand, it would not hurt you to learn the truth, what- 
 ever shape it may take.” 
 
 “Well, no more of this.” 
 
 “Tell me, are you afraid? I don’t think that the feel- 
 ing I now have can be called fear.” 
 
 “T am afraid, although I have less cause than you to be 
 at odds with the gods. But don’t you think that the gods, 
 in abandoning us to ourselves here in this chaos, have 
 cheated us of our hopes?” 
 
 “That depends upon what sort of hopes they were. 
 What did you expect from the gods, Elpidias?” 
 
 “Well, well, what did I expect from the gods! What 
 curious questions you ask, Socrates! If a man throughout 
 life brings offerings, and at his death passes away with a 
 pious heart and with all that custom demands, the gods 
 might at least send some one to meet him, at least one 
 of the inferior gods, to show a man the way. . . . But 
 that reminds me. Many a time when I begged for good 
 ск in traffic in hides, I promised Hermes calves 
 
 “Ап4 you didn’t have luck?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, I had luck, good Socrates, but г" 
 
 “T understand, you had по calf.” 
 
 “Bah! Socrates, a rich tanner and not have calves?” 
 
 “Now I understand. You had luck, had calves, but 
 
 
 
 
 
10°’ + BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 you kept them for yourself, and FLEE Mes received noth- 
 ing.” 
 
 “Vou’re a clever man. I’ve often said so. I kept only 
 three of my ten oaths, and I didn’t deal differently with 
 the other gods. If the same is the case with you, isn’t that 
 the reason, possibly, why we are now abandoned by the 
 gods? To be sure, I ordered Larissa to sacrifice a whole 
 hecatomb after my death.” 
 
 “But that is Larissa’s affair, whereas it was you, friend 
 Elpidias, who made the promises.” 
 
 “That’s true, that’s true. But you, good Socrates, could 
 you, godless as you are, deal better with the gods than 
 I who was a god-fearing tanner?” 
 
 “My friend, I know not whether I dealt better or worse. 
 At first I brought offerings without having made vows. 
 Later I offered neither calves nor vows.’ 
 
 “What, not a single calf, you unfortunate man?” 
 
 roves, friend, if Hermes had had to live by my gifts, 
 iam afraid he ‘would have grown very thin.” 
 
 “T understand. You did not traffic in cattle, so you 
 offered articles of some other trade—probably a mina or 
 so of what the pupils paid you.” 
 
 “You know, my friend, I didn’t ask pay of my pupils, 
 and my trade scarcely sufficed to support me. If the gods 
 reckoned on the sorry remnants of my meals they mis- 
 calculated.” 
 
 “Oh, blasphemer, in comparison with you I can be ronal 
 of my piety. Ye gods, look upon this man! I did deceive 
 you at times, but now and then I shared with you the sur- 
 plus of some fortunate deal. He who gives at all gives 
 much in comparison with a blasphemer who gives nothing. 
 Socrates, I think you had better go on alone! I fear that 
 your company, godless one, damages me in the eyes of the 
 gods.” 
 
 “As you will, good Elpidias. I swear by the dog no one 
 shall force his company on another. Unhand the fold of my 
 mantle, and farewell. I will go on alone.” 
 
 And Socrates walked forward with a sure tread, feeling 
 the ground, however, at every step. 
 
 But Elpidias behind him instantly cried out: 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 11] 
 
 “Wait, wait, my good fellow-citizen, do not leave an 
 Athenian alone in this horrible place! I was only making 
 fun. Take what I said as a joke, and don’t go so quickly. 
 
 I marvel how you can see a thing in this hellish darkness.” 
 
 | “Friend, I have accustomed my eyes to it.” 
 
 | “That’s good. Still I can’t approve of your not having 
 
 : brought sacrifices to the gods. No, I can’t, poor Socrates, 
 'Т сап”. The honourable Sophroniscus certainly taught you 
 
 better in your youth, and you yourself used to take part 
 
 | 1 the prayers. I saw you.” 
 
 _ “Yes. But I am accustomed to examine all our mo- 
 
 _tives and to accept only those that after investigation prove’ 
 
 to be reasonable. And so a day came on which I said to 
 
 myself: ‘Socrates, here you are praying to the Olympians. 
 
 | Why are you praying to them?’ ” 
 
 | Elpidias laughed. 
 
 _ “Really you philosophers sometimes don’t know how to 
 
 -answer the simplest questions. I’m a plain tanner who 
 
 never in my life studied sophistry, yet I know why I must 
 
 honour the Olympians.” 
 
 _ “Tell me quickly, so that I, too, may know why.” 
 
 | “Whye Ha! Ha! It’s too simple, you wise Socrates.” 
 
 “Бо much the better if it’s simple. But don’t keep your 
 wisdom from me. ‘Tell me—why must one honour the 
 gods?” 
 
 “Why. Because everybody does it.” 
 
 “Friend, you know very well that not every one honours 
 the gods. Wouldn’t it be more correct to say ‘many’?”’ 
 
 “Very well, many.” 
 
 “But tell me, don’t more men deal wickedly than right- 
 eously?”’ 
 
 “T think so. You find more wicked people than good 
 people.” 
 
 “Therefore, if you follow the majority, you ought to deal 
 wickediy and not righteously?” 
 
 “What are you saying?” 
 
 “Рт not saying it, you are. But I think the reason that 
 men reverence the Olympians is not because the majority 
 worship them. We must find another, more rational ground. 
 Perhaps you mean they deserve reverence?”’ 
 
 
 
 
 
{12 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Yes, very right.” 
 
 “Good. But then arises a new question: Why do they 
 deserve reverence?”’ 
 
 “Because of their greatness.” 
 
 “АБ, that’s more like it. Perhaps I will soon be agree- 
 ing with you. It only remains for you to tell me wherein 
 their greatness consists. That’s a difficult question, isn’t it? 
 Let us seek the answer together. Homer says that the 
 impetuous Ares, when stretched flat on the ground by a 
 stone thrown by Pailas Athene, covered with his body the 
 space that can be travelled in seven mornings. You see 
 what an enormous space.” 
 
 “Ts that wherein greatness consists?” 
 
 “There you have me, my friend. That raises another 
 question. Do you remember the athlete Theophantes? He 
 towered over the people a whole head’s length, whereas 
 Pericles was no larger than you. But whom do we call 
 ‘great, Pericles or Theophantes?”’ 
 
 “T see that greatness does not consist in size of body. In 
 that you’re right. I am glad we agree. Perhaps greatness 
 consists in virtue?” 
 
 “Certainly.” 
 
 “T think so, too.” 
 
 “Well, then, who must bow to whom? The small before 
 the large, or those who are great in virtues before the 
 wicked?” 
 
 “The answer is clear.” 
 
 “T think so, too. Now we will look further into this 
 matter. Tell me truly, did you ever kill other people’s 
 children with arrows?” 
 
 “ТЕ goes without saying, never! Do you think so ill of 
 ше?” 
 
 “Мог have you, I trust, ever seduced the wives of other 
 men?” | 
 
 “Т was an upright tanner and a good husband. Don’t 
 forget that, Socrates, I beg of you!” 
 
 “You never became a brute, nor by your lustfulness gave 
 your faithful Larissa occasion to revenge herself on women 
 whom you had ruined and on their innocent children?” 
 
 “You anger me, really, Socrates.” 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 115 
 
 “But perhaps you snatched your inheritance from your 
 father and threw him into prison?” 
 
 “Never! Why these insulting questions?”’ 
 | “Wait, my friend. Perhaps we will both reach a 
 conclusion. ‘Tell me, would you have considered a man 
 great who had done all these things of which I have 
 spoken?” 
 
 “No, по, no! I should have called such a man а 
 scoundrel, and lodged public complaint against him with 
 the judges in the market-place.” 
 
 “Well, Elpidias, why did you not complain 1 in the market- 
 place against Zeus and the Olympians? The son of Cronos 
 carried on war with his own father, and was seized with 
 brutal lust for the daughters of men, while Hera took venge- 
 ance upon innocent virgins. Did not both of them convert 
 the unhappy daughter of Inachos into a common cow? Did 
 not Apollo kill all the children of Niobe with his arrows? 
 Did not Callenius steal bulls? Well, then, Elpidias, if it is 
 true that he who has less virtue must do honour to him who 
 has more, then you should not build altars to the Olympians, 
 but they to you.” 
 
 “Blaspheme not, impious Socrates! Keep quiet! How 
 dare you judge the acts of the gods?” 
 
 “Friend, a higher power has judged them. Let us in- 
 vestigate the question. What is the mark of divinity? I 
 think you said, Greatness, which consists in virtue. Now 
 is not this greatness the one divine spark in man? But if 
 we test the greatness of the gods by our small human 
 virtues, and it turns out that that which measures is 
 greater than that which is measured, then it follows that 
 the divine principle itself condemns the Olympians. But, 
 then 
 
 “What, then?” 
 
 “Then, friend Elpidias, they are no gods, but deceptive 
 phantoms, creations of a dream. Is it not so?” 
 
 “АВ, that’s whither your talk leads, you bare-footed phi- 
 losopher! Now I see what they said of you is trne. You 
 are like that fish that takes men captive with its Jook. So 
 you took me captive in order to confound my believing: 
 soul and awaken doubt in it. It was already beginning to 
 
 
 
114 BEST. RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 waver in its reverence for Zeus. Speak alone. I won’t ап- 
 swer any more.” 
 
 “Be not wrathful, Elpidias! I don’t wish to inflict any 
 evil upon you. But if you are tired of following my argu- 
 ments to their logical conclusions, permit me to relate td 
 you an allegory of a Milesian youth. Allegories rest the 
 mind, and the relaxation is not unprofitable.” 
 
 “Speak, if your story is not too long and its purpose 
 is good.” 
 
 “Its purpose is truth, friend Elpidias, and I will be brief. 
 Once, you know, in ancient times, Miletus was exposed to 
 the attacks of the barbarians. Among the youth who were 
 seized was a son of the wisest and best of all the citizens 
 in the land. His precious child was overtaken by a severe 
 illness and became unconscious. He was abandoned and 
 allowed to lie like worthless booty. In the dead of night 
 he came to his senses. High above him glimmered the 
 stars. Round about stretched the desert; and in the dis- 
 tance he heard the howl of beasts of prey. He was alone. 
 
 “He was entirely alone, and, besides that, the gods had 
 taken from him the recollection of his former life. In vain 
 he racked his brain—it was as dark and empty as the in- 
 hospitable desert in which he found himself. But some- 
 where, far away, behind the misty and obscure figures con- 
 jured up by his reason, loomed the thought of his lost 
 home, and a vague realisation of the figure of the best 
 of all men; and in his heart resounded the word ‘father.’ 
 Doesn’t it seem to you that the fate of this youth resembles 
 the fate of all humanity?” 
 
 ““How $0?” 
 
 “Do we not all awake to life on earth with a hazy recol- 
 lection of another home? And does not the figure of the 
 great unkrown hover before our souls?” 
 
 “Continue, Socrates, Г am listening.” 
 
 “The youth revived, arose, and walked cautiously, seek- 
 ing tc avoid all dangers. When after long wanderings his 
 strength was nearly gone, he discerned a fire in the misty 
 distance which illumined the darkness and banished the 
 cold. A faint hope crept into his weary soul, and the recol- 
 lections #f o's father’s house again awoke within him. The 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 115 
 
 youth walked toward the light, and cried: ‘It is you, my 
 father, it is you!’ ” 
 
 “And was it his father’s house?” 
 
 “No, it was merely a night lodging of wild nomads. So 
 for many years he led the miserable life of a captive slave, 
 and only in his dreams saw the distant home and rested on 
 his father’s bosom. Sometimes with weak hand he endeav- 
 oured to lure from dead clay or wood or stone the face and 
 form that ever hovered before him. There even came mo- 
 ments when he grew weary and embraced his own handi- 
 work and prayed to it and wet it with his tears. But the 
 stone remained cold stone. And as he waxed in years the 
 youth destroyed his creations, which already seemed to him 
 a vile defamation of his ever-present dreams. At last fate 
 brought him to a good barbarian, who asked him for the 
 cause of his constant mourning. When the youth confided 
 to him the hopes and longings of his soul, the barbarian, 
 a wise man, said: 
 
 ““The world would be better did such a man and such 
 a country exist as that of which you speak. But by what 
 mark would you recognise your father?’ 
 
 “Та my country,’ answered the youth, ‘they reverenced 
 wisdom and. virtue and looked up to my father as to the 
 master.’ 
 
 “Well and good,’ answered the barbarian. ‘I must as- 
 sume that a kernel of your father’s teaching resides in you. 
 Therefore take up the wanderer’s staff, and proceed on your 
 way. Seek perfect wisdom and truth, and when you have 
 found them, cast aside your staff—there will be your home 
 and your father.’ 
 
 “And the youth went on his way at break of day 
 
 “Did he find the one whom he sought?” 
 
 “Fe is still seeking. Many countries, cities and men has 
 Бе seen. Не has come to know all the ways by land; he 
 has traversed the stormy seas; he has searched the courses 
 of the stars in heaven by which a pilgrim can direct his 
 course in the limitless deserts. And each time that on 
 his wearisome way an inviting fire lighted up the darkness 
 before hr eyes ais heart beat faster and hope crept into 
 bis зош. “lhat is my father’s hospitable house,’ he thought. 
 
 72 
 
 
 
 
 
116 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “And when a hospitable host would greet the tired trav- 
 eller and offer him the peace and blessing of his hearth, the 
 youth would fall at his feet and say with emotion: ‘I thank 
 you, my father! Do you not recognise your son?’ 
 
 “And many were prepared to take him as their son, for 
 at that time children were frequently kidnapped. But after 
 the first glow of enthusiasm, the youth would detect traces 
 of imperfection, sometimes even of wickedness. ‘Then he 
 would begin to investigate and to test his host with ques- 
 tions concerning justice and injustice. And soon he would 
 be driven forth again upon the cold wearisome way. More 
 than once he said to himself: ‘I will remain at this last 
 hearth, I will preserve my last belief. It shall be the home 
 of my father.’ ” 
 
 “По you know, Socrates, perhaps that would have been 
 the most sensible thing to do.” 
 
 “So he thought sometimes. But the habit of investi- 
 gating, the confused dream of a father, gave him no peace. 
 Again and again he shook the dust from his feet; again 
 and again he grasped his staff. Not a few stormy nights 
 found him shelterless. Doesn’t it seem to you that the 
 fate of this youth resembles the fate of mankind?” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “Does not the race of man make trial of its childish 
 belief and doubt it while seeking the unknown? JDoesn’t 
 it fashion the form of its father in wood, stone, custom, 
 and tradition? And then man finds the form imperfect, 
 destroys it, and again goes on his wanderings in the desert 
 of doubt. Always for the purpose of seeking something 
 better is 
 
 “Oh, you cunning sage, now I understand the purpose 
 of your allegory! And I will tell you to your face that if 
 only a ray of light were to penetrate this gloom, I would 
 not put the Lord on trial with unnecessary questions у 
 
 “Friend, the light is already shining,” answered Socrates, 
 
 
 
 
 
 У 
 
 It seemed as if the words of the philosopher had taker 
 effect. High up in the distance a beam of light penetratec 
 
 бы 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 117 
 
 a vapoury envelop and disappeared in the mountains. It was 
 followed by a second and а third. ‘There beyond the 
 darkness luminous genii seemed to be hovering, and a great 
 ‘mystery seemed about to be revealed, as if the breath of life 
 
 were blowing, as if some great ceremony were in process. 
 
 But it was still very remote. The shades descended thicker 
 
 and thicker; foggy clouds rolled into masses, separated, and 
 chased one another endlessly, ceaselessly. 
 
 A blue light from a distant peak fell upon a deep ravine; 
 the clouds rose and covered the heavens to the zenith. 
 
 The rays disappeared and withdrew to a greater and 
 greater distance, as if fleeing from this vale of shades and 
 horrors. Socrates stood and looked after them sadly. Elpi- 
 dias peered up at the peak full of dread. 
 
 “Look, Socrates! What do you see there on the moun- 
 tain?” 
 
 “Friend,” answered the philosopher, “Jet us investigate 
 our situation. Since we are in motion,’ we must arrive 
 somewhere, and since earthly existence must have a limit, 
 I believe that this limit is to be found at the parting of 
 two beginnings. In the struggle of light with darkness we 
 attain the crown of our endeavours. Since the ability to 
 think has not been taken from us, I believe that it is the 
 will of the divine being who called our power of thinking 
 into existence that we should investigate the goal of our 
 endeavours ourselves. Therefore, Elpidias, let us in dig- 
 nified manner go to meet the dawn that lies beyond those 
 clouds.” 
 
 “Oh, my friend! If that is the dawn, I would rather 
 the long cheerless night had endured forever, for it was 
 quiet and peaceful. Don’t you think our time passed tol- 
 erably well in instructive converse? And now my soul 
 trembles before the tempest drawing nigh. Say what you 
 will, but there before us are no ordinary shades of the 
 dead night.” 
 
 Zeus hurled a bolt into the bottomless gulf. 
 
 Ctesippus looked up to the peak, and his soul was frozen 
 with horror. Huge sombre figures of the Olympian gods 
 crowded on the mountain in a circle. А last ray shot 
 through the region of clouds and mists, and died away 
 
 
 
118 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 like a faint memory. A storm was approaching now, and 
 the powers of night were once more in the asce «iant. Dark 
 figures covered the heavens. In the centre Г tesippus could 
 discern the all-powerful son of Cronos surrounded by a 
 halo. The sombre figures of the older gods encircled him 
 in wrathful excitement. Like flocks of birds winging their 
 way in the twilight, like eddies of dust driven by a hurri- 
 cane, like autumn leaves lashed by Boreas, numerous minor 
 gods hovered in long clouds and occupied the spaces. 
 
 When the clouds gradually lifted from the peak and sent 
 down dismal horror to embrace the earth, Ctesippus fell 
 upon his knees. Later, he admitted that in this dreadful 
 moment he forgot all his master’s deductions and соп- 
 clusions. His courage failed him, and terror took роззез- 
 sion of his soul. 
 
 He merely listened. 
 
 Two voices resounded there where before had been 
 silence, the one the mighty and threatening voice of the 
 Godhead, the other the weak voice of a mortal which the 
 wind carried from the mountain slope to the spot where 
 Ctesippus had left Socrates. 
 
 “Are you,” thus spake the voice from the clouds, “аге 
 you the blasphemous Socrates who strives with the gods of 
 heaven and earth? Once there were none so joyous, so im- 
 mortal, as we. Now, for long we have passed our days in 
 darkness because of the unbelief and doubt that have come 
 upon earth. Never has the mist closed in on us so heavily 
 as since the time your voice resounded in Athens, the city 
 we once so deariy loved. Why did you not follow the com- 
 mands of your father, Sophroniscus? ‘The good man per- 
 mitted himself a few little sins, especially in his youth, 
 yet by way of recompense, we frequently enjoyed the smell 
 of his offerings ‘i 
 
 “Stay, son of Cronos, and solve my doubts! Do I under- 
 stand that you prefer cowardly hypocrisy to searchings for 
 the truth?” 
 
 At this question the crags trembled with the shock of a 
 thundering peal. The first breath of the tempest scattered 
 in the distant gorges. But the mountains still trembled, for 
 he who was enthroned upon them still trembled. And in 
 
 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 119 
 
 the anxious quiet of the night only distant sighs could Бе 
 heard. | 
 
 In the very bowels of the earth the chained Titans seemed 
 to be groaning under the blow of the son of Cronos. 
 
 “Where are you now, you impious questioner?” suddenly 
 came the mocking voice of the Olympian. 
 
 “T am here, son of Cronos, on the same spot. Nothing 
 but your answer can move me from it. I am waiting.” 
 
 Thunder bellowed in the clouds like a wild animal amazed 
 at the daring of a Lybian tamer’s fearless approach. At the 
 end of a few moments the voice again rolled over the 
 spaces: 
 
 “Son of Sophroniscus! Is it not enough that you bred зв 
 much scepticism on earth that the clouds of your doubt 
 reached even to Olympus? Indeed, many a time when you 
 were carrying on your discourse in the market-places or in 
 the academies or on the promenades, it seemed to me as if 
 you had already destroyed all the altars on earth, and the 
 dust were rising from them up to us here on the mouncain. 
 Even that is not enough! Here before my very face you 
 will not recognise the power of the immortals——~” 
 
 “Zeus, thou art wrathful. Tell me, who gave me the 
 ‘Demon’ which spoke to my soul throughout my life and 
 
 forced me to seek the truth without resting?” 
 _ Mysterious silence reigned in the clouds. 
 
 “Was it not you? You are silent? Then 1 will invest:- 
 gate the matter. Either this divine beginning emanates 
 from you or from some one else. If from you, I bring it to 
 -you as an offering. I offer you the ripe fruit of my life, 
 the flame of the spark of your own kindling! See, son of 
 Cronos, I preserved my gift; in my deepest heart grew the 
 seed that you sowed. It is the very fire of my soul. It 
 burned in those crises when with my own hand I tore the 
 thread of life. Why will you not accept it? Would you 
 have me regard you as a poor master whose age prevents 
 him from seeing that his own pupil obediently follows out 
 his commands? Who are you that would command me to 
 stifle the flame that has illuminated my whole life, ever 
 since it was penetrated by the first ray of sacred thought? 
 The sun says not to the stars: ‘Be extinguished that I may 
 
 
 
120 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 rise.’ The sun rises and the weak glimmer of the stars is 
 quenched by its far, far stronger light. The day says not 
 to the torch: ‘Be extinguished; you interfere with me.’ 
 The day breaks, and the torch smokes, but no longer shines. 
 The divinity that I am questing is not you who are afraid 
 of doubt. That divinity is like the day, like the sun, and 
 shines without extinguishing other lights. The god I seek 
 is the god who would say to me: ‘Wanderer, give me your 
 torch, you no longer need it, for I am the source of all 
 light. Searcher fer truth, set upon my altar the-little gift 
 of your doubt, because in me is its solution.’ If you are 
 that god, harken to my questions. No one kills his own 
 child, and my doubts are a branch of the eternal spirit 
 whose name is truth.” | 
 
 Round about, the fires of heaven tore the dark clouds, 
 and out of the howling storm again resounded the powerful 
 voice: 
 
 “Whither did your doubts tend, you arrogant sage, who 
 renounce humility, the most beautiful adornment of earthly 
 virtues? You abandoned the friendly shelter of credulous 
 simplicity to wander in the desert of doubt. You have seen 
 this dead space from which the living gods have departed. 
 Will you traverse it, you insignificant worm, who crawl 
 in the dust of your pitiful profanation of the gods? Will 
 you vivify the world? Will you conceive the unknown 
 divinity to whom you do not dare to pray? You miserable 
 digger of dung, soiled by the smut of ruined altars, are 
 you perchance the architect who shall build the new temple? 
 Upon what do you base your hopes, you who disavow the 
 old gods and have no new gods to take their place? The 
 eternal night of doubts unsolved, the dead desert, deprived 
 of the living spirit—txis is your world, you pitiful worm, 
 who gnawed at the living belief which was a refuge for 
 simple hearts, who converted the world into a dead chaos. 
 Now, thea, where are you, you insignificant, blasphemous 
 sage?” 
 
 Nothing was heard but the mighty storm roaring through 
 the spaces. Then the thunder died away, the wind folded 
 its pinions, and torrents of rain streamed through the dark- 
 ness, like incessant floods of tears which threatened to 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY Тат 
 
 devour the earth and drown it in a deluge of unquenchable 
 rief. 
 
 | It seemed to Ctesippus that the master was overcome, 
 -and that the fearless, restless, questioning voice had been 
 silenced forever. But a few moments later it issued again 
 from the same spot. 
 
 i “Your words, son of Cronos, hit the mark better than 
 your thunderbolts. The thoughts you have cast into my 
 terrified soul have haunted me often, and it has sometimes 
 seemed as if my heart would break under the burden of 
 their unendurable anguish. Yes, I abandoned the friendly 
 shelter of credulous simplicity. Yes, I have seen the spaces 
 trom which the living gods have departed enveloped in 
 the night of eternal doubt. But I walked without fear, fo) 
 ‘my ‘Demon’ lighted the way, the divine beginning of all 
 life. Let us investigate the question. Are not offerings 
 ‘of incense burnt on your altars in the name of Him who 
 gives life? You are stealing what belongs to another! Not 
 you, but that other, is served by credulous simplicity. Yes, 
 you are right, I am no architect. Т am not the builder of 
 a new temple. Not to me was it given to raise from the 
 earth to the heavens the glorious structure of the coming 
 faith. I am one who digs dung, soiled by the smut of 
 destruction. But my conscience tells me, son of Cronos, 
 that the work of one who digs dung is also necessary for 
 the future temple. When the time comes for the proud 
 and stately edifice to stand on the purified place, and for 
 the living divinity of the new belief to erect his throne 
 upon it, I, the modest digger of dung, will go to him and 
 say: ‘Here am I who restlessly crawled in the dust of 
 disavowal. When surrounded by fog and soot, I had no 
 time to raise my eyes from the ground; my head had only 
 a vague conception of the future building. Will you reject 
 me, you just one, Just, and True, and Great?” 
 
 Silence and astonishment reigned in the spaces. Then 
 Socrates raised his voice, and continued: 
 
 “The sunbeam falls upon the filthy puddle, and light 
 vapour, leaving heavy mud behind, rises to the sun, melts, 
 and dissolves in the ether. With your sunbeam you touched 
 my dust-laden soul and it aspired to you, Unknown One, 
 
122 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 whose name is mystery! I sought for you, because you are 
 Truth; I strove to attain to you, because you are Justice; 
 I loved you, because you are Love; I died for you, because 
 you are the Source of Life. Will you reject me, O 
 Unknown? Му torturing doubts, my passionate search for 
 truth, my difficult life, my voluntary death—accept them as 
 a bloodless offering, as a prayer, as a sigh! Absorb them 
 as the immeasurable ether absorbs the evaporating mists! 
 Take them, you whose name I do not know, let not the 
 ghosts of the night I have traversed bar the way to you, to 
 eternal light! Give way, you shades who dim the light 
 of the dawn! I tell you, gods of my people, you are un- 
 just, and where there is no justice there can be no truth, 
 but only phantoms, creations of a dream. To this con- 
 clusion have I come, I, Socrates, who sought to fathom all 
 things. Rise, dead mists, I go my way to Him whom I 
 have sought all my life long!” 
 
 The thunder burst again—a short, abrupt peal, as if the 
 egis had fallen from the weakened hand of the thunderer. 
 Storm-voices trembled from the mountains, sounding dully 
 in the gorges, and died away in the clefts. In their place 
 resounded other, marvellous tones. 
 
 When Ctesippus looked up in astonishment, a spectacle 
 presented itself such as no mortal eyes had ever seen. 
 
 The night vanished. The clouds lifted, and godly figures 
 floated in the azure like golden ornaments on the hem of 
 a festive robe. Heroic forms glimmered over the remote 
 crags and ravines, and Elpidias, whose little figure was seen 
 standing at the edge of a cleft in the rocks, stretched his 
 hands toward them, as if beseeching the vanishing gods for 
 a solution of his fate. 
 
 A mountain-peak now stood out clearly above the 
 mysterious mist, gleaming like a torch over dark blue val- 
 leys. The son of Cronos, the thunderer, was no longer 
 enthroned upon it, and the other Olympians too were gone. 
 
 Socrates stood alone in the light of the sun under the 
 high heavens. 
 
 Ctesippus was distinctly conscious of the pulse-beat of a 
 mysterious life quivering throughout nature, stirring even 
 the tiniest blade of grass. 
 
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 123 
 
 A breath seemed to be stirring the balmy air, a voice 
 to be sounding in wonaerful harmony, an invisible tread to 
 be heard—the tread of the radiant Dawn! 
 And on the illumined peak a man still stood, stretching 
 out his arms in mute ecstasy, moved by a mighty impulse. 
 
 A moment, and all disappeared, and the light of ап 
 ordinary day shone upon the awakened sou! of Ctesippus. 
 It was iike dismal twilight after the revelation of nature 
 that had blown upon him the breath oi an unknown life, 
 
 In deep silence the pupils of the philosopher listened to 
 the marvellous recital of Ctesippus. Plato broke the silence. 
 
 “Let us investigate the dream and its significance,” he 
 said. 
 
 “Let us investigate it,” responded the others. 
 
THE SIGNAL 
 
 By Узеуотор М. GARSHIN. 
 
 EMYON 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, be- 
 cause 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 de 
 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 stayec 
 
 124, 
 
THE SIGNAL тих 
 
 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 
 locked at the station-master and the station-master looked 
 at Semyon, and they recognised each other. He had been 
 an officer in Semyon’s regiment. 
 
 “Уоц are Ivanov?” he said. 
 
 “Yes, your Excellency.” 
 
 “How do you come to be here?” 
 
 Semyon told him all. 
 
 “Where are you off to?” 
 
 “T cannot tell you, sir.” 
 
 “Tdiot! What do you mean by ‘cannot tell you?’ ” 
 
 “T 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: “Зее 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 
 а free pass for her. ‘There is a position as track-walker 
 open. I will speak to the Chief on your behalf.” 
 
 “T shall be very grateful to you, your Excellency,” replied 
 Semyon. 
 
 He stayed at the station, helped in the kitchen, cut fire- 
 wood, kept the yard clean, and swept the platform. In a 
 fortnight’s time his wife arrived, and Semyon went on a 
 hand-trolley to his hut. The hut was a new one and warm, 
 with as much wood as he wanted. There was a little vege- 
 table garden, the legacy of former track-walkers, and there 
 was about half a dessiatin of ploughed land on either side 
 of the railway embankment. Semyon was rejoiced. Не 
 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, а horn, hammer, screw-wrench for the nuts, a 
 crow-bar, spade, broom, bolts, and nails; they gave him 
 
 } 
 
726 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 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 infre- 
 quent. Semyon used to go over his verst twice a day, ex- 
 amine 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 neighbours, the track-walkers on 
 either side of him. One was a very old man, whom the 
 authorities were always meaning to relieve. Не 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, neighbour,” he said. 
 
 The neighbour 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 neighbour, 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 ac- 
 quainted. 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. 
 
THE SIGNAL 127 
 
 “f have had no little sorrow in my day,” he would say; 
 “ап 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: “И 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 i 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. “Neighbour,” he called, ‘““‘why do 
 you lose your temper?” But his neighbour 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 neighbour is a wicked person, not a man.” 
 
 However, they did not quarrel. -They met again and dis- 
 cussed the same topics, 
 
 “Ай, iriend, 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.” 
 
 “ikive’ in them, indeed!..Bah, you! . :. You 
 have lived long and learned little, оке at much а ane. Sait 
 little. What sort of life is there for a poor man ip a a’ 
 here or there? The cannibals are devouring you. ‘Th 
 are sucking up all your life-biood, and when you 25256522) 
 
 7) 
 
f 
 
 А 
 
 и 
 ' #3 Е. BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 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 regu- 
 lations 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 honour. 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 tirae it struck him. Three rubles 
 fine! ad 
 
 Vasily kept silent for a while, pulling at his pipe, then 
 added quietly: “А 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, Peters- 
 burg and would pass over the line. They were conducting 
 an inquiry, so that previous to their journey it was neces- 
 sary to put everything in order. Ballast was laid down, the 
 bed was levelled, the sleepers carefully examined, spikes 
 
THE SIGNAL 129 
 
 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 neighbouring hut turned her old man out 
 to weed. Semyon worked for a whole week. He put every- 
 thing in order, mended his kaftan, cleaned and polished his . 
 brass plate until it fairly shone. Vasily also worked hard: 
 The Chief arrived on a trolley, four men working the han- 
 dles and the levers making the six wheels hum. The trolley 
 travelled 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 travelling with the Chief 
 on the trolley) replied: ‘Vasily Spiridov.” 
 
 “Spiridov, Spiridov. . . . Ah! is he the man against 
 whom you made a note last year?” 
 НЫ 
 
 “Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Со on!” The work- 
 men laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way. 
 Semyon watched it, and thought, ‘There will be trouble 
 between them and my neighbour.” 
 
 About two hours later he started on his round. He saw 
 some one coming along the line from the cutting. Some- 
 thing 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, and his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he 
 muttered: “То 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! Не 
 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. . . .” 
 
330 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “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 [ made my complaint. He 
 immediately cried out: ‘Here is a Government inquiry com- 
 ing, and you make a complaint about a vegetable garden. 
 Here are privy councillors coming, and you annoy ше 
 with cabbages!’ I lost patience and said something—not 
 ‚уегу 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?” 
 
 “Му 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 uot going to walk?” 
 
 “At the station I will try to get on a freight train, and 
 to-morrow I shall be in Moscow.” 
 
 The neighbours 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. 
 
 “Наз your husband returned?” he asked. But the woman 
 only made a gesture with her hands, and without saying a 
 word went her way. 
 
 Semyon had learnt when still a lad to make flutes out 
 of a kind of reed. He used to burn out the heart of the 
 stalk, make holes where necessary, drill them, fix а тои» 
 
 р 
 
THE SIGNAL 73 
 
 piece at one end, and tune them so well that ‘t was possible 
 to play almost any air on them. He made a number of 
 them in his spare time, and sent them by his friends 
 amongst the freight brakemen to the bazaar in the town. 
 ‘He got two kopeks apiece for them. On the day following 
 | Бе visit of the commission he left his wife at home to 
 meet the six o’clock train, and started off to the forest to 
 ‘cut some sticks. He went to the end of his section—-at this 
 point the line made a sharp turn—descended the embank- 
 | еп, and struck into the wood at the foot of the mountain. 
 About half a verst away there was a big marsh, around which 
 splendid reeds for his flutes grew. Не cut a whole bundle 
 of stalks and started back home. ‘The sun was already 
 dropping low, and in the dead stillness only the twittering 
 ‘of the birds was audible, and the crackle of the dead wood 
 under his feet. Аз he walked along rapidly, he fancied he 
 heard the clang of iron striking iron, and he redoubled 
 his pace. There was no repair going on in his section. 
 What did it mean? Не emerged from the woods, the rail-~ 
 ‘way embankment stood high before him; on the top a man 
 was squatting on the bed of the line busily engaged in 
 something. Semyon commenced quietly to crawl up to- 
 wards him. Не thought it was some one after the nuts 
 which secure the rails. He watched, and the man got 
 ap, holding a crow-bar in his hand. He had loosened a 
 ‘rail, so that it would move to one side. A mist swam 
 before Semyon’s eyes; he wanted to cry out, but could not. 
 It was Vasily! Semyon scrambled up the bank, as Vasily 
 with crow-bar and wrench slid headlong down the other 
 side. 
 
 “Vasily Stepanych! My dear friend, come back! Give 
 me the crow-bar. We will put the rail back; no one will 
 know. Come back! Save your soul from sin!” 
 
 Vasily did not look back, but disappeared into the 
 woods. 
 
 Semyon stood before the rail which had been torn up. 
 He threw down his bundle of sticks. A train was due; 
 not a freight, but a passenger-train. And he had nothing 
 with which to stop it, no flag. He could not replace the 
 rail and could not drive in the spikes with his bare hands. 
 
132 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 It was necessary to run, absolutely necessary to run to 
 the hut for some tools. “God help me!” he murmured. 
 Semyon started running towards his hut. He was out 
 of breath, but still ran, falling every now and then. He 
 had cleared the forest; he was only a few hundred feet 
 from his hut, not more, when he heard the distant 
 hooter of the factory sound—six o’clock! In two min- 
 utes’ time No. 7 train was due. “Oh, Lord! Have 
 pity on innocent souls!” In his mind Semyon saw the 
 engine strike against the loosened rail with its left wheel, 
 shiver, careen, tear up and splinter the sleepers—and just 
 there, there was a curve and the embankment seventy feet 
 high, down which the engine would topple—and the third- 
 
 class carriages would be packed . . . little children. 
 . . . АП sitting in the train now, never dreaming of 
 danger. “Oh, Lord! Tell me what todo! . . . No, 
 
 it is impossible to run to the hut and get back in time.” 
 
 Semyon did rot run on to the hut, but turned back and 
 ran faster than before. He was running almost mechani- 
 cally, blindly; he did not know himself what was to happen. 
 He ran as far as the rail which had been pulled up; his 
 sticks were lying in a heap. Не bent down, seized one 
 without knowing why, and ran on farther. It seemed to 
 him the train was already coming. Не heard the distant 
 whistle; he heard the quiet, even tremor of the rails; but 
 his strength was exhausted, he could run no farther, and 
 came to a halt about six hundred feet from the awful 
 spot. Then an idea came into his head, literally like a ray 
 of light. Pulling off his cap, he took out of it a cotton 
 scarf, drew his knife out of the upper part of his boot, and 
 crossed himself, muttering, “Со@ biess me!” 
 
 He buried the knife in his left arm above the elbow; the 
 blood spurted out, flowing in a hot stream. In this’ he 
 soaked his scarf, smoothed it out, tied it to the stick and 
 hung out his red flag. 
 
 He stood waving his flag. The train was already in sight. 
 The driver would not see him—would come close up, 
 and a heavy train cannot be pulled up in six hundred 
 feet. 
 
 And the blood kept on flowing. Semyon pressed the 
 
THE SIGNAL 131 
 
 sides of the wound together so as to close it, but the blood 
 did not diminish. Evidently he had cut his arm very deep. 
 His head commenced to swim, black spots began to dance 
 ‘before his eyes, and then it became dark. ‘There was а 
 ringing in his ears. He could not see the train or hear 
 the noise. Only one thought possessed him. “I shall not 
 be able to keep standing up. I shall fall and drop the flag; 
 the train will pass over me. Help me, oh Lord!” 
 
 ’ All turned black before him, his mind became a blank, 
 and he dropped the flag; but the blood-stained banner did 
 not fall to the ground. A hand seized it and held it high 
 to meet the approaching train. The engineer saw it, shut 
 the regulator, and reversed steam. The train came to a 
 ‘standstill. 
 
 People jumped out of the carriages and collected in a 
 crowd. They saw a man lying senseless on the footway, 
 drenched in blood, and another man standing beside him 
 with a blood-stained rag on a stick. 
 
 Vasily looked around at all. Then, lowering his head, 
 he said: “Bind me. I tore up a rail!” 
 
у 
 
 THE DARLING 
 
 By ANTON P. CHEKHOV 
 
 “\ LENKA, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor 
 Plemyanikov, was sitting on the back-door steps of her 
 house doing nothing. It was hot, the flies were nagging and 
 teasing, and it was pleasant to think that it would soon be 
 evening. Dark rain clouds were gathering from the east, 
 wafting a breath of moisture every now and then. 
 
 Kukin, who roomed in the wing of the same house, was 
 standing in the yard looking up at the sky. He was the 
 manager of the Tivoli, an open-air theatre. 
 
 “Again,” he said despairingly. ‘Rain again. Rain, гаш, 
 rain! Every day rain! As though to spite me. I might as 
 well stick my head into a noose and be done with it. It’s 
 ruining me. Heavy losses every day!” He wrung his 
 hands, and continued, addressing Olenka: ‘‘What a life, 
 Olga Semyonovna! It’s enough to make a man weep. He 
 works, he does his best, his very best, he tortures himself, 
 he passes sleepless nights, he thinks and thinks and thinks 
 how to do everything just right. And what’s the result? 
 He gives the public the best operetta, the very best pan- 
 tomime, excellent artists. But do they want it? Have they 
 the least appreciation of it? The public is rude. The 
 public is a great boor. The public wants a circus, a lot of 
 nonsense, a lot of stuff. And there’s the weather. Look! 
 Rain almost every evening. It began to rain on the tenth 
 of May, and it’s kept it up through the whole of June. It’s 
 simply awful. I can’t get any audiences, and don’t I have 
 to pay rent? Don’t I have to pay the actors?” “ 
 
 The next day towards evening the clouds gathered again, 
 and Kukin said with an hysterical laugh: 
 
 “Oh, I don’t care. Let it do its worst. Let it drown 
 the whole theatre, and me, too. All right, no luck for 
 me in this world or the next. Let the actors bring suit 
 
 134, 
 
THE DARLING 135 
 
 against me and drag me to court. What’s the court? Why 
 not Siberia at hard labour, or even the scaffold? На, ha, 
 ha!” 
 
 It was the same on the third day. 
 
 Olenka listened to Kukir seriously, in silence. Some- 
 times tears would rise to her eyes. At last Kukin’s mis- 
 fortune touched her. She fell in love with him. He was 
 short, gaunt, with a yellow face, and curly hair combed back 
 from his forehead, and a thin tenor voice. His features 
 puckered all up when he spoke. Despair was ever inscribed 
 on his face. And yet he awakened in Olenka a sincere, 
 deep feeling. 
 
 She was always loving somebody. She couldn’t get on 
 without loving somebody. She had loved her sick father, 
 who sat the whole time in his armchair in a darkened room, 
 breathing heavily. She had loved her aunt, who came from 
 Brianska once or twice a year to visit them. And before 
 that, when a pupil at the progymnasium, she had loved hei 
 French teacher. She was а quiet, kind-hearted, com- 
 passionate girl, with a soft gentle way about Бег. And she 
 made a very healthy, wholesome impression. Looking at 
 her full, rosy cheeks, at her soft white neck with the black © 
 mole, and at the good naive smile that always played on 
 her face when something pleasant was said, the men would 
 think, ““Not so bad,” and would smile too; and the lady 
 visitors, in the middle of the conversation, would suddenly 
 grasp her hand and exclaim, ‘‘You darling!” in a burst of 
 delight. 
 
 The house, hers by inheritance, in which she had lived 
 from birth, was located at the outskirts of the city on the 
 Gypsy Road, not far from the Tivoli. From early evening 
 till late at night she could hear the music in the theatre 
 and the bursting of the rockets; and it seemed to her that 
 Kukin was ‘roaring and battling with his fate and taking 
 his chief enemy, the indifferent public, by assault. Her 
 heart melted softly, she felt no desire to sleep, and when 
 Kukin returned home towards morning, she tapped on her 
 window-pane, and through the curtains he saw her face and 
 one shoulder and the kind smile she gave him. 
 
 He proposed to her, and they were married. And when 
 
136 BEST ‘RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 he had a good look of her neck and her full vigorous 
 shoulders, he clapped his hands and said: 
 
 “You darling!” 
 
 He was happy. But it rained on their wedding-day, and 
 ‚Бе expression of despair never left his face. 
 
 They got along well together. She sat in the cashier’s 
 box, kept the theatre in order, wrote down the expenses, 
 and paid out the salaries. Her rosy cheeks, her kind naive 
 smile, like a halo around her face, could be seen at the 
 cashier’s window, behind the scenes, and in the café. She 
 began to tell her friends that the theatre was the greatest, 
 the most important, the most essential thing in the world, 
 that it was the only place to obtain true enjoyment in and 
 become humanised and educated. 
 
 “But do you suppose the public appreciates it?” she 
 usked. “What the public wants is the circus. Yesterday 
 Vanichka and I gave Faust Burlesqued, and almost all the 
 boxes were empty. If we had given some silly nonsense, I 
 assure you, the theatre would have been overcrowded. To- 
 morrow we'll put Orpheus in Hades on. Do come.” 
 
 Whatever Kukin said about the theatre and the actors, 
 she repeated. She spoke, as he did, with contempt of the 
 public, of its indifference to art, of its boorishness. She 
 meddled in the rehearsals, corrected the actors, watched 
 the conduct of the musicians; and when an unfavourable 
 criticism appeared in the local paper, she wept and went 
 to the editor to argue with him. 
 
 The actors were fond of her and called her “Vanichka 
 and I” and “the darling.” She was sorry for them and lent 
 them small sums. When they bilked her, she never com- 
 plained to her husband; at the utmost she shed a few 
 tears. 
 
 In winter, too, they got along nicely together. They 
 leased a theatre in the town for the whole winter and sublet 
 it for short periods to a Little Russian theatrical company, 
 to a conjuror and to the local amateur players. 
 
 Olenka grew fuller and was always beaming with con- 
 Centment; while Kukin grew thinner and yellower and com- 
 plained of his terrible losses, though he did fairly well the 
 whole winter. At night he coughed, and she gave him rasp- 
 
THE DARLING ‘ Mine, 
 
 berry syrup and lime water, rubbed him with eau de 
 Cologne, and wrapped him up in soft coverings. 
 
 “You are my precious sweet,” she said with perfect sin: 
 cerity, stroking his hair. ‘You are such a dear.” 
 
 At Lent he went to Moscow to get his company together, 
 and, while without him, Olenka was unable to sleep. She 
 
 sat at the window the whole time, gazing at the stars. 
 She likened herself to the hens that are also uneasy and 
 unable to sleep when their rooster is out of the coop. Kukin 
 was detained in Moscow. He wrote he would be back dur- 
 ing Easter Week, and in his letters discussed arrangements 
 already for the Tivoli. But late one night, before Easter 
 Monday, there was an ill-omened knocking at the wicket- 
 gate. It was like a knocking on a barrel—boom, boom, 
 boom! ‘The sleepy cook ran barefooted, plashing through 
 the puddles, to open the gate. 
 
 “Open the gate, please,” said some one in a hollow bass 
 voice. “I have a telegram for you.” 
 
 Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before; 
 but this time, somehow, she was numbed with terror. She 
 opened the telegram with trembling hands and read: 
 
 _ “Tyan Petrovich died suddenly to-day. Awaiting propt 
 orders for wuneral Tuesday.” 
 
 That was the way the telegram was written—‘wuneral” 
 —and another unintelligible word—“propt.” The telegram 
 was signed by the manager of the opera company. 
 
 “My dearest!” Olenka burst out sobbing. ‘Vanichka, 
 my dearest, my sweetheart. Why did I ever meet you? 
 Why did I ever get to know you and love you? To whom 
 have you abandoned your poor Olenka, your poor, unhappy 
 Olenka?”’ 
 
 Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankov Ceme: 
 tery in Moscow. Olenka returned home on Wednesday; 
 and as soon as she entered her house she threw herself 
 on her bed and broke into such loud sobbing that she 
 could be heard in the street and in the neighbouring yards. 
 
 “The darling!” said the neighbours, crossing themselves. 
 “How Olga Semyonovna, the poor darling, is grieving!” 
 
 Three months afterwards Olenka was returning home 
 from mass, downhearted and in deep mourning. Beside her 
 
(38 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 walked a man also returning from church, Vasily Pustova- 
 lov, the mane. of the merchant Babakayev’s lumber-yard. 
 He was wearing a straw hat, a white vest with a gold chain, 
 and looked more like a landowner than a business man. 
 
 “Everything has its ordained course, Olga Semyonovna,” 
 he said sedately, with sympathy in his voice. “And if any 
 one near and dear to us dies, then it means it was God’s 
 will and we should remember that and bear it with sub- 
 mission.” 
 
 He took her to the wicket-gate, said good-bye and went 
 away. After that she heard his sedate voice the whole day; 
 and on closing her eyes she instantly had a vision of his 
 dark beard. She took a great liking to him. And evidently 
 he had been impressed by her, too; for, not long after, an 
 elderly woman, a distant acquaintance, came in to have 
 a cup of coffee with her. As soon as the woman was seated 
 at table she began to speak about Pustovalov—how good 
 he was, what a steady man, and any woman could be glad 
 to get him as a husband. Three days later Pustovalov him- 
 self paid Olenka a visit. He stayed only about ten min- 
 utes, and spoke little, but Olenka fell in love with him, fell 
 in love so desperately that she did not sleep the whole night 
 and burned as with fever. In the morning she sent for 
 the elderly woman. Soon after, Olenka and Pustovalov 
 were engaged, and the wedding followed. 
 
 Pustovalov and Olenka lived happily together. He usu- 
 ally stayed in the lumber-yard until dinner, then went out 
 on business. In his absence Olenka took his place in the 
 office until evening, attending to the book-keeping and 
 despatching the orders. 
 
 “Lumber tises twenty per cent every year nowadays,” 
 she {014 her customers and acquaintances. “Imagine, we 
 used to buy wood from our forests here. Now Vasichka 
 has to go every year to the government of Mogilev to get 
 wood. And what a tax!” she exclaimed, covering her cheeks 
 with her hands in terror. “What a tax!” 
 
 She felt as if she had been dealing in lumber for ever 
 so long, that the most important and essential thing in 
 life was lumber. There was something touching \and en- 
 dearing in the way she pronounced the words, beam,” 
 
THE DARLING 134 
 “joist,” “plank,” “stave,” “lath,” “gun-carriage,” “clamp.” 
 At night she dreamed of whole mountains of boards and 
 planks, long, endless rows of wagons conveying the wood 
 somewhere, far, far from the city. She dreamed that a 
 whole regiment of beams, 36 ft. x 5 in., were advancing in 
 an upright position to do battle against the lumber-yard; 
 that the beams and joists and clamps were knocking against 
 each other, emitting the sharp crackling reports of dry 
 wood, that they were all falling and then rising again, piling 
 on top of each other. Olenka cried out in her sleep, and 
 Pustovalov said to her gently: 
 
 “Olenka my dear, what is the matter? Cross yourself.” 
 
 Her husband’s opinions were all hers. If he thought the 
 room was too hot, she thought so too. If he thought busi- 
 ness was dull, she thought business was dull. Pustovalov 
 was not fond of amusements and stayed home on holidays; 
 she did the same. 
 
 “You are always either at home or in the office,” said 
 her friends. “Why don’t you go to the theatre or to the 
 circus, darling?”’ 
 
 “Vasichka and I never go to the theatre,” she answered 
 sedately. ‘We have work to do, we have no time for non- 
 sense. What does one get out of going to theatre?” 
 
 On Saturdays she and Pustovalov went to vespers, and on 
 holidays to early mass. On returning home they walked 
 side by side with rapt faces, an agreeable smell emanating 
 from both of them and her silk dress rustling pleasantly. At 
 home they drank tea with milk-bread and various jams, 
 and then ate pie. Every day at noontime there was an 
 appetising odour in the yard and outside the gate of cabbage 
 soup, roast mutton, or duck; and, on fast days, of fish. You 
 couldn’t pass the gate without being seized by an acute 
 desire to eat. The samovar was always boiling on the office 
 table, and customers were treated to tea and biscuits. Once 
 a week the married couple went to the baths and returned 
 with red faces, walking side by side. 
 
 “We are getting along very well, thank God,” said Olenka 
 to her friends. “God grant that all should live as well as 
 Vasichka and I.” 
 
 When Pustovalov went to the government of Mogilev to 
 
 | 
 
140 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 buy wood, she was dreadfully homesick for him, did not 
 sleep nights, and cried. Sometimes the veterinary surgeon 
 of the regiment, Smirnov, a young man who lodged in the 
 wing of her house, came to see her evenings. He related 
 incidents, or they played cards together. ‘This distracted 
 her. The most interesting of his stories were those of his 
 own life. He was married and had a son; but he had 
 separated from his wife because she had deceived him, and 
 now he hated her and sent her forty rubles a month for 
 his son’s support. Olenka sighed, shook her head, and was 
 sorry for him. 
 
 ~ “Well, the Lord keep you,” she said, as she saw him off 
 to the door by candlelight. ‘Thank you for coming to kill 
 time with me. May God give you health. Mother in 
 Heaven!” She spoke very sedately, very judiciously, imi- 
 tating her husband. The veterinary surgeon had disap- 
 peared behind the door when she called out after him: “Do 
 you know, Vladimir Platonych, you ought to make up with 
 your wife. Forgive her, if only for the sake of your son. 
 The child understands everything, you may be sure.” 
 
 When Pustovalov returned, she told him in a low voice 
 about the veterinary surgeon and his unhappy family life; 
 and they sighed and shook their heads, and talked about 
 the boy who must be homesick for his father. Then, by a 
 strange association of ideas, they both stopped before the 
 sacred images, made genuflections, and prayed to God to 
 send them children.” 
 
 And so the Pustovalovs lived for full six years, quietly 
 and peaceably, in perfect love and harmony. But once in 
 the winter Vasily Andreyich, after drinking some hot tea, 
 went out into the lumber-yard without a hat on his head, 
 caught a cold and took sick. He was treated by the best 
 physicians, but the malady progressed, and he died after 
 an illness of four months. Olenka was again left a widow. 
 
 “To whom have you left me, my darling?” she wailed 
 after the funeral. ‘How shall I live now without you, 
 wretched creature that I am. Pity me, good people, pity 
 me, fatherless and motherless, all alone in the world!” 
 
 She went about dressed in black and weepers, and she 
 gave up wearing hats and gloves for good. She hardly left 
 
‘THE DARLING 141 
 
 | фе house except to go to church and to visit her husband's 
 grave. She almost led the life of a nun. 
 
 _ It was not until six months had passed that she took 
 off the weepers and opened her shutters. She began to go 
 ‘out occasionally in the morning to market with her cook. 
 ‘But how she lived at home and what went on there, could 
 only be surmised. It could be surmised from the fact that 
 she was seen in her little garden drinking tea with the 
 veterinarian while he read the paper out loud to her, 
 and also from the fact that once on meeting an acquaint- 
 lance at the post-office, she said to her: $ 
 > “There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town. 
 That is why there is so much disease. You constantly hear 
 ‘of people getting sick from the milk and becoming infected 
 ‘by the horses and cows. The health of domestic animals 
 ought really to be looked after as much as that of humar 
 beings.” 
 
 | She repeated the veterinarian’s words and held the same 
 opinions as he about everything. It was plain that she could 
 mot exist a single year without an attachment, and she 
 found her new happiness in the wing of her house. In any 
 one else this would have been condemned; but no one 
 could think ill of Olenka. Everything in her life was so 
 transparent. She and the veterinary surgeon never spoke 
 about the change in their relations. They tried, in fact, 
 to conceal it, but unsuccessfully; for Olenka could have 
 no secrets. When the surgeon’s colleagues from the regi: 
 ment came to see him, she poured tea, and served the sup- 
 per, and talked to them about the cattle plague, the foot and 
 mouth disease, and the municipal slaughter houses. The 
 surgeon was dreadfully embarrassed, and after the visitors 
 had left, he caught her hand and hissed angrily: 
 
 “Didn’t I ask you not to talk about what you don’t un- 
 derstand? When we doctors discuss things, please don’t 
 mix in. It’s getting to be a nuisance.” 
 
 She looked at him in astonishment and alarm, and asked: 
 
 “But, Volodichka, what am I to talk about?” 
 
 And she threw her arms round his neck, with tears in her 
 eyes, and begged him not to be angry. And they were both 
 happy. 
 
142 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 But their happiness was of short duration. The veteri- 
 nary surgeon went away with his regiment to be gone for 
 good, when it was transferred to some distant place almost 
 as far as Siberia, and Olenka was left alone. 
 
 Now she was completely alone. Her father had long been 
 dead, and his armchair lay in the attic covered with dust 
 and minus one leg. She got thin and homely, and the 
 people who met her on the street no longer looked at her 
 as they had used to, nor smiled at her. Evidently her best 
 years were over, past and gone, and a new, dubious life 
 was to begin which it were better not to think about. 
 
 In the evening Olenka sat on the steps and_ heard the 
 music playing and the rockets bursting in the Tivoli; but 
 it no longer aroused any response in her. She looked list- 
 lessly into the yard, thought of nothing, wanted nothing, 
 and when night came on, she went to bed and dreamed of 
 nothing but the empty yard. She ate and drank as though 
 by compulsion. 
 
 And what was worst of all, she no longer held any opin- 
 ions. She saw and understood everything that went on 
 around her, but she could not form an opinion about it. 
 She knew of nothing to talk about. And how dreadful not 
 to have opinions! For instance, you see a bottle, or you 
 see that it is raining, or you see a muzhik riding by in a 
 wagon. But what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik 
 are for, or what the sense of them all is, you cannot tell— 
 you cannot tell, not for a thousand rubles. In the days of 
 Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary surgeon, 
 Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would 
 have given her opinion freely no matter about what. But 
 now there was the same emptiness in her heart and brain as 
 in her yard. It was as galling and bitter as a taste of 
 wormwood. 
 
 Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy 
 Road had become a street, and where the Tivoli and the 
 lumber-yard had been, there were now houses and a row 
 of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka’s house 
 turned gloomy, the roof rusty, the shed slanting. Dock and 
 thistles overgrew the yard. Olenka herself had aged and 
 grown homely. In the summer she sat on the steps, and 
 

 
 THE DARLING 143 
 
 her soul was empty and dreary and bitter. When she caught 
 the breath of spring, or when the wind wafted the chime 
 -of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories would 
 pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, 
 and the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that 
 lasted only a moment. Then would come emptiness again, 
 -and the feeling, What is the use of living? The black kit- 
 -ten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred softly, but 
 the little creature’s caresses left Olenka untouched. That 
 was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that 
 would absorb her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, 
 that would give her ideas, an object in life, that would warm 
 her aging blood. And she shook the black kitten off her 
 skirt angrily, saying: 
 
 “Go away! What are you doing here?” 
 
 And so day after day, year after year not a ЕЙ, joy, 
 not a single opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was 
 all right. 
 
 One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle 
 were being driven by, and the whole yard was filled with 
 clouds of dust, there was suddenly a knocking at the gate. 
 Olenka herself went to open it, and was dumbfounded to 
 behold the veterinarian Smirnov. He had turned grey and 
 was dressed as a civilian. All the old memories flooded into 
 her soul, she could not restrain herself, she burst out cry- 
 ing, and laid her head on Smirnov’s breast without saying 
 a word. So overcome was she that she was totally uncon- 
 _scious of how they walked into the house and seated them- 
 ‘selves to drink tea. 
 
 “My darling!” she murmured, trembling with joy. ‘“Vlad- 
 imir Platonych, from where has God sent you?” 
 
 “Т want to settle here for good,” he told her. “I have 
 resigned my position and have come here to try my for- 
 tune as a free man and lead a settled life. Besides, it’s time 
 to send my boy to the gymnasium. He is grown up now. 
 
 You know, my wife and I have become reconciled.” 
 
 “Where is she?” asked Olenka. 
 
 “АЕ the hotel with the boy. I am looking for lodgings.” 
 
 “Good gracious, bless you, take my house. Why won’t 
 my house do? Oh, dear! Why, I won’t ask any rent of 
 
144 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 you,” Olenka burst out in the greatest excitement, and be- 
 gan to cry again. ‘You live here, and the wing will be 
 enough for me. Oh, Heavens, what a joy!” 
 
 The very next day the roof was being painted and the 
 walls whitewashed, and Olenka, arms akimbo, was going 
 about the yard superintending. Her face brightened with 
 her old smile. Her whole being revived and freshened, as 
 though she had awakened from a long sleep. The veterin- 
 arian’s wife and child arrived. She was a thin, plain woman, 
 with a сгаБЪе4 expression. The boy Sasha, small for his 
 ten years of age, was a chubby child, with clear blue eyes 
 and dimples in his cheeks. He made for the kitten the 
 instant he entered the yard, and the place rang with his 
 happy laughter. 
 
 “Ts that your cat, auntie?” he asked Olenka. ‘‘When she 
 has little kitties, please give me one. Mamma is awfully 
 afraid of mice.” 
 
 Olenka chatted with him, gave him tea, and there was a 
 sudden warmth in her bosom and a soft gripping at her 
 heart, as though the boy were her own son. 
 
 In the evening, when he sat in the dining-room studying 
 his lessons, she looked at him tenderly and whispered to 
 herself: 
 
 “My darling, my pretty. You are such a clever child, so 
 good to look at.” 
 
 “An island is a tract of land entirely surrounded by 
 water,” he recited. 
 
 “Ап island is a tract of land,” she repeated—the first 
 idea asseverated with conviction after so many years of si- 
 lence and mental emptiness. 
 
 She now had her opinions, and at supper discussed with 
 Sasha’s parents how difficult the studies had become 
 for the children at the gymnasium, but how, after all, a 
 classical education was better than a commercial course, be- 
 cause when you graduated from the gymnasium then the 
 road was open to you for any career at all. If you chose 
 to, you could become a doctor, or, if you wanted to, you 
 could become an engineer. 
 
 Sasha began to go to the gymnasium. His mother left on 
 a visit to her sister in Kharkov and never came back. The, 
 
THE DARLING . 145 
 
 father was away every day inspecting cattle, and some- 
 times was gone three whole days at a time, so that Sasha, 
 it seemed to Olenka, was utterly abandoned, was treated as 
 if he were quite superfluous, and must be dying of hunger. 
 So she transferred him into the wing along with herself and 
 fixed up a little room for him there. . 
 
 Every morning Olenka would come into his room and 
 find him sound asleep with his hand tucked under his 
 cheek, so quiet that he seemed not to be breathing. What 
 a shame to have to wake him, she thought. 
 
 _ “Sashenka,” she said sorrowingly, “get up, darling. It’s 
 time to go to the gymnasium.” 
 
 He got up, dressed, said his prayers, then sat down to 
 drink tea. He drank three glasses of tea, ate two large 
 cracknels and half a buttered roll. The sleep was not yet 
 out of him, so he was a little cross. 
 
 “You don’t know your fable as you should, Sashenka,” 
 said Olenka, looking at him as though he were departing on 
 along journey. “What a lot of trouble you are. You must 
 try hard and learn, dear, and mind your teachers.” 
 
 “Oh, let me alone, please,” said Sasha. 
 
 Then he went down the street to the gymnasium, a little 
 fellow wearing a large cap and carrying a satchel on his 
 back. Olenka followed him noiselessly. 
 
 “БазБепка,’” she called. 
 
 He looked round and she shoved a date or a caramel into 
 his hand. When he reached the street of the gymnasium, 
 he turned around and said, ashamed of being followed by 
 a tall, stout woman: 
 
 “You had better go home, aunt. I can go the rest of the 
 way myself.” 
 
 She stopped and stared after him until he had disappeared 
 into the school entrance. 
 
 Oh, how she loved him! Not one of her other ties had 
 been so deep. Never before had she given herself so com- 
 pletely, so disinterestedly, so cheerfully as now that her 
 maternal instincts were all aroused. For this boy, who was 
 not hers, for the dimples in his cheeks and for his big cap, 
 she would have given her life, given it with joy and with 
 tears of rapture. Why? Ah, indeed, why? 
 
 
 
146 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 When she had seen Sasha off to the gymnasium, she re- 
 turned home quietly, content, serene, overflowing with love. 
 Her face, which had grown younger in the last half year, 
 smiled and beamed. People who met her were pleased as 
 they looked at her. 
 
 “How are you, Olga Semyonoyna, darling? How are 
 you getting on, darling?” 
 
 “The gymnasium course is very hard nowadays,” she 
 told at the market. “It’s no joke. Yesterday the first 
 cless had a fable to learn by heart, a Latin translation, and 
 a problem. How is a little fellow to do all that?” 
 
 And she spoke of the teacher and the lessons and the text- 
 books, repeating exactly what Sasha said about them. 
 
 At three o’clock they had dinner. In the evening they 
 prepared the lessons together, and Olenka wept with Sasha 
 over the difficulties. When she put him to bed, she lingered 
 a long time making the sign of the cross over him and mut- 
 tering a prayer. And when she lay in bed, she dreamed of 
 the far-away, misty future when Sasha would finish his 
 studies and become a doctor or an engineer, have a large 
 house of his own, with horses and a carriage, marry and 
 have children. She would fall asleep still thinking of the 
 same things, and tears would roll down her cheeks from Aer 
 closed eyes. And the black cat would lie at her side purr- 
 ing: “Миг, mrr, mrr.” 
 
 Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the gate. Olenka 
 woke up breathless with fright, her heart beating violently. 
 Half a minute later there was another knock. 
 
 “А telegram from Kharkov,” she thought, her whole body 
 in a tremble. ‘His mother wants Sasha to come to her ш 
 Kharkov. Oh, great God!” 
 
 She was in despair. Her head, her feet, her hands turned 
 cold. There was no unhappier creature in the world, she 
 felt. But another minute passed, she heard voices. It was 
 the veterinarian coming home from the club. 
 
 “Thank God,” she thought. The load gradually fell from 
 her heart, she was at ease again. And she went back to bed, 
 thinking of Sasha who lay fast asleep in the next room 
 and sometimes cried out in his sleep: 
 
 «РИ give it to you! Get away! Quit your scrapping!’ 
 
ЕВЕ 
 Ву ANTON P. CHEKHOV 
 I 
 
 T was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing 
 from corner to corner of his study, recalling to his mind 
 the party he gave in the autumn fifteen years before. There 
 were many clever people at the party and much interesting 
 conversation. ‘They talked among other things of capital 
 punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars 
 and journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital 
 punishment. They found it obsolete as a means of punish- 
 ment, unfitted to a Christian State and immoral. Some of 
 them thought that capital punishment should be replaced 
 universally by life-imprisonment. 
 
 “T don’t agree with you,” said the host. “I myself have 
 experienced neither capital punishment nor life-imprison- 
 ment, but if one may judge а priori, then in my opinion capi- 
 tal punishment is more moral and more humane than im- 
 prisonment. Execution kills instantly, life-imprisonment 
 kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, one 
 who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life 
 out of you incessantly, for years?” 
 
 ’ “They’re both equally immoral,’ remarked one of the 
 guests, “because their purpose is the same, to take away 
 life. The State is not God. It has no right to take away 
 that which it cannot give back, if it should so desire.” 
 
 _ Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about 
 twenty-five. On being asked his opinion, he said: 
 
 “Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally 
 immoral; but if I were offered the choice between them, 
 I would certainly choose the second. It’s better to live 
 somehow than not to live at all.” 
 
 There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was 
 
 147 
 
 
 
148 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 then younger and more nervous suddenly lost his temper, 
 banged his fist on the table, and turning to the young 
 lawyer, cried out: 
 
 “Tt’s a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn’t stick in 
 a cell even for five years.” 
 
 “Tf you mean it seriously,” replied the lawyer, “then I 
 bet ГП stay not five but fifteen.” 
 
 “Fifteen! Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I 
 stake two millions.” 
 
 “Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom,” said 
 the lawyer. 
 
 So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, 
 who at that time had too many millions to count, spoiled 
 and capricious, was beside himself with rapture. During 
 supper he said to the lawyer jokingly: 
 
 “Come to your senses, young man, before it’s too late. 
 Two millions are nothing to me, but you stand to lose three 
 or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, 
 because you'll never stick it out any longer. Don’t forget 
 either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much heavier 
 than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the 
 right to free yourself at any moment will poison the whole 
 of your life in the cell. I pity you.” 
 
 And now the banker, pacing from corner to corner, re- 
 called all this and asked himself: 
 
 “Why did I make this bet? What’s the good? The law- 
 yer loses fifteen years of his life and I throw away two mil- 
 lions. Will it convince people that capital punishment is 
 worse or better than imprisonment for life? No, no! all 
 stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of a 
 well-fed man; on the lawyer’s pure greed of gold.” 
 
 He recollected further what happened after the evening 
 party. It was decided that the lawyer must undergo his 
 imprisonment under the strictest observation, in a garden 
 wing of the banker’s house. It was agreed that during 
 the period he would be deprived of the right to cross the 
 threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and to 
 receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have 
 a musical instrument, to read books, to write letters, to 
 drink wine and smoke tobacco. By the agreement he could 
 
 ) 
 
 
 
THE BET 149 
 
 communicate, but only in silence, with the outside world 
 through a little window specially constructed for this pur- 
 pose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could re- 
 ceive in any quantity by sending a ‘note through the window. 
 ‘The agreement provided for all the minutest details, which 
 made the confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the 
 lawyer to remain exactly fifteen years from twelve o’clock of 
 ‘November 14th, 1870, to twelve o’clock of November 14th, 
 1885. The least attempt on his part to violate the conditions, 
 to escape if only for two minutes before the time freed 
 the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions. 
 _ During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far 
 as it was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered 
 ‘terribly from loneliness and boredom. From his wing day 
 and night came the sound of the piano. Не rejected wine 
 and tobacco. ‘‘Wine,” he wrote, “excites desires, and de- 
 ‘Sires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing is 
 ‘more boring than to drink good wine alone,” and tobacco 
 spoils the air in his room. During the first year the lawyer 
 was sent books of a light character; novels with a compli- 
 cated love interest, stories of crime and fantasy, comedies, 
 and so on. 
 
 In the second year the piano was heard no longer and 
 the lawyer asked only for classics. In the fifth year, music 
 was heard again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those 
 who watched him said that during the whole of that year he 
 was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. He yawned 
 often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not 
 read. Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He 
 would write for a long time and tear it all up in the morning. 
 More than once he was heard to weep. 
 
 In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began 
 zealously to study languages, philosophy, and history. He 
 fell on these subjects so hungrily that the banker hardly 
 had time to get books enough for him. In the space of 
 four years about six hundred volumes were bought at his 
 request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker 
 received the following letter from the prisoner: “Му dear 
 gaoler, I am writing these lines in six languages. Show 
 them to experts. Let them read them. If they do not find 
 
150 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to have a gun 
 fired off in the garden. Ву the noise I shall know that my 
 efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and 
 countries speak in different languages; but in them all burns 
 the same flame. Oh, if you knew my heavenly happiness 
 now that I can understand them!” ‘The prisoner’s desire 
 was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by the 
 banker’s order. | 
 
 Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable 
 before his table and read only the New Testament. The 
 banker found it strange that a man who in four years had 
 mastered six hundred erudite volumes, should have spent 
 nearly a year in reading one book, easy to understand and 
 by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced 
 by the history of religions and theology. 
 
 During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner 
 read an extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he 
 would apply himself to the natural sciences, then he would 
 read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used to come from him 
 in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on 
 chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some trea- 
 tise on philosophy or theology. He read as though he were 
 Swimming in the sea among broken pieces of wreckage, 
 and in his desire to save his life was eagerly grasping one 
 piece after another. 
 
 II 
 
 The banker recalled all this, and thought: 
 
 “To-morrow at twelve o’clock he receives his freedom. 
 Under the agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. 
 If I pay, it’s all over with me. I am ruined for ever .. .” 
 
 Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, 
 but now he was afraid to ask himself which he had more of, 
 money or debts. Gambling on the Stock-Exchange, risky 
 speculation, and the recklessness of which he could not rid 
 himself even in old age, had gradually brought his business 
 to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of busi- 
 ness had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every 
 rise and fall in the market. | 
 
THE BET Тк» 
 
 “That cursed bet,’”? murmured the old man clutching his 
 head in despair. ... “Why didn’t the man die? He’s 
 ‘only forty years old. He will take away my last farthing, 
 ‘marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, and I will look 
 on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from 
 him every day: ‘I’m obliged to you for the happiness of 
 my life. Let me help you.’ No, it’s too much! The only 
 escape from bankruptcy and disgrace—is that the man 
 should die.” 
 
 The clock had just struck three. The banker was list- 
 ening. In the house every one was asleep, and one could 
 hear only the frozen trees whining outside the windows. 
 Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe the key 
 of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, 
 put on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden 
 was dark and cold. It was raining. A damp, penetrating 
 wind howled in the garden and gave the trees no rest. 
 Though he strained his eyes, the banker could see neither 
 the ground, nor the white statues, nor the garden wing, nor 
 the trees. Approaching the garden wing, he called the watch- 
 man twice. There was no answer. Evidently the watch- 
 man had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now 
 asleep somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse. 
 
 “Tf I have the courage to fulfil my intention,” thought the 
 old man, “the suspicion will fall on the watchman first 
 of all.” 
 
 In the darkness he groped for the steps and the door 
 and entered the hall of the garden-wing, then poked his 
 way into a narrow passage and struck a match. Not a soul 
 was there. Some one’s bed, with no bedclothes on it, stood 
 there, and an iron stove loomed dark in the corner. The 
 seals on the door that led into the prisoner’s room were 
 unbroken. 
 
 When the match went out, the old man, trembling from 
 agitation, peeped into the little window. 
 
 In the prisoner’s room a candle was burning dimly. The 
 prisoner himself sat by the table. Only his back, the hair 
 on his head and his hands were visible. Open books were 
 strewn about on the table, the two chairs, and on the carpet 
 near the table. 
 
752 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. | 
 Fifteen years’ confinement had taught him to sit motion- 
 less. The banker tapped on the window with his finger, 
 but the prisoner made no movement in reply. Then the 
 banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the 
 key into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and 
 the door creaked. The banker expected instantly to hear a 
 ery of surprise and the sound of steps. Three minutes 
 passed and it was as quiet inside as it had been before. 
 He made up his mind to enter. 
 
 Before the table sat a man, unlike an ordinary human 
 being. It was a skeleton, with tight-drawn skin, with long 
 curly hair like a woman’s, and a shaggy beard. The colour 
 of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks 
 were sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon 
 which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that 
 it was painful to look upon. His hair was already silvering 
 with grey, and no one who glanced at the senile emaciation 
 of the face would have believed that he was only forty 
 years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a 
 sheet of paper on which something was written in a tiny 
 hand. 
 
 “Poor devil,” thought the banker, ‘‘he’s asleep and prob- 
 ably seeing millions in his dreams. I have only to take and 
 throw this half-dead thing on the bed, smother him a mo- 
 ment with the pillow, and the most careful examination 
 will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, let us read 
 what he has written here.” 
 
 The banker took the sheet from the table and read: 
 
 “To-morrow at twelve o’clock midnight, I shall obtain 
 my freedom and the right to mix with people. But before 
 I leave this room and see the sun I think it necessary to say 
 a few words to you. On my own clear conscience and be- 
 fore God who sees me I declare to you that I despise free- 
 dom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings 
 of the world. 
 
 “For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. 
 
 eee 
 
 True, Г saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your | 
 
 books I drank fragrant wine, sang Sone hunted deer and _ 
 wild boar in the forests, loved women... . And beautiful 
 
 4 | 
 
THE BET 153 
 
 women, like clouds ethereal, created by the magic of your 
 poets’ genius, visited me by night and whispered to me won- 
 derful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books 
 I climbed the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw 
 from there how the sun rose in the morning, and in the 
 evening suffused the sky, the ocean and the mountain 
 ridges with a purple gold. I saw from there how above me 
 lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green for- 
 ests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and 
 the playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of 
 beautiful devils who came flying to me to speak of God. 
 ', . . In your books I cast myself into bottomless abysses, 
 worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, preached new 
 ‘religions, conquered whole countries... . 
 
 “Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying 
 human thought created in the centuries is compressed to a 
 little lump in my skull. I know that I am cleverer than 
 you all. 
 
 “And I despise your books, despise all worldly blessings 
 and wisdom. Everything is void, frail, visionary and delu- 
 Sive aS a mirage. Though you be proud and wise and 
 beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the face of the 
 earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your 
 history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as’ 
 frozen slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe. 
 
 “You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take false- 
 hood for truth and ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if 
 suddenly apple and orange trees should bear frogs and 
 lizards instead of fruit, and if roses should begin to breathe 
 the odour of a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who 
 have bartered heaven for earth. I do not want to under- 
 stand you. 
 
 “That I may show you in deed my contempt for that 
 by which you live, I waive the two millions of which I once 
 dreamed as of paradise, and which I now despise. That I 
 may deprive myself of my right to them, I shall come out 
 from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and thus 
 shall violate the agreement.” 
 
 When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, 
 kissed the head of the strange man, and began to weep. 
 
#54 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 He went out of the wing. Never at any other time, not even 
 after his terrible losses on the Exchange, had he felt such 
 contempt for himself as now. Coming home, he lay down 
 on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him a long time 
 from sleeping. . . . 
 
 The next morning the poor watchman came running to him 
 and told him that they had seen the man who lived in the 
 wing climb through the window into the garden. He had 
 gone to the gate and disappeared. The banker instantly 
 went with his servants to the wing and established the 
 escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he 
 took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on 
 his return, locked it in his safe. 
 
VANKA 
 
 By ANTON P. CHEKHOV 
 
 INE-YEAR-OLD Vanka Zhukov, who had been ар. 
 prentice to the shoemaker Aliakhin for three months, 
 did not go to bed the night before Christmas. He waited 
 till the master and mistress and the assistants had gone 
 
 ‘out to an early church-service, to procure from his employ- 
 
 er’s cupboard a small phial of ink and a penholder with a 
 
 rusty nib; then, spreading a crumpled sheet of paper in 
 front of him, he began to write. 
 
 Before, however, deciding to make the first letter, he 
 
 looked furtively at the door and at the window, glanced sev- 
 eral times at the sombre ikon, on either side of which 
 
 stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a heart-rending 
 
 sigh. The sheet of paper was spread on a bench, and he 
 
 himself was on his knees in front of it. 
 “Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarych,” he wrote, 
 
 “T am writing you a letter. I wish you a Happy Cnhrist- 
 
 ‘mas and all God’s holy best. JI have no mamma or papa, 
 
 you are all I have.” 
 
 Vanka gave a look towards the window in which shone 
 the reflection of his candle, and vividly pictured to himself 
 his grandfather, Konstantin Makarych, who was night- 
 ‘watchman at Messrs. Zhivarev. He was a small, lean, 
 ‘unusually lively and active old man of sixty-five, always 
 ‘smiling and blear-eyed. All day he slept in the servants’ 
 kitchen or trifled with the cooks. At night, enveloped in an 
 ample sheep-skin coat, he strayed round the domain tapping 
 with his cudgel. Behind him, each hanging its head, walked 
 the old bitch Kashtanka, and the dog Viun, so named be- 
 cause of his black coat and long body and his resemblance 
 to a loach. Viun was an unusually civil and friendly dog, 
 looking as kindly at a stranger as at his masters, but 
 he was not to be trusted, Beneath his deference and hum- 
 
 155 
 
156 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 bleness was hid the most inquisitorial maliciousness. No 
 one knew better than he how to sneak up and take a bite 
 at a leg, or slip into the larder or steal a muzhik’s chicken. 
 More than once they had nearly broken his hind-legs, twice 
 he had been hung up, every week he was nearly flogged’ to 
 death, but he always recovered. 
 
 At this moment, for certain, Vanka’s grandfather must 
 be standing at the gate, blinking his eyes at the bright red 
 windows of the village church, stamping his feet in their 
 high-felt boots, and jesting with the people in the yard; his 
 cudgel will be hanging from his belt, he will be hugging 
 himself with cold, giving a little dry, old man’s cough, and at 
 times pinching a servant-girl or a cook. 
 
 “Won’t we take some snuff?” he asks, holding out his 
 snuff-box to the women. The women take a pinch of snuff, 
 and sneeze. 
 
 The old man goes into indescribable ecstasies, breaks into 
 1014 laughter, and cries: 
 
 “Off with it, it will freeze to your nose!” 
 
 He gives his snuff to the dogs, too. Kashtanka sneezes, 
 twitches her nose, and walks away offended. Viun deferen- 
 tially refuses to sniff and wags his tail. It is glorious 
 weather, not a breath of wind, clear, and frosty; it is a dark 
 night, but the whole village, its white roofs and streaks 
 of smoke from the chimneys, the trees silvered with hoar- 
 irost, and the snowdrifts, you can see it all. The sky scin- 
 tillates with bright twinkling stars, and the Milky Way 
 stands out so clearly that it looks as if it had been pol- 
 ished and rubbed over with snow for the holidays... . 
 
 Vanka sighs, dips his pen in the ink, and continues to 
 write: 
 
 “Last night I got a thrashing, my master dragged me by 
 my hair into the yard, and belaboured me with a shoe- 
 maker’s stirrup, because, while I was rocking his brat in 
 its cradle, I unfortunately fell asleep. And during the week, 
 my mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began by its 
 tail, so she took the herring and stuck its snout into my 
 face. The assistants tease me, send me to the tavern for 
 vodka, make me steal the master’s cucumbers, and the 
 master beats me with whatever is handy. Food there is 
 
VANKA 157 
 
 none; in the morning it’s bread, at dinner gruel, and in the 
 evening bread again. Аз for tea or sour-cabbage soup, 
 the master and the mistress themselves guzzle that. ‘They 
 make me sleep in the vestibule, and when their brat cries, 
 I don’t sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear 
 | Сгапарара, for Heaven’s sake, take me away from here, 
 home to our village, I can’t bear this any more. ... I bow 
 _to the ground to you, and wiil pray to God for ever and 
 ever, take me from here or I shall die. . . .” 
 The corners of Vanka’s mouth went down, he rubbed his 
 eyes with his dirty fist, and sobbed. 
 : “РИ grate your tobacco for you,” he continued, “ГРП pray 
 | №0 God for you, and if there is anything wrong, then flog 
 | me like the grey goat. And if you really think I shan’t 
 find work, then РИ ask the manager, for Christ’s sake, to 
 let me clean the boots, or ГП go instead of Fedya аз 
 /underherdsman. Dear Grandpapa, I can’t bear this any 
 `тоге, it'll kill me. . . . I wanted to run away to our vil- 
 lage, but I have no boots, and I was afraid of the frost, and 
 ' when I grow up ГП look after you, no one shall harm you, 
 /and when you die ГЛ pray for the repose of your soul, just 
 like I do for mamma Pelagueya. 
 
 “Аз for Moscow, it is a large town, there are all gentle- 
 men’s houses, lots of horses, no sheep, and the dogs are 
 not vicious. The children don’t come round at Christmas 
 _with a star, no one is allowed to sing in the choir, and once 
 I saw in a shop window hooks on a line and fishing rods, 
 all for sale, and for every kind of fish, awfully convenient. 
 And there was one hook which would catch a sheat-fish 
 weighing a pound. And there are shops with guns, like the 
 -master’s, and I am sure they must cost тоо rubles each. 
 And in the meat-shops there are woodcocks, partridges, and 
 hares, but who shot them or where they come from, the 
 _shopman won’t say. 
 
 “Dear Grandpapa, and when the masters give a Christ- 
 -mas tree, take a golden walnut and hide it in my green 
 box. Ask the young lady, Olga Ignatyevna, for it, say 
 it’s for Vanka.” 
 Vanka sighed convulsively, and again stared at the win- 
 dow. He remembered that his grandfather always went 
 
 
 
158 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 to the forest for the Christmas tree, and took his 
 grandson with him. What happy times! ‘The frost crack- 
 led, his grandfather crackled, and as they both did, Vanka 
 did the same. Then before cutting down the Christmas tree 
 his grandfather smoked his pipe, took a long pinch of 
 snuff, and made fun of poor frozen little Vanka. . . . The 
 young fir trees, wrapt in hoar-frost, stood motionless, wait- 
 ing for which of them would die. Suddenly a hare springing 
 from somewhere would dart over the snowdrift. . . . His 
 grandfather could not help shouting: 
 
 “Catch it, catch it, catch it! Ah, short-tailed devil!” 
 “When the tree was ‘down, his grandfather dragged it to the 
 master’s house, and there they set about decorating it. The 
 young lady, Olga Ignatyevna, Vanka’s great friend, busied 
 herself most about it. When little Vanka’s mother, Pela- 
 gueya, was still alive, and was servant-woman in the house, 
 Olga Ignatyevna used to stuff him with sugar-candy, and, 
 having nothing to do, taught him to read, write, count up 
 to one hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. When 
 Pelagueya died, they placed the orphan Vanka in the kitchen 
 with his grandfather, and from the kitchen he was sent to 
 Moscow to Aliakhin, the shoemaker. 
 
 “Come quick, dear Grandpapa,” continued Vanka, “I be- 
 seech you for Christ’s sake take me from here. Have pity 
 on a poor orphan, for here they beat me, and I am fright- 
 fully hungry, and so sad that I can’t tell you, I cry all the 
 time. The other day the master hit me on the head with a 
 last; I fell to the ground, and only just returned to life. My 
 life is a misfortune, worse than any dog’s....I send 
 greetings to Aliona, to one-eyed Tegor, and the coach- 
 man, and don’t let any one have my mouth-organ. I 
 remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov, dear Grandpapa, do 
 come.” 
 
 Vanka folded his sheet of paper in four, and put it into 
 an envelope purchased the night before for a kopek. He 
 thought a little, dipped the pen into the ink, and wrote 
 the address: 
 
 “The village, to my grandfather.” He then scratched his 
 head, thought again, and added: ‘Konstantin Makarych.” 
 Pleased at not having been interfered with in his writing, he 
 
VANKA 15% 
 
 _ put on his cap, and, without putting on his sheep-skin coat, 
 ran out in his shirt-sleeves into the street. 
 
 The shopman at the poulterer’s, from whom he had in- 
 quired the night before, had told him that letters were to be 
 put into post-boxes, and from there they were conveyed 
 over the whole earth in mail troikas by drunken post-boys 
 _and to the sound of bells. Vanka ran to the first post-box 
 _and slipped his precious letter into the slit. 
 
 An hour afterwards, lulled by hope, he was sleeping 
 soundly. In his dreams he saw a stove, by the stove his 
 ` grandfather sitting with his iegs dangling down, barefooted, 
 
 ' ап reading a letter to the cooks, and Viun walking roukd 
 the stove wagging his tai. 
 
 mae я аа а БЕ 
 о ee See ee ae 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 
 
 By Fropor SOLOGUB 
 
 “VERYTHING in Lelechka’s nursery was bright, pretty, 
 and cheerful. lLelechka’s sweet voice charmed her 
 mother. Lelechka was a delightful child. There was no 
 other such child, there never had been, and there never 
 would be. Lelechka’ s mother, Serafima Aleksandrovna, was 
 sure of that. Lelechka’s eyes were dark and large, her 
 cheeks were rosy, her lips were made for kisses and for 
 laughter. But it was not these charms in Lelechka that 
 gave her mother the keenest joy. Lelechka was her mother’s 
 only child. That was why every movement of Lelechka’s 
 bewitched her mother. It was great bliss to hold Lelechka 
 on her knees and to fondle her; to feel the little girl in her 
 arms-——a thing as lively and as bright as a little bird. 
 -To tell the ‘truth, Serafima Aleksandrovna felt happy only 
 in the nursery. She felt cold with her husband. 
 Fa Perhaps it was because he himself loved the cold—he 
 ae В ед to drink cold water, and to breathe cold air. He was 
 always fresh and cool, with a frigid smile, and wherever he 
 passed cold currents seemed to move in the air. 
 ” The Nesletyevs, Sergey Modestovich and Serafima Aleks- 
 -androvna, had married without love or calculation, because 
 _ it was the accepted thing. He was a young man of thirty- 
 - five, she a young woman of twenty-five; both were of the 
 same circle and well brought up; he was expected to take 
 а wife, and the time had:come for her to take a husband. 
 It even seemedt0 Serafima Aleksandrovna that she was 
 in love with-her future husband, and this made her happy. 
 He looked handsome and well-bred: his intelligent grey 
 eyes always preserved a dignified expression; and he ful- 
 filled his obligations of a fiancé with irreproachable gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Pe с 
 
 15е 
 
 ее pte peo 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 161 
 
 The bride was also good-looking; she was a tall, dark- 
 eyed, dark-haired girl, somewhat timid but very tactful. 
 
 ’ Не was not after her dowry, though it pleased him to know 
 
 : 
 
 ) 
 
 that she had something. Не had connexions, and his wife 
 
 came of good, influential people. This might, at the proper 
 
 opportunity, prove useful. Always irreproachable and tact- 
 ful, Nesletyev got on in his position not so fast that any 
 one should envy him, nor yet so slow that he should envy 
 
 any one else—everything came in the proper measure and 
 at the proper time. 
 
 After their marriage there was nothing in the manta 
 
 of Sergey Modestovich to suggest anything wrong to hi 
 wife. Later, however, when his wife was about to have a 
 child, Sergey Modestovich established connexions elsewhere 
 
 | 
 
 of a light and temporary nature. Serafima Aleksandrovna 
 
 found this out, and, to her own astonishment, was not par- 
 
 ticularly hurt; she awaited her infant with a restless antici- 
 pation that swallowed every other feeling. 
 
 A little girl was born; Serafima Aleksandrovna gave her: 
 self up to her. At the beginning she used to tell her hus- 
 band, with rapture, of all the joyous details of Lelechka’s 
 
 existence. But she soon found that he listened to her with- 
 out the slightest interest, and only from the habit of polite- 
 
 
 
 
 
 ness. Serafima Aleksandrovna drifted farther and farther © 
 away from him. She loved her little girl with the ungrati- 
 fied passion that other women, deceived in their husbands, 
 show their chance young lovers. 
 
 “Mamochka, let’s play риа?’ (hide and seek), cried 
 Lelechka, pronouncing the 7 like the 7, so that the word 
 sounded “pliatki.” 
 
 This charming inability to speak always made Serafima 
 Aleksandrovna smile with tender rapture. Lelechka then 
 ran away, stamping with her plump little legs over 
 the carpets, and hid herself behind the curtains near her 
 bed. 
 
 “Tiu-tiu, mamochka!” she cried out in her sweet, laugh- 
 ing voice, as she looked out with a single roguish eye. 
 
 “Where is my baby girl?” the mother asked, as she 
 looked for Lelechka and made believe that she did not see 
 
 her. 
 
162 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 And Lelechka poured out her rippling laughter in her 
 hiding place. Then she came out a little farther, and her 
 mother, as though she had only just caught sight of her, 
 seized her by her little shoulders and exclaimed joyously: 
 “Here she is, my Lelechka!” 
 
 Lelechka laughed long and merrily, her head close to her 
 mother’s knees, and all of her cuddled up between her 
 mother’s white hands. Her mother’s eyes glowed with pas- 
 sionate emotion. 
 
 “Now, mamochka, you hide,” said Lelechka, as she ceased 
 laughing. 
 
 Her mother went to hide. Lelechka turned away as 
 though not to see, but watched her mamochka stealthily all 
 the time. Mamma hid behind the cupboard, and exclaimed: 
 “Tiu-tiu, baby girl!” 
 
 Lelechka ran round the room and looked into all the 
 corners, making believe, as her mother had done before, 
 that she was seeking—though she really knew all the time 
 where her mamochka was standing. 
 
 “Where’s my mamochka?” asked Lelechka. ‘She’s not 
 here, and she’s not here,” she kept on repeating, as she ran 
 from corner to corner. 
 
 Her mother stood, with suppressed breathing, her head 
 pressed against the wall, her hair somewhat disarranged. A 
 smile of absolute bliss played on her red lips. 
 
 The nurse, Fedosya, a good-natured and fine-looking, if 
 somewhat stupid woman, smiled as she looked at her mistress 
 with her characteristic expression, which seemed to say that 
 it was not for her to object to gentlewomen’s caprices. She 
 thought to herself: ‘The mother is like a little child her- 
 selfi—look how excited she is.” 
 
 Lelechka was getting nearer her mother’s corner. Her 
 mother was growing more absorbed every moment by her 
 interest in the game; her heart beat with short quick strokes, 
 and she pressed even closer to the wall, disarranging her 
 hair still more. Lelechka suddenly glanced toward her 
 mother’s corner and screamed with joy. 
 
 “Руе found ’oo,” she cried out loudly and joyously, mis- 
 pronouncing her words in a way that again made her mother 
 
 happy. 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 163. 
 
 She pulled her mother by her hands to the middle of 
 
 _the room, they were merry and they laughed; and Lelechka 
 again hid her head against her mother’s knees, and went on 
 _lisping and lisping, without end, her sweet little words, so 
 fascinating yet so awkward. 
 _ Sergey Modestovich was coming at this moment toward 
 the nursery. Through the half-closed doors he heard the 
 laughter, the joyous outcries, the sound of romping. He 
 entered the nursery, smiling his genial cold smile; he was 
 irreproachably dressed, and he looked fresh and erect, and 
 he spread round him an atmosphere of cleanliness, fresh- 
 ness and coldness. Не entered in the midst of the lively 
 game, and he confused them all by his radiant coldness. 
 Even Fedosya felt abashed, now for her mistress, now for 
 herself. Serafima Aleksandrovna at once became calm and 
 apparently cold—and this mood communicated itself to 
 the little girl, who ceased to laugh, but looked instead, 
 silently and intently, at her father. 
 
 Sergey Modestovich gave a swift glance round the room. 
 He liked coming here, where everything was beautifully аг- 
 -ranged; this was done by Serafima Aleksandrovna, who 
 wished to surround her little girl, from her very infancy, 
 only with the loveliest things. Serafima Aleksandrovna 
 dressed herself tastefully; this, too, she did for Lelechka, 
 with the same end in view. One thing Sergey Modestovich 
 had not become reconciled to, and this was his wife’s almost 
 continuous presence in the nursery. 
 
 _ “Tt’s just as I thought. ... I knew that Га find you 
 here,” he said with a derisive and condescending smile. 
 
 They left the nursery together. Аз he followed his wife 
 through the door Sergey Modestovich said rather indiffer- 
 ently, in an incidental way, laying no stress on his words: 
 “Don’t you think that it would be well for the little girl if 
 she were sometimes without your company? Merely, you 
 see, that the child should feel its own individuality,” he ex- 
 plained in answer to Serafima Aleksandrovna’s puzzled 
 glance. 
 
 “She’s still so little,” said Serafima Aleksandrovna. 
 
 “In any case, this is but my humble opinion. I don’t 
 insist. It’s your kingdom there.” 
 
‘164 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 «РИ think it over,” his wife answered, smiling, as he did, 
 coldly but genially. 
 Then they began to talk of something else. 
 
 II 
 
 Nurse Fedosya, sitting in the kitchen that evening, was 
 telling the silent housemaid Darya and the talkative old 
 cook Agathya about the young lady of the house, and how 
 the child loved to play priatki with her mother—‘She 
 hides her little face, and cries ‘Нину? !” 
 
 “And the mistress herself is like a little one,” added 
 Fedosya, smiling. 
 
 Agathya listened and shook her head ominously; while 
 her face became grave and reproachful. 
 
 “That the mistress does it, well, that’s one thing; but 
 that the young lady does it, that’s bad.” 
 
 “Why?” asked Fedosya with curiosity. 
 
 This expression of curiosity gave her face the look of a 
 wooden, roughly-painted doll. 
 
 “Yes, that’s bad,” repeated Agathya with conviction. 
 “Terribly bad!” 
 
 “Well?” said Fedosya, the Hidicebus expression of curios- 
 ity on her face becoming more emphatic. 
 
 “She'll hide, and hide, and hide away,” said Agathya, 
 in a mysterious whisper, as she looked cautiously toward 
 the door. 
 
 “What are you saying?” exclaimed Fedosya, frightened. 
 
 “Tt’s the truth I’m saying, remember my words,” Agathya 
 went on with the same assurance and secrecy. “It’s the sur- 
 est sign.” 
 
 The old woman had invented this sign, quite suddenly, 
 herself; and she was evidently very proud of it. 
 
 Ш 
 
 Lelechka was asleep, and Serafima Aleksandrovna was sit- 
 ting in her own room, thinking with joy and tenderness 
 
HIDE AND SEEK £65 
 
 of Lelechka. Lelechka was in her thoughts, first a sweet, 
 tiny girl, then a sweet, big girl, then again a delightful little 
 girl; and so until the end she remained mamma’s little | 
 Lelechka. 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna did not even notice that Fe- 
 dosya came up to her and paused before her. Fedosya 
 had a worried, frightenea look. 
 | “Madam, madam,” she said quietly, in a trembling 
 voice. 
 
 ’ Serafima Aleksandrovna gave a start. Fedosya’s face 
 
 | made her anxious. 
 
 _ “What is it, Fedosya?” she asked with great concern. 
 
 “Ts there anything wrong with Lelechka?” 
 
 | “No, madam,” said Fedosya, as she gesticulated with 
 
 ‘her hands to reassure her mistress and to make her sit 
 
 | “Lelechka is asleep, may God be with her! Only 
 Га like to say something—you see—Lelechka is always 
 [trate herself—that’s not good.” 
 
 Fedosya looked at her “mnistress with fixed eyes, which 
 ‘had grown round from fright. 
 
 _ “Why not goodr” asked Serafima Aleksandrovna, with 
 -vexation, succumbing involuntarily to vague fears. 
 
 ВЕТ can’t tell you how bad it is,” said Fedosya, and her 
 face expressed the most decided confidence. 
 
 “Please speak in a sensible way,” observed Serafima 
 Aleksandrovna dryly. “I understand nothing of what you 
 are saying.” 
 
 “You see, madam, it’s a kind of omen, 
 dosya abruptly, in a shamefaced way. 
 
 “Nonsense!” said Serafima Aleksandrovna. 
 
 She did not wish to hear any further as to the sort of 
 omen it was, and what it foreboded. But, somehow, a 
 sense of fear and of sadness crept into her mood, and it 
 was humiliating to feel that an absurd tale should disturb 
 her beloved fancies, and should agitate her so deeply. 
 
 “Of course I know that gentlefolk don’t believe in 
 omens, but it’s a bad omen, madam,” Fedosya went on in 
 
 a doleful voice, “the young lady will hide, and hide. . . .” 
 
 Suddenly she burst into tears, sobbing out loudly: “She’ll 
 hide, and hide, and hide away, ‘angelic little soul, in a damp 
 
 ” explained Fe- 
 
£66 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 grave,” she continued, as she wiped her tears with her apron 
 and blew her nose. 
 
 “Who told you all this?” asked Serafima Aleksandrovna 
 in an austere low voice. 
 
 “Agathya says so, madam,” answered Fedosya; “‘it’s she 
 that knows.” 
 
 “Knows!” exclaimed Se/afima Aleksandrovna in irritation, 
 as though she wished to protect herself somehow from this 
 sudden anxiety. “What nonsense! Please don’t come to me 
 with any such notions i. the future. Now you may go.” 
 
 Fedosya, dejected, her feelings hurt, left her mistress. 
 
 “What nonsense! Аз thcugh Lelechka could die!” 
 thought Serafima Aleksandrovna to herself, trying to conquer 
 the feeling of coldness and fear which took possession of 
 her at the thought of the possible death of Lelechka. Sera- 
 fima Aleksandrovna, upon reflection, attributed these 
 women’s beliefs in omens to ignorance. She saw clearly that 
 there could be no possible connexion between a child’s quite 
 ordinary diversion and the continuation of the child’s life. 
 She made a special effort that evening to occupy her mind 
 with other matters, but her thoughts returned involuntarily 
 to the fact that Lelechka loved to hide herself. 
 
 When Lelechka was still quite small, and had learned to 
 vlistinguish between her mother and her nurse, she some- 
 times, sitting in her nurse’s arms, made a sudden roguish 
 grimace, and hid her laughing face in the nurse’s shoulder. 
 Then she would look out with a sly glance. 
 
 Of late, in those rare moments of the mistress’ absence 
 from the nursery, Fedosya had again taught Lelechka to 
 hide; and when Lelechka’s mother, on coming in, saw how 
 lovely the chi’d looked when she was hiding, she herself 
 began to play hide and seek with her tiny daughter. 
 
 IV 
 
 The next day Serafima Aleksandrovna, absorbed in her 
 joyous cares for Lelechka, had forgotten Fedosya’s words 
 of the day before. 
 
 But when she returned to the nursery, after having ог= 
 
: 
 HIDE AND SEEE 167 
 
 ered the dinner, and she heard Lelechka suddenly cry 
 “Tin-tiul? from under the table, a feeling of fear suddenly 
 took hold of her. Though she reproached herself at once 
 for this unfounded, superstitious dread, nevertheless she 
 could not enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of Lelechka’s 
 favourite game, and she tried to divert Lelechka’s attention 
 to something else. 
 
 Lelechka was a lovely and obedient child. She eagerly 
 complied with her mother’s new wishes. But as she had got 
 into the habit of hiding from her mother in some corner, 
 and of crying out “Тй-Ни!” so even that day she returned 
 ‘more than once to the game. 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna tried desperately to amuse Le: 
 lechka. This was not so easy because restless, threatening 
 ‘thoughts obtruded themselves constantly. 
 
 “Why does Lelechka keep on recalling the t7u-tin? Why 
 does she not get tired of the same thing—of eternally cios- 
 ‘ing her eyes, and of hiding her face? Perhaps,” thought 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna, “she is not as strongly drawn to 
 the world as other children, who are attracted by many 
 things. If this is so, is it not a sign of organic weakness? 
 As it not a germ of the unconscious non-desire to live?” 
 
 _ Serafima Aleksandrovna was tormented by presentiments. 
 She felt ashamed of herself for ceasing to play hide and 
 seek with Lelechka before Fedosya. But this game had be- 
 ‘come agonising to her, all the more agonising because she 
 had a real desire to play it, and because something drew 
 her very strongly to hide herself from Lelechka and to seek 
 out the hiding child. Serafima Aleksandrovna herself began 
 the game once or twice, though she played it with a heavy 
 heart. She suffered as though committing an evil deed with 
 full consciousness. 
 
 It was a sad day for Serafima Aleksandrovna. 
 
 
 
 V 
 
 Lelechka was about to fall asleep. No sooner had she 
 climbed into her little bed, protected by a network on all 
 sides, than her eyes began to close from fatigue. Her mother 
 
168 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 covered her with a blue blanket. Lelechka drew her sweet 
 little hands from under the blanket and stretched them out 
 to embrace her mother. Her mother bent down. Lelechka, 
 with a tender expression on her sleepy face, kissed her 
 mother and let her head fall on the pillow. As her hands 
 hid themselves under the blanket Lelechka whispered: 
 “The hands tiu-tiu!” 
 
 The mother’s heart seemed to stop—Lelechka lay there so 
 small, so frail, so quiet. Lelechka smiled gently, closed her 
 eyes and said quietly: “The eyes tiu-tin!”’ 
 
 Then even more quietly: ‘“Lelechka Ни-Ни!” 
 
 With these words she fell asleep, her face pressing the 
 pillow. She seemed so small and so frail under the blanket 
 that covered her. Her mother looked at her with sad eyes. 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna remained standing over Lelechka’s 
 bed a long while, and she kept looking at Lelechka with 
 tenderness and fear. 
 
 “T’m a mother: is it possible that I shouldn’t be able to 
 protect her?” she thought, as she imagined the various ills 
 that might befall Lelechka. 
 
 She prayed long that night, but the prayer did not re- 
 lieve her sadness. 
 
 VI 
 
 Several days passed. Lelechka caught cold. The fever 
 came upon her at night. When Serafima Aleksandrovna, 
 awakened by Fedosya, came to Lelechka and saw her look- 
 ing so hot, so restless, and so tormented, she instantly 
 recalled the evil omen, and a hopeless despair took posses- 
 sion of her from the first moments. 
 
 A doctor was called, and everything was done that is 
 usual on such occasions—but the inevitable happened. 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna tried to console herself with the 
 hope that Lelechka would get well, and would again laugh 
 and play—yet this seemed to het an unthinkable happiness! 
 And Lelechka grew feebler from hour to hour. 
 
 All simulated tranquillity, so as not to frighten Serafima 
 Aleksandrovna, but their masked faces only made her sad. 
 
 Nothing made her so unhappy as the reiterations of 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 169 
 
 Fedosya, uttered between sobs: ‘She hid herself and hid 
 herself, our Lelechka!”’ 
 But the thoughts of Serafima Aleksandrovna were con- 
 fused, and she could not quite grasp what was happening. 
 : Fever was consuming Lelechka, and there were times 
 when she lost consciousness and spoke in delirium. But 
 when she returned to herself she bore her pain and her 
 fatigue with gentle good nature; she smiled feebly at her 
 | mamochka, so that her mamochka should not see how much 
 she suffered. Three days passed, torturing like a nightmare. 
 ‘Lelechka grew quite feeble. She did not know that she 
 was dying. 
 ’ She glanced at her mother with her dimmed eyes, and 
 lisped in a scarcely audible, hoarse voice: “Tiu-tiu, та- 
 mochka! Make tiu-tiu, mamochka! (2 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna hid her face behind the curtains 
 mear Lelechka’s bed. How tragic! 
 | “Mamochka!” called Lelechka in an almost inaudible 
 voice. 
 ’ Lelechka’s mother bent over her, and Lelechka, her vision 
 grown still more dim, saw her mother’s pale, despairing face 
 for the last time. 
 “A white mamochka!” whispered Lelechka. 
 _ Mamochka’s white face became blurred, and everything 
 srew dark before Lelechka. She caught the edge of the bed- 
 cover feebly with her hands and whispered: “Tiu-tiu!”’ 
 
 Something rattled in her throat; Lelechka opened and 
 again closed her rapidly paling lips, and died. 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna was in dumb despair as she left 
 Lelechka, and went out of the room. She met her husband. 
 
 “Lelechka is dead,” she said in a quiet, dull voice. 
 
 Sergey Modestovich looked anxiously at her pale face. He 
 was struck by the strange stupor in her formerly animated 
 handsome features. 
 
 
 
 
 
 VII 
 
 Lelechka was dressed, placed in a little coffin, and carried 
 into the parlour. Serafima Aleksandrovna was standing by 
 the coffin and looking dully at her dead child. Sergey Моде-, 
 
170 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 stovich went to his wife and, consoling her with cold, empty 
 words, tried to draw her away from the coffin. Serafima 
 Aleksandrovna smiied. 
 
 “Go away,” she said quietly. ‘“Lelechka is playing, 
 She’ll be up in a minute.” 
 
 “Sima, my dear, don’t agitate yourself,” said Sergey 
 Modestovich in a whisper. “You must resign yourself to 
 your fate.” 
 
 “She'll be up in a minute,” persisted Serafima Aleksan- 
 drovna, her eyes fixed on the dead little girl. 
 
 Sergey Modestovich looked round him cautiously: he was 
 afraid of the unseemly and of the ridiculous. 
 
 “Sima, don’t agitate yourself,” he repeated. ‘This would 
 be a miracle, and miracles do not happen in the nineteenth 
 century.” 
 
 No sooner had he said these words than Sergey Mode- 
 stovich felt their irrelevance to what had happened. He 
 was confused and annoyed. 
 
 He took his wife by the arm, and cautiously led her away 
 from the coffin. She did not oppose him. 
 
 Her face seemed tranquil and her eyes were dry. She 
 went into the nursery and began to walk round the room, 
 looking into those places where Lelechka used to hide her- 
 self. She walked all about the room, and bent now and 
 then to look under the table or under the bed, and kept on 
 repeating cheerfully: ‘Where is my little one? Where is 
 my Lelechka?” 
 
 After she had walked round the room once she began to 
 make her quest anew. Fedosya, motionless, with dejected 
 face, sat in a corner, and looked frightened at her mistress; 
 then she suddenly burst out sobbing, and she wailed loudly: 
 
 “She hid herself, and hid herself, our Lelechka, our angelic 
 little soul!” 
 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna trembled, paused, cast a per- 
 plexed look at Fedosya, began to weep, and left the nursery 
 quietly. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Sergey Modestovich hurried the funeral. He saw that 
 Serafima Aleksandroyna was terribly shocked by her sudden 
 
HIDE AND SEEK 171 
 
 ‘misfortune, and as he feared for her reason he thought 
 she would more readily be diverted and consoled when 
 ‘Lelechka was buried. 
 ® Мех morning Serafima Aleksandrovna dressed with par- 
 ‘ticular care—for Lelechka. When she entered the parlour 
 ‘there were several people between her and Lelechka. The 
 ‘priest and deacon paced up and down the room; ciouds of 
 ‘blue smoke drifted in the air, and there was a smell of 
 incense. ‘There was an oppressive feeling of heaviness in 
 Seratima Aleksandrovna’s head as she approached Lelechka. 
 Lelechka lay there still and pale, and smiled pathetically. 
 Serafima Aleksandrovna laid her cheek upon the edge of 
 Lelechka’s coffin, and whispered: “Tiu-tiu, little one!” 
 The little one did not reply. Then there was some kind 
 of stir and confusion around Serafima Aleksandrovna; 
 ‘strange, unnecessary faces bent over her, some one held 
 her—and Lelechka was carried away somewhere. 
 _ Serafima Aleksandrovna stood up erect, sighed in a lost 
 way, smiled, and called loudly: ‘“Lelechka!”’ 
 Lelechka was being carried out. The mother threw her- 
 ‘self after the coffin with despairing sobs, but she was held 
 back. She sprang behind the door, through which Lelechka 
 had passed, sat down there on the floor, and as she looked 
 through the crevice, she cried out: “‘Lelechka, tiu-tiu!” 
 Then she put her head out from behind the door, and 
 began to laugh. 
 Lelechka was quickly carried away from her mother, and 
 ‘those who carried her seemed to run rather than to walk. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DETHRONED 
 
 By I. №. РотдРЕМКО 
 
 ELL?” Captain Zarubkin’s wife called out neatientil 
 to her husband, rising from the sofa and turning to 
 “202 him аз he entered. 
 
 “He doesn’t know anything about it,” he replied indif- 
 ferently, as if the matter were of no interest to him. Then 
 he asked in a businesslike tone: “Nothing for me from 
 the office?” 
 
 “Why should I know? Am I your errand boy?” 
 
 “How they dilly-dally! If only the package doesn’t come 
 x00 late. It’s so important!” 
 
 “Idiot!” 
 
 “Who’s an idiot?” 
 
 “You, with your indifference, your stupid egoism.” 
 
 The captain said nothing. He was neither surprised nor 
 insulted. On the contrary, the smile on his face was as 
 though he had received a compliment. These wifely animad- 
 versions, probably oft-heard, by no means interfered with 
 his domestic peace. 
 
 “It can’t be that the man doesn’t know when his wife 
 is coming back home,” Mrs. Zarubkin continued excitedly. 
 “She’s written to him every day of the four months that 
 she’s been away. ‘The postmaster told me so.” 
 
 “Semyonov! Ho, Semyonov! Has any one from the 
 office been here?” 
 
 “Т don’t know, your Excellency,’ 
 voice from back of the room. 
 
 “Why don’t you know? Where have you been?” 
 
 “T went to Abramka, your Excellency.” 
 
 “The tailor again?” 
 
 “Ves, your Excellency, the tailor Abramka.” 
 
 The captain spat in annoyance. 
 
 “Апа where is Krynka?” 
 
 w2 
 
 2 
 
 came in a loud, clear 
 
dl 
 DETHRONED 173 
 
 "Не went to market, your Excellency.” 
 | “Was he told to go to market?” 
 | “Yes, your Excellency.” 
 
 _ The captain spat again. 
 
 ) “Why do you keep spitting? Such vulgar manners!” his 
 wife cried angrily. “You behave at home like a drunken 
 subaltern. You haven’t the least consideration for your 
 wife. You are so coarse in your behaviour towards me! 
 Do, please, go to your office.” 
 
 “Semyonov.” 
 
 “Your Excellency?” 
 
 “Tf the package comes, please have it sent back to the 
 office and say I’ve gone there. And listen! Some one must 
 always be here. I won’t have everybody out of the house 
 at the same time. Do you hear?” 
 | “Yes, your Excellency.” 
 wo The captain put on his cap to go. In the doorway he 
 turned and addressed his wife. 
 
 “Please, Tasya, please don’t send all the servants on your 
 errands at the same time. Something important may turn 
 up, and then there’s nobody here to attend to it.” 
 
 - Не went out, and his wife remained reclining in the sofa 
 corner as if his plea were no concern of hers. But scarcely 
 had he left the house, when she called out: 
 
 ’ “Semyonov, come here. Quick!” 
 
 ’ А bare-footed unshaven man in dark blue pantaloons and 
 cotton shirt presented himself. His stocky figure and red 
 face made a wholesome appearance. He was the Captain’s 
 orderly. 
 
 “At your service, your Excellency.” 
 
 “Listen, Semyonov, you don’t seem to be stupid.” 
 
 “Т don’t know, your Excellency.” 
 
 “For goodness’ sake, drop ‘your Excellency.’ I am not 
 your superior officer.” 
 
 “Ves, your Excel—” 
 
 “Tdiot!” 
 
 But the lady’s manner toward the servant was far friend- 
 lier than toward her husband. Semyonov had it in his 
 power to perform important services for her, while the cap- 
 tain had not come up to her expectations. 
 
 
 
 
 
174 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Tisten, Semyonov, how do you and the doctor’s пы 
 get along together? Are you friendly?” 
 
 “Ves, your Excellency.” 
 
 “Intolerable!” cried the lady, jumping up. “Stop using 
 that silly title. Can’t you speak like a sensible man?” 
 
 Semyonov had been standing in the stiff attitude of at- 
 tention, with the palms of his hands at the seams of his 
 trousers. Now he suddenly relaxed, and even wiped his nose 
 with his fist. | 
 
 “That’s the way we are taught to do,” he said саге: 
 lessly, with a clownish grin. “The gentlemen, the officers, 
 insist on it.” 
 
 “Now, tell me, you are on good terms with the doctor’s 
 men?” 
 
 “You mean Podmar and Shuchok? Of course, we're 
 friends.” 
 
 “Very well, then go straight to them and try to find out 
 when Mrs. Shaldin is expected back. They ought to know, 
 They must be getting things ready against her return— 
 cleaning her bedroom and fixing it up. Do you understand? 
 But be careful to find out right. And also be very careful 
 not to let on for whom you are finding it out. Do you 
 understand?’ 
 
 “Of course, I understand.” 
 
 “Well, then, go. But one more thing. Since you’re going 
 out, you may as well stop at Abramka’s again and tell him 
 to come here right away. You understand?” 
 
 “But his Excellency gave me orders to stay at home,’ 
 said Semyonov, scratching himself behind his ears. 
 
 “Please don’t answer back. Just do as I tell you. Сс 
 on, now.” 
 
 “At your service.” And the orderly, impressed by the 
 lady’s severe military tone, left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Zarubkin remained reclining on the sofa for a while 
 Then she rose and walked up and down the room and finally 
 went to her bedroom, where her two little daughters were 
 playing in their nurse’s care. She scolded them a bit anc 
 returned to her former place on the couch. Her every 
 movement betrayed great excitement. 
 
 e e 7 ° e e e 
 
| DETHRONED 175 
 
 Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the most 
 
 looked-up to ladies of the S Regiment and even of the 
 whole town of Chmyrsk, where the regiment was quartered. 
 To be sure, you hardly could say that, outside the regiment, 
 the town could boast any ladies at all. There were very 
 respectable women, decent wives, mothers, daughters and 
 widows of honourable citizens; but they all dressed in cotton 
 and flannel, and on high holidays made a show of cheap 
 ‘Cashmere gowns over which they wore gay shawls with 
 borders of wonderful arabesques. Their hats and other 
 headgear gave not the faintest evidence of good taste. Sa 
 they could scarcely be dubbed “ladies.” They were satis- 
 fied to be called “women.” Each one of them, almost, had 
 the name of her husband’s trade or position tacked to her 
 name—Mrs. Grocer so-and-so, Mrs. Mayor so-and-so, Mrs, 
 ‘Milliner so-and-so, etc. Genuine ladies in the Russian so- 
 ‘ciety sense had never come to the town before the 5 
 ‘Regiment had taken up its quarters there; and it goes 
 without saying that the ladies of the regiment had nothing 
 in common, and therefore no intercourse with, the women 
 of the town. They were so dissimilar that they were like 
 creatures of a different species. 
 ’ There is no disputing that Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarub- 
 kin was one of the most looked-up-to of the ladies. She 
 invariably played the most important part at all the regi- 
 mental affairs—the amateur theatricals, the social evenings, 
 the afternoon teas. If the captain’s wife was not to be pres- 
 lent, it was a foregone conclusion that the affair would not be 
 a success. 
 
 The most important point was that Mrs. Zarubkin had the 
 untarnished reputation of being the best-dressed of all the 
 ladies. She was always the most distinguished looking at 
 the annual ball. Her gown for the occasion, ordered from 
 Moscow, was always chosen with the greatest regard for her 
 charms and defects, and it was always exquisitely beautiful. 
 A new fashion could not gain admittance to the other ladies 
 of the regiment except by way of the captain’s wife. Thanks 
 to her good taste in dressing, the stately blonde was queen 
 at all the balls and in all the salons of Chmyrsk. Another 
 advantage of hers was that although she was nearly forty she 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
176 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES : 3 
 still looked fresh and youthful, so that the young officers 
 were constantly hovering about her and paying her hom-— 
 age. 
 
 November was a very lively month in the regiment’s cal- 
 endar. It was on the tenth of November that the annual 
 ball took place. The ladies, of course, spent their best 
 efforts in preparation for this event. Needless to say that in 
 these arduous activities, Abramka Stiftik, the ladies’ tailor, 
 played a prominent role. He was the one man in Chmyrsk 
 who had any understanding at all for the subtle art of the 
 feminine toilet. Preparations had begun in his shop in 
 August already. Within the last weeks his modest parlour— 
 furnished with six shabby chairs placed about a round table, _ 
 and a fly-specked mirror on the wall—the atmosphere heavy 
 with a smell of onions ane herring, had been filled from 
 early morning to the evening hours with the most charming 
 and elegant of the fairer sex. There was trying-on and dis- 
 cussion of styles and selection of material. It was all very 
 nerve-racking for the ladies. 
 
 The only one who had never appeared in this parlour was 
 the captain’s wife. That had been a thorn in Abramka’s 
 flesh. He had spent days and nights going over in his 
 mind how he could rid this lady of the, in his opinion, 
 wretched habit of ordering her clothes from Moscow. For 
 this ball, however, as she herself had told him, she had 
 not ordered a dress but only material from out of town, 
 from which he deduced that he was to make the gown for 
 her. But there was only one week left before the ball, and 
 still she had not come to him. Abramka was in a state 
 of feverishness. He longed once to make a dress for Mrs. 
 Zarubkin. It would add to his glory. He wanted to prove 
 that he understood his trade just as well as any tailor in 
 Moscow, and that it was quite superfluous for her to order 
 her gowns outside of Chmyrsk. He would come out the 
 triumphant competitor of Moscow. 
 
 As each day passed and Mrs. Zarubkin did not appear in 
 his shop, his nervousness increased. Finally she ordered a 
 dressing-jacket from him—but not a word said of a ball 
 gown. What was he to think of it? 
 
 So. when Semyonov told him that Mrs. Zarubkin was ex- 
 
DETHRONED 177 
 
 -pecting him at her home, it goes without saying that he 
 instantly removed the dozen pins in his mouth, as he was 
 trying on a customer’s dress, told one of his assistants to 
 continue with the fitting, and instantly set off to call on the 
 captain’s wife. In this case, it was not a question of a mere 
 ball gown, but of the acquisition of the best customer in 
 town. 
 
 Although Abramka wore a silk hat and a suit in keeping 
 with the silk hat, still he was careful not to ring at the 
 front entrance, but always knocked at the back door. At 
 another time when the captain’s orderly was not in the 
 house—for the captain’s orderly also performed the duties 
 of the captain’s cook—he might have knocked long and loud. 
 On other occasions a cannon might have been shot off right 
 next to Tatyana Grigoryevna’s ears and she would not have 
 lifted her fingers to open the door. But now she instantly 
 caught the sound of the modest knocking and opened the 
 back door herself for Abramka. 
 
 “Oh!” she cried delightedly. ‘You, Abramka!” 
 
 She really wanted to address him less familiarly, as was 
 
 more befitting sc dignified a man in a silk hat; but every- 
 body called him “Abramka,” and he would have been very 
 ‘much surprised had he been honoured with his full name, 
 Abram Srulevich Stiftik. So she thought it best to address 
 him as the others did. 
 Mr. “Abramka” was tall and thin. There was always a 
 “melancholy expression in his pale face. Не had a little 
 ‘stoop, a long and very heavy greyish beard. He had been 
 practising his profession for thirty years. Ever since his 
 apprenticeship he had been called “Abramka,” which did 
 not strike him as at all derogatory or unfitting. Even his 
 shingle read: ‘Ladies’ Tailor: Abramka Stiftik”—the most 
 valid proof that he deemed his name immaterial, but that 
 the chief thing to him was his art. As a matter of fact, he 
 had attained, if not perfection in tailoring, yet remarkable 
 skill. То this all the ladies of the S——- Regiment could 
 attest with conviction. 
 
 Abramka removed his silk hat, stepped into the kitchen, 
 and said gravely, with profound feeling: 
 
 “Mrs. Zarubkin, I am entirely at your service.” 
 
178 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Come into the reception room. I have something very 
 important to speak to you about.” | 
 
 Abramka followed in silence. He stepped softly оп tip- 
 toe, as if afraid of waking some one. 
 
 “Sit down, Abramka, listen—but give me your word of 
 honour, you won’t tell any one?” Tatyana Grigoryevna be- 
 gan, reddening a bit. She was ashamed to have to let the 
 tailor Abramka into her secret, but since there was no get- 
 ting around it, she quieted herself and in an instant had 
 regained her ease. 
 
 “T don’t know what you are speaking of, Mrs. Zarubkin,” 
 Abramka rejoined. He assumed a somewhat injured man- 
 ner. “Have you ever heard of Abramka ever babbling апу- 
 thing out? You certainly know that in my profession— 
 you know everybody has some secret to be kept.” 
 
 “Oh, you must have misunderstood me, Abramka.. 
 What sort of secrets do you mean?” 
 
 “Well, one lady is a little bit one-sided, another lady” — 
 he pointed to his breast—“‘is not quite full enough, another 
 lady has scrawny arms—such things as that have to be cov- 
 ered up or filled out or laced in, so as to look better. That 
 is where our art comes in. But we are in duty bound not to 
 say anything about it.” 
 
 Tatyana Grigoryevna smiled. 
 
 “Well, I can assure you I am all right that way. There 
 is nothing about me that needs to be covered up or filled 
 out.” 
 
 “Oh, as if I didn’t know that! Everybody knows that 
 Mrs. Zarubkin’s figure is perfect,” Abramka cried, trying 
 to flatter his new customer. 
 
 Mrs. Zarubkin laughed and made up her mind to remem- 
 ber “Everybody knows that Mrs. Zarubkin’s figure is per- 
 fect.””. Then she said: 
 
 “Vou know that the ball is to take place in a week.” 
 
 “Ves, indeed, Mrs. Zarubkin, in only one week; unfor- 
 tunately, only one week,” replied Abramka, sighing. 
 
 “But you remember your promise to make my dress for 
 me for the ball this time?” 
 
 “Mrs. Zarubkin,” Abramka cried, laying his hand on his 
 heart. ‘Have I said that I was not willing to make it? 
 
 
 
DETHRONED > 179 
 
 No, indeed, I said it must be made and made right—for 
 Mrs. Zarubkin, it must be better than for any one else. 
 That’s the way I feel about it.” 
 
 “Splendid! Just what I wanted to know.” 
 
 “But why don’t you show me your material? Why 
 don’t you say to me, ‘Here, Abramka, here is the stuff, 
 make a dress?’ Abramka would work on it day and 
 night.” 
 
 “Ahem, that’s just it—I can’t order it. That is where 
 the trouble comes in. Tell me, Abramka, what is the short- 
 est time you need for making the dress? Listen, the very 
 shortest?” 
 
 Abramka shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “Well, is a week too much for a ball dress such as you will 
 want? It’s got to be sewed, it can’t be pasted together, 
 You, yourself, know that, Mrs. Zarubkin.” 
 
 “But supposing I order it only three days before the 
 bail?” 
 
 Abramka started. 
 
 “Only three days before the ball? А ball dress? Am I 
 a god, Mrs. Zarubkin? I am nothing but the ladies’ tailor, 
 Abramka Stiftik.” 
 
 “Well, then you are a nice tailor!” said Tatyana Gri- 
 goryevna, scornfully. ‘In Moscow they made a ball dress 
 for me in two days.” | 
 
 Abramka jumped up as if at а shot, and beat his 
 breast. 
 
 “Ts that so? Then I say, Mrs. Zarubkin,” he cried pa- 
 thetically, “Ш they made а ball gown for you in Moscow 
 in two days, very well, then I will make a ball gown for you, 
 if I must, in one day. I will neither eat nor sleep, and I 
 won’t let my help off either for one minute. How does that 
 suit you?” 
 
 “Sit down, Abramka, thank you very much. I hope I 
 shall not have to put such a strain on you. It really does 
 not depend upon me, otherwise I should have ordered the 
 dress from you long ago.” 
 
 “Tt doesn’t depend upon you? Then upon whom does it 
 depend?” 
 
 ‘““Ahem, it depends upon—but now, Abramka, remember 
 
180 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 this is just between you and me—it depends upon Mrs. 
 Shaldin.” 
 
 “Upon Mrs. Shaldin, the doctor’s wife? Why she isn’t 
 even here.” 
 
 “That’s just it. That is why I have to wait. How is it 
 that a clever man like you, Abramka, doesn’t grasp the 
 situation?” 
 
 “Hm, hm! Let me ее. Abramka racked his brains for 
 a solution of the riddle. How could it be that Mrs. Shaldin, 
 who was away, should have anything to do with Mrs. 
 Zarubkin’s order for a gown? No, that passed his compre- 
 hension. 
 
 “She certainly will get back in time for the ball,” said 
 Mrs. Zarubkin, to give him a cue. 
 
 “Well, yes. > 
 
 “And certainly will bring a dress back with her.” 
 
 “Certainly!” 
 
 “A dress from abroad, something we have never seen here 
 —something highly original. ;. 
 
 “Mrs. Zarubkin!” Abramka cried, as if a truth of tre- 
 mendous import had been revealed to him. “Mrs. Zarub-: 
 kin, I understand. Why certainly! Yes, but that will be 
 pretty hard.” 
 
 “That’s just it.” 
 
 Abramka reflected a moment, then said: 
 
 “T assure you, Mrs. Zarubkin, you need not be a bit un- 
 easy. I will make a dress for you that will be just as grand 
 as the one from abroad. I assure you, your dress will be 
 the most elegant one at the ball, just as it always has been. 
 I tell you, my name won’t be Abramka Stiftik if—” 
 
 His eager asseverations seemed not quite to satisfy the 
 captain’s wife. Her mind was not quite set at ease. She 
 interrupted him. 
 
 “But the style, Abramka, the style! You can’t possibly 
 guess what the latest fashion is abroad.” 
 
 “Why shouldn’t I know what the latest fashion is, Mrs. 
 Zarubkin? In Kiev I have a friend who publishes fashion- 
 plates. I will telegraph to him, and he will immediately send 
 me pictures of the latest French models. The telegram 
 will cost only eighty cents, Mrs. Zarubkin. and Т swear 
 
 т 
 
DETHRONED 181 
 
 to sou I will copy any dress he sends. Mrs. Shaldin can’ 
 possibly have a dress like that.” 
 
 “All very well and good, and that’s what we'll do. Still 
 we must wait until Mrs. Shaldin comes back. Don’t you 
 see, Abramka, 1 must have exactly the same style that she 
 has? Can’t you see, so that nobody can say that she is in 
 the latest fashion?”’ 
 
 At this point Semyonov entered the room cautiously. He 
 was wearing the oddest-looking jacket and the captain’s old 
 boots. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were shining 
 suspiciously. There was every sign that he had used the 
 renewal of friendship with the doctor’s men as a pretext for 
 
 -a. booze. 
 
 “T had to stand them some brandy, your Excellency,” he 
 said saucily, but catching his mistress’s threatening look, he 
 lowered his head guiltily. 
 
 “Tdiot,’” she yelled at him, “face about. Be off with you 
 to the kitchen.” 
 
 In his befuddlement, Semyonov had not noticed Abram- 
 
 .ka’s presence. Now he became aware of him, faced about 
 
 
 
 and retired to the kitchen sheepishly. 
 ‚ “What an impolite fellow,” said Abramka reproachfully. 
 ‚ “Oh, you wouldn’t believe—” said the captain’s wife, but 
 instantly followed Semyonov into the kitchen. 
 
 Semyonov aware of his awful misdemeanour, tried to 
 stand up straight and give a report. 
 
 “She will come back, your Excellency, day after to-mor- 
 row toward evening. She sent a telegram.” 
 
 “Ts that true now?” 
 
 “Т swear it’s true. Shuchok saw it himself.” 
 
 “All right, very good. You will get something for this.” 
 
 “Yes, your Excellency.” 
 
 “Silence, you goose. Go on, set the table.” 
 
 Abramka remained about ten minutes longer with the cap- 
 tain’s wife, and on leaving said: 
 
 “Let me assure you once again, Mrs. Zarubkin, you 
 needn’t worry; just select the style, and I will make a gown 
 for you that the best tailor in Paris can’t beat.” He 
 
 pressed his hand to his heart in token of his intention to de | 
 everything in his т for Mrs. Zarubkin. 1399 
 
(82 PzeSi RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 It was seven o’clock in the evening. Mrs. Shaldin and 
 her trunk had arrived hardly half an hour before, yet the 
 captain’s wife was already there paying a visit; which was 
 a sign of the warm friendship that existed between the two 
 women. ‘They kissed each other and fell to talking. The 
 doctor, a tall man of forty-five, seemed discomfited by the 
 visit, and passed unfriendly side glances at his guest. He 
 had hoped to spend that evening undisturbed with his wife, 
 and he well knew that when the ladies of the regiment came 
 to call upon each other “for only a second,” it meant a 
 whole evening of listening to idle talk. 
 
 “Vou wouldn’t believe me, dear, how bored I was the 
 whole time you were away, how I longed for you, 
 Natalie Semyonovna. But you probably never gave us 
 a thought.” 
 
 “Oh, how can you say anything like that. I was thinking 
 of you every minute, every second. If I hadn’t been obliged 
 to finish the cure, I should have returned long ago. No 
 matter how beautiful it may be away from home, still the 
 only place to live is among those that are near and dear 
 to you.” 
 
 These were only the preliminary soundings. They lasted 
 with variations for a quarter of an hour. First Mrs. Shaldin 
 narrated a few incidents of the trip, then Mrs. Zarubkin 
 gave a report of some of the chief happenings in the life 
 of the regiment. When the conversation was in full swing, 
 and the samovar was singing on the table, and the pan- 
 cakes were spreading their appetising odour, the captain’s 
 wife suddenly cried: 
 
 “T wonder what the fashions are abroad now. I say, 
 you must have feasted your eyes оп them!” 
 
 Mrs. Shaldin simply replied with a scornful gesture. 
 
 “Other people may like them, but I don’t care for ther 
 one bit. I am glad we here don’t get to see them until < 
 year later. You know, Tatyana Grigoryevna, you some 
 times see the ugliest styles.” 
 
 “Really?” asked the captain’s wife eagerly, her eye: 
 gleaming with curiosity. The great moment of complet: 
 revelation seemed to have arrived. | 
 
 $ 
 

 
 DETHRONED 183 
 
 “Perfectly hideous, I tell you. Just imagine, you know 
 how nice the plain skirts were. Then why change them? 
 But no, to be in style now, the skirts have to be draped. 
 Why? It is just a sign of complete lack of imagination. 
 And in Lyons they got out a new kind of silk—but that is 
 still a French secret.” 
 
 “Why a secret? The silk is certainly being worn al- 
 ready?” 
 
 “Yes, one does see it being worn already, but when it 
 was first manufactured, the greatest secret was made of it. 
 They were afraid the Germans would imitate. You under- 
 stand?” 
 
 “Oh, but what is the latest style?” 
 
 “T really can’t explain it to you. All I know is, it is 
 something awful.” 
 
 “She can’t explain! That means she doesn’t want to ex- 
 plain. Oh, the cunning one. What a sly look she has in 
 her eyes.” So thought the captain’s wife. From the very 
 beginning of the conversation, the two warm friends, it need 
 scarcely be said, were mutually distrustful. Each had the 
 conviction that everything the other said was to be taken in 
 the very opposite sense. They were of about the same age, 
 Mrs. Shaldin possibly one or two years younger than Mrs. 
 Zarubkin. Mrs. Zarubkin was rather plump, and had heavy 
 light hair. Her appearance was blooming. Mrs. Shaldin 
 was slim, though well proportioned. She was a brunette 
 with a pale complexion and large dark eyes. ‘They were 
 two types of beauty very likely to divide the gentlemen of. 
 the regiment into two camps of admirers. But women are 
 never content with halves. Mrs. Zarubkin wanted to see 
 all the officers of the regiment at her feet, and so did Mrs. 
 Shaldin. It naturally led to great rivalry between the two 
 women, of which they were both conscious, though they al- 
 ways had the friendliest smiles for each other. 
 
 _ Mrs. Shaldin tried to give a different turn to the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 “Do you think the ball will be interesting this year?” 
 
 “Why should it be interesting?” rejoined the captain’s 
 wife scornfully. “Always the same people, the same old 
 humdrum jog-trot.” 
 
184 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Т suppose the ladies have been besieging our poor 
 Abramka?”’ 
 
 “T really can’t tell you. So far as I am concerned, I have 
 scarcely looked at what he made for me.” 
 
 “Fim, how’s that? Didn’t you order your dress from 
 Moscow again?” 
 
 “No, it really does not pay. I am sick of the bother of 
 it all. Why all that trouble? For whom? Our officers 
 don’t care a bit how one dresses. They haven’t the least 
 taste.” 
 
 “Нил, there’s something back of that,” thought Mrs. Shal- 
 din. 
 
 The captain’s wife continued with apparent indifference: 
 
 “Т can guess what a gorgeous dress you had made abroad. 
 Certainly in the latest fashion?” 
 
 “TI?” Mrs. Shaldin laughed innocently. “Ноу could I get 
 the time during my cure to think of a dress? As a matter 
 of fact, I completely forgot the bal), thought of it at the 
 last moment, and bought the frst piece of goods I laid my 
 hands on.” 
 
 PPink?’? 
 
 “Oh, no. How can you say pink!” 
 
 “Light blue, then?” 
 
 “You can’t call it exactly light biue. It is a very unde- 
 fined sort of colour. I really wouldn’t know what to call it.” 
 
 “But it certainly must have some sort of a shade?” 
 
 “Vou may believe me or not if you choose, but really I 
 don’t know. It’s a very indefinite shade.” 
 
 “Ts it Sura silk?” 
 
 “No, I can’t bear Sura. It doesn’t keep the folds well.” 
 
 “T suppose it is crépe de Chine?” 
 
 “Heavens, no! Crépe de Chine is much too expensive 
 for me.” 
 
 “Then what can it be?” 
 
 “Oh, wait a minute, what is the name of that goods? 
 You know there are so many funny new names now. They 
 don’t make any sense.” 
 
 “Then show me your dress, dearest. Do please show me 
 your dress.” 
 
 Mrs. Shaldin seemed to be highly embarrassed. 
 
 % 
 
EEO EO 
 
 
 
 DETHRONED 185 
 
 “Т am so sorry I can’t. It is way down at the bottom 
 of the trunk. There is the trunk. You see yourself I 
 couldn’t unpack it now.” 
 
 The trunk, close to the wall, was covered with oil cloth 
 and tied tight with heavy cords. The captain’s wife de- 
 voured it with her eyes. She would have liked to see 
 through and through it. She had nothing to say in reply, 
 because it certainly was impossible to ask her friend, tired 
 out from her recent journey, to begin to unpack right 
 away and take out all her things just to show her her new 
 dress. Yet she could not tear her eyes away from the 
 trunk. There was a magic in it that held her enthralled. 
 Had she been alone she would have begun to unpack. it 
 herself, nor even have asked the help of a servant to undo 
 the knots. Now there was nothing left for her but to 
 turn her eyes sorrowfully away from the fascinating object 
 and take up another topic of conversation to which she 
 would be utterly indifferent. But she couldn’t think of any- 
 thing else to talk about. Mrs. Shaldin must have prepared 
 herself beforehand. She must have suspected something. : 
 So now Mrs. Zarubkin pinned her last hope to Abramka’s 
 inventiveness. She glanced at the clock. 
 
 “Dear me,” she exclaimed, as if surprised at the lateness 
 
 of the hour. “I must be going. I don’t want to disturb you 
 
 any longer either, dearest. You must be very tired. I 
 
 hope you rest well.” 
 
 She shook hands with Mrs. Shaldin, kissed her and lef. 
 
 Abramka Stiftik had just taken off his coat and was 
 doing some ironing in his shirt sleeves, when a peculiar 
 figure appeared in his shop. It was that of a stocky orderly 
 in a well-worn uniform without buttons and old galoshes 
 
 instead of boots. His face was gloomy-looking and was 
 covered with a heavy growth of hair. Abramka knew this 
 
 figure well. It seemed always just to have been awakened 
 from the deepest sleep. 
 
 “Ав, Shuchok, what do you want?” 
 
 “Mrs. Shaldin would like you to call upon her,” saia 
 Shuchok. He behaved as if he had come on a terribly 
 serious mission, 
 
, > tal 
 
 186 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “‘Ah, that’s so, your lady has come back. I heard about 
 it. You see Т am very busy. Still you may tell her I am 
 coming right away. I just want to finish ironing Mrs. 
 Konopotkin’s dress.” 
 
 Abramka simply wanted to keep up appearances, as al- 
 ways when he was sent for. But his joy at the summons 
 to Mrs. Shaldin was so great that to the astonishment of 
 his helpers and Shuchok he left immediately. 
 
 He found Mrs. Shaldin alone. She had not slept well the 
 two nights before and had risen late that morning. Her 
 husband had left long before for the Military Hospital. 
 She was sitting beside her open trunk taking her things 
 out very carefully. 
 
 “How dc vou do, Mrs. Shaldin? Welcome back to 
 Chmyrsk. I congratulate you on your happy arrival.” 
 
 “Oh, how do you do, Abramka?” said Mrs. Shaldin de- 
 lightedly; “уе haven’t seen each other for a long time, have 
 wee I was rather homesick for you.” 
 
 “Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you must have had a very good time 
 abroad. But what do you need me for? You certainly 
 brought a dress back with you?” 
 
 “Abramka always comes in handy,” said Mrs. Shaldin 
 jestingly. ‘“‘We ladies of the regiment are quite helpless 
 without Abramka. Take a seat.” 
 
 Abramka seated himself. He felt much more at ease 
 in Mrs. Shaldin’s home than in Mrs. Zarubkin’s. Mrs. Shal- 
 din did not order her clothes from Moscow. She was a 
 steady customer of his. In this room he had many a time 
 circled about the doctor’s wiie with a yard measure, pins, 
 chalk and scissors, had kneeled down beside her, raised 
 himself to his feet, bent over again and stood puzzling 
 over, some difficult problem of dressmaking—how low 
 _to cut the dress out at the neck, how long to make 
 the train, how wide the hem, and so on. None of the 
 ladies of the regiment ordered as much from him as Mrs. 
 Shaldin. Her grandmother would send her material from 
 Kiev or the doctor would go on a professional trip to Cherni- 
 gov and always bring some goods back with him; or some- 
 times her aunt in Voronesh would make her a gift of some 
 silk. | 
 
 ? 
 

 
 DETHRONED 18) 
 
 *“Abramka is always ready to serve Mrs. Shaldin first,” 
 said the tailor, though seized with a little pang, as if bitten 
 by a guilty conscience. 
 
 “Are you sure you are telling the truth? Is Abramka 
 always to be depended upon? Eh, is he?” She looked at 
 him searchingly from beneath drooping lids. 
 
 “What a question,” rejoined Abramka. His face quivered 
 slightly. His feeling of discomfort was waxing. ‘Has 
 Abramka ever » 
 
 “Oh, things can happen. But, all right, never mind. I 
 brought a dress along with me. Т had to have it made ina 
 great hurry, and there is just a little more to be done on it. 
 Now if I give you this dress to finish, can I be sure that 
 you positively won’t tell another soul how it is made?” 
 
 “Mrs. Shaldin, oh, Mrs. Shaldin,” said Abramka re- 
 proachfully. Nevertheless, the expression of his face was 
 not so reassuring as usual. 
 
 “You give me your word of honour?” 
 
 “Certainly! My name isn’t Abramka Stiftik if I 
 
 “Well, all right, I will trust you. But be careful. You 
 know of whom you must be careful?” 
 
 “Who is that, Mrs. Shaldin?” 
 
 “Oh, you know very well whom I mean. No, you needn’t 
 put your hand on your heart. She was here to see me 
 yesterday and tried in every way she could to find out 
 how my dress is made. But she couldn’t get it out of 
 me.” Abramka sighed. Mrs. Shaldin seemed to suspect his 
 betrayal. “I am right, am I not? She has not had her 
 dress made yet, has she? She waited to see my dress, didn’t 
 she? And she told you to copy the style, didn’t she?” Mrs, 
 Shaldin asked with honest naiveté. “But I warn you, 
 Abramka, if you give away the least little thing about my 
 dress, then all is over between you and me. Remember 
 that.” 
 
 Abramka’s hand went to his heart again, and the gesture 
 carried the same sense of conviction as of old. 
 
 “Mrs. Shaldin, how can you speak like that?” 
 
 “Wait a moment.” 
 
 Mrs, Shaldin left the room. About ten minutes passed 
 during which Abramka had plenty of time to reflect. How 
 
 
 
 
 
188 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 could he have given the captain’s wife a promise like that 
 so lightly? What was the captain’s wife to him as com: 
 pared with the doctor’s wife? Mrs. Zarubkin had never 
 given him a really decent order—just a few things for the 
 house and some mending. Supposing he were now tc per- 
 form this great service for her, would that mean that he 
 could depend upon her for the future? Was any woman 
 to be depended upon? She would wear this dress out and 
 go back to ordering her clothes from Moscow again. But 
 Mrs. Shaldin, she was very different. He could forgive 
 her having brought this one dress along from abroad. 
 What woman in Russia would have refrained. when abroad, 
 from buying a new dress? Mrs. Shaldin would continue to 
 be his steady customer all the same. 
 
 The door opened. Abramka rose involuntarily, and 
 clasped his hands in astonishment. 
 
 “Well,” he exclaimed rapturously, “that is a dress, that 
 is My, my!” Не was so stunned he could find noth- 
 ing more to say. And how charming Mrs. Shaldin looked 
 in her wonderful gown! Her tall slim figure seemed to have 
 been made for it. What simple yet elegant lines. At first 
 glance you would think it was nothing more than an or- 
 dinary house-gown, but only at first glance. If you looked 
 at it again, you could tell right away that it met all the 
 requirements of a fancy ball-gown. What struck Abramka 
 most was that it had no waist line, that it did not consist 
 of bodice and skirt. That was strange. It was just caught 
 lightly together under the bosom, which it brought out in 
 relief. Draped over the whole was a sort of upper gar- 
 ment of exquisite old-rose lace embroidered with large silk 
 flowers, which fell from the shoulders and broadened out in 
 bold superb lines. The dress was cut low and edged with 
 a. narrow strip of black down around the bosom, around 
 the bottom of the lace drapery, and around the hem of the 
 skirt. А wonderful fan ot feathers to match the down 
 edging gave the finishing touch. 
 
 “Well, how do you like it, Abramka!” asked Mrs. Shaldin 
 with a triumphant smile. 
 
 “Glorious, glorious! I haven’t the words at my command. 
 What a dress! No, I couldn’t make a dress like that. And 
 
 
 
DETHRONED 189 
 
 how beautifully it fits you, as if you had been born in it, 
 Mrs. Shaldin. What do you call the style?” 
 
 “Empire.” 
 
 “Ampeer?” he queried. “Is that a new style? Well, well, 
 what people don’t think of. Tailors like us might just as 
 well throw our needles and scissors away.” 
 
 “Now, listen, Abramka, I wouldn’t have shown it to you 
 if there were not this sewing to be done on it. You are 
 the only one who will have seen it before the ball. I am not 
 even letting my husband look at it.” 
 
 “Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you can rely upon me as upon a rock. 
 But after the ball may I copy it?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, after the ball copy it as much as you please, 
 but not now, not for anything in the world.” 
 
 There were no doubts in Abramka’s mind when he left 
 the doctor’s house. He had arrived at his decision. That 
 superb creation had conquered him. It would be a piece of 
 audacity on his part, he felt, even to think of imitating such 
 а gown. Why, it was not a gown. It was a dream, а fan- 
 tastic vision—without a bodice, without puffs or frills or 
 tawdry trimmings of any sort. Simplicity itself and yet so 
 chic. 
 
 Back in his shop he opened the package of fashion-plates 
 that had just arrived from Kiev. He turned the pages and 
 stared in astonishment. What was that? Could he trust 
 his eyes? An Empire gown. There it was, with the broad 
 voluptuous drapery of lace hanging from the shoulders and 
 the edging of down. Almost exactly the same thing as 
 Mrs. Shaldin’s. 
 
 He glanced up and saw Semyonov outside the window. 
 He had certainly come to fetch him to the captain’s wife, 
 jwho must have ordered him to watch the tailor’s move- 
 ments, and must have learned: that he had just been at 
 Mrs. Shaldin’s. Semyonov entered and told him his mis- 
 tress wanted to see him right away. 
 
 Abramka slammed the fashion magazine shut as if afraid 
 that Зетуопоу might catch a glimpse of the new Empire 
 fashion and give the secret away. 
 
 “T will come immediately,” he said crossly. 
 
 He nicked up his fashion plates, put the yard measure 
 
 
 

 
 190 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 in his pocket, rammed his silk hat sorrowfully on his head 
 and set off for the captain’s house. He found Mrs. Zarub-_ 
 kin pacing the room excitedly, greeted her, but carefully 
 avoided meeting her eyes. 
 
 “Well, what did you find out?” 
 
 “Nothing, Mrs. Zarubkin,” said Abramka dejectedly. 
 “Unfortunately I couldn’t find out a thing.” 
 
 “Idiot! I have no patience with you. Where are the 
 fashion plates?” 
 
 “Here, Mrs. Zarubkin.” 
 
 She turned the pages, looked at one picture after the 
 other, and suddenly her eyes shone and her cheeks red- 
 dened. 
 
 “Oh, Empire! The very thing. Empire is the very lat- 
 est. Make this one for me,” she cried commandingly. 
 
 ‚ Abramka turned pale. 
 
 “Ampeer, Mrs. Zarubkin? I can’t make that Ampeer 
 dress for you,” he murmured. 
 
 “Why not?” asked the captain’s wife, giving him a search- 
 ing look. 
 
 “‘Because—because—I can’t.” 
 
 “Oh—h—h, you can’t? You know why you can’t. Be- 
 cause that is the style of Mrs. Shaldin’s dress. So that 
 is the reliability you boast so about? Great!” 
 
 “Mrs. Zarubkin, I will make any other dress you choose, 
 but :t is absolutely impossible for me to make this one.” 
 
 “Т don’t need your fashion plates, do you hear me? 
 Get out of here, and don’t ever show your face again.” 
 
 “Mrs. Zarubkin, I fs 
 
 “Get out of here,” repeated the captain’s wife, quite 
 beside herself. 
 
 The poor tailor stuck his yard measure, which he had 
 already taken out, back into his pocket and left. 
 
 Half an hour later the captain’s wife was entering a train 
 for Kiev, carrying a large package which contained mate- 
 rial for a dress. The captain had accompanied her to the 
 station with a pucker in his forehead. That was five days 
 before the ball. 
 
 
 
 д At the ball two expensive Empire gowns stood out соп- 
 
DETHRONED тот 
 
 spicuously from among the more or less elegant gowns whicn 
 had been finished in the shop of Abramka Stiftik, Ladies’ 
 Tailor. The one gown adorned Mrs. Shaldin’s figure, the 
 other the figure of the captain’s wife. 
 
 | Mrs. Zarubkin had bought her gown ready made at Kiev, 
 and had returned only two hours before the beginning of 
 the ball. She had scarcely had time to dress. Perhaps 
 it would have been better had she not appeared at this 
 one of the annual balls, had she not taken that 
 fateful trip to Kiev. For in comparison with the make 
 and style of Mrs. Shaldin’s dress, which had been brought 
 abroad, hers was like the botched imitation of an amateur. © 
 
 That was evident to everybody, though the captain’s 
 wife had her little group of partisans, who maintained with 
 exaggerated eagerness that she looked extraordinarily fas- 
 cinating in her dress and Mrs. Shaldin still could not rival 
 her. But there was no mistaking it, there was little justice 
 in this contention. Everybody knew better; what was worst 
 of all, Mrs. Zarubkin herself knew better. Mrs. Shaldin’s » 
 triumph was complete. 
 
 The two ladies gave each other the same friendly smiles 
 as always, but one of them was experiencing the fine dis- 
 dain and the derision of the conqueror, while the other 
 was burning inside with the furious resentment of a de- 
 throned goddess—goddess of the annual ball. 
 
 From that time on Abramka cautiously avoided passing 
 the captain’s house. 
 
 
 
THE SERVANT 
 
 Ву S. T. ЗЕМУОМОУ 
 I 
 
 ERASIM returned to Moscow just at a time when it 
 
 was hardest to find work, a short while before Christ- 
 
 mas, when a man sticks even to a poor job in the expectation 
 
 of a present. For three weeks the peasant lad had been 
 going about in vain seeking a position. 
 
 He stayed with relatives and friends from his village, and 
 although he had not yet suffered great want, it disheart- 
 ened him that he, a strong young man, should go without 
 work. 
 
 Gerasim had lived in Moscow from early boyhood. When 
 still a mere child, he had gone to work in a brewery as 
 bottle-washer, and later as a lower servant in a house. In 
 the last two years he had been in a merchant’s employ, and 
 would stili have held that position, had. he not been sum- 
 moned back to his village for military duty. However, 
 he had not been drafted. It seemed dull to him in the vil- 
 lage, he was not used to the country life, so he decided 
 he would rather count the stones in Moscow than stay there. 
 
 Every minute it was getting to be more and more irk- 
 some for him to be tramping the streets in idleness. Not a 
 stone did he leave unturned in his efforts to secure any 
 sort of work. He plagued all of his acquaintances, he even 
 held up people on the street and asked them if they knew 
 of a situation—all in vain. 
 
 Finally Gerasim could no longer bear being a burden on 
 his people. Some of them were annoyed by his coming to 
 them; and others had suffered unpleasantness from their 
 masters on his account. He was altogether at а 105$ what 
 to do. Sometimes he would go a whole day without eating. 
 
 Q2 
 

 
 THE SERVANT 193 
 
 II 
 
 One day Gerasim betook himself to a friend from his 
 village, who lived at the extreme outer edge of Moscow, 
 near Sokolnik. The man was coachman to a merchant by 
 the name of Sharov, in whose service he had been for many 
 years. He had ingratiated himself with his master, so that 
 Sharov trusted him absolutely and gave every sign of hold- 
 ing him in high favour. It was the man’s glib tongue, 
 chiefly, that had gained him his master’s confidence. He 
 told on all the servants, and Sharov valued him for it. 
 
 Gerasim approached and greeted him. ‘The coachman 
 gave his guest a proper reception, served him with tea and 
 something to eat, and asked him how he was doing. 
 
 “Very badly, Yegor Danilych,” said Gerasim. “I’ve been 
 without a job for weeks.” 
 
 “Didn’t you ask your old employer to take you back?” 
 
 “L.did’ 
 
 “He wouldn’t take you ава?” 
 
 “The position was filled already.” 
 
 “That’s it. That’s the way you young fellows are. You 
 serve your employers so-so, and when you leave your 105$, 
 you usually have muddied up the way back to them. You 
 ought to serve your masters so that they will think a lot 
 of you, and when you come again, they will not refuse you, 
 but rather dismiss the man who has taken your place.” 
 
 “How can a man do that? In these days there aren’t any 
 employers like that, and we aren’t exactly angels, either.” 
 
 “What’s the use of wasting words? I just want to tell 
 you about myself. If for some reason or other I should 
 ever have to leave this place and go home, not only would 
 Mr. Sharov, if I came back, take me on again without a 
 word, but he would be glad to, too.” 
 
 _.Gerasim sat there downcast. He saw his friend was 
 | boasting, and it occurred to him to gratify him. 
 
 “Т know it,” he said. ‘But it’s hard to find men like 
 you, Yegor Danilych. If you were a poor worker, your 
 master would not have kept you twelve years.” 
 
 _ Yegor smiled. Не liked the praise. 
 
194 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “That’s it,” he said. “И you were to live and serve as 
 I do, you wouldn’t be out of work for months and months.” 
 
 Gerasim made no reply. 
 
 Yegor was summoned to his master. 
 
 “Wait a moment,” he said to Gerasim. “РИ be right 
 back.” 
 
 “Very well.” 
 
 Ш 
 
 Yegor came back and reported that inside of half an hour 
 he would have to have the horses harnessed, ready to drive 
 his master to town. He lighted his pipe and tock several 
 turns in the room. Then he came to a halt in frort of 
 Gerasim. 
 
 “Listen, my boy,” he said, “if you want, ГП ask my 
 master to take you as a servant here.” | 
 
 “Does he need a man?” 
 
 “We have one, but he’s not much good. He’s getting old, 
 and it’s very hard for him to do the work. It’s lucky for 
 us that the neighbourhood isn’t a lively one and the police 
 don’t make a fuss about things being kept just so, else the 
 old man couldn’t manage to keep the place clean enough 
 for them.” 
 
 “Oh, if you can, then please do say a word for me, Yegor 
 Danilych. ГП pray for you all my life. I can’t stand 
 being without work any longer.” 
 
 “All right, Pil speak for you. Come again to-morrow, and 
 in the meantime take this ten-kopek piece. It may come 
 in handy.” 
 
 “Thanks, Yegor Danilych. Then you wl try for me? 
 Please do me the favour.” 
 
 “All right. ГЛ try for you.” 
 
 Gerasim left, and Yegor harnessed up his horses. Then 
 he put on his coachman’s habit, and drove up to the front 
 door. Mr. Sharov stepped out of the house, seated him- 
 self in the sleigh, and the horses galloped off. He attended 
 to his business in town and returned home. Yegor, observ- 
 ing that his master was in a good humour, said to him: 
 
 “Уедог Fiodorych, I have a favour to ask of you.” 
 
 “What is it?” 
 
: 
 : 
 
 THE SERVANT 195 
 
 “There’s a young man from my village here, a good boy 
 He’s without a job.” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 “Wouldn’t you take him?” 
 
 “What do I want him for?” 
 
 “Use him as man of all work round the place.” 
 
 “How about Polikarpych?” 
 
 “What good is he? It’s about time you dismissed him.” 
 
 “That wouldn’t be fair. He has been with me so many 
 
 years. I can’t let him go just so, without any cause.” 
 
 “Supposing he йа5 worked for vou for years. He didn’t 
 
 _work for nothing. He got paid for it. He’s certainly saved 
 
 up a few dollars for his old age.” 
 
 “Saved up! How could he? From what? Нез not 
 alone in the world. He has a wife to support, and she has 
 to eat and drink also.” 
 
 “His wife earns money, too, at day’s work as char- 
 woman.” 
 
 ЧА lot she could have made! Enough for kvas.” 
 
 “Why should you care about Polikarpych and his wife? 
 To tell you the truth, he’s a very poor servant. Why should 
 you throw your money away on him? He never shovels the 
 snow away on time, or does anything right. And when it 
 comes his turn to be night watchman, he slips away at 
 least ten times a night. It’s too cold for him. You'll 
 see, some day, because of him, you will have trouble with 
 the police. The quarterly inspector will descend on us, 
 and it won’t be so agreeable for you to be responsible for 
 Polikarpych.” 
 
 “Still, it’s pretty rough. He’s been with me fifteen years. 
 And to treat him that way in his old age—it would be a 
 sin.” 
 
 “A sin! Why, what harm would you be doing him? 
 He won’t starve. He’ll go to the almshouse. It will be 
 better for him, too, to be quiet in his old age.” 
 
 Sharov reflected. 
 
 “All right,” he said finally. “Bring your friend here. ГИ 
 see what I can do.” 
 
 “Do take him, sir. I’m so sorry for him. Не? a good 
 boy, and he’s been without work for such a long time. $ 
 
196 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 know he’ll do his work well and serve you faithfully. On 
 account of having to report for military duty, he lost his 
 last position. If it hadn’t been for that, his master would 
 never have let him go.” 
 
 IV 
 
 The next evening Gerasim came again and asked: 
 
 “Well, could you do anything for me?” 
 
 “Something, I believe. First let’s have some tea. Then 
 we'll go see my master.” 
 
 Even tea had no allurements for Gerasim. He was eager 
 for a decision; but under the compulsion of politeness to 
 his host, he gulped down two glasses of tea, and then they 
 betook themselves to Sharov: 
 
 Sharov asked Gerasim where he had lived before and 
 what work he could do. Then he told him he was prepared 
 to engage him as man of all work, and he should come 
 back the next day ready to take the place. 
 
 Gerasim was fairly stunned by the great stroke of for- 
 tune. So overwhelming was his joy that his legs would 
 scarcely carry him. He went to the coachman’s room, and 
 Yegor said to him: 
 
 “Well, my lad, see to it that you do your work right, 
 so that I shan’t have to be ashamed of you. You know 
 what masters are like. If you go wrong once, they’ll be 
 at you forever after with their fault-finding, and never give 
 you peace.” 
 
 “Don’t worry about that, Yegor Danilych.” 
 
 “W ell—well.” 
 
 Gerasim took leave, crossing the yard to go out by the 
 gate. Polikarpych’s rooms gave on the yard, and a broad 
 beam of light from the window fell across Gerasim’s way. 
 He was curious to get a glimpse of his future home, but 
 the panes were all frosted over, and it was impossible to 
 peep through. However, he could hear what the people in- 
 side were saying. 
 
 “What will we do now?” was said in a woman’s voice. 
 
 “Т don’t know, I don’t know,” a man, undoubtedly 
 Polikarpych, replied. “Go begging, I suppose.” 
 
THE SERVANT 197 
 
 “That’s all we can do. There’s nothing else left,” said 
 the woman. “ОБ, we poor people, what a miserable life we 
 lead. We work and work from early morning till late at 
 night, day after day, and when we get old, then it’s, ‘Away 
 with you!’” 
 
 “What can we do? Our master is not one of us. It 
 wouldn’t be worth the while to say much to him about 
 it. He cares only for his own advantage.” 
 
 “АП the masters are so mean. ‘They don’t think of 
 any one but themselves. It doesn’t occur to them that we 
 work for them honestly and faithfully for years, and use 
 up our best strength in their service. They’re afraid to 
 keep us a year longer, even though we’ve got ali the strength 
 we need to do their work. If we weren’: strong enough, 
 we’d go of our own accord.” 
 
 “The master’s not so much to blame as his coachman. 
 Yegor Danilych wants to get a good position for his friend.” 
 
 “Ves, he’s a serpent. He knows how to wag his tongue. 
 You wait, you foul-mouthed beast, ГИ get even with you. 
 ГИ go straight to the master and tell him how the fellow 
 deceives him, how he steals the hay and fodder. I'll put 
 it down in writing, and he can convince himself how the 
 fellow lies about us all.” 
 
 “Don’t, old woman. Don’t sin.” 
 
 “Sin? Isn’t what I said all true? I know to a dot what 
 I’m saying, and I mean to tell it straight out to the master. 
 He should see with his own eyes. Why not? What can 
 we do now anyhow? Where shall we go? He’s ruined us, 
 ruined us.” 
 
 The old woman burst out sobbing. 
 
 Gerasim heard all that, and it stabbed him like a dagger. 
 He realised what misfortune he would be bringing the old 
 people, and it made him sick at heart. Не stood there a 
 long while, saddened, lost in thought, then he turned and 
 ‘went back into the coachman’s room. 
 
 “Ah, you forgot something?” 
 
 “No, Yegor Danilych.” Gerasim stammered out, “I’ve 
 come—listen—I want to thank you ever and ever so much 
 —for the way you received me—and—and all the trouble 
 you took for me—but—I can’t take the place.” 
 
198 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “What! What does that mean?” 
 
 “Nothing. I don’t want the place. I will look for an- 
 other one for myself.” 
 
 Yegor flew into a rage. 
 
 “Did you mean to make a fool of me, did you, you idiot? 
 You come here so meek—‘Try for me, do try for me’—and 
 then you refuse to take the place. You rascal, you have 
 disgraced те!” 
 
 Gerasim found nothing to say in reply. He reddened, and 
 lowered his eyes. Yegor turned his back scornfully and said 
 nothing more. 
 
 Then Gerasim quietly picked up his cap and left the 
 <oachman’s room. He crossed the yard rapidly, went out 
 оу the gate, and hurried off down the street. He felt happy 
 and lighthearted. 
 
ONE, AUTUMN NIGHT 
 By Maxim Gorxky 
 
 NCE in the autumn I happened to be in a very unpleas: 
 
 ant and inconvenient position. In the town where 
 
 I had just arrived and where I knew not a soul, I found 
 
 myself without a farthing in my pocket and without a 
 night’s lodging. 
 
 Having sold during the first few days every part of my 
 costume without which it was still possible to go about, i 
 passed from the town into the quarter called ‘Yste,” where 
 were the steamship wharves—a quarter which during the 
 navigation season fermented with boisterous, laborious life, 
 but now was silent and deserted, for we were in the last 
 days of October. 
 
 Dragging my feet along the moist sand, and obstinately 
 -scrutinising it with the desire to discover in it any sort of 
 fragment of food, I wandered alone among the deserted 
 buildings and warehouses, and thought how good it would 
 be to get a full meal. 
 
 In our present state of culture hunger of the mind is more 
 quickly satisfied than hunger of the body. You wander 
 about the streets, you are surrounded by buildings not bad- 
 looking from the outside and—you may safely say it—not 
 so badly furnished inside, and the sight of them may excite 
 within you stimulating ideas about architecture, hygiene, 
 and many other wise and high-flying subjects. You may 
 meet warmly and neatly dressed folks—all very polite, and 
 turning away from you tactfully, not wishing offensively to 
 notice the lamentable fact of your existence. Well, well, the 
 mind of a hungry man is always better nourished and 
 healthier than the mind of the well-fed man; and there you 
 ‘have a situation from which you may draw a very ingenious 
 conclusion in favour of the ill fed. 
 
 The evening was approaching, the rain was falling, and 
 
 19¢ 
 
200 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 the wind blew violently from the north. It whistled in the 
 empty booths and shops, blew into the plastered window- 
 panes of the taverns, and whipped into foam the wavelets 
 of the river which splashed noisily on the sandy shore, 
 casting high their white crests, racing one after another in- 
 to the dim distance, and leaping impetuously over one 
 another’s shoulders. It seemed as if the river felt the 
 proximity of winter, and was running at random away 
 ` from the fetters of ice which the north wind might well 
 have flung upon her that very night. The sky was heavy 
 and dark; down from it swept incessantly scarcely visible 
 drops of rain, and the melancholy elegy in nature all around 
 me was emphasised by a couple of battered and misshapen 
 willow-trees and a boat, bottom upwards, that was fastened 
 to their roots. 
 
 The overturned canoe with its battered keel and the 
 miserable old trees rifled by the cold wind—everything 
 around me was bankrupt, barren, and dead, and the sky 
 flowed with undryable tears... . Everything around was 
 waste and gloomy ... it seemed as if everything were 
 dead, leaving me alone among the living, and for me also 
 a cold death waited. 
 
 I was then eighteen years old—a good time! 
 
 I walked and walked along the cold wet sand, making 
 my chattering teeth warble in honour of cold and hunger, 
 when suddenly, as I was carefully searching for something 
 to eat behind one of the empty crates, I perceived behind it, 
 crouching on the ground, a figure in woman’s clothes dank 
 with the rain and clinging fast to her stooping shoulders. 
 Standing over her, I watched to see what she was doing. 
 It appeared that she was digging а trench in the sand with 
 her hands—digging away under one of the crates. 
 
 “Why are you doing that?” I asked, crouching down on 
 my heels quite close to her. 
 
 She gave a little scream and was quickly on her legs 
 again. Now that she stood there staring at me, with her 
 wide-open grey eyes full of terror, I perceived that it was 
 a girl of my own age, with a very pleasant face embellished 
 unfortunately by three large blue marks. This spoilt her, 
 although these blue marks had been distributed with a 
 
ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 201 
 
 remarkable sense of proportion, one at a time, and all were 
 of equal size—two under the eyes, and one a little bigger 
 on the forehead just over the bridge of the nose. This 
 symmetry was evidently the work of an artist well inured 
 to the business of spoiling the human physiognomy. 
 
 The girl looked at me, and the terror in her eyes gradu- 
 ally died out. . . . She shook the sand from her hands, ad- 
 justed her cotton head-gear, cowered down, and said: 
 
 “I suppose you too want something to eat? Dig away 
 then! My hands are tired. Over there’—she nodded her 
 head in the direction of a booth—“there is bread for certain 
 
 . and sausages too. . . . That booth is still carrying on 
 business.” 
 
 I began to dig. She, after waiting a little and looking at 
 me, sat down beside me and began to help me. 
 
 We worked in silence. I cannot say now whether I 
 thought at that moment of the criminal code, of morality, 
 of proprietorship, and all the other things about which, in 
 the opinion of many experienced persons, one ought to 
 think every moment of one’s life. Wishing to keep as 
 close to the truth as possible, I must confess that apparently 
 I was so deeply engaged in digging under the crate that I 
 completely forgot about everything else except this one 
 thing: What could be inside that crate? 
 
 The evening drew on. The grey, mouldy, cold fog grew 
 thicker and thicker around us. The мауез roared with a 
 hollower sound than before, and the rain pattered down on 
 the boards of that crate more loudly and more frequently. 
 Somewhere or other the night-watchman began springing 
 his rattle. 
 
 “Has it got a bottom or not?” softly inquired my assist: 
 ant. I did not understand what she was talking about, and 
 I kept silence. 
 
 “Т say, has the crate got a bottom? If it has we shall 
 try in vain to break into it. Here we are digging a trench, 
 and we may, after all, come upon nothing but solid boards. 
 How shall we take them off? Better smash the lock; it is 
 a wretched lock.’’ 
 
 _ Good ideas rarely visit the heads of women, but, as you 
 See, they do visit them sometimes. I have always valued 
 
 
 
 a” 
 
202 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 good ideas, and have always tried to utilise them as far as 
 possible. | 
 
 Having found the lock, I tugged at it and wrenched ой 
 the whole thing. My accomplice immediately stooped down 
 and wriggled like a serpent into the gaping-open, four cor- 
 nered cover of the crate whence she called to me approv- 
 ingly, in a low tone: 
 
 “Vou’re a brick!” 
 
 Nowadays a little crumb of praise from a woman is dearer 
 co me than a whole dithyramb from a man, even though he 
 be more eloquent than all the ancient and modern orators 
 put together. Then, however, I was less amiably disposed 
 than I am now, and, paying no attention to the compliment 
 of my comrade, I asked her curtly and anxiously: 
 
 “Is there anything?” 
 
 In a monotonous tone she set about calculating our dis- 
 зоуетез. 
 
 “A basketful of bottles—thick furs—a sunshade—an iron 
 nail.” 
 
 All this was uneatable. I felt that my hopes had van- 
 
 ished. . . . But suddenly she exclaimed vivaciously: 
 wana!) here 16.131” 
 “What?” 
 
 “Bread . гла 10а; о азов меб, iitakeatie 
 
 А loaf flew to my feet and after it herself, my valiant 
 comrade. I had already bitten off a morsel, stuffed it in my 
 mouth, and was chewing it.... 
 
 “Come, give me some too! ... And we mustn’t stay 
 here. . . . Where shall we go?” she looked inquiringly 
 about on all sides. . . . It was dark, wet, and boisterous. 
 
 “Look! there’s an upset canoe yonder ... let us go 
 there.” 
 
 “Let us go then!” And off we set, demolishing our booty 
 as we went, and filling our mouths with large portions of 
 it. . . . The rain grew more violent, the river roared; from 
 somewhere or other resounded a prolonged mocking whistle 
 —Jjust as if Someone great who feared nobody was whistling 
 down all earthly institutions and along with them this horrid 
 autumnal wind and us its heroes. This whistling made my 
 heart throb painfully, in spite of which I greedily went on 
 
ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 203 
 
 eating, and in this respect the girl, walking on my left hand, 
 kept even pace with me. 
 
 “What do they call you?” I asked her—why I know not. 
 
 “Natasha,” she answered shortly, munching loudly. 
 
 I stared at her. My heart ached within me; and then I 
 stared into the mist before me, and it seemed to me as if 
 the inimical countenance of my Destiny was smiling at me 
 enigmatically and coldly. 
 
 The rain scourged the timbers of the skiff incessantly, and 
 its soft patter induced melancholy thoughts, and the wind 
 whistled as it flew down into the boat’s battered bottom 
 through a rift, where some loose splinters of wood were rat- 
 tling together—a disquieting and depressing sound. The 
 waves of the river were splashing on the shore, and sounded 
 so monotonous and hopeless, just as if they were telling 
 something unbearably dull and heavy, which was boring 
 them into utter disgust, something from which they wanted 
 to run away and yet were obliged to talk about all the same. 
 The sound of the rain blended with their splashing, and a 
 long-drawn sigh seemed to be floating above the overturned 
 skiff—the endless, labouring sigh of the earth, injured and 
 exhausted by the eternal changes from the bright and warm 
 summer to the cold misty and damp autumn. The wind 
 blew continually over the desolate shore ard the foaming 
 river—blew and sang its melancholy songs. .. . 
 
 Our position beneath the shelter of the skiff was utterly 
 devoid of comfort; it was narrow and damp, tiny cold drops 
 of rain dribbled through the damaged bottom; gusts of 
 wind penetrated it. We sat in silence and shivered with 
 cold. I remembered that I wanted to go to sleep. Natasha 
 leaned her back against the hull of the boat and curled her- 
 self up into a tiny ball. Embracing her knees with her 
 hands, and resting her chin upon them, she stared doggedly 
 at the river with wide-open eyes; on the pale patch of her 
 face they seemed immense, because of the blue marks below 
 them. She never moved, and this immobility and silence—I 
 felt it—gradually produced within me a terror of my neigh- 
 bour. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew not how to 
 begin. 
 
204 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 It was she herself who spoke. 
 
 “What a cursed thing life is!” she exclaimed plainly, ab- 
 stractedly, and in a tone of deep conviction. 
 
 But this was no complaint. In these words there was too 
 much of indifference for a complaint. This simple soul 
 thought according to her understanding—thougat and pro- 
 ceeded to form a certain conclusion which she expressed 
 aloud, and which I could not confute for fear of contra- 
 dicting mvself. Therefore I was silent, and she, as if she 
 had not noticed me, continued to sit there immovable. 
 
 “Even if we croaked ... what then ...?” Natasha 
 began again, this time quietly and reflectively, and still there 
 was not one note of complaint in her words. It was plain 
 that this person, in the course of her reflections on life, was 
 regarding her own case, and had arrived at the conviction 
 that in order to preserve herself from the mockeries of life, 
 she was not in a position to do anything else but simply 
 “croak”—to use her own expression. 
 
 The clearness of this line of thought was inexpressibly 
 sad and painful to me, and I felt that if I kept silence any 
 longer I was really bound to weep. ... And it would 
 have been shameful to have done this before a woman, espe- 
 cially as she was not weeping herself. I resolved to speak 
 to her. 
 
 “Who was it that knocked you about?” I asked. For 
 the moment I could not think of anything more sensible or 
 more delicate. 
 
 “Pashka did it all,” she answered in a duil and level tone. 
 
 “And who is he?” | 
 
 “My lover. . . . He was a baker.” | 
 
 “Did he beat you often?” | 
 
 “Whenever he was drunk he beat me. . . . Often!” 
 
 And suddenly, turning towards me, she began to talk) 
 about herself, Pashka, and their mutual relations. He was) 
 a baker with red moustaches and played very well on the| 
 banjo. He came to see her and greatly pleased her, for| 
 he was a merry chap and wore nice clean clothes. He had 
 a vest which cost fifteen rubles and boots with dr¢3s tops. 
 or these reasons she had fallen in love with him, and he be- 
 came her “creditor.”” And when he became her creditor 
 
ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 205 
 
 he made it his business to take away from her the money 
 which her other friends gave to her for bonbons, and, get- 
 ting drunk on this money, he would fall to beating her; 
 but that would have been nothing if he hadn’t also begun 
 to “run after” other girls before her very eyes. 
 
 “Now, wasn’t that an insult? I am not worse than the 
 others. Of course that meant that he was laughing at me, 
 the blackguard. The day before yesterday I asked leave of 
 my mistress to go out for a bit, went to him, and there I 
 found Dimka sitting beside him drunk. And he, too, was 
 half seas over. I said, ‘You scoundrel, you!’ And he gave 
 me a thorough hiding. He kicked me and dragged me by 
 the hair. But that was nothing to what came after. He 
 spoiled everything I had on—left me just as I am now! 
 How could I appear before my mistress? He spoiled every- 
 thing . . . my dress and my jacket too—it was quite а new 
 one; I gave a fiver for it . . . and tore my kerchief from 
 my head....Oh, Lord! What will become of me 
 now?” she suddenly whined in a lamentable overstrained 
 voice. 
 
 The wind howled, and became ever colder and more bois- 
 terous. . . . Again my teeth began to dance up and down, 
 and she, huddled up to avoid the cold, pressed as closely 
 to me as she could, so that I could see the gleam of her 
 eyes through the darkness. 
 
 ‘“Vhat wretches all you men are! Га burn you all in 
 an oven; I’d cut you in pieces. If any one of you was 
 dying I’d spit in his mouth, and not pity him a bit. Mean 
 skunks! You wheedle and wheedle, you wag your tails like 
 cringing dogs, and we fools give ourselves up to you, and it’s 
 all up with us! Immediately you trampie us underfoot. 
 . . . Miserable loafers!” 
 
 She cursed us up and down, but there was no vigour, no 
 malice, no hatred of these “‘miserable loafers” in her cursing 
 that I could hear. The tone of her language by no means 
 corresponded with its subject-matter, for it was calm enough, 
 and the gamut of her voice was terribly poor. 
 
 Yet all this made a stronger impression on me than the 
 most eloquent and convincing pessimistic books and 
 ‘Speeches, of which I had read a good many and which I 
 
206 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 still read to this day. And this, you see, was Ъе- 
 cause the agony of a dying person is much more natural 
 and violent than the most minute and picturesque descrip- 
 tions of death. 
 
 I felt really wretched—more from cold than from the 
 words of my neighbour. I groaned softly and ground my 
 teeth. 
 
 Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me 
 —one of them touched my neck and the other lay upon my 
 face—and at the same time an anxious, gentle, friendly 
 voice uttered the question: 
 
 “What ails you?” 
 
 I was ready to believe that some one else was asking me 
 this and not Natasha, who had just declared that all men 
 were scoundrels, and expressed a wisl. for their destruction. 
 But she it was, and now she began speaking quickly, hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 “What ails you, eh? Are you cold? Are you frozen? Ah, 
 what a one you are, sitting there so silent like a little owl! 
 Why, you should have told me long ago that you were cold. 
 Come ... lie on the ground... stretch yourself out 
 
 and Тм! Пе... there! How’s that? Now put your arms 
 round me? ... tighter! How’s that? You shall be warm 
 very scon now... . And then we'll lie back to back. 
 
 ... The night will pass so quickly, see if it won’t. I say 
 . . . have you too been drinking? . . . Turned out of your 
 place, eh? . . . It doesn’t matter.” 
 
 And she comforted me. . . . She encouraged me. 
 
 May I be thrice accursed! What a world of irony was 
 in this single fact for me! Just imagine! Here was I, 
 seriously occupied at this very time with the destiny of 
 humanity, thinking of the re-organisation of the social sys- 
 tem, of political revolutions, reading all sorts of devilishly- 
 wise books whose abysmal profundity was certainly un- 
 fathomable by their very authors—at this very time. I say, 
 I was trying with ail my might to make ot myself “а, potent 
 active social force.” It even seemed to me that I had par- 
 tially accomplished my object; anyhow, at this time, in my 
 ideas about myself, I had got so far as to recognise that 1 
 had an exclusive right to exist, that I had the necessary 
 
ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 207 
 
 greatness to deserve to live my life, and that I was fully 
 competent to play a great historical part therein. And a 
 woman was now warming me with her body, a wretched, 
 battered, hunted creature, who had no place and no value 
 in life, and whom Т had never thought of helping till she 
 helped me herself, and whom I really мощ not have known 
 how to help in any way even if the thought of it had oc- 
 curred to me. 
 
 Ah! I was ready to think that all this was happening te 
 me in a агеат— т a disagreeable, an oppressive dream. 
 
 But, ugh! it was impossible for me to think that, for cold 
 drops of rain were dripping down upon me, the woman was 
 pressing close to me, her warm breath was fanning my face, 
 and—despite a slight odor of vodka—it did me good. 
 The wind howled and raged, the rain smote upon the skiff, 
 the waves splashed, and both of us, embracing each other 
 convulsively, nevertheless shivered with cold. All this was 
 only too real, and I am certain that nobody ever dreamed 
 such an oppressive and horrid dream as that reality. 
 
 But Natasha was talking all the time of something or 
 other, talking kindly and sympathetically, as only women 
 can talk. Beneath the influence of her voice and kindly 
 words a little fire began to burn up within me, and some- 
 thing inside my heart thawed in consequence. 
 
 Then tears poured from my eyes like a hailstorm, wash- 
 ing away from my heart much that was evil, much that was 
 ‘stupid, much sorrow and dirt which had fastened upon it 
 before that night. Natasha comforted me. 
 
 _ “Come, come, that will do, little one! Don’t take on! 
 That'll do! God will give you another chance... you 
 will right yourself and stand in your proper place again . . 
 and it will be all right... .” 
 
 And she kept kissing ше... many kisses did she give 
 ше... burning kisses . . . and all for nothing... . 
 
 Those were the first kisses from a woman that had ever 
 been bestowed upon me, and they were the best kisses too, 
 for all the subsequent kisses cost me frightfully dear, and 
 really gave me nothing at all in exchange. 
 
 “Come, don’t take on so, funny one! ГП manage for 
 you to-morrow if you cannot find a place.” Her quiet 
 
 к 
 
 
 
208 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 persuasive whispering sounded in my ears as if it came 
 through a dream. ... 
 
 There we lay till dawn... . 
 
 And when the dawn came, we crept from behind the skiff 
 and went into the town. . . . Then we took friendly leave 
 of each other and never met again, although for half a year 
 I searched in every hole and corner for that kind Natasha, 
 with whom I spent the autumn night just described. 
 
 If she be already dead—and well for her if it were so— 
 
 may ske rest in peace! And if she be alive... still I 
 say “Реасе to her soul!’ And may the consciousness of 
 her fall never enter her soul . . . for that would be a super 
 
 fiuous and fruitless suffering if life is to be lived... . 
 
Rea OVE 
 By Maxim Совку 
 
 N acquaintance of mine once told me the following 
 story. 
 
 When I was a student at Moscow I happened to live 
 alongside one of those ladies whose repute is questionable. 
 She was a Pole, and they called her Teresa. She was a 
 tallish, powerfully-built brunette, with black, bushy eye- 
 brows and a large coarse face as if carved out by a hatchet 
 —the bestial gleam of her dark eyes, her thick bass voice, 
 her cabman-like gait and her immense muscular vigour, 
 worthy of a fishwife, inspired me with horror. I lived on 
 the top flight and her garret was opposite to mine. I never 
 left my door open when I knew her to be at home. But 
 this, after all, was a very rare occurrence. Sometimes I 
 chanced to meet her on the staircase or in the yard, and 
 she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me 
 to be sly and cynical. Occasionally, I saw her drunk, with 
 bleary eyes, tousled hair, and a particularly hideous grin, 
 On such occasions she would speak to me. 
 
 “How d’ye do, Mr. Student!” and her stupid laugh 
 would still further intensify my loathing of her. I should 
 have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have 
 avoided such encounters and greetings; but my little cham- 
 ber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from the 
 window, and it was always so quiet in the street below— 
 so I endured. 
 
 And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying 
 to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class, when 
 the door opened, and the bass voice of Teresa the loath- 
 some resounded from my threshold: 
 
 “Good health to you, Mr. Student!” 
 
 “What do you want?” I said. I saw that her face was 
 confused and supplicatory. , . . It was a very unusual sort 
 of face for her. 
 
 209 
 
210 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Sir! I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it 
 те?” 
 
 I lay there silent, and thought to myself: 
 
 “Gracious! . . . Courage, my boy!” 
 
 “T want to send a letter home, that’s what it is,” she said; 
 her voice was beseeching, soft, timid. 3 
 
 “Deuce take you!” I thought; but up I jumped, sat down 
 at my table, took a sheet of paper, and said: 
 
 “Come here, sit down, and dictate!” 
 
 She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked 
 at me with a guilty look. 
 
 “Well, to whom do you want to write?” 
 
 “To Boleslav Kashput, at the town of Svieptziana, on the 
 Warsaw Road... .” 
 
 “Well, fire away!” 
 
 “My dear Boles .. . my darling . . . my faithful lover. 
 May the Mother of God protect thee! Thou heart of gold, 
 why hast thou not written for such a long time to thy sor- 
 rowing little dove, Teresa?” 
 
 I very nearly burst out laughing. “А sorrowing little 
 dove!” more than five feet high, with fists a stone and 
 more in weight, and as black a face as if the little dove had 
 lived all its life in a chimney, and had never once washed 
 itself! Restraining myself somehow, I asked: 
 
 “Who is this Bolest?” 
 
 “Boles, Mr. Student,” she said, as if offended with me 
 for blundering over the name, “he is Boles—my young 
 man.” 
 
 ‚ Young man!” 
 
 ‘‘Why are you so surprised, sir? Cannot I, a girl, have 
 a young mane” 
 
 She? <A girl? Well! 
 
 “Oh, why not?” I said. “АП things are possible. And 
 has he been your young man long?” 
 
 “Six years.” 
 
 “Oh, ho!” I thought. ‘Well, let us write your let- 
 веры 
 
 And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed 
 places with this Boles if his fair correspondent had been not 
 Teresa but something less than she. 
 
HER LOVER 211 
 
 “T thank you most heartily, sir, for your kind services,” 
 said Teresa to me, with a curtsey. ‘Perhaps / can show you 
 some service, eh?” 
 
 “No, I most humbly thank you all the same.” 
 
 “Perhaps, sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a 
 little mending?” 
 
 I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me grow 
 quite red with shame, and I told her pretty sharply that I 
 had no need whatever of her services. 
 
 She departed. 
 
 A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sit- 
 ting at my window whistling and thinking of some expedient 
 for enabling me to get away from myself. I was bored; 
 the weather was dirty. I didn’t want to go out, and out of 
 sheer ennui I began a course of self-analysis and reflection. 
 This also was dull enough work, but I didn’t care about 
 doing anything else. Then the door opened. Heaven be 
 praised! Some one came in. 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Student, you have no pressing business, I 
 hope?” 
 
 It was Teresa. Humph! 
 
 “No. What is it?” 
 
 “Т was going to ask you, sir, to write me another 
 lettér,? 
 
 “Very well! To Boles, eh?” 
 
 “No, this time it is from him.” 
 
 ““Wha-at?” 
 
 “Stupid that Iam! It is not for me, Mr. Student, I beg 
 your pardon. It is for a friend of mine, that is to say, not 
 a friend but an acquaintance—a man acquaintance. He 
 has a sweetheart just like me here, Teresa. That’s how it 
 is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this Teresa?”’ 
 
 I looked at her—her face was troubled, her fingers were 
 trembling. I was a bit fogged at first—and then I guessed 
 how it was. 
 
 “Look here, my lady,” I said, “there are no Boleses or 
 Teresas at all, and you’ve been telling me a pack of lies. 
 Don’t you come sneaking about me any longer. I have 
 no wish whatever to cultivate your acquaintance. Do you 
 understand ?”’ 
 
212 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught; | 
 she began to shift from foot to foot without moving from 
 the place, and spluttered comically, as if she wanted to say 
 something and couldn’t. I waited to see what would come 
 of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently, I had made 
 a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me 
 from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something 
 very different. 
 
 “Mr. Student!” she began, and suddenly, waving her 
 hand, she turned abruptly towards the door and went out. 
 I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my mind. I 
 listened. Her door was flung violently to—plainly the 
 poor wench was very angry. ...I thought it over, and 
 resolved to go to her, and, inviting her to come in here, 
 write everything she wanted. 
 
 I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sit- 
 ting at the table, leaning on her elbows, with her head in 
 her hands. 
 
 “Listen to me,” I said. 
 
 Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always 
 feel horribly awkward and idiotic. Well, well! 
 
 “Listen to me,” I said. 
 
 She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing 
 eyes, and laying her hands on my shoulders, began to whis- 
 per, or rather to hum in her peculiar bass voice: 
 
 “Look you, now! It’s like this. There’s no Boles at all, 
 and there’s no Teresa either. But what’s that to you? Is 
 it a hard thing for you to draw your pen over paper? Eh? 
 Ah, and you, too! Still such a little fair-haired boy! There’s 
 nobody at all, neither Boles, nor Teresa, only me. ‘There 
 you have it, and much good may it do you!” 
 
 “Pardon me!” said I, altogether flabbergasted by such a 
 reception, “what is it all about? There’s no Boles, you 
 say?” 
 
 RING. 50 itis.’ 
 
 “And no Teresa either?”’ 
 
 “And no Teresa. I’m Teresa.” 
 
 I didn’t understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, 
 and tried to make out which of us was taking leave of his 
 or her senses. But she went again to the table, searched 
 
HER LOVER 213 
 
 about for something, came back to me, and said in an 
 offended tone: 
 
 “Tf it was so hard for you to write to Boles, look, there’s 
 your letter, take it! Others will write for me.” 
 
 I looked. In her hand was my letter to Boles. 
 Phew! 
 
 “Listen, Teresa! What is the meaning of all this? Why 
 must you get others to write ior you when I have already 
 written it, and you haven’t sent it?” 
 
 “Sent it where?” 
 
 “Why, to this—Boles.” 
 
 “There’s no such person.” 
 
 I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing 
 for me but to spit and go. Then she explained. 
 
 “What is it?” she said, still offended. ‘There’s no such 
 person, I tell you,’ and she extended her arms as if she 
 herself did not understand why there should be no such 
 
 person. “But I wanted him to be. ...Am I then not a 
 human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes, I know, 
 I know, of course. . . . Yet no harm was done to any one 
 
 by my writing to him that I can see... .” 
 
 “Pardon me—to whom?” 
 
 “To Boles, of course.” 
 
 “But he doesn’t exist.” 
 
 “Alas! alas! But what if he doesn’t? He doesn’t exist, 
 but he might! I write to him, and it looks as if he did 
 exist. And Teresa—that’s me, and he replies to me, and 
 then I write to him again... .” 
 
 I understood at last. And I felt so sick, so miserable, so 
 ashamed, somehow. Alongside of me, not three yards away, 
 lived a human creature who had nobody in the world to 
 treat her kindly, affectionately, and this human being had 
 invented a friend for herself! 
 
 “Look, now! you wrote me a letter to Boles, and I gave 
 it to some one else to read it to me; and when they read it 
 to me I listened and fancied that Boles was there. And I 
 asked you to write me a letter from Boles to Teresa—that 
 is to me. When they write such a letter for me, and read 
 it to me, I feel quite sure that Boles is there. And life 
 grows easier for me in consequence.” 
 
214 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 “Deuce take you for a blockhead!” said I to myself when 
 i heard this. 
 
 And trom thenceforth, regularly, twice a week, I wrote a 
 fetter to Boles, and an answer from Boles to Teresa. I 
 wrote those answers well. . . . She, of course, listened to 
 them, and wept like anything, roared, I should say, with her 
 bass voice. And in return for my thus moving her to tears 
 by real letters from the imaginary Boles, she began to mend 
 the holes I had in my socks, shirts, and other articles of 
 clothing. Subsequently, about three months after this his- 
 tory began, they put her in prison for something or other. 
 No doubt by this time she is dead. 
 
 My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette, looked 
 pensively up at the sky, and thus concluded: 
 
 Well, well, the more a human creature has tasted of bitter 
 things the more it hungers after the sweet things of life. 
 And we, wrapped round in the rags of our virtues, and re- 
 garding others through the mist of our self-sufficiency, and 
 persuaded of our universal impeccability, do not understand 
 this. 
 
 And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly—and very 
 cruelly. The fallen classes, we say. And who are the fallen 
 classes, I should like to know? They are, first of all, peo- 
 pie with the same bones, flesh, and blood and nerves as our- 
 selves. We have been told this day after day for ages. 
 And we actually listen—and the devil only knows how 
 hideous the whole thing is. Or are we completely depraved 
 ру the loud sermonising of humanism? In reality, we also 
 are fallen folks, and, so far as I can see, very deeply fallen 
 into the abyss of self-sufficiency and the conviction of our 
 own superiority. But enough of this. It is all as old as 
 the hills—so old that it is a shame to speak of it. Very 
 old indeed—yes, that’s what it is! 
 
LAZARUS 
 
 By ГЕомтш ANDREYEV 
 I 
 
 7 HEN Lazarus rose from the grave, after three davs 
 and nights in the mysterious thraldom of death, and 
 returned alive to his home, it was a long time betore any 
 one noticed the evil peculiarities in him that were later to 
 make his very name terrible. His friends and relatives were 
 jubilant that he had come back to life. They surrounded 
 him with tenderness, they were lavish of their eager atten- 
 tions, spending the greatest care upon his food and drink 
 and the new garments they made for him. They clad him 
 gorgeously in the glowing colours of hope and laughter, and 
 when, arrayed like a bridegroom, he sat at table with them 
 again, ate again, and drank again, they wept fondly and 
 summoned the neighbours to look upon the man miracu- 
 lously raised from the dead. 
 
 The neighbours came and were moved with joy. Strangers 
 arrived from distant cities and villages to worship the 
 miracle. They burst into stormy exclamations, and buzzed 
 around the house of Mary and Martha, like so many bees. 
 
 That which was new in Lazarus’ face and gestures they 
 explained naturally, as the traces of his severe illness and 
 the shock he had passed through. It was evident that the 
 disintegration of the body had been halted by a miraculous 
 power, but that the restoration had not been complete; 
 that death had left upon his face and body the effect of an 
 artist’s unfinished sketch seen through a thin glass. On 
 his temples, under his eyes, and in the hollow of his cheek 
 lay a thick, earthy blue. His fingers were blue, too, and 
 under his nails, which had grown long in the grave, the biue 
 had turned livid. Here and there on his lips and body, the 
 skin, blistered in the grave, had burst open and left reddish 
 
 215 
 
216 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 glistening cracks, as if covered with a thin, glassy slime. 
 And he had grown exceedingly stout. His body was horribly 
 bloated and suggested the fetid, damp smell of putrefaction. 
 But the cadaverous, heavy odour that clung to his burial 
 garments and, as it seemed, to his very body, soon wore 
 off, and after some time the blue of his hands and face soft- 
 ened, and the reddish cracks of his skin smoothed out, 
 though they never disappeared completely. Such was the 
 aspect of Lazarus in his second life. It looked natural only 
 to those who had seen him buried. 
 
 Not merely Lazarus’ face, but his very character, it 
 seemed, had changed; though it astonished no one and did 
 not attract the attention it deserved. Before his death Laza- 
 rus had been cheerful and careless, a lover of laughter and 
 harmless jest. It was because of his good humour, pleas- 
 ant and equable, his freedom from meanness and gloom, 
 that he had been so beloved by the Master. Now he was 
 grave and silent; neither he himself jested nor did he laugh 
 at the jests of others; and the words he spoke occasionally 
 were simple, ordinary and necessary words—words as much 
 devoid of sense and depth as are the sounds with which an 
 animal expresses pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. Such 
 words a man may speak all his life and no one would ever 
 know the sorrows and joys that dwelt within him. 
 
 Thus it was that Lazarus sat at the festive table among 
 his friends and relatives—his face the face of a corpse over 
 which, for three days, death had reigned in darkness, his 
 garments gorgeous and festive, glittering with gold, bloody- 
 red and purple; his mien heavy and silent. He was hor- 
 ribly changed and strange, but as yet undiscovered. In 
 high waves, now mild, now stormy, the festivities went on 
 around him. Warm glances of love caressed his face, still 
 cold with the touch of the grave; and a friend’s warm hand 
 patted his bluish, heavy hand. And the music played joy- 
 ous tunes mingled of the sounds of the tympanum, the 
 pipe, the zither and the dulcimer. It was as if bees were 
 humming, locusts buzzing and birds singing over the happy 
 home of Mary and Martha. 
 
LAZARUS 217 
 
 II 
 
 Some one recklessly lifted the veil. By one breath of an 
 uttered word he destroyed the serene charm, and uncovered 
 the truth in its ugly nakedness. No thought was clearly 
 defined in his mind, when his lips smilingly asked: “Why 
 do vou not tell us, Lazarus, what was There?” And all 
 became silent, struck with the question. Only now it seemed 
 to have occurred to them that for three days Lazarus had 
 been dead; and they looked with curiosity, awaiting an 
 answer. But Lazarus remained silent. 
 
 “You will not tell us?” wondered the inquirer. ‘Is it se 
 terrible There?”’ 
 
 Again his thought lagged behind his words. Had it pre- 
 ceded them, he would not have asked the question, for, at 
 the very moment he uttered it, his heart sank with a dread 
 fear. All grew restless; they awaited the words of Lazarus 
 anxiously. But he was silent, cold and severe, and his eyes 
 were cast down. And now, as if for the first time, they per- 
 ceived the horrible bluishness of his face and the loathsome 
 corpulence of his body. On the table, as if forgotten by 
 Lazarus, lay his livid blue hand, and all eyes were riveted 
 upon it, as though expecting the desired answer from that 
 hand. The musicians still played; then silence fell upon 
 them, too, and the gay sounds died down, as scattered coals 
 are extinguished by water. The pipe became mute, and 
 the ringing tympanum and the murmuring dulcimer; and as 
 though a chord were broken, as though song itself were 
 dying, the zither echoed a trembling broken sound. Then 
 all was quiet. 
 
 “You will not?” repeated the inquirer, unable to restrain 
 his babbling tongue. Silence reigned, and the livid blue 
 hand lay motionless. It moved slightly, and the company 
 sighed with relief and raised their eyes. Lazarus, risen from 
 the dead, was looking straight at them, embracing all with 
 one glance, heavy and terrible. 
 
 This was on the third day after Lazarus had arisen from 
 the grave. Since then many had felt that his gaze was the 
 gaze of destruction, but neither those who had been for- 
 
218 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 ever crushed by it, nor those who in the prime of life (mys- 
 terious even as death) had found the will to resist his 
 glance, could ever explain the terror that lay immovable in 
 the depths of his black pupils. He looked quiet and simple. 
 One felt that he had no intention to hide anything, but also 
 no intention to tell anything. His look was cold, as of 
 one who is entirely indifferent to all that is alive. And many 
 careless people who pressed around him, and did not notice 
 him, later learned with wonder and fear the name of this 
 stout, quiet man who brushed against them with his sumptu- 
 ous, gaudy garments. The sun did not stop shining when 
 he looked, neither did the fountain cease playing, and the 
 Eastern sky remained cloudless and blue as always; but 
 the man who fell under his inscrutable gaze could no longer 
 feel the sun, nor hear the fountain, nor recognise his native 
 sky. Sometimes he would cry bitterly, sometimes tear his 
 hair in despair and madly call for help; but generally it 
 happened that the men thus stricken by the gaze of Lazarus 
 began to fade away listlessly and quietly and pass into a 
 slow death lasting many long years. They died in the pres- 
 ence of everybody, colourless, haggard and gloomy, like 
 trees withering on rocky ground. Those who screamed in 
 madness sometimes came back to life; but the others, never. 
 
 “So you will not tell us, Lazarus, what you saw There?” 
 the inquirer repeated for the third time. But now his voice 
 was dull, and a dead, grey weariness looked stupidly from 
 out his eyes. The faces of all present were also covered 
 by the same dead grey weariness like a mist. The guests 
 stared at one another stupidly, not knowing why they had» 
 come together or why they sat around this rich table. They 
 stopped talking, and vaguely felt it was time to leave; but 
 they could not overcome the lassitude that spread through 
 their muscles. So they continued to sit there, each one iso- 
 lated, like little dim lights scattered in the darkness of night. 
 
 The musicians were paid to play, and they again took up 
 the instruments, and again played gay or mournful airs. 
 But it was music made to order, always the same tunes, and 
 the guests listened wonderingly. Why was this music nec- 
 essary, they thought, why was it necessary and what good 
 did it do for people to pull at strings and blow their cheeks 
 
LAZARUS 219 
 
 into thin pipes, and produce varied and о 
 
 _ 101565? 
 
 “How badly they play!” said some one. 
 The musicians were insulted and left. Then the guests 
 
 -departea one by one, for it was nearing night. And when 
 the quiet darkness enveloped them, and it became easier 
 
 to breathe, the image of Lazarus suddenly arose before each 
 one in stern splendour. There he stood, with the blue face 
 of a corpse and the raiment of a bridegroom, sumptuous 
 
 _and resplendent, in his eyes that cold stare in the depths of 
 
 which lurked The Horrible! ‘They stood still as if turned 
 into stone. The darkness surrounded them, and in the midst 
 
 of this darkness flamed up the horrible apparition, the super- 
 natural vision, of the one who for three days had lain under 
 
 the measureless power of death. Three days he had been 
 dead. Thrice had the sun risen and set—and he had lain 
 dead. The children had played, the water had murmured as 
 it streamed over the rocks, the hot dust had clouded the 
 highway—and he had been dead. And now he was among 
 
 inen again—touched them-—looked at them—looked at 
 
 thes/ And through the black rings of his pupils, as through 
 dark classes, the unfathomable There gazed upon humanity. 
 
 Ш 
 
 No one took саге of Lazarus, and no friends ог kin- 
 dred remained with him. Only the great desert, enfolding 
 
 the Holy City, came close to the threshold of his abode. It 
 
 entered his home, and lay down on his couch like a spouse, 
 and put out all the fires. No one cared for Lazarus. One 
 after the other went away, even his sisters, Mary and 
 Martha. For a long while Martha did not want to leave 
 him, for she knew not who would nurse him or take care 
 of him; and she cried and prayed. But one night, when 
 the wind was roaming about the desert, and the rustling 
 cypress trees were bending over the roof, she dressed her- 
 self quietly, and quietly went away. Lazarus probably | 
 heard how the door was slammed—it had not shut properly 
 and the wind kept knocking it continually against the past 
 
220 . BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 —but he'did_ not rise, did not go out, did not try to find out 
 ‚ Ала the whole night until the morning the 
 cypress - reés: hissed over his head, and the door swung te 
 and fro, allowing the cold, greedily prowling desert to en- 
 ter his ‘dwelling. Everybody shunned him as though he 
 were’a leper: ‘They wanted to put a bell on his neck to 
 avoid meeting him. But some one, turning pale, remarked 
 it would be terrible if at night, under the windows, one 
 should happen to hear Lazarus’ bell, and ail grew pale and 
 assented. 
 
 Since he did nothing for himself, he would probably have 
 starved had not his neighbours, in trepidation, saved some 
 food for him. Children brought it to him. They did not 
 fear him, neither did they laugh at him in the innocent 
 cruelty in which children often laugh at unfortunates. They 
 were indifferent to him, and Lazarus showed the same indif- 
 ference to them. He showed no desire to thank them for 
 their services; he did not try to pat the dark hands and 
 look into the simple shining little eyes. Abandoned to the 
 ravages of time and the desert, his house was falling to 
 ruins, and his hungry, bleating goats had long been scat- 
 tered among his neighbours. His wedding garments had 
 grown old. He wore them without changing them, as he 
 had donned them on that happy day when the musicians 
 played. He did not see the difference between old and new, 
 between torn and whole. The brilliant colours were burnt 
 and faded; the vicious dogs of the city and the sharp thorns 
 of the desert had rent the fine clothes to shreds. 
 
 During the day, when the sun beat down mercilessly 
 upon all living things, and even the scorpions hid under the 
 stones, convulsed with a mad desire to sting, he sat mo- 
 tionless in the burning rays, lifting high his blue face and 
 shaggy wild beard. 
 
 While yet the people were unafraid to speak to him, some 
 one had asked him: ‘Poor Lazarus! Do you find it pleas- 
 ant to sit so, and look at the sun?” And he answered: 
 “Yes, it is pleasant.” 
 
 The thought suggested itself to people that the cold of 
 “the three days in the grave had been so intense, its dark- 
 ness so deep, that there was not in all the earth enough 
 
 
 
 
TAZAR UGH: + ki le 
 
 heat or light to warm Lazarus and lighten the gloom of 
 his eyes; and inquirers turned away with a sigh. „> 
 
 And when the setting sun, flat and purplé-red,*descended 
 to earth, Lazarus went into ‘the desert and walked straight 
 toward it, as though intending to reach it. Always he walked 
 directly toward the sun, and those who tried to follow him 
 and find out what he did at night in the desert had indelibly 
 imprinted upon their mind’s vision the black silhouette of a 
 tall, stout man against the red background of an immense 
 disk. The horrors of the night drove them away, and so 
 they never found out what Lazarus did in the desert; but 
 the image of the black form against the red was burned 
 forever into their brains. Like an animal with a cinder 
 in its eye which furiously rubs its muzzle against its paws, 
 they foolishly rubbed their eyes; but the impression left by 
 Lazarus was ineffaceable, forgotten only in death. 
 
 There were people living far away who never saw Lazarus 
 and only heard of him. With an audacious curiosity which 
 is stronger than fear and feeds on fear, witha secret sneer 
 in their hearts, some of them came to him one day as he 
 basked in the sun, and entered into conversation with him. 
 At that time his appearance had changed for the better and 
 was not so frightful. At first the visitors snapped their - 
 fingers and thought disapprovingly of the foolish inhabitants * 
 of the Holy City. But when the short talk came to an Fi 
 end and they went home, their expression was such that the | ‚| 
 inhabitants of the Holy City at once knew their errand and © 
 said: “Here go some more madmen at whom Lazarus has 
 iooked.” The speakers raised their hands in silent pity. 
 
 Other visitors came, among them brave warriors in clink- ~ 
 ing armour, who knew not fear, and happy youths who made. 
 merry with laughter and song. Busy merchants, jingling 
 their coins, ran in for awhile, and proud attendants at the 
 Temple placed their staffs at Lazarus’ door. But no one 
 returned the same as he came. A frightful shadow fell upon 
 their souls, and gave a new appearance to the old familiar 
 world. 
 
 Those who felt any desire to speak, after they had been 
 stricken by the gaze of Lazarus, described the change that ы 
 had come over them somewhat like this: 
 
oS BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 All objects seen by the eye and palpable to the hanes 
 became empty, light and transparent, as though they were 
 light shadows in the darkness; and this darkness enveloped 
 the whole universe. It was dispelled neither by the sun, nor 
 by the moon, nor by the stars, but embraced the earth like a 
 mother, and clothed it in a boundless black veil. 
 
 Into all bodies it penetrated, even into iron and stone; 
 and the particles of the body lost their unity and became 
 lonely. Even to the heart of the particles it penetrated, 
 and the particles of the particles became lonely. 
 
 The vast emptiness which surrounds the universe, was 
 not filled with things seen, with sun or moon or stars; tt 
 stretched boundless, penetrating everywhere, disuniting 
 everything, body from body, particle from particle. 
 
 In emptiness the trees spread their roots, themselves 
 empty; in emptiness rose phantom temples, palaces and 
 houses—all empty; and in the emptiness moved restless 
 Man, himself empty and light, like a shadow. 
 
 There was no more a sense of time; the beginning of all 
 things and their end merged into one. In the very moment 
 when a building was being erected and one could hear the 
 builders striking with their hammers, one seemed already 
 to see its ruins, and then emptiness where the ruins were. 
 
 A man was just born, and funeral candles were already 
 lighted at his head, and then were extinguished; and soon 
 there was emptiness where before had been the man and the 
 candles. 
 
 And surrounded by Darkness and Empty Waste, Man 
 trembled hopelessly before the dread of the Infinite. 
 
 So spoke those who had a degire to speak. But much 
 more could probably have been told by those who did not 
 want to talk, and who died in silence. 
 
 IV 
 
 At that time there lived in Rome a celebrated sculptor 
 
 $ by the name of Aurelius. Out of clay, marble and bronze 
 he created forms of gods and men of such beauty that this 
 eauty was proclaimed immortal. But he himself was aot 
 
LAZARUS 223 
 
 satisfied, and said there was a supreme beauty that he had 
 never succeeded in expressing in marble or bronze. “I have 
 not yet gathered the radiance of the moon,” he said; “I have — 
 snot yet caught the glare of the sun. There is no soul in 
 my marble, there is no life п my beautiful bronze.” And 
 when by moonlight he would slowly wander along the roads, 
 crossing the black shadows of the cypress-trees, his white ~ 
 tunic flashing in the moonlight, those he met used to laugh 
 
 : good- -naturedly and say: “Is it moonlight that you are gath- 
 ering, Aurelius? Why did you not bring some baskets 
 along?” 
 
 _ Ала he, too, would laugh and point to his eyes and say: 
 “Here are the baskets in which I gather the light of the 
 ‘moon and the radiance of the sun.” 
 
 And that was the truth. In his eyes shone moon and 
 sun. But he could not transmit the radiance to marble. 
 Therein lay the greatest tragedy of his life. He was a de- 
 scendant of an ancient race of patricians, had a good wife 
 and children, and except in this one respect, lacked nothing. 
 
 When the dark rumour about Lazarus reached him, he 
 consulted his wife and friends and decided to make the 
 long voyage to Judea, in order that he might look upon the 
 man miraculously raised from the dead. He felt lonely in 
 those days and hoped on the way to renew his jaded energies. 
 What they told him about Lazarus did not frighten him. He 
 had meditated much upon death. Не did not like it, nor 
 did he like those who tried to harmonise it with life. On 
 this side, beautiful life; on the other, mysterious death, he 
 reasoned, and no better jot could befall a man than to 
 live—to enjoy life and thébeauty of living. And he already 
 had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of 
 this view and to return his soul to life even as his body had 
 been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the 
 reports about Lazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, 
 did not tell the whole truth about him, but only carried a 
 vague warning against something awful. 
 
 Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path 
 of the setting sun, on the evening when the rich Roman,® 
 accompanied by an armed slave, approached him, and in а 
 ringing voice called to him: “Lazarus!” 
 
224 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant 
 by fame, and white garments and precious jewels shining 
 in the sunlight. The ruddy rays of the sun lent to the head 
 and face a likeness to dimly shining bronze—that was what 
 Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat obediently, and 
 wearily lowered his eyes. 
 
 “Tt is true you are not beautiful, my poor Lazarus,” said 
 the Roman quietly, playing with his gold chain. “You are 
 even frightful, my poor friend; and death was not lazy the 
 day when you so carelessly fell into its arms. But you 
 are as fat as a barrel, and ‘Fat people are not bad,’ as the 
 great Cesar said. I do not understand why people are so 
 afraid of you. You will permit me to stay with you over 
 night? It is already late, and I have no abode.” 
 
 Nobody had ever asked Lazarus to be allowed to pass the 
 night with him. 
 
 “Т have no bed,” said he. 
 
 “Т am somewhat of a warrior and can sleep sitting,” 
 replied the Roman. “We shall make a light.” 
 
 “T have no light.” 
 
 “Then we will converse in the darkness like two friends. 
 “suppose you have some wine?” 
 
 “T have no wine.’ 
 
 The Roman ached 
 
 “Мох I understand why you are so gloomy and why you 
 
 do not like your second life. No wine? Well, we shall 
 
 do without. You know there are words that go to one’s 
 
 head even as Falernian wine.” 
 
 With a motion of his head he dismissed the slave, and 
 they were alone. And again the sculptor spoke, but it 
 seemed as though the sinking sun had penetrated into his 
 words. They faded, pale and empty, as if trembling on 
 weak feet, as if slipping and falling, drunk with the wine 
 of anguish and despair. And black chasms appeared be- 
 tween the two men—like remote hints of vast emptiness 
 and vast darkness. 
 
 “Now I am your guest and you will not ill-treat me, 
 
 ” Lazarus!” said the Roman. “Hospitality is binding even 
 upon those who have been three days dead. Three days, 
 Т am told, you were in the grave. It must have been cold 
 
 a 
 
LAZARUS 225 
 
 ‘there . . . and it is from there that you have brought this 
 bad habit of doing without light and wine. I like a light. 
 ‘It gets dark so quickly here. Your eyebrows and forehead 
 have an interesting line: even as the ruins of castles covered 
 with the ashes of an earthquake. But why in such strange, 
 ugly clothes? I have seen the bridegrooms of your country, 
 they wear clothes like that—such ridiculous clothes—such 
 awful garments. . . . Are you a bridegroom?” 
 
 Already the sun had disappeared. А gigantic black 
 shadow was approaching fast from the west, as if prodigious 
 bare feet were rustling over the sand. And the chill breezes 
 stole up behind. 
 
 “In the darkness you seem even bigger, Lazarus, as 
 though you had grown stouter in these few minutes. Do 
 you feed on darkness, perchance? . . . And I would like 
 a light . . . just a small light . . . just a small light. And 
 Iamcold. The nights here are so barbarously cold. . . . If 
 it were not so dark, I should say you were looking at me, 
 Lazarus. Yes, it seems, you are looking. You are looking. 
 You are looking at me! . . . 1 feel it—now you are smil- 
 ing.” 
 
 The night had come, and a heavy blackness filled the air. 
 
 “How good it will be when the sun rises again to-morrow. 
 ... You know I am a great sculptor . . . so my friends 
 call me. I create, yes, they say I create, but for that day- 
 light is necessary. I give life to cold marble. I melt the 
 ringing bronze in the fire, in a bright, hot fire. Why did 
 you touch me with your hand?” 
 
 “Come,” said Lazarus, “you are my guest.” And they 
 went into the house. And the shadows of the long evening 
 fell on the earth. ... 
 
 The slave at last grew tired waiting for his master, and 
 when the sun stood high he came to the house. And he 
 saw, directly under its burning rays, Lazarus and his master 
 sitting close together. ‘They looked straight up and were 
 silent. 
 
 The slave wept and cried aloud: “Master, what ails 
 you, Master!” 
 
 The same day Aurelius left for Rome. The whole way 
 he was thoughtful and silent, attentively examining every- 
 
226 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 thing, the people, the ship, and the sea, as though endeav- 
 ouring to recall something. On the sea a great storm over- 
 took them, and all the while Aurelius remained on deck and 
 gazed eagerly at the approaching and falling waves. When 
 he reached home his family were shocked at the terrible 
 change in his demeanour, but he calmed them with the 
 words: “I have found it!” 
 
 In the dusty clothes which he had worn during the entire 
 journey and had not changed, he began his work, and the 
 marble ringingly responded to the resounding blows of the 
 hammer. Long and eagerly he worked, admitting no one. 
 At last, one morning, he announced that the work was ready, 
 and gave instructions that all his friends, and the severe 
 critics and judges of art, be called together. Then he 
 donned gorgeous garments, shining with gold, glowing with 
 the purple of the byssin. 
 
 “Here is what I have created,” he said thoughtfully. 
 
 His friends looked, and immediately the shadow of deep 
 sorrow covered their faces. It was a thing monstrous, pos- 
 sessing none of the forms familiar to the eye, yet not de- 
 void of a hint of some new unknown form. On a thin tor- 
 tuous little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of one, 
 lay crooked, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of some- 
 thing turned outside in, or something turned inside out— 
 wild fragments which seemed to be feebly trying to get 
 away from themselves. And, accidentally, under one of the 
 wild projections, they noticed a wonderfully sculptured but- 
 terfly, with transparent wings, trembling as though with a 
 weak longing to fly. 
 
 “Why that wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?” timidly asked 
 
 ‚ some one. 
 
 “Т do not know,” answered the sculptor. 
 
 The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one 
 who loved Aurelius best, said: ‘‘This is ugly, my poor 
 friend. It must be destroyed. Give me the hammer.” And 
 with two blows he destroyed the monstrous mass, leaving 
 only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly. 
 
 After that Aurelius created nothing. He looked with ab- 
 solute indifference at marble and at bronze and at his own 
 divine creations, in which dwelt immortal beauty. In the 
 
LAZARUS 227 
 
 
 
 hope of breathing into him once again the old flame of in- 
 spiration, with the idea of awakening his dead soul, his 
 friends led him to see the beautiful creations of others, 
 but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed 
 lips. And only after they spoke to him much and long of 
 beauty, he would reply wearily: 
 
 “But all this is—a lie.” 
 
 And in the daytime, when the sun was shining, he would 
 go into his rich and beautifully laid-out garden, and finding 
 a place where there was no shadow, would expose his bare 
 head and his dull eyes to the glitter and burning heat ot 
 the sun. Red and white butterflies fluttered around; down 
 into the marble cistern ran splashing water from the crooked 
 moth of a blissfully drunken Satyr; but he sat motionless, 
 like a pale shadow of that other one who, in a far land, at 
 the very gates of the stony desert, also sat motionless under 
 the fiery sun. | 
 
 У 
 
 And it came about finally that Lazarus was summoned 
 to Rome by the great Augustus. 
 
 They dressed him in gorgeous garments as though it had 
 been ordained that he was to remain a bridegroom to an un- 
 known bride until the very day of his death. It was as if 
 an old coffin, rotten and falling apart, were regilded over 
 and over, and gay tassels were hung on it. And solemnly 
 they conducted him in gala attire, as though in truth it were 
 a bridal procession, the runners loudly sounding the trumpet 
 that the way be made for the ambassadors of the Emperor. 
 But the roads along which he passed were deserted. His 
 entire native land cursed the execrable name of Lazarus, 
 the man miraculously brought to life, and the people scat- 
 tered at the mere report of his horrible approach. The 
 trumpeters blew lonely blasts, and only the desert answered 
 with a dying echo. 
 
 Then they carried him across the sea on the saddest and 
 most gorgeous ship that was ever mirrored in the azure 
 waves of the Mediterranean. There were many people 
 aboard, but the ship was silent and still as a coffin, and the 
 
 a 
 
228 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 water seemed to moan as it parted before the short curved 
 prow. Lazarus sat lonely, baring his head to the sun, ang 
 listening in silence to the splashing of the waters. Further 
 away the seamen and the ambassadors gathered like a crowd 
 of distressed shadows. If a thunderstorm had happened to 
 _ burst upon them at that time or the wind had overwhelmed 
 the red sails, the ship would probably have perished, for 
 none of those who were on her had strength or desire enough 
 to fight for life. With supreme effort some went to the side 
 of the ship and eagerly gazed at the blue, transparent abyss, 
 Perhaps they imagined they saw a naiad flashing a pink 
 shoulder through the waves, or an insanely joyous and 
 drunken centaur galloping by, splashing up the water with 
 his hoofs. But the sea was deserted and mute, and so was 
 the watery abyss. 
 
 Listlessly Lazarus set foot on the streets of the Eternal 
 City, as though all its riches, all the majesty of its gigantic 
 edifices, all the lustre and beauty and music of refined life, 
 were simply the echo of the wind in the desert, or the misty 
 images of hot running sand. Chariots whirled by; the crowd 
 of strong, beautiful, haughty men passed on, builders of the 
 Eternal City and proud partakers of its life; songs rang 
 out; fountains laughed; pearly laughter of women filled the 
 air, while the drunkard philosophised and the sober ones 
 smilingly listened; horseshoes rattled on the pavement. And 
 surrounded on all sides by glad sounds, a fat, heavy man 
 moved through the centre of the city like a cold spot of 
 silence, sowing in his path grief, anger and vague, carking 
 distress. Who dared to be sad in Rome? indignantly de- 
 manded frowning citizens; and in two days the swift- 
 tongued Rome knew of Lazarus, the man miraculously 
 raised from the grave, and timidly evaded him. 
 
 There were many brave men ready to try their strength, 
 and at their senseless call Lazarus came obediently. The 
 Emperor was so engrossed with state affairs that he delayed 
 receiving the visitor, and for seven days Lazarus moved 
 among the people. 
 
 A jovial drunkard met him with a smile on his red lips. 
 “Drink, Lazarus, drink!” he cried, “Would not Augustus 
 laugh to see you drink!” And naked, besotted women 
 

 
 LAZARUS 229 
 
 laughed, and decked the blue hands of Lazarus with rose- 
 leaves. But the drunkard looked into the eyes of Lazarus— 
 and his joy ended forever. Thereafter he was always drunk. 
 He drank no more, but was drunk all the time, shadowed by 
 fearful dreams, instead of the joyous reveries that wine 
 gives. Fearful dreams became the food of his broken spirit. 
 Fearful dreams held him day and night in the mists at 
 /monstrous fantasy, and death itself was no more fearful 
 than the apparition of its fierce precursor. 
 
 Lazarus came to a youth and his lass who loved each other 
 and were beautiful in their love. Proudly and strongly 
 holding in his arms his beloved one, the youth said, with 
 gentle pity: “Look at us, Lazarus, and rejoice with us. 
 Is there anything stronger than love?” 
 
 And Lazarus looked at them. And their whole life they 
 continued to love one another, but their love became mourn- 
 ful and gloomy, even as those cypress trees over the tombs 
 that feed their roots on the putrescence of the grave, and 
 strive in vain in the quiet evening hour to touch the sky 
 with their pointed tops. Hurled by fathomless life-forces 
 into eacn other’s arms, they mingled their kisses with tears, 
 their joy with pain, and only succeeded in realising the 
 more vividly a sense of their slavery to the silent Nothing. 
 Forever united, forever parted, they flashed like sparks, and 
 like sparks went out in boundless darkness. 
 
 Lazarus came to a proud sage, and the sage said to him: 
 “T already know all the horrors that you may tell me, 
 Lazarus. With what else can you terrify me?” 
 
 Only a few moments passed before the sage realised that 
 the knowledge of the horrible is not the horrible, and that 
 the sight of death is not death. And he felt that in the eyes 
 of the Infinite wisdom and folly are the same, for the In- 
 finite knows them not. And the boundaries between knowl- 
 edge and ignorance, between truth and falsehood, between 
 top and bottom, faded and his shapeless thought was sus- 
 pended in emptiness. Then he grasped his grey head in his 
 hands and cried out insanely: “Т cannot think! I can- 
 not think!” 
 
 Thus it was that under the cool gaze of Lazarus, the 
 man miraculously raised from the dead, all that serves to 
 
230 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 affirm life, its sense and its joys, perisned. And people be< 
 
 gan to say it was dangerous to allow him to see the Emperor; 
 that it were better to kill him and bury him secretly, and 
 swear he had disappeared. Swords were sharpened and 
 youths devoted to the welfare of the people announced their 
 readiness to become assassins, when Augustus upset the cruel 
 plans by demanding that Lazarus appear before him. 
 
 Even though Lazarus could not be kept away, it was felt 
 that the heavy impression conveyed by his face might be 
 somewhat softened. With that end in view expert paint- 
 ers, barbers and artists were secured who worked the whole 
 night on Lazarus’ head. His beard was trimmed and 
 curled. The disagreeable and deadly bluishness of his 
 hands and face was covered up with paint; his hands were 
 whitened, his cheeks rouged. The disgusting wrinkles of 
 suffering that ridged his old face were patched up and 
 painted, and on the smooth surface, wrinkles of good-nature 
 and laughter, and of pleasant, good-humoured cheeriness, 
 were laid on artistically with fine brushes. 
 
 Lazarus submitted indifferently to all they did with him, 
 and soon was transformed into a stout, nice-looking old man, 
 for all the world a quiet and good-humoured grandfather 
 of numerous grandchildren. He looked as though the smile 
 with which he told funny stories had not left his lips, as 
 though a quiet tenderness still lay hidden in the corner of 
 his eyes. But the wedding-dress they did not dare to take 
 off; and they could not change his eyes—the dark, terrible 
 eyes from out of which stared the incomprehensible There. 
 
 VI 
 
 Lazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imper- 
 ial apartments. He remained stolidly indifferent, as though 
 he saw no contrast between his ruined house at the edge of 
 the desert and the solid, beautiful palace of stone. Under 
 his feet the hard marble of the floor took on the semblance 
 of the moving sands of the desert, and to his eyes the 
 throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as unreal as the 
 emptiness of the air. They looked not into his face as he 
 
LAZARUS 231 
 
 passed by, fearing to come under the awful bane of his eyes; 
 but when the sound of his heavy steps announced that he 
 had passed, heads were lifted, and eyes examined with timid 
 curiosity the figure of the corpulent, tall, slightly stooping 
 old man, as he slowly passed into the heart of the imperial 
 palace. If death itself had appeared men would not have 
 feared it so much; for hitherto death had been known to 
 the dead only, and life to the living only, and between 
 these two there had been no bridge. But this strange being 
 knew death, and that knowledge of his was felt to be mys- 
 terious and cursed. “Не will kill our great, divine Augus- 
 tus,” men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after 
 him. Slowly and stolidly he passed them by, penetrating 
 ever deeper into the palace. 
 
 Cesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared 
 to meet him. He was a courageous man; he felt his power 
 was invincible, and in the fateful encounter with the man 
 “wonderfully raised from the dead” he refused to lean on 
 other men’s weak help. Man to man, face to face, he met 
 Lazarus. 
 
 “Do not fix your gaze on me, Lazarus,”’ he commanded. 
 “T have heard that your head is like the head of Medusa, 
 and turns into stone all upon whom you look. But I should 
 like to have a close look at you, and to talk to you before 
 I turn into stone,” he added in a spirit of playfulness that 
 concealed his real misgivings. 
 
 Approaching him, he examined closely Lazarus’ face and 
 his strange festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and 
 keen, he was deceived by the skilful counterfeit. 
 
 “Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable зп. 
 But all the worse for men, when the terrible takes on suca 
 a venerable and pleasant appearance. Now let us talk.” 
 
 Augustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words 
 began the discussion. “Why did you not salute me when 
 you entered?” 
 
 Lazarus answered indifferently: “Т did not know it was 
 necessary.” 
 
 “You are a Christian?” 
 
 "Мог? 
 
 Augustus nodded approvingly. ‘That is good. I do noi 
 
232 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 like the Christians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding 
 it to beax fruit, and they scatter to the wind its fragrant 
 blossoms. But who are you?” 
 
 With some effort Lazarus answered: “Т was dead.” 
 
 “f heard about that. But who are you now?” 
 
 Lazarus’ answer came slowly. Finally he said again, list- 
 lessly and indistinctly: “Т was dead.” 
 
 “Listen to me, stranger,” said the Emperor sharply, giv- 
 ing expression to what had been in his mind before. “Му 
 empire is an empire of the living; my people are a people of 
 the living and not of the dead. You are superfluous here. 
 I do not know who you are, I do not know what you have 
 seen There, but if you lie, I hate your lies, and if you tell 
 the truth, I hate your truth. In my heart I feel the pulse of 
 life; in my hands I feel power, and my proud thoughts, like 
 eagles, fly through space. Behind my back, under the pro- 
 tection of my authority, under the shadow of the laws I 
 have created, men live and labour and rejoice. Do you 
 hear this divine harmony of life? Do you hear the war cry 
 that men hurl into the face of the future, challenging it to 
 strife?” 
 
 Augustus extended his arms reverently and solemnly cried 
 out: “Blessed art thou, Great Divine Life!” 
 
 But Lazarus was silent, and the Emperor continued more 
 severely: ‘You are not wanted here. Pitiful remnant, 
 baif devoured of death, you fill men with distress and aver- 
 sion to life. Like a caterpillar on the fields, you are gnaw- 
 ing away at the full seed of joy, exuding the slime of de- 
 spair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusted sword in 
 the hands of a night assassin, and I shall condemn you to 
 death as an assassin. But first I want to look into your 
 eyes. Mayhap only cowards fear them, and brave men 
 are spurred on to struggle and victory. Then will you 
 merit not death but a reward. Look at me, Lazarus.” 
 
 At first it seemed to divine Augustus as if a friend were 
 looking at him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating 
 was the gaze of Lazarus. It promised not horror but quiet 
 rest, and the Infinite dwelt there as а fond mistress, a com-. 
 passionate sister, a mother. And ever stronger grew its 
 gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were, the breath of a 
 
LAZARUS 233 
 
 mouth hungry for kisses. . . . Then it seemed as if iron 
 bones protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in 
 ‘an iron band; and cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, 
 slowly sank into it. 
 
 “Tt pains me,” said divine Augustus, growing pale; “but 
 llook, Lazarus, look!” 
 
 | Ponderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be 
 slowly swinging open, and through the growing aperture 
 poured in, coldly and calmly, the awful horror of the Infinite. 
 Boundless Emptiness and Boundless Gloom entered like two 
 shadows, extinguishing the sun, removing the ground from 
 under the feet, and the cover from over the head. And the 
 pain in his icy heart ceased. 
 
 “Look at me, look at me, Lazarus!”’ commanded Augus- 
 tus, staggering. 
 
 Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously 
 mear to the end. The throne of Augustus, so recently 
 erected, fell to pieces, and emptiness took the place of the 
 throne and of Augustus. Rome fell silently into ruins. A 
 new city rose in its place, and it too was erased by empti- 
 ness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and coun- 
 tries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness—swallowed 
 ‘up in the black. maw of the Infinite. 
 
 “Cease,” commanded the Emperor. Alrcady the accent 
 of indifference was in his voice. His arms hung powerless, 
 and his eagle eyes flashed and were dimmed again, strug- 
 gling against overwhelming darkness. 
 
 “You have killed me, Lazarus,” he said drowsily. 
 
 These words of despair saved him. He thought of the 
 people, whose shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, re- 
 deeming pang pierced his dull heart. He thought of them 
 doomed to perish, and he was filled with anguish. First 
 they seemed bright shadows in the gloom of the Infinite. 
 —How terrible! Then they appeared as fragile vessels with 
 life-agitated blood, and hearts that knew both sorrow and 
 great joy—aAnd he thought of them with tenderness. 
 
 And so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to 
 the side of life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned 
 to life, to find in its suffering and joy a refuge from the 
 gloom, emptiness and fear of the Infinite. 
 
234 —  ВЕЗТ RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 «Мо, you did not kill me, Lazarus,” said he firmly. “But 
 I will kill you. Go!” 
 
 Evening came and divine Augustus partook of food and 
 drink with great joy. But there were moments when his 
 raised arm would remain suspended in the air, and the light 
 of his shining, eager eyes was dimmed. It seemed as if 
 an icy wave of horror washed against his feet. He was 
 vanquished but not killed, and coldly awaited his doom, 
 like a black shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, 
 but the bright days still brought him the joys, as well as 
 - the sorrows, of life. 
 
 Next day, by order of the Emperor, they burned out 
 Lazarus’ eyes with hot irons and sent him home. Even 
 Augustus dared not kill him. 
 
 Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him 
 with the breath of the hissing wind and the ardour of the 
 glowing sun. Again he sat on the stone with matted beard 
 uplifted; and two black holes, where the eyes had once 
 been, looked dull and horrible at the sky. In the distance 
 the Holy City surged and roared restlessly, but near him ali 
 was deserted and still. No one approached the place where 
 Lazarus, miraculously raised from the dead, passed his 
 last days, for his neighbours had long since abandoned their 
 homes. His cursed knowledge, driven by the hot irons from 
 his eyes deep into the brain, lay there in ambush; as if 
 from ambush it might spring out upon men with a thousand 
 unseen eyes. No one dared to look at Lazarus. 
 
 And in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and 
 growing larger, bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus 
 slowly groped after it. He stumbled against stones and fell; 
 corpulent and feeble, he rose heavily and walked on; and 
 against the red curtain of sunset his dark form and out- 
 stretched arms gave him the semblance of a cross. 
 
 It happened once that he went and never returned. Thus 
 ended the second life of Lazarus, who for three days had 
 been in the mysterious thraldom of death and then was 
 miraculously raised from the dead. 
 
THE REVOLUTIONIST 
 
 By Mrxwait Р. ArRTZYBASHEV 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 : ABRIEL ANDERSEN, the teacher, walked to the edge 
 | of the school garden, where he paused, undecided what 
 to do. Off in the distance, twe miles away, the woods hung 
 like bluish lace over a field of pure snow. It was a brilliant 
 day. A hundred tints glistened on the white ground and the 
 iron bars of the garden railing. There was a lightness and 
 ‘transparency in the air that only the days of early spring 
 ‘possess. Gabriel Andersen turned his steps toward the 
 fringe of blue lace for a tramp in the woods. 
 
 ‘“‘Another spring in my life,” he said, breathing deep and 
 peering up at the heavens through his spectacles. Ander- 
 sen was rather given to sentimental poetising. He walked 
 with his hands folded behind him, dangling his cane. 
 
 He had gone but a few paces when he noticed a group of 
 soldiers and horses on the road beyond the garden rail. 
 Their drab uniforms stood out dully against the white of the 
 snow, but their swords and horses’ coats tossed back the 
 light. Their bowed cavalry legs moved awkwardly on the 
 snow. Andersen wondered what they were doing there. 
 Suddenly the nature of their business flashed upon him. I 
 was an ugly errand they were upon, an instinct rather thar. 
 his reason told him. Something unusual and terrible was 
 to happen. And the same instinct told him he must 
 conceal himself from the soldiers. Не turned to the lef? 
 quickly, dropped on his knees, and crawled on the soft, 
 thawing, crackling snow to a low haystack, from behind 
 which, by craning his neck, he could watch what the sol- 
 diers were doing. 
 
 There were twelve of them, one a stocky young officer in 
 a grey cloak caught in prettily at the waist by a silver belt. 
 His face was so red that even at that distance Andersen 
 
 235 
 
236 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 caught the odd, whitish gleam of his light protruding mous- 
 tache and eyebrows against the vivid colour of his skin. 
 The broken tones of his raucous voice reached distinctly to 
 where the teacher, listening intently, lay hidden. 
 
 “Т know what I am about. I don’t need anybody’s ad- 
 vice,” the officer cried. Не clapped his arms akimbo and 
 looked down at some one among the group of bustling sol- 
 diers. “ГИ show you how to be a rebel, you damned skunk.” 
 
 Andersen’s heart beat fast. “Соо4 heavens!” he thought. 
 “Is it possible?” His head grew chill as if struck by a 
 cold мауе. . 
 
 “Officer,” a quiet, restrained, yet distinct voice came from 
 among the soldiers, “уои have no right—it’s for the court 
 to decide—you aren’t a judge—it’s plain murder, not a 
 
 “Silence!” thundered the officer, his voice choking with 
 rage. “ГП give you a court. Ivanov, go ahead.” 
 
 He put the spurs to his horse and rode away. Gabriel 
 Andersen mechanically observed how carefully the horse 
 picked its way, placing its feet daintily as if for the steps 
 of a minuet. Its ears were pricked to catch every sound. 
 There was momentary bustle and excitement among the sol- 
 diers. ‘Then they dispersed in different directions, leaving 
 three persons in black behind, two tall men and one very 
 short and frail. Andersen could see the hair of the short 
 one’s head. It was very light. And he saw his rosy ears 
 sticking out on each side. 
 
 Now he fully understood what was to happen. But it 
 was a thing so out of the ordinary, so horrible, that he 
 fancied he was dreaming. 
 
 “It’s so bright, so beautiful—the snow, the field, the 
 woods, the sky. The breath of spring is upon everything. 
 Yet people are going to be kilied. How can it be? Im- 
 possible!” So his thoughts ran in confusion. He had the 
 sensation of a man suddenly gone insane, who finds he sees, 
 hears and feels what he is not accustomed to, and ought not 
 hear, see and feel. 
 
 The three inen in black stood next to one another hard 
 by the railing, two quite close together, the short one some 
 distance away. 
 
 “Officer!” one of them cried in a desperate voice—Ander- 
 
 
 
THE REVOLUTIONIST 237 
 
 sen could not see which it was—‘“‘God sees us! Officer!” 
 
 Eight soldiers dismounted quickly, their spurs and sabres 
 catching awkwardly. Evidently they were in a hurry, as 
 if doing a thief’s job. 
 
 Several seconds passed in silence until the soldiers placed 
 themselves in a row a few feet from the black figures and 
 levelled their guns. In doing so one soldier knocked his 
 cap from his head. He picked it up and put it on again 
 without brushing off the wet snow. 
 
 The officer’s mount still kept dancing on one spot with 
 his ears pricked, while the other horses, also with sharp 
 ears erect to catch every sound, stood motionless looking 
 at the men in black, their long wise heads inclined to one 
 side. 
 
 “Spare the boy at least!” another voice suddenly pierced 
 the air. “Why kill a child, damn you! What has the 
 child done?” 
 
 “Туапоу, do what I told you to do,” thundered the 
 officer, drowning the other voice. His face turned as scarlet 
 as a piece of red flannel. 
 
 There followed a scene savage and repulsive in its 
 gruesomeness. ‘The short figure in black, with the light 
 hair and the rosy ears, uttered a wild shriek in a shrill 
 child’s tones and reeled to one side. Instantly it was caught 
 up by two or three soldiers. But the boy began to struggle, 
 and two more soldiers ran up. 
 
 “Ow-ow-ow-ow!” the boy cried. “Let me go, let me 
 go! Ow-ow!” 
 
 His shrill voice cut the air like the yell of a stuck 
 porkling not quite dcne to death. Suddenly he grew quiet. 
 Some one must have struck him. An unexpected, oppres- 
 sive silence ensued. The boy was being pushed forward. 
 Then there came a deafening report. Andersen started 
 back all in a tremble. Не saw distinctly, yet vaguely as 
 in a dream, the dropping of two dark bodies, the flash of 
 pale sparks, and a light smoke rising in the clean, bright 
 atmosphere. He saw the soldiers hastily mounting their 
 horses without even glancing at the bodies. He saw them 
 galloping along the muddy road, their arms clanking, their 
 horses’ hoofs clattering. 
 
238 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 He saw all this, himself now standing in the middle of 
 the road, not knowing when and why he had jumped from 
 behind the haystack. He was deathly pale. His face was 
 covered with dank sweat, his body was aquiver. A physical 
 sadness smote and tortured him. He could not make out 
 the nature of the feeling. It was akin to extreme sick- 
 ness, though far more nauseating and terrible. 
 
 After the soldiers had disappeared beyond the bend 
 toward the woods, people came hurrying to the spot of 
 the shooting, though till then not a soul had been in sight. 
 
 The bodies lay at the roadside on the other side of the 
 railing, where the snow was clean, brittle and untrampled 
 and glistened cheerfully in the bright atmosphere. There 
 were three dead bodies, two men and a boy. ‘The boy lay 
 with his long soft neck stretched on the snow. ‘The face 
 of the man next to the boy was invisible. He had fallen 
 face downward in a pool of blood. The third was a big 
 man with a black beard and huge, muscular arms. He lay 
 stretched out to the full length of his big body, his arms 
 extended over a large area of blood-stained snow. 
 
 The three men who had been shot lay black against 
 the white snow, motionless. From afar no one could have 
 told the terror that was in their immobility as they lay there 
 at the edge of the narrow road crowded with people. 
 
 That night Gabriel Andersen in his little room in the 
 schoolhouse did not write poems as usual. He stood at the 
 window and looked at the distant pale disk of the moon 
 in the misty blue sky, and thought. And his thoughts were 
 confused, gloomy, and heavy as if a cloud had descended 
 upon his brain. 
 
 Indistinctly outlined in the dull moonlight he saw the 
 dark railing, the trees, the empty garden. It seemed to him 
 that he beheld them—the three men who had been shot, two 
 grown up, one a child. They were lying there now at the 
 roadside, in the empty, silent field, looking at the far-off cold 
 moon with their dead, white eyes as he with his living eyes. 
 
 “The time will come some day,” he thought, “when the 
 killing of people by others will be an utter impossibility. 
 The time will come when even the soldiers and officers who 
 killed these three men will realise what they have done 
 
THE REVOLUTIONIST 239 
 
 and will understand that what they killed them for is just 
 as necessary, important, and dear to them—to the officers 
 and soldiers—as to those whom they killed. 
 
 “Yes,” he said aloud and solemnly, his eyes moistening, 
 “that time will come. They will understand.” And the 
 pale disk of the moon was blotted out by the moisture in 
 his eyes. 
 
 A large pity pierced his heart for the three victims whose 
 eyes looked at the moon, sad and unseeing. A feeling of rage 
 cut him as with a sharp knife and took possession of him. 
 
 But Gabriel Andersen quieted his heart, whispering 
 softly, “They know not what they do.” And this old and 
 ready phrase gave him the strength to stifle his rage and 
 indignation. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 The day was as bright and white, but the spring was 
 already advanced. The wet soil smelt of spring. Clear cold 
 water ran everywhere from under the loose, thawing snow. 
 The branches of the trees were springy and elastic. For 
 miles and miles around, the country opened up in clear 
 azure stretches. 
 
 Yet the clearness and the joy of the spring day were 
 not in the village. They were somewhere outside the vil- 
 lage, where there were no people—in the fields, the woods 
 and the mountains. In the village the air was stifling, heavy 
 and terrible as in a nightmare. 
 | Gabriel Andersen stood in the road near a crowd of dark, 
 jsad, absent-minded people and craned his neck to see the 
 preparations for the flogging of seven peasants. 
 
 They stood in the thawing snow, and Gabriel Andersen 
 could not persuade himself that they were people whom 
 jhe had long known and understood. By that which was 
 about to happen to them, the shameful, terrible, ineradicable 
 thing that was to happen to them, they were separated 
 гота all the rest of the world, and so were unable to feel 
 what he, Gabriel Andersen, felt, just as he was unable to 
 [ее] what they felt. Round them were the soldiers, con- 
 |fidently and beautifully mounted on high upon their large 
 steeds, who tossed their wise heads and ‘turned their 
 
240 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 dappled wooden faces slowly from side to side, looking con- 
 temptuously at him, Gabriel Andersen, who was soon to 
 behold this horror, this disgrace, and would do nothing, 
 would not dare to do anything. So it seemed to Gabriel 
 Andersen; and a sense of cold, intolerable shame gripped 
 him as between two clamps of ice through which he could 
 see everything without being able to move, cry out or 
 utter a groan. 
 
 They took the first peasant. Gabriel Andersen saw his 
 strange, imploring, hopeless look. His lips moved, but no 
 sound was heard, and his eyes wandered. There was a 
 bright gleam in them as in the eyes of a madman. His 
 mind, it was evident, was no longer able to comprehend 
 what was happening. 
 
 And so terrible was that face, at once full of reason 
 and of madness, that Andersen felt relieved when they 
 put him face downward on the snow and, instead of the 
 fiery eyes, he saw his bare back glistening—a senseless, 
 shameful, horrible sight. 
 
 The large, red-faced soldier in a red cap pushed toward 
 him, looked down at his body with seeming delight, and 
 then cried in a clear voice: 
 
 “Well, let her go, with God’s blessing!” 
 
 Andersen seemed not to see the soldiers, the sky, the 
 horses ог the crowd. Не did not feel the cold, the terror 
 or the shame. He did not hear the swish of the knout in 
 the air or the savage howl of pain and despair. He only 
 saw the bare back of a man’s body swelling up and cov- 
 ered over evenly with white and purple stripes. Gradu- 
 ally the bare back lost the semblance of human flesh. 
 The blood oozed and squirted, forming patches, drops and 
 rivulets, which ran down on the white, thawing snow. 
 
 Terror gripped the soul of Gabriel Andersen as he 
 thought of the moment when the man would rise and 
 face all the people who had seen his body bared out in the 
 open and reduced to a bloody pulp. Не closed his eyes. 
 When he opened them, he saw four soldiers in uniform 
 and red hats forcing another man down on the snow, his 
 back bared just as shamefully, terribly and absurdly—a 
 ludicrously tragic sight. 
 
THE REVOLUTIONIST 241 
 
 Then came the third, the fourth, and so on, to the end. 
 And Gabriel Andersen stood on the wet, thawing snow, 
 craning his neck, trembling and stuttering, though he did 
 not say a word. Dank sweat poured from his body. A 
 sense of shame permeated his whole being. It was a 
 humiliating feeling, having to escape being noticed зо that 
 
 _ they should not catch him and lay him there on the snow 
 
 
 
 and strip him bare—him, Gabriel Andersen. 
 
 The soldiers pressed and crowded, the horses tossed 
 their heads, the knout swished in the air, and the bare, 
 shamed human flesh swelled up, tore, ran over with blood, 
 and curled like a snake. Oaths, wild shrieks rained upon 
 the village through the clean white air of that spring day. 
 
 Andersen now saw five men’s faces at the steps of the 
 town hall, the faces of those men who had already under- 
 gone their shame. He quickly turned his eyes away. After 
 seeing this a man must die, he thought. 
 
 Ш 
 
 There were seventeen of them, fifteen soldiers, а 
 subaltern and a young beardless officer. The officer lay in 
 front of the fire looking intently into the flames. The 
 soldiers were tinkering with the firearms in the wagon. 
 
 Their grey figures moved about quietly on the black thaw- 
 ing ground, and occasionally stumbled across the logs stick- 
 ing out from the blazing fire. 
 
 Gabriel Andersen, wearing an overcoat and carrying his 
 cane behind his back, approached them. The subaltern, a 
 stout fellow with a moustache, jumped up, turned from the 
 fire, and looked at him. 
 
 “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked excitedly. 
 From his tone it was evident that the soldiers feared every- 
 body in that district, through which they went scattering 
 death, destruction and torture. 
 
 “Officer,” he said, ‘‘there is a man here I don’t know.” 
 
 The officer looked at Andersen without speaking. 
 
 “Officer,” said Andersen in a thin, strained voice, “my 
 
 name is Michelson. I am a business man here, and I am 
 
242 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 going to the village on business. I was afraid I might be 
 mistaken for some one else—you know.” 
 
 “Then what are you nosing about here for?” the officer 
 said angrily, and turned away. 
 
 «А business man,” sneered a soldier. “Не ought to be 
 searched, this business man ought, so as not to be knocking 
 about at night. A good one in the jaw is what he needs.” 
 
 «Нез a suspicious character, officer,” said the subaltern. 
 “Don’t you think we’d better arrest him, what?” 
 
 “Don’t,” answered the officer lazily. “I’m sick of them, 
 damn ’em.” 
 
 Gabriel Andersen stood there without saying anything. 
 His eyes flashed strangely in the dark by the firelight. And 
 it was strange to see his short, substantial, clean, neat figure 
 in the field at night among the soldiers, with his overcoat 
 and cane and glasses glistening in the firelight. 
 
 The soldiers left him and walked away. Gabriel Ander- 
 sen remained standing for a while. Then he turned and 
 left, rapidly disappearing in the darkness. 
 
 The night was drawing to a close. The air turned chilly, 
 and the tops of the bushes defined themselves more clearly 
 in the dark. Gabriel Andersen went again to the military 
 post. But this time he hid, crouching low as he made his 
 way under the cover of the bushes. Behind him people 
 moved about quietly and carefully, bending the bushes, 51: 
 lent as shadows. Next to Gabriel, on his right, walked а 
 tall man with a revolver in his hand. 
 
 The figure of a soldier on the hill outlined itself strangely 
 unexpectedly, not where they had been looking for it. I 
 уаз faintly illumined by the gleam from the dying fire 
 Gabriel Andersen recognised the soldier. It was the ons 
 who had proposed that he should be searched. Nothing 
 stirred in Andersen’s heart. His face was cold and motion 
 less, as of a man who is asleep. Round the fire the soldier: 
 lay stretched out sleeping, all except the subaltern, who sa 
 with his head drooping over his knees. 
 
 The tall thin man on Andersen’s right raised the revolve 
 and pulled the trigger. A momentary blinding flash, a deaf 
 ening report. 
 
 Andersen saw the guard lift his hands and then sit dow 
 
THE REVOLUTIONIST 243 
 
 on the ground clasping his bosom. From all directions short, 
 crackling sparks flashed up which combined into one riving 
 roar. The subaltern jumped up and dropped Straight into 
 the fire. Grey soldiers’ figures moved about in all directions 
 like apparitions, throwing up their hands and falling and 
 writhing on the black earth. The young officer ran 
 past Andersen, fluttering his hands like some strange, fright- 
 ened bird. Andersen, as if he were thinking of something else, 
 taised his cane. With all his strength he hit the officer on the 
 head, each blow descending with a dull, ugly thud. The offi- 
 cer reeled in a circle, struck a bush, and sat down after the 
 second blow, covering his head with both hands, as children 
 10. Some one ran up and discharged a revolver as if from 
 Andersen’s own hand. The officer sank together in a heap 
 ind lunged with great force head foremost on the ground. 
 His legs twitched for a while, then he curled up quietly. 
 
 The shots ceased. Black men with white faces, ghostly 
 теу in the dark, moved about the dead bodies of the sol- 
 liers, taking away their arms and ammunition. 
 
 Andersen watched all this with a cold, attentive stare. 
 When all was over, he went up, took hold of the burned 
 ubaltern’s legs, and tried to remove the body from the fire. 
 3ut it was too heavy for him, and he let it go. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 IV 
 
 Andersen sat motionless on the steps of the town hall, 
 nd thought. He thought of how he, Gabriel Andersen, 
 vith his spectacles, cane, overcoat and poems, had lied and 
 etrayed fifteen men. He thought it was terrible, yet there 
 vas neither pity, shame nor regret in his heart. Were he to 
 e set free, he knew that he, Gabriel Andersen, with the 
 ectacles and poems, would go straightway and do it again. 
 fe tried to examine himself, to see what was going on inside 
 is soul. But his thoughts were heavy and confused. For 
 ome reason it was more painful for him to think of the 
 aree men lying on the snow, looking at the pale disk of 
 ae far-off moon with their dead, unseeing eyes, than of the 
 urdered officer whom he had struck two dry, ugly blows on 
 
244 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 the head. Of his own death he did not think. It seemed 
 to him that he had done with everything long, long ago. 
 Something had died, had gone out and left him empty, and 
 he must not think about it. 
 
 And when they grabbed him by the shoulder and he rose, 
 and they quickly led him through the garden where the cab- 
 bages raised their dry heads, he could not formulate a single 
 thought. 
 
 He was conducted to the road and placed at the railing 
 with his back to one of the iron bars. Не fixed his spec- 
 tacles, put his hands behind him, and stood there with his 
 neat, stocky body, his head slightly inclined to one side. 
 
 At the last moment he looked in front of him and saw 
 rifle barrels pointing at his head, chest and stomach, and 
 pale faces with trembling lips. Не distinctly saw how one 
 barrel levelled at his forehead suddenly dropped. 
 
 Something strange and incomprehensible, as if no longer 
 of this world, no longer earthly, passed through Andersen’s 
 mind. Не straightened himself to the full height of his 
 short body and threw back his head in simple pride. A 
 strange indistinct sense of cleanness, strength and pride filled 
 his soul, and everything—the sun and the sky and the 
 people and the field and death—seemed to him insignifi- 
 cant, remote and useless. 
 
 The bullets hit him in the chest, in the left eye, in the 
 stomach, went through his clean coat buttoned all the way 
 up. His glasses shivered into bits. Не uttered a shriek, 
 circled round, and fell with his face against one of the iron 
 bars, his one remaining eye wide open. Не clawed the 
 ground with his outstretched hands as if trying to support 
 himself. 
 
 The officer, who had turned green, rushed toward him, 
 and senselessly thrust the revolver against his neck, and fired 
 twice. Andersen stretched out on the ground. 
 
 The soldiers left quickly. But Andersen remained pressed 
 flat to the ground. The index finger of his left hand con- 
 tinued to quiver for about ten seconds. 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 
 
 Ву ALEKSANDR I. KuprRIN 
 
 T was five o’clock on a July afternoon. The heat was 
 terrible. The whole of the huge stone-built town 
 breathed out heat like a glowing furnace. The glare of the 
 white-walled house was insufferable. The asphalt pavements 
 grew soft and burned the feet. The shadows of the acacias 
 spread over the cobbled road, pitiful and weary. They too 
 seemed hot. The sea, pale in the sunlight, lay heavy and 
 immobile as one dead. Over the streets hung a white dust. 
 In the foyer of one of the private theatres a small com- 
 mittee of local barristers who had undertaken to conduct 
 the cases of those who had suffered in the last pogrom 
 against the Jews was reaching the end of its daily task. 
 There were nineteen of them, all juniors, young, progressive 
 and conscientious men. The sitting was without formality, 
 and white suits of duck, flannel and alpaca were in the 
 majority. They sat anywhere, at little marble tables, and 
 the chairman stood in front of an empty counter where 
 chocolates were sold in the winter. 
 
 The barristers were quite exhausted by the heat which 
 poured in through the windows, with the dazzling sunlight 
 and the noise of the streets. The proceedings went lazily 
 and with a certain irritation. | 
 
 A tall young man with a fair moustache and thin hair was 
 in the chair. He was dreaming voluptuously how he would 
 be off in an instant on his new-bought bicycle to the bunga- 
 low. He would undress quickly, and without waiting to cool, 
 still bathed in sweat, would fling himself into the clear, 
 cold, sweet-smelling sea. His whole body was enervated 
 and tense, thrilled by the thought. Impatiently moving the 
 papers before him, he spoke in a drowsy voice. 
 
 “So, Joseph Moritzovich will conduct the case of Rubin- 
 chik. . . . Perhaps there is still a statement to be made 
 on the order of the day?” 
 
 245 
 
246 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 His youngest colleague, a short, stout Karaite, very black 
 and lively, said in a whisper so that every one could hear: 
 “On the order of the day, the best thing would be iced 
 А 
 
 The chairman gave him a stern side-glance, but could not 
 restrain a smile. He sighed and put both his hands on the 
 table to raise himself and declare the meeting closed, when 
 the doorkeeper, who stood at the entrance to the theatre, 
 suddenly moved forward and said: “There are seven people 
 outside, sir. They want to come in.” 
 
 The chairman looked impatiently round the company. 
 
 “What is to be done, gentlemen?”’ 
 
 Voices were heard. 
 
 “Next time. Basta!” 
 
 “Let ’em put it in writing.” 
 
 “Tf they'll get it over quickly. . . . Decide it at once.” 
 
 “Let ’em go to the devil. Phew! It’s like boiling pitch.” 
 
 “Let them in.” The chairman gave a sign with his head, 
 annoyed. ‘Then bring me a Vichy, please. But it must 
 be cold.” 
 
 The porter opened the door and called down the corridor: 
 “Come in. They say you may.” 
 
 Then seven of the most surprising and unexpected indi- 
 
 viduals filed into the foyer. First appeared a full-grown, con- 
 fident man in a smart suit, of the colour of dry sea-sand, in 
 a magnificent pink shirt with white stripes and a crimson 
 rose in his buttonhole. From the front his head looked like 
 an upright bean, from the side like a horizontal bean. His 
 face was adorned with a strong, bushy, martial moustache. 
 He wore dark blue pince-nez on his nose, on his hands straw- 
 coloured gloves. In his left hand he hela a black walking- 
 stick with a silver mount, in his right a light blue handker- 
 chief. 
 
 The other six produced a strange, chaotic, incongruous 
 impression, exactly as though they had all hastily pooled 
 not merely their clothes, but their hands, feet and heads 
 as well. There was a man with the splendid profile of a 
 Roman senator, dressed in rags and tatters. Another wore 
 an elegant dress waistcoat, from the deep opening of which 
 a dirty Little-Russian shirt leapt to the eye. Here were 
 

 
 THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 247 
 
 the unbalanced faces of the criminal type, but looking with 
 a confidence that nothing could shake. All these men, in 
 spite of their apparent youth, evidently possessed a large 
 experience of life, an easy manner, a bold approach, and 
 some hidden, suspicious cunning. 
 
 The gentleman in the sandy suit bowed just his head, 
 neatly and easily, and said with a half-question in his voice: 
 “Mr. Chairman?” 
 
 “Yes. I am the chairman. What is your Mite 
 ness?” 
 
 *‘We—all whom you see before you,” the gentleman began 
 in a quiet voice and turned round to indicate his compan- 
 ions, “we come as delegates from the United Rostov-Khar- 
 kov-and-Odessa-Nikolayev Association of Thieves.” 
 
 The barristers began to shift in their seats. 
 
 The chairman flung himself back and opened his eyes 
 wide. “Association of what?” he said, perplexed. 
 
 “The Association of Thieves,” the gentleman in the sandy 
 suit coolly repeated. “As for myself, my comrades did me 
 the signal honour of electing me as the spokesman of the 
 deputation.” 
 
 “Very ... pleased,” the chairman said uncertainly. 
 
 “Thank you. All seven of us are ordinary thieves—natu- 
 tally of different departments. The Association has author- 
 ised us to put before your esteemed Committee”—the gen- 
 етап again made an elegant bow—‘our respectful de- 
 ‘mand for assistance.” 
 
 “T don’t quite understand . .. quite frankly . . . what ' 
 is the connection. .. .” The chairman waved his hands 
 helplessly. “However, please go оп.” 
 
 “The matter about which we have the courage and the: 
 honour to apply to you, gentlemen, is very clear, very 
 simple, and very brief. It will take only six or seven 
 minutes. I consider it my duty to warn you of this be- 
 forehand, in view of the late hour and the 115 degrees that 
 Fahrenheit marks in the shade.” The orator expectorated 
 slightly and glanced at his superb gold watch. ‘You see, in 
 the reports that have lately appeared in the local papers of 
 the melancholy and terrible days of the last pogrom, there 
 have very often been indications that among the instigators 
 
248 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 of the pogrom who were paid and organised by the police 
 —the dregs of society, consisting of drunkards, tramps, sou- 
 teneurs, and hooligans from the slums—thieves were also to 
 be found. At first we were silent, but finally we considered 
 ourselves under the necessity of protesting against such an 
 unjust and serious accusation, before the face of the whole 
 of intellectual society. I know well that in the eye of the 
 law we are offenders and enemies of society. But imagine 
 only for a moment, gentlemen, the situation of this enemy 
 of society when he is accused wholesale of an offence which 
 he not cnly never committed, but which he is ready to resist 
 with the whole strength of his soul. It goes without saying 
 that he will feel the outrage of such an injustice more keenly 
 than a normal, average, fortunate citizen. Now, we declare 
 that the accusation brought against us is utterly devoid of all 
 basis, not merely of fact but even of logic. I intend to 
 prove this in a few words if the honourable committee will 
 kindly listen.” 
 
 “Proceed,” said the chairman. 
 
 “Please do... Please . . .”’ was heard from the bar- 
 risters, now animated. 
 
 “T offer you my sincere thanks in the name of all my com- 
 rades. Believe me, you will never repent your attention to 
 the representatives of our . . . well, let us say, slippery, but 
 nevertheless difficult, profession. ‘So we begin,’ as Giral- 
 doni sings in the prologue to Pagliacct. 
 
 “But first I would ask your permission, Mr. Chairman, to 
 quench my thirst a little. . . . Porter, bring me a lemonade 
 and a glass of English bitter, there’s a good fellow. Gentle- 
 men, I will not speak of the moral aspect of our profession 
 nor of its social importance. Doubtless you know better 
 than I the striking and brilliant paradox of Proudhon: La 
 propriété c’est le vol—a paradox if you like, but one that has 
 never yet been refuted by the sermons of cowardly bour- 
 geois or fat priests. For instance: a father accumulates a 
 million by energetic and clever exploitation, and leaves it 
 to his son—a rickety, lazy, ignorant, degenerate idiot, a 
 brainless maggot, a true parasite. Potentially a million ru- 
 bles is a million working days, the absolutely irrational right 
 to labour, sweat, life, and blood of a terrible number of 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 249 
 
 men. Why? What is the ground of reason? Utterly un- 
 known. Then why not agree with the proposition, gentle- 
 men, that our profession is to some extent as it were a cor- 
 rection of the excessive accumulation of values in the hands 
 of individuals, and serves as a protest against all the hard- 
 ships, abominations, arbitrariness, violence, and negligence 
 of the human personality, against all the monstrosities cre- 
 ated by the bourgeois capitalistic organisation of modern 
 society? Sooner or later, this order of things will assuredly 
 be overturned by the social revolution. Property will pass 
 away into the limbo of melancholy memories and with it, 
 alas! we will disappear from the face of the earth, we, les 
 braves chevaliers d’industrie.” 
 
 The orator paused to take the tray from the hands of 
 the porter, and placed it near to his hand on the table. 
 
 “Excuse me, gentlemen. ... Here, my good man, take 
 this, . . . and by the way, when you go out shut the door 
 close behind you.” 
 
 “Very good, your Excellency!” the porter bawled in jest. 
 
 The orator drank off half a glass and continued: “However, 
 let us leave aside the philosophical, social, and economic 
 aspects of the question. I do not wish to fatigue your at- 
 tention. I must nevertheless point out that our profession 
 very closely approaches the idea of that which is called art. 
 Into it enter all the elements which go to form art—voca- 
 tion, inspiration, fantasy, inventiveness, ambition, and a 
 long and arduous apprenticeship to the science. From it is 
 absent virtue alone, concerning which the great Karamzin 
 wrote with such stupendous and fiery fascination. Gentle- 
 men, nothing is further from my intention than to trifle with 
 you and waste your precious time with idle paradoxes; but 
 I cannot avoid expounding my idea briefly. To an outsider’s 
 ear it sounds absurdly wild and ridiculous to speak of the 
 vocation of a thief. However, I venture to assure you that 
 this vocation is a reality. There are men who possess a 
 peculiarly strong visual memory, sharpness and accuracy of 
 eye, presence of mind, dexterity of hand, and above all a 
 subtle sense of touch, who are as it were born into God’s 
 world for the sole and special purpose of becoming dis- 
 tinguished card-sharpers. The pickpockets’ profession de- 
 
250 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 mands extraordinary nimbleness and agility, a terrific cer- 
 tainty of movement, not to mention a ready wit, a talent 
 for observation and strained attention. Some have a posi- 
 tive vocation for breaking open safes: from their tenderest 
 childhood they are attracted by the mysteries of every kind 
 of complicated mechanism—bicycles, sewing machines, 
 clock-work toys and watches. Finally, gentlemen, there are 
 people with an hereditary animus against private property. 
 You may call this phenomenon degeneracy. But I tell you 
 that you cannot entice a true thief, and thief by vocation, 
 into the prose of honest vegetation by any gingerbread re- 
 ward, or by the offer of a secure position, or by the gift of 
 money, or by a woman’s love: because there is here a per- 
 ` manent beauty of risk, a fascinating abyss of danger, the 
 delightful sinking of the heart, the impetuous pulsation of 
 life, the ecstasy! You are armed with the protection of the 
 law, by locks, revolvers, telephones, police and soldiery; but 
 we only by our own dexterity, cunning and fearlessness. We 
 are the foxes, and society—is a chicken-run guarded by 
 dogs. Are you aware that the most artistic and gifted na- 
 tures in our villages become horse-thieves and poachers? 
 What would you have? Life is so meagre, so insipid, so in- 
 tolerably dull to eager and high-spirited souls! 
 
 _ “T pass on to inspiration. Gentlemen, doubtless you have 
 had to read of thefts that were supernatural in design and 
 execution. In the headlines of the newspapers they are 
 called ‘An Amazing Robbery,’ or ‘An Ingenious Swindle,’ 
 or again ‘A Clever Ruse of the Gangsters.’ In such cases 
 our bourgeois paterfamilias waves his hands and exclaims: 
 ‘What a terrible thing! If only their abilities were turned to 
 good—their inventiveness, their amazing knowledge of hu- 
 man psychology, their self-possession, their fearlessness, their 
 incomparable histrionic powers! What extraordinary bene- 
 fits they would bring to the country!’ But it is well known 
 that the bourgeois paterfamilias was specially devised by 
 Heaven to utter commonplaces and trivialities. I myself 
 sometimes—we thieves are sentimental people, I confess— 
 I myself sometimes admire a beautiful sunset in Aleksandra 
 Park or by the sea-shore. And I am always certain before- 
 hand that some one uear me will say with infallible aplomb: 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 251 
 
 ‘Look at it. If it were put into picture no one would ever 
 believe it!’ I turn round and naturally I see a self-satisfied, 
 full-fed paterfamilias, who delights in repeating some one 
 else’s silly statement as though it were his own. As for our 
 dear country, the bourgeois paterfamilias looks upon it as 
 though it were a roast turkey. If you’ve managed to cut the 
 best part of the bird for yourself, eat it quietly in a com- 
 fortable corner and praise God. But he’s not really the im- 
 portant person. I was led away by my detestation of vul- 
 garity and I apologise for the digression. The real point is 
 that genius and inspiration, even when they are not devoted 
 to the service of the Orthodox Church, remain rare and beau- 
 tiful things. Progress is a law—and theft too has its crea- 
 tion. 
 
 “Finally, our profession is by no means as easy and 
 pleasant as it seems to the first glance. It demands long 
 experience, constant practice, slow and painful apprentice- 
 ship. It comprises in itself hundreds of supple, skilful рго-. 
 cesses that the cleverest juggler cannot compass. That I may 
 not give you only empty words, gentlemen, I will perform 
 a few experiments before you now. I ask you to have 
 every confidence in the demonstrators. We are all at present 
 in the enjoyment of legal freedom, and though we are usually 
 watched, and every one of us is known by face, and our 
 photographs adorn the albums of all detective departments, 
 for the time being we are not under the necessity of hiding 
 ourselves from anybody. If any one of you should recog- 
 nise any of us in the future under different circumstances, 
 we ask you earnestly always to act in accordance with your 
 professional duties and your obligations as citizens. In grate- 
 ful return for your kind attention we have decided to de- 
 clare your property inviolable, and to invest it with a 
 thieves’ taboo. However, I proceed to business.” 
 
 The orator turned round and gave an order: “Sesoi the 
 Great, will you come this way!” 
 
 An enormous fellow with a stoop, whose hands reached to 
 his knees, without a forehead or a neck, like a big, fair Her- 
 cules, came forward. He grinned stupidly and rubbed his 
 left eyebrow in his confusion. 
 
 “Can’t do nothin’ here,” he said hoarsely. 
 
252 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 The gentleman in the sandy suit spoke for him, turn- 
 ing to the committee. 
 
 “Gentlemen, before you stands a respected member of our 
 association. His specialty is breaking open safes, iron strong 
 boxes, and other receptacles for monetary tokens. In his 
 night work he sometimes avails himself of the electric cur- 
 rent of the lighting installation for fusing metals. Unfor- 
 tunately he has nothing on which he can demonstrate the 
 best items of his repertoire. He will open the most elab-. 
 orate lock irreproachably. . . . By the way, this door here, 
 it’s locked, is it not? ” 
 
 Every one turned to look at the door, on which a printed 
 notice hung: “Stage Door. Strictly Private.” 
 
 “Ves, the door’s locked, evidently,” the chairman agreed. 
 
 ““Admirable. Sesoi the Great, will you be so kind?” 
 
 “°Tain’t nothin’ at all,” said the giant leisurely. 
 
 He went close to the door, shook it cautiously with his 
 hand, took out of his pocket a small bright instrument, bent 
 down to the keyhole, made some almost imperceptible move- 
 ments with the tool, suddenly straightened and flung the 
 door wide in silence. The chairman had his watch in his 
 hands. The whole affair took only ten seconds. 
 
 “Thank you, Sesoi the Great,” said the gentleman in the 
 sandy suit politely. “Уои may go back to your seat.” 
 
 But the chairman interrupted in some alarm: “Excuse 
 me. This is all very interesting and instructive, but... 
 is it included in your esteemed colleague’s profession to be 
 able to lock the door again?” 
 
 “АБ, mille pardons.” The gentleman bowed hurriedly. “It 
 slipped my mind. Sesoi the Great, would you oblige?” 
 
 The door was locked with the same adroitness and the 
 same silence. The esteemed colleague waddled back to his 
 friends, grinning. 
 
 “Now I will have the honour to show you the skill of 
 one of our comrades who is in the line of picking pockets 
 in theatres and railway-stations,” continued the orator. “Не 
 is still very young, but you may to some extent judge from 
 the delicacy of his present work of the heights he will attain 
 by diligence. УазБа!” А swarthy youth in a blue silk 
 blouse and long glacé boots, like a gipsy, came forward with 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 253 
 
 a swagger, fingering the tassels of his belt, and merrily 
 screwing up his big, impudent black eyes with yellow whites. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” said the gentleman in the sandy suit per- 
 suasively, “I must ask if one of you would be kind enough 
 to submit himself to a little experiment. I assure you this 
 will be an exhibition only, just a game.” 
 
 He looked round over the seated company. 
 
 The short plump Karaite, black as a beetle, came forward 
 from his table. 
 
 “At your service,” he said amusedly. 
 
 “Yasha!” The orator signed with his heaa. 
 
 Yasha came close to the solicitor. On his left arm, whick 
 was bent, hung a bright-coloured, figured scarf. 
 
 “Suppose yer in church or at the bar in one of the halls, 
 —or watchin’ a circus,” he began in a sugary, fluent voice. 
 “T see straight off—there’s a toff. . . . Excuse me, sir. Sup- 
 pose youre the toff. There’s no offence—just means a rich 
 gent, decent enough, but don’t know his way about. First— 
 what’s he likely to have about ’im? All sorts. Mostly, a 
 ticker and a chain. Whereabouts does he keep ’em? Some- 
 where in his top vest pocket—here. Others have ’em in the 
 bottom pocket. Just here. Purse—most always in the 
 trousers, except when a greeny keeps it in his jacket. Cigar- 
 case. Have a look first what it is—gold, silver—with a mon- 
 ogram. Leather—what decent man’d soil his hands? Cigar- 
 case. Seven pockets: here, here, here, up there, there, here 
 and here again. That’s right, ain’t it? That’s how you 
 go to work.” 
 
 As he spoke the young man smiled. His eyes shone 
 straight into the barrister’s. With a quick, dexterous move- 
 ment of his right hand he pointed to various portions of his 
 clothes. 
 
 “Then again you might see a pin here in the tie. However 
 we do not appropriate. Such gents nowadays—they hardly 
 ever wear a real stone. Then I comes up to him. I begin 
 straight off to talk to him like a gent: ‘Sir, would you be 
 so kind as to give me a light from your cigarette’-—or some- 
 thing of the sort. At any rate, I enter into conversation. 
 What’s next? I look him straight in the peepers, just like 
 this. Only two of me fingers are at it—just this and this.” 
 
254 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 Yasha lifted two fingers of his right hand on a level with 
 the solicitor’s face, the forefinger and the middle finger and 
 moved them about. 
 
 “D’ you see? With these two fingers I run over the 
 whole pianner. Nothin’ wonderful in it: one, two, three— 
 ready. Any man who wasn’t stupid could learn easily. 
 That’s all it is. Most ordinary business. I thank you.” 
 
 The pickpocket swung on his heel as if to return to his 
 seat. 
 
 “Vasha!”? The gentleman in the sandy suit said with 
 meaning weight. “Yasha!” he repeated sternly. 
 
 Yasha stopped. His back was turned to the barrister, but 
 he evidently gave his representative an imploring look, be- 
 cause the latter frowned and shook his head. 
 
 “Yasha!” he said for the third time, in a threatening 
 cone. 
 
 “Huh!” The young thief grunted in vexation and turned 
 to face the solicitor. ‘“Where’s your little watch, sir?” he 
 said in a piping voice. 
 
 “Oh!” the Karaite brought himself up sharp. 
 
 “You see—now you say ‘Oh!’” Yasha continued re- 
 proachfully. ‘All the while you were admiring me right 
 hand, I was operatin’ yer watch with my left. Just with 
 these two little fingers, under the scarf. That’s why we 
 tarry a scarf. Since your chain’s not worth anything—a 
 present from some mamselle and the watch is a gold one,’ 
 I’ve left you the chain as a keepsake. Take it,” he added 
 with a sigh, holding out the watch. 
 
 “But . .. That is clever,” the barrister said in confusion. 
 “Т didn’t notice it at all.” 
 
 “That’s our business,’”’ Yasha said with pride. 
 
 He swaggered back to his comrades. Meantime the orator 
 took a drink from his glass and continued. 
 
 “Now, gentlemen, our next collaborator will give you an 
 exhibition of some ordinary card tricks, which are worked 
 at fairs, on steamboats and railways. With three cards, for 
 instance, an ace, a queen, and a six, he can quite easily. 
 
 . But perhaps you are tired of these demonstrations, 
 gentlemen. boas 
 
 “Not at all. Tt’ s extremely interesting,” the chairman an- 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 255 
 
 swered affably. “I should like to ask one question—that is 
 if it is not too indiscreet—what is your own specialty?” 
 
 “Mine ...H’m. . . . №, how could it be an indiscre- 
 tion? . . . I work the big diamond shops . . . and my other 
 business is banks,” answered the orator with a modest smile. 
 “Don’t think this occupation is easier than others. Enough 
 that I know four European languages, German, French, Eng- 
 lish, and Italian, not to mention Polish, Ukrainian and 
 Yiddish. But shall I show you some more experiments, Mr. 
 Chairman?” 
 
 The chairman looked at his watch. 
 
 “Unfortunately the time is too short,” he said. ‘““Wouldn’t 
 it be better to pass on to the substance of your business? 
 Besides, the experiments we have just seen have amply con- 
 vinced us of the talent of your esteemed associates. .. . 
 Am I not right, Isaac Abramovich?” 
 
 “Ves, yes .. . absolutely,” the Karaite barrister readily 
 confirmed. 
 
 “‘Admirable,” the gentleman in the sandy suit kindly 
 agreed. “Му dear Count’”—he turned to a blond, curly- 
 haired man, with a face like a billiard-maker on a bank- 
 holiday—‘‘put your instruments away. They will not be 
 wanted. I have only a few words more to say, gentlemen, 
 Now that you have convinced yourselves that our art, al- 
 though it does not enjoy the patronage of high-placed in- 
 dividuals, is nevertheless an art; and you have probably 
 come to my opinion that this art is one which demands 
 many personal qualities besides constant labour, danger, and 
 unpleasant misunderstandings—you will also, I hope, be- 
 lieve that it is possible to become attached to its practice 
 and to love and esteem it, however strange that may appear 
 at first sight. Picture to yourselves that a famous poet of 
 talent, whose tales and poems adorn the pages of our best 
 magazines, is suddenly offered the chance of writing verses 
 at a penny a line, signed into the bargain, as an advertise- 
 ment for ‘Cigarettes Jasmine’—or that a slander was spread 
 about one of you distinguished barristers, accusing you of 
 making a business of concocting evidence for divorce cases, 
 or of writing petitions from the cabmen to the governor in 
 public-houses! Certainly your relatives, friends and ac- 
 
256 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 quaintances wouldn’t believe it. But the rumour has already 
 done its poisonous work, and you have to live through 
 minutes of torture. Now picture to yourselves that such a 
 disgraceful and vexatious slander, started by God knows 
 whom, begins to threaten not only your good name and 
 your quiet digestion, but your freedom, your health, and 
 even your life! 
 
 “This is the position of us thieves, now being slandered 
 by the newspapers. I must explain. There is in existence 
 a class of scum—passez-moi le mot—whom we call their 
 ‘Mothers’ Darlings.’ With these we are unfortunately con- 
 fused. They have neither shame nor conscience, a dissi- 
 pated riff-raff, mothers’ useless darlings, idle, clumsy drones, 
 shop assistants who commit unskilful thefts. He thinks 
 nothing of living on his mistress, a prostitute, like the male 
 mackerel, who always swims after the female and lives on 
 her excrements. He is capable of robbing a child with 
 violence in a dark alley, in order to get a penny; he will 
 kill a man in his sleep and torture an old woman. These 
 men are the pests of our profession. For them the beauties 
 and the traditions of the art have no existence. They watch 
 us real, talented thieves like a pack of jackals after a lion. 
 Suppose I’ve managed to bring off an important job—we 
 won’t mention the fact that I have to leave two-thirds of 
 what I get to the receivers who sell the goods and discount 
 the notes, or the customary subsidies to our incorruptible 
 police—I still have to share out something to each one of 
 these parasites, who have got wind of my job, by accident, 
 hearsay, or a casual glance. 
 
 “Бо we call them Motients, which means ‘half,’ a corrup- 
 tion of moztié . . . Original etymology. I pay him only be- 
 cause he knows and may inform against me. And it mostly 
 happens that even when he’s got his share he runs off to 
 the police in order to get another dollar. We, honest 
 thieves. . . . Yes, you may laugh, gentlemen, but I repeat 
 it: we honest thieves detest these reptiles. We have another 
 name for them, a stigma of ignominy; but I dare not utter 
 it here out of respect for the place and for my audience. 
 Oh, yes, they would gladly accept an invitation to a pogrom. 
 The thought that we may be confused with them is a hun- 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 257 
 
 dred times more insulting to us even than the accusation of 
 taking part in a pogrom. 
 
 “Gentlemen! While I have been speaking I have often 
 noticed smiles on your faces. I understand you. Our 
 presence here, our application for your assistance, and above 
 all the unexpectedness of such a phenomenon as a systematic 
 organisation of thieves, with delegates who are thieves, and 
 a leader of the deputation, also a thief by profession—it is 
 all so original that it must inevitably arouse a smile. But 
 now I will speak from the depth of my heart. Let us be rid 
 of our outward wrappings, gentlemen, let us speak as men to 
 men. 
 
 “Ао all of us are educated, and all love books. We 
 don’t only read the adventures of Roqueambole, as the real- 
 istic writers say of us. Do you think our hearts did not 
 bleed and our cheeks did not burn from shame, as though we 
 had been slapped in the face, all the time that this unfor- 
 tunate, disgraceful, accursed, cowardly war lasted. Do you 
 really think that our souls do not flame with anger when 
 our country is lashed with Cossack-whips, and trodden un- 
 der foot, shot and spit at by mad, exasperated men? Will 
 you not believe that we thieves meet every step towards the 
 liberation to come with a thrill of ecstasy? 
 
 “We understand, every one of us—perhaps only a little 
 less than you barristers, gentlemen—the real sense of the 
 pogroms. Every time that some dastardly event or some 
 ignominious failure has occurred, after executing a martyr 
 in a dark corner of a fortress, or after deceiving public con- 
 fidence, some one who is hidden and unapproachable gets 
 frightened of the people’s anger and diverts its vicious ele- 
 ment upon the heads of innocent Jews. Whose diabolical 
 mind invents these pogroms—these titanic blood-lettings, 
 these cannibal amusements for the dark, bestial souls? 
 
 “We all see with certain clearness that the last convul- 
 sions of the bureaucracy are at hand. Forgive me if I 
 present it imaginatively. There was a people that had a 
 chief temple, wherein dwelt a bloodthirsty deity, behind a 
 curtain, guarded by priests. Once fearless hands tore the 
 curtain away. Then all the people saw, instead of a god, 
 a huge, shaggy, voracious spider, like a loathsome cuttlefish. 
 
258 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 They beat it and shoot at it: it is dismembered already; but 
 still in the frenzy of its final agony it stretches over all the 
 ancient temple its disgusting, clawing tentacles. And the 
 priests, themselves under sentence of death, push into the 
 monster’s grasp all whom they can seize in their terrified, 
 trembling fingers. 
 
 “Forgive me. What I have said is probably wild and 
 incoherent. But I am somewhat agitated. Forgive me. I 
 continue. We thieves by profession know better than any 
 one else how these pogroms were organised. We wander 
 everywhere: into public houses, markets, tea-shops, doss- 
 houses, public places, the harbour. We can swear before 
 God and man and posterity that we have seen how the po- 
 lice organise the massacres, without shame and almost with- 
 out concealment. We know them all by face, in uniform or 
 disguise. They invited many of us to take part; but there 
 was none so vile among us as to give even the outward con- 
 sent that fear might have extorted. 
 
 “You know, of course, how the various strata of Russian 
 society behave towards the police? It is not even respected 
 by those who avail themselves of its dark services. But 
 we despise and hate it three, ten times more—not because 
 many of us have been tortured in the detective departments, 
 which are just chambers of horror, beaten almost to death, 
 beaten with whips of ox-hide and of rubber in order to extort 
 a confession or to make us betray a comrade. Yes, we hate 
 them for that too. But we thieves, all of us who have been 
 in prison, have a mad passion for freedom. ‘Therefore we 
 despise our gaolers with all the hatred that a human heart 
 can feel. I will speak for myself. I have been tortured 
 three times by police detectives till I was half dead. My 
 lungs and liver have been shattered. In the mornings I 
 spit blood until I can breathe no more. But if I were told 
 that I will be spared a fourth flogging only by shaking hands 
 with a chief of the detective police, I would refuse to do 
 it! 
 
 “And then the newspapers say that we took from these 
 hands Judas-money, dripping with human blood. No, gen- 
 tlemen, it is a slander which stabs our very soul, and in- 
 ilicts insufferable pain. Not money, nor threats, nor prom- 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 259 
 
 ises will suffice to make us mercenary murderers of our 
 brethren, nor accomplices with them.” 
 
 “Never ...No...No...,” his comrades standing 
 behind him began to murmur. 
 
 “Т will say more,” the thief continued. ‘Many of us 
 protected the victims during this pogrom. Our friend, 
 called Sesoi the Great—you have just seen him, gentlemen— 
 was then lodging with a Jewish braid-maker on the Molda- 
 vanka. With a poker in his hands he defended his landlord 
 from a great horde of assassins. It is true, Sesoi the Great 
 is a man of enormous physical strength, and this is well 
 known to many of the inhabitants of the Moldavanka. But 
 ‘you must agree, gentlemen, that in these moments Sesoi 
 the Great looked straight into the face of death. Our com- 
 rade Martin the Miner—this gentleman here”—the orator 
 pointed to a pale, bearded man with beautiful eyes who was 
 holding himself in the background—“saved an old Jewess, 
 whom he had never seen before, who was being pursued by a 
 crowd of these canaille. ‘They broke his head with a crow- 
 bar for his pains, smashed his arm in two places and splin- 
 tered arib. He is only just out of hospital. That is the way 
 our most ardent and determined members acted. The others 
 trembled for anger and wept for their own impotence. 
 
 “None of us will forget the horrors of those bloody days 
 and bloody nights lit up by the glare of fires, those sobbing 
 women, those little children’s bodies torn to pieces and left 
 lying in the street. But for all that not one of us thinks 
 that the police and the mob are the real origin of the evil. 
 These tiny, stupid, loathsome vermin are only a senseless 
 fist that is governed by a vile, calculating mind, moved by a 
 diabolical will. 
 
 “Yes, gentlemen,” the orator continued, “we thieves have 
 nevertheless merited your legal contempt. But when you, 
 noble gentlemen, need the help of clever, brave, obedient 
 men at the barricades, men who will be ready to meet death 
 with a song and a jest on their lips for the most glorious 
 word in the world—Freedom—will you cast us off then and 
 order us away because of an inveterate revulsion? Damn 
 it all, the first victim in the French Revolution was a pros- 
 titute. She jumped up on to a barricade, with her skirt 
 
260 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 
 
 caught elegantly up into her hand and called out: ‘Which 
 of you soldiers will dare to shoot a woman?’ Yes, by God.” 
 The orator exclaimed aloud and brought down his fist on 
 to the marble table top: ‘“They killed her, but her action 
 was magnificent, and the beauty of her words immortal. 
 
 “Tf you should drive us away on the great day, we will 
 turn to you and say: ‘You spotless Cherubim—if human 
 thoughts had the power to wound, kill, and rob man of 
 honour and property, then which of you innocent doves 
 would not deserve the knout and imprisonment for life?’ 
 Then we will go away from you and build our own gay, 
 sporting, desperate thieves’ barricade, and will die with such 
 united songs on our lips that you will envy us, you who are 
 whiter than snow! 
 
 “But I have been once more carried away. Forgive me. 
 I am at the end. You now see, gentlemen, what feelings 
 the newspaper slanders have excited in us. Believe in our 
 sincerity and do what you can to remove the filthy stain 
 which has so unjustly been cast upon us. I have finished.” 
 
 He went away from the table and joined his comrades. 
 The barristers were whispering in an undertone, very much 
 as the magistrates of the bench at sessions. Then the chair- 
 man rose. 
 
 “We trust you absolutely, and we will make every effort 
 to clear your association of this most grievous charge. At | 
 the same time my colleagues have authorised me, gentle- 
 men, to convey to you their deep respect for your passion- 
 ate feelings as citizens. And for my own part I ask the 
 leader of the deputation for permission to shake him by the 
 hand.” 
 
 The two men, both tall and serious, held each other’s 
 hands in a strong, masculine grip. 
 
 The barristers were leaving the theatre; but four of them 
 hung back a little beside the clothes rack in the hall. Isaac 
 Abramovich could not find his new, smart grey hat any- 
 where. In its place on the wooden peg hung a cloth cap 
 jauntily flattened in on either side. 
 
 “Уазра!? The stern voice of the orator was suddenly 
 heard from the other side of the door. ‘Yasha! It’s the 
 
THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 26%. 
 
 last time ГП speak to you, curse you! . . . Do you hear?” 
 
 The heavy door opened wide. The gentleman in the 
 sandy suit entered. In his hands he held Isaac Abramo- 
 vich’s hat; on his face was a well-bred smile. 
 
 “Gentlemen, for Heaven’s sake forgive us—an odd little 
 misunderstanding. One of our comrades exchanged his hat 
 by accident. . . . Oh, it is yours! A thousand pardons. 
 Doorkeeper! Why don’t you keep an eye on things, my 
 good fellow, eh? Just give me that cap, there. Once more, 
 I ask you to forgive me, gentlemen.” 
 
 With a pleasant bow and the same well-bred smile he 
 made his way quickly into the street. 
 
oS 
 et ee 
 
 ee 
 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 А ahs ea 
 й dy А oh ' + Any $0 ит 
 ta i poesia matin С vee fy 
 
 ме: 
 
 
 
 
ТОВ Saba Be Nu «ЕЕ 
 Wat Ro ВЕ ХОСЕ 
 

 

 
 ‘The Seven that were Hanged 
 
 I 
 
 SAL ONE, O CLOCK. IN THE“ AFPTERNOQOMN 
 Moon EXCEDLRENGYE? 
 
 As THE Minister was a very fat man, predisposed to 
 apoplexy, and as it was necessary therefore to spare him 
 every dangerous emotion, they took the minutest precautions 
 in warning him that a serious attempt upon his life had 
 been planned. When they saw that he received the news 
 calmly, they gave him the details: the attempt was to be 
 made the next day, at the moment when His Excellency was 
 to leave the house to go to make his report. A few terror- 
 ists, armed with revolvers and bombs, whom a police spy 
 had betrayed and who were now being watched by the 
 police, were to meet near the steps at one o’clock in the 
 afternoon, and await the Minister’s exit. There the criminals 
 would be arrested. 
 
 “Pardon me,” interrupted the Minister in surprise. “How 
 do they know that I am to go to present my report at one 
 o'clock in the afternoon, when I learned it myself only two 
 days ago?” 
 
 The commander of the body-guard made a vague gesture 
 signifying ignorance. 
 
 “At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! 
 
 I 
 
 ” 
 
Z THE SEVEN THAT WERE НОЕ 
 
 Astonished, and at the same time satisfied with the police 
 who had managed the affair so well, the Minister shook his 
 head; a disdainful smile appeared on his thick red lips; 
 quickly he made all the necessary preparations to pass the 
 night in another palace; in no way did he wish to embarrass 
 the police. His wife and children also were removed from 
 the dangerous premises. 
 
 As long as the lights gleamed in this new residence, and 
 while his familiars bustled about him expressing their in- 
 dignation, the Minister felt a sensation of agreeable excite- 
 ment. It seemed to him that he had just received, or was 
 about to receive, a great and unexpected reward. But the 
 friends went away, and the lights were put out. The ш- 
 termittent and fantastic glare of the arc-lights in the street 
 fell upon the ceiling and the walls, penetrating through the 
 high windows, symbolizing, as it were, the fragility of all 
 bolts and walls, the vanity of all supervision. Then, in the 
 silence and the solitude of a strange chamber, the dignitary 
 was seized with an unspeakable terror. 
 
 He was afflicted with a kidney trouble. Every violent 
 emotion caused his face, feet, and hands to swell, and made 
 him appear heavier, more massive. Now, like a heap of 
 bloated flesh that made the bed-springs bend, he suffered 
 the anguish of the sick as he felt his face puff up and 
 become, as it were, something foreign to his body. His 
 thought recurred obstinately to the cruel fate that his 
 enemies were preparing for him. He evoked one after the 
 other all the horrible attempts of recent date, in which bombs 
 had been thrown against persons as noble as himself and 
 
mie Oat OCK IN THE AR TERN OOWN 3 
 bearing even higher titles, tearing their bodies into a thou- 
 sand shreds, hurling their brains against foul brick walls, 
 and knocking their teeth from their jaws. And, at these 
 recollections, it seemed to him that his diseased body was 
 another man’s body suffering from the fiery shock of the 
 explosion. He pictured to himself his arms detached from 
 his shoulders, his teeth broken, his brain crushed. His legs, 
 
 ‘stretched out in the bed, grew numb and motionless, the feet 
 
 pointing upward, like those of a dead man. He breathed 
 noisily, coughing occasionally, to avoid all resemblance to 
 a corpse: he moved about, that he might hear the sound 
 of the metallic springs, the rustling of the silk coverlet. 
 And, to prove that he was really alive, he exclaimed in a 
 loud and clear voice: 
 
 “Brave fellows! Brave fellows!” 
 
 These words of praise were for the police, the gendarmes, 
 the soldiers, all those who protected his life and had pre- 
 vented the assassination. But in vain did he stir about, 
 lavish his praise, and smile at the discomfiture of the terror- 
 ists; he could not yet believe that he was saved. It seemed 
 
 to him that the death evoked for him by the anarchists, and 
 
 which existed in their thought, was already there and would 
 remain there, refusing to go away until the assassins should 
 be seized, deprived of their bombs, and lodged safely in 
 prison. There it stood, in the corner yonder, declining to 
 leave, and unable to leave, like an obedient soldier placed 
 on guard by an unknown will. 
 
 “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!” 
 This phrase came back to him continually, uttered in ай 
 
4 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 tones, now joyously and ironically, now irritably, now 
 obstinately and stupidly. One would have said that a hun- 
 dred phonographs had been placed in the chamber, and 
 were crying one after the other, with the idiotic persistence 
 of machines: 
 
 “Авопе o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!’ 
 
 And this, “one o’clock in the afternoon’ of the next day, 
 which so short a time before was in no way to be distin- 
 euished from other hours, had taken оп a menacing im- 
 portance; it had stepped out of the clock-dial, and was 
 beginning to live a distinct life, stretching itself like an 
 immense black curtain, to divide life into two parts. Before 
 it and after it no other hour existed; it alone, presumptuous 
 and obsessing, was entitled to a special life. 
 
 Grinding his teeth, the Minister raised himself in his bed to 
 a sitting posture. It was positively impossible for him to sleep. 
 
 Pressing his bloated hands against his face, he pictured 
 to himself with terrifying clearness how he would have 
 risen on the morrow if he had been left in ignorance; he 
 would have taken his coffee, and dressed. And neither he, 
 or the Swiss who would have helped him on with his fur 
 coat, or the valet who would have served his coffee, would 
 have understood the uselessness of breakfasting and dress- 
 ing, when a few moments later everything would be an- 
 nihilated by the explosion. . . . The Swiss opens the door. 
 ... And it is he, this good and thoughtful Swiss, with the 
 blue eyes, and the open countenance, and the numerous 
 military decorations—he it is who opens the terrible door 
 with his own hands... . 
 

 
 
 
 ВАТ ОМЕ О NCLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON 
 “Ah!” suddenly exclaimed the Minister aloud; slo 
 te removed his hands from his face. Gazing far befo 
 lim into the darkness with a fixed and attentive look, he 
 \tretched out his hand to turn on the light. Then he arose, 
 ind in his bare feet walked around the strange chamber so 
 infamiliar to him; finding another light, he turned that оп 
 |130. The room ее bright and agreeable; there was 
 ynly the disordered bed and the fallen а to indicate 
 || terror that had not yet completely disappeared. 
 | Clad in a night-shirt, his beard in a tangle, a look of irri- 
 lation on his face, the Minister resembled those old people 
 lvho are tormented by asthma and insomnia. One would 
 пауе said that the death prepared for him by others had 
 itripped him bare, had torn him from the luxury with which 
 jie was surrounded. Without dressing he threw himself into 
 |п arm-chair, his eyes wandered to the ceiling. 
 | “Imbeciles!” he cried in a contemptuous tone of con- 
 ‘iction. 
 “TImbeciles !” And he was speaking of the policemen whom. 
 ut а few moments before he had called “brave fellows,” 
 ind who, through excess of zeal, had told him all the de- 
 lails of the attack that had been planned. 
 “Evidently,” he thought with lucidity, “I am afraid now 
 ‘ecause I have been warned and because I know. But, 
 ‚ЕТ had been left in ignorance, I should have taken my 
 ‘toffee quietly. And then, evidently, this death. ... But am 
 | then so afraid of death? I have a kidney trouble; some 
 tay I must die of it, and yet I am not afraid, because 
 don’t know when. And these imbeciles say to me: ‘At 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 THE SEVEN THAT WERE НАЧСОЬВ 
 
 F o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! Th 
 ought that I would be glad to know about it!... I 
 stead of that, death has placed himself in the corner yo 
 der, and does not go away! He does not go away, b 
 cause I have that fixed idea! To die is not so terribl 
 the terrible thing is to know that one is going to die. 
 would be quite impossible for a man to live if he kne 
 the hour and day of his death with absolute certainty. А: 
 yet these idiots warn me: ‘At one o’clock in the afternoo 
 Your Excellency!’ ” 
 
 Recently he had been ill, and the doctors had told hi 
 that he was going to die and should make his final arrang 
 ments. He had refused to believe them; and, in fact, 
 did not die. Once, in his youth, it had happened to hi 
 to get beyond his depth; he had decided to put an end 
 his existence; he had loaded his revolver, written sor 
 letters, and even fixed the hour of his suicide; then, at t 
 last moment, he had reconsidered. And always, at t 
 supreme moment, something unexpected may happen; co 
 sequently no man can know when he will die. 
 
 “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency 
 these amiable idiots had said to him. They had inform 
 him only because his death had been plotted; and yet 
 was terrified simply to learn the hour when it might ha 
 occurred. He admitted that they would kill him $01 
 day or other, but it would not be the next day . 
 would not be the next day, and he could sleep city i 
 an immortal being. . . . The imbeciles! They did т 
 know what a gulf they had dug in saying, with stuj 
 
 
 
ATONE O’CLOCKIN ТНЕ АЕТЕВМООМ 7 
 gmiability: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Ex- 
 jellency !” 
 
 ‚ From the bitter anguish that shot through his heart, the 
 ,inister understood that he would know neither sleep, nor 
 .est, nor joy, until this black and accursed hour, thus de- 
 jached from the course of time, had passed. It was enough 
 ‚а itself to annihilate the light and enwrap the man in the 
 'радие darkness of fear. Now that he was awake, the fear 
 | death permeated his entire body, filtered into his bones, 
 xuded from every pore. 
 
 | Already the Minister had ceased to think of the assas- 
 ins of the morrow: they had disappeared, forgotten in the 
 inultitude of inauspicious things that surrounded his life. 
 Че feared the unexpected, the inevitable: an attack of 
 ipoplexy, a laceration of the heart, the rupture of a little 
 tery suddenly made powerless to resist the flow of blood 
 ind splitting like a glove on swollen hands. 
 
 _ His thick, short neck frightened him; he dared not look 
 it his swollen fingers, full of some fatal fluid. And though, 
 ust before, in the darkness, he had been compelled to stir 
 n order to avoid resemblance to a corpse, now, under this 
 right, cold, hostile, frightful light, it seemed to him hor- 
 ‘ible, impossible, to move even to light a cigarette or ring 
 for a servant. His nerves were at a tension. With red and 
 ipturned eyes and burning head, he stifled. 
 
 Suddenly, in the darkness of the sleeping house, the 
 lectric bell just under the ceiling, among the dust and 
 spiders’ webs, became animate. Its little metallic tongue 
 seat hurriedly against its sonorous edge. It stopped for a 
 
 
 
8 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 moment, and then began to ring again in a continuous and 
 terrifying fashion. 
 
 People came running. Here and there lamps were lighted 
 on the walls and chandeliers—too few of them for intense 
 illumination, but enough to create shadows. On every hand¢ 
 appeared these shadows: they arose in the corners and 
 stretched out upon the ceiling, fastening upon all projec- 
 tions and running along the walls. It was difficult to under- 
 stand where all these taciturn, monstrous, and innumerable 
 shadows could have kept themselves before—mute souls of 
 mute things. 
 
 A thick and trembling voice said something indistin- 
 guishable. Then they telephoned to the doctor: the Ми: 
 ister was ill. His Excellency’s wife was summoned also. 
 
 
 
SENTENCED TO BE HANGED 9 
 
 II 
 SENTENCED TO BE HANGED 
 
 Tue predictions of the police were realized. Four ter- 
 ‘orists, three men and one woman, carrying bombs, re- 
 volvers, and infernal machines, were taken in front of the 
 steps of the residence; а fifth accomplice was arrested at 
 лег dwelling, where the implements had been manufactured 
 ind the conspiracy planned. A large quantity of dynamite 
 ind many weapons were found there. All five were very 
 young: the eldest of the men was twenty-eight, the younger 
 of the women nineteen. They were tried in the fortress 
 where they had been imprisoned after their arrest; they 
 were tried quickly and secretly, as was the custom at that 
 merciless epoch. 
 
 Before the court all five were calm, but serious and 
 thoughtful; their contempt for the judges was so great 
 that they did not care to emphasize their fearlessness by a 
 useless smile or a pretence of gaiety. They were just tran- 
 quil enough to protect their souls and the deep gloom of 
 their agony from the malevolent gaze of strangers. Some 
 questions they refused to answer, some they answered sim- 
 ply, briefly, precisely, as if they were speaking, not to 
 judges, but to statisticians desirous of completing tables of 
 figures. Three of them, one woman and two men, gave 
 
10 THE SEVEN THAT ‘WERE HANGED 
 their real names; two refused to disclose their identit: 
 which remained unknown to the court. In everything thi 
 happened they manifested that distant and attenuated cur 
 osity peculiar to people seriously ill or possessed by a sing 
 all-powerful idea. They cast swift glances, seized upon a 
 interesting word in its flight, and went back to the 
 thoughts, resuming them at the exact point where the 
 had dropped them. 
 
 The accused placed nearest the judges had given В 
 name as Sergey Golovin, a former officer, son of a retire 
 colonel. He was very young, with broad shoulders, and $ 
 robust that neither the prison or the expectation of certai 
 death had been able to dim the color of his cheeks or tt 
 expression of happy innocence in his blue eyes. Througl 
 out the trial he twisted his thick blond beard, to which | 
 had not yet become accustomed, and gazed steadily at a 
 window, knitting his brows. 
 
 It was the latter part of winter, that period into whic 
 among snowstorms and gray, cold days, the approachir. 
 spring projects sometimes, as a forerunner, a warm ar 
 luminous day, or even a single hour, so passionately your, 
 and sparkling that the sparrows in the street become mg 
 with joy and men seem intoxicated. Now, through tl 
 upper window, still covered with the dust of the previot 
 summer, a very odd and beautiful sky was to be seen; 
 the first glance it seemed a thick and milky gray; the 
 upon a second examination, it appeared to be covered wi 
 azure stains, of an ever-deepening blue, a blue pure ar 
 infinite. And because it did not strip itself suddenly, bi 
 
 
 
SENTENCED TO ВЕ HANGED 11 
 iodestly draped itself in the transparent veil of clouds, it 
 ecame charming, like one’s fiancée. Sergey Golovin looked 
 t the sky, pulled at his mustache, winked now one and 
 ow the other of his eyes behind the long, heavy eye- 
 ishes, and reflected profoundly on nobody knows what. 
 nce, even, his fingers moved rapidly, and an expression 
 { naive joy appeared upon his face; but he looked around 
 im, and his joy was extinguished like a live coal upon 
 rhich one steps. Almost instantaneously, almost without 
 ransition, the redness of his cheeks gave place to a corpse- 
 ke pallor; a fine hair painfully pulled out was pressed as 
 та vice between his bloodless finger-ends. But the joy of 
 fe and of the spring was still stronger. A few minutes 
 iter the young face resumed its naive expression and sought 
 gain the sky of spring. 
 
 Toward the sky also looked an unknown young girl, 
 urnamed Musya. She was younger than Golovin, but seemed 
 lis elder because of the severity, the gravity, of her proud 
 nd loyal eyes. The delicate neck and slender arms alone 
 evealed that intangible something which is youth itself, 
 nd which sounded so distinctly in the pure harmonious 
 ‘oice that resembled a costly instrument in perfect tune. 
 Иизуа was very pale, of that passionate pallor peculiar 
 о those who burn with an inner, radiant, and powerful 
 ire. She scarcely stirred; from time to time only, with 
 ‚ gesture that was hardly visible, she felt for a deep trace 
 n the third finger of her right hand—the trace of a ring 
 ‘ecently removed. She looked at the sky with calmness 
 ind indifference; she looked at it simply because everything 
 
12 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 in this commonplace and dirty hall was hostile to her and 
 seemed to scrutinize her face. This bit of blue sky was the 
 only pure and true thing upon which she could look with 
 confidence. 
 
 The judges pitied Sergey Golovin and hated Musya. 
 
 Musya’s neighbor, motionless also, with hands folded 
 between his knees and somewhat of affectation in his pose, 
 
 was an unknown surnamed Werner. If one can bolt a 
 _ face as one bolts a heavy door, the unknown had bolted 
 his as if it were a door of iron. He gazed steadily at the 
 floor,-and it was impossible to tell whether he was calm 
 or deeply moved, whether he was thinking of something or 
 listening to the testimony of the policemen. He was rather 
 short of stature; his features were fine and noble. He gave 
 the impression of an immense and calm force, of a cold 
 and audacious valor. The very politeness with which he 
 uttered his clear and curt replies seemed dangerous on his 
 lips. On the backs of the other prisoners the customary 
 cloak seemed a ridiculous costume; on him it was not ever 
 noticeable, so foreign was the garment to the man. А| 
 though Werner had been armed only with a poor revolver 
 while the others carried bombs and infernal machines, the 
 judges looked upon him as the leader, and treated Бит 
 with a certain respect, with the same brevity which he em- 
 ployed toward them. 
 
 In his neighbor, Vasily Kashirin, a frightful moral strug: 
 gle was going on between the intolerable terror of deatl 
 and the desperate desire to subdue this fear and concea 
 it from the judges. Ever since the prisoners had beer 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SENTENCED TO BE HANGED 13 
 taken to court in the morning, he had been stifling under 
 the hurried beating of his heart. Drops of sweat appeared 
 continually on his brow; his hands were moist and cold ; 
 his damp and icy shirt, sticking to his body, hindered 
 his movements. By a superhuman effort of the will he 
 kept his fingers from trembling, and maintained the firm- 
 ness and moderation of his voice and the tranquillity of 
 his gaze. He saw nothing around him; the sound of the 
 voice that he heard seemed to reach him through a fog, 
 and it was in a fog also that he stiffened himself in a des- 
 perate effort to answer firmly and aloud. But, as soon as 
 he had spoken, he forgot the questions, as well as his own 
 phrases; the silent and terrible struggle began again. And 
 upon his person death was so in evidence that the judges 
 turned their eyes away from him. It was as difficult’ to 
 determine his age as that of a rotting corpse. According 
 to his papers he was only twenty-three. Once or twice 
 Werner touched him gently on the knee, and each time he 
 answered briefly : 
 
 “Tt’s nothing.” 
 
 His hardest moment was when he suddenly felt an irre- 
 sistible desire to utter inarticulate cries, like a hunted beast. 
 Then he gave Werner a slight push; without raising his 
 eyes, the latter answered in a low voice: 
 
 “Tt’s nothing, Vasya. It will soon be over!” 
 
 Consumed by anxiety, Tanya Kovalchuk, the fifth ter- 
 rorist, sheltered her comrades with a maternal look. She 
 was still very young; her cheeks seemed as highly colored 
 as those of Sergey Golovin; and yet she seemed to be the 
 
14 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 mother of all the accused, so full of tender anxiety and 
 infinite love were her looks, her smile, her fear. The prog- 
 ress of the trial did not interest her. She listened to het 
 comrades simply to see.if their voices trembled, if they) 
 were afraid, if they needed water. 
 
 But she could not look at Vasya; his anguish was toc 
 intense; she contented herself with cracking her plum 
 fingers. At Musya and Werner she gazed with proud anc 
 respectful admiration, her face then wearing a grave anc 
 serious expression. As for Sergey Golovin, she continually! 
 tried to attract his attention by her smile. 
 
 “The dear comrade, he is looking at the sky. Look 
 
 look!” thought she, as she observed the direction of # 
 eyes. 
 “And Vasya? My God! My God! ... What can be don! 
 
 to comfort him? If I speak to him, perhaps it will mak 
 matters worse; suppose he should begin to weep ree 
 
 Like a peaceful pool reflecting every wandering clouc 
 her amiable and clear countenance showed all the feeling 
 and all the thoughts, however fleeting, of her four com 
 trades. She forgot that she was on trial too and would b 
 hanged; her indifference to this was absolute. It was 1 
 her dwelling that the bombs and dynamite had been found 
 strange as it may seem, she had received the police wit 
 pistol shots, and had wounded one of them in the head. 
 
 The trial ended toward eight o’clock, just as the da 
 was drawing to its close. Little by little, in the eyes с 
 Sergey and Musya, the blue sky disappeared; without rec 
 dening, without smiling, it grew dim gently as on a зип 
 
 
 
i 
 
 SENTENCED TO BE HANGED 15 
 aer evening, becoming grayish, and suddenly cold and 
 vintry. Golovin heaved a sigh, stretched himself, and 
 aised his eyes toward the window, where the chilly dark- 
 iess of the night was already making itself manifest; still 
 ulling his beard, he began to examine the judges, the 
 oldiers, and their weapons, exchanging a smile with Tanya 
 Sovalchuk. As for Musya, when the sun had set com- 
 letely, she did not lower her gaze to the ground, but 
 lirected it toward a corner where a spider’s web was sway- 
 ng gently in the invisible current of warm air from the 
 tove; and thus she remained until the sentence had been 
 ronounced. 
 
 After the verdict, the condemned said their farewells to 
 heir lawyers, avoiding their disconcerted, pitying, and con- 
 ‘used looks; then they grouped themselves for a moment 
 ear the door, and exchanged short phrases. 
 
 “It’s nothing, Vasya! All will soon be over!” said Werner. 
 
 “But there is nothing the matter with me, brother!’ an- 
 wered Kashirin, in a strong, quiet, and almost joyous voice. 
 ‘п fact, his face had taken on a slight color, no longer 
 ‘esembling that of a corpse. 
 
 “The devil take them! They have hanged us all just the 
 ame!’ swore Golovin naively. 
 
 “It was to have been expected,” answered Werner, with~ 
 mut agitation. 
 
 “To-morrow the final judgment will be rendered, and they 
 will put us all in the same cell,” said Tanya, to console her 
 -omrades. “We shall remain together until the execution.” 
 
 Silently, and with a resolute air, Musya started off. 
 
16 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 ПТ 
 “Т MUST МОТ ВЕ HANGED” 
 
 А FORTNIGHT before the affair of the terrorists, in the 
 same court, but before other judges, Ivan Yanson, a peas- 
 ant, had been tried and sentenced to be hanged. 
 
 Ivan Yanson had been hired as a farm-hand by a well- 
 to-do farmer, and was distinguished in no way from the 
 other poor devils of his class. He was a native of Wesen- 
 berg, in Esthonia; for some years he had been advancing 
 gradually toward the capital, passing from one farm to 
 another. He had very little knowledge of Russian. As 
 there were none of his countrymen living in the neighbor- 
 hood, and as his employer was a Russian, named Lazaref, 
 Yanson remained silent for almost two years. He said 
 hardly a word to either man or beast. He led the horse to 
 water and harnessed it without speaking to it, walking 
 about it lazily, with short hesitating steps. When the 
 horse began to run, Yanson did not say a word, but beat 
 it cruelly with his enormous whip. Drink transformed his 
 cold and wicked obstinacy into fury. The hissing of the 
 lash and the regular and painful sound of his wooden shoes 
 on the floor of the shed could be heard even at the farm- 
 house. To punish him for torturing the horse the farmer 
 at first beat Yanson, but, not succeeding in correcting him, 
 he gave it up. 3 
 

 
 “I MUST NOT BE HANGED” 17 
 
 Once or twice a month Yanson got drunk, especially when 
 he took his master to the station. His employer once on 
 board the train, Yanson drove a short distance away, and 
 waited until the train had started. 
 
 Then he returned to the station, and got drunk at the 
 buffet. He came back to the farm on the gallop, a distance 
 of seven miles, beating the unfortunate beast unmercifully, 
 giving it its head, and singing and shouting incomprehen- 
 sible phrases in Esthonian. Sometimes silent, with set teeth, 
 impelled by a whirlwind of indescribable fury, suffering, 
 and enthusiasm, he was like a blind man in his mad career ; 
 he did not see the passers-by, he did not insult them, uphill 
 and down he maintained his furious gait. 
 
 His master would have discharged him, but Yanson did 
 
 not demand high wages, and his comrades were no better 
 than he. 
 — One day he received a letter written in Esthonian; but, 
 as he did not know how to read or write, and as no one 
 about him knew this language, Yanson threw it into the 
 muck-heap with savage indifference, as if he did not under- 
 ‘stand that it brought him news from his native country. 
 Probably needing a woman, he tried also to pay court to 
 the girl employed on the farm. She repulsed him, for he 
 was short aad puny, and covered with hideous freckles; 
 after that, he let her alone. 
 
 But, though he spoke little, Yanson listened continually. 
 He listened to the desolate snow-covered fields, containing 
 hillocks of frozen manure that resembled a series of little 
 tombs heaped up by the snow; he listened to the bluish 
 
18 THE SEVEN’ THAT WERE -HAWNGED 
 
 and limpid distance, the sonorous telegraph-poles. He alone 
 knew what the fields and telegraph-poles were saying. He 
 listened also to the conversation of men, the stories of 
 murder, pillage, fire. 
 
 One night, in the village, the little church-bell began tc 
 ring in a feeble and lamentable way; flames appeared. 
 Malefactors from nobody knew where were pillaging the 
 neighboring farm. They killed the owner and his wife, and 
 set fire to the house. This caused a feeling of anxiety on 
 the farm where Yanson lived: day and night the dogs 
 were loose; the master kept a gun within reach of his bed. 
 He wished also to give an old weapon to Yanson, but the 
 latter, after examining it, shook his head and refused it. 
 The farmer did not understand that Yanson had more con- 
 fidence in the efficacy of his Finnish knife than in this rusty 
 old machine. 
 
 “Tt would kill me myself!’ said he. 
 
 “You, are only an imbecile, Ivan!” 
 
 And one winter evening, when the other farm-hand had 
 gone to the station, this same Ivan Yanson, who was afraid 
 of a gun, committed robbery and murder, and made an 
 attempt at rape. He did it with an astonishing simplicity. 
 After shutting the servant in the kitchen, lazily, like a 
 man almost dead with sleep, he approached his master from 
 behind, and stabbed him several times in the back. The 
 master fell unconscious; his wife began to cry and to run 
 about the chamber. Showing his teeth, and holding his 
 knife in his hand, Yanson began to ransack trunks and 
 drawers. He found the money; then, as if he had just 
 

 
 ~ 
 
 Pim sol NOT BH? HAIG EXD? 19 
 seen the master’s wife for the first time, he threw himself 
 upon her to rape her, without the slightest premeditation. 
 But he happened to drop his knife; and, as the woman 
 was the stronger, she not only resisted Yanson, but half 
 strangled him. At this moment the farmer recovered his 
 senses, and the servant broke in the kitchen-door and came 
 nm. Yanson fled. They took him an hour later, squatting 
 in the corner of the shed, and scratching matches which 
 continually went out. He was trying to set fire to the 
 farm. 
 
 A few days later the farmer died. Yanson was tried 
 and sentenced to death. In the court one would have said 
 that he did not understand what was going on; he viewed 
 the large imposing hall without curiosity, and explored 
 ais nose with a shrunken finger that nothing disgusted. 
 Only those who had seen him at church on Sunday could 
 have guessed that he had done something in the way of 
 making a toilet; he wore a knitted cravat of dirty red; in 
 spots his hair was smooth and dark; in others it consisted 
 of light thin locks, like wisps of straw on an uncultivated 
 and devastated field. 
 
 When the sentence of death by hanging was pronounced, 
 Yanson suddenly showed emotion. He turned scarlet, and 
 began to untie and tie his cravat, as if it were choking him. 
 Then he waved his arms without knowing why, and de- 
 clared to the presiding judge, who had read the sentence: 
 
 “She has said that I must be hanged.” 
 
 “ ‘Сре’? Who?” asked the presiding judge, in a deep 
 bass voice. 
 
20 THE SEVEN THATIWERE HAMGED 
 
 Yanson pointed at the presiding judge with his finger, 
 and, looking at him furtively, answered angrily: 
 
 “You!” 
 
 “Well ?” 
 
 Again Yanson turned his eyes toward one of the judges, 
 ° in whom he divined a friend, and repeated : 
 
 “She has said that I must be hanged. I must not be 
 hanged.” 
 
 “Take away the accused.” | 
 
 But Yanson still had time to repeat, in a grave tone of 
 conviction: 
 
 “Т must not be hanged.” 
 
 And with his outstretched finger and irritated face, to 
 which he tried in vain to give an air of gravity, he seemed 
 so stupid that the guard, in violation of orders, said to him 
 in an undertone as he led him away: 
 
 “Well, you are a famous imbecile, you are!” 
 
 “I must not be hanged!” repeated Yanson, obstinately. 
 
 They shut him up again in the cell in which he had 
 passed a month, and to which he had become accustomed, 
 as he had become accustomed to everything: to blows, to 
 brandy, to the desolate and snow-covered country sown 
 with rounded hillocks resembling tombs. It even gave him 
 pleasure to see his bed again, and his grated window, and 
 to eat what they gave him; he had taken nothing since morn- 
 ing. The disagreeable thing was what had happened in 
 court, about which he knew not what to think. He had 
 no idea at all of what death by hanging was like. 
 
 The guard said to him, in a tone of remonstrance: 
 
SEM LaN OT ВЕНАМ.С ED? 21 
 
 “Well, brother, there you are, hanged!” 
 
 “And when will they hang me?” asked Yanson, in a 
 tone of incredulity. The guard reflected. 
 
 “Ah! wait, brother; you must have companions; they 
 do not disturb themselves for a single individual, and espe- 
 cially for a little fellow like you.” 
 
 “Then, when?” insisted Yanson. 
 
 He was not offended that they did not want to take the 
 trouble to hang him all alone; he did not believe in this ex- 
 cuse, and thought they simply wanted to put off the execu- 
 tion, and then pardon him. 
 
 “When? When?’ resumed the guard. “It is not a 
 question of hanging a dog, which one takes behind a shed 
 and dispatches with a single blow! Is that what you would 
 like, imbecile ?” 
 
 “Why, no, I would not like it!” said Yanson suddenly, 
 with a joyous grimace. “’Тууаз she that said I must be 
 hanged, but I, I do not want to be hanged!’ 
 
 And, for the first time in his life perhaps, he began to 
 lJaugh—a grinning and stupid laugh, but terribly gay. Не 
 seemed like a goose beginning to quack. The guard looked 
 at Yanson in astonishment, and then knitted his brows: - 
 this stupid gaiety on the part of a man who was to be 
 executed insulted the prison, the gallows itself, and made 
 them ridiculous. And suddenly it seemed to the old guard, 
 who had passed all his life in prison and considered the 
 laws of the gaol as those of nature, that the prison and all 
 of. life were a sort of mad-house in which he, the guard. 
 was the chief madman. 
 
 
 
Da THE SEVEN* THAT WERE НАЦ 
 
 “The devil take you!” said he, spitting on the ground. 
 “Why do you show your teeth? This is no wine-shop!” 
 
 “And I, I do not want to be hanged! Ha! ha! ha!” 
 
 Yanson laughed always. 
 
 “Satan!” replied the guard, crossing himself. 
 
 All the evening Yanson was calm, and even joyous. He 
 repeated the phrase that he had uttered: “I must not be 
 hanged,” and so convincing, so irrefutable was it that he 
 had no occasion for anxiety. He had long since forgotten 
 his crime; sometimes he simply regretted that he had not 
 succeeded in raping the woman. Soon he thought no more 
 about the matter. 
 
 Every morning Yanson asked when he would be hanged, 
 and every morning the guard answered him angrily: 
 
 “You have time enough.” And he went out quickly, before 
 Yanson began to laugh. 
 
 Thanks to this invariable exchange of words, Yanson 
 persuaded himself that the execution would never take 
 place; for whole days he lay upon his bed, dreaming 
 vaguely of the desolate and snow-covered fields, of the 
 buffet at the railway station, and also of things farther 
 away and more luminous. He was well fed in prison, he 
 took on flesh. 
 
 “She would love me now,” he said to himself, thinking 
 of his master’s wife. “Now I am as big as her husband.” 
 
 He had only one desire—to drink brandy and course 
 madly over the roads with his horse at full gallop. 
 
 When the terrorists were arrested, the whole prison 
 learned of it. One day, when Yanson put his customary 
 
| ОУ OTB BE) BANGED. 23 
 question, the guard answered him abruptly, in an irritated 
 “voice : 
 
 “It will be soon. In a week, I think.” 
 
 Yanson turned pale; the gaze of his glassy eyes became 
 so thick that he seemed as if asleep. 
 
 “You are joking?” he asked. 
 
 “Formerly you could not await the time, to-day you 
 say that I am joking. No jokes are tolerated here. It is 
 you who like jokes, but we do not tolerate them,” replied 
 the guard with dignity; then he went out. 
 
 When evening came, Yanson had grown thin. His skin, 
 which had become smooth again for a few days, was con- 
 tracted into a thousand little wrinkles. He took no notice 
 of anything; his movements were made slowly, as if every 
 toss of the head, every gesture of the arm, every step, were 
 a difficult undertaking, that must first be deeply studied. 
 During the night Yanson lay on his camp-bed, but his 
 eyes did not close; they remained open until morning. 
 
 “Ah!” exclaimed the guard, on seeing him the next 
 day. 
 
 With the satisfaction of the savant who has made a new 
 and a successful experiment, he examined the condemned 
 man attentively and without haste; now everything was 
 proceeding in the usual fashion. Satan was covered with 
 shame, the sanctity of the prison and of the gallows was re- 
 established. Indulgent, and even full of sincere pity, the 
 old man asked: 
 
 “Do you want to see someone?” 
 
 “Why ?” 
 
24 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 “To say good-bye, of course ... to your mother, for 
 instance, or to your brother.” | 
 
 “Т must not be hanged,” said Yanson in a low voice, 
 casting a glance sidewise at the gaoler. “I do not want 
 to be hanged.” 
 
 The guard looked at him, without saying a word. 
 
 Yanson was a little calmer in the evening. The day was 
 so ordinary, the cloudy winter sky shone in so usual a 
 fashion, so familiar was the sound of steps and conversa- 
 tions in the corridor, that he ceased to believe in the execu- 
 tion. Formerly the night had been to him simply the mo- 
 ment of darkness, the time for sleep. But now he was 
 conscious of its mysterious and menacing essence. To dis- 
 believe in death one must see and hear about one the cus- 
 tomary course of life: steps, voices, light. And now every- 
 thing seemed extraordinary to him; this silence, these 
 shades, that seemed to be already the shades of death; 
 already he felt the approach of inevitable death; in be- 
 wilderment he climbed the first steps of the gibbet. 
 
 The day, the night, brought him alternations of hope 
 and fear; and so things went until the evening when he 
 felt, or understood, that the inevitable death would come 
 three days later, at sunrise. 
 
 He had never thought of death; for him it had no shape. 
 But now he felt plainly that it had entered his cell, and 
 was groping about in search of him. To escape it he began 
 to run. 
 
 The room was so small that the corners seemed to push 
 him back toward the centre. He could not hide himself 
 
eM NOT BE HANGED ” 25 
 anywhere. Several times he struck the walls with his 
 body; once he hurled himself against the door. He stag- 
 gered and fell, with his face upon the ground; he felt the 
 grasp of death upon him. Glued to the floor, his face 
 touching the dirty black asphalt, Yanson screamed with 
 terror until help came. When they had lifted him up, 
 seated him on his bed, and sprinkled him with cold water, 
 he did not dare to open both eyes. He half opened one, per- 
 ceived an empty and luminous corner of his cell, and began 
 again to scream. 
 
 But the cold water had its effect. The guard, moreover, 
 always the same old man, slapped Yanson several times 
 on the head in a fatherly fashion. This sensation of life 
 drove out the thought of death. Yanson slept deeply the 
 rest of the night. He lay on his back, with mouth open, 
 snoring loud and long. Between his half-closed eyelids 
 appeared a whitish, flat, and dead eye, without a pupil. 
 
 Then day, night, voices, steps, the cabbage soup, every- 
 thing became for him one continuous horror that plunged 
 him into a state of wild astonishment. His weak mind 
 could not reconcile the monstrous contradiction between, 
 on the one hand, the bright light and the odor of the cab- 
 bage, and, on the other, the fact that two days later he 
 must die. He thought of nothing; he did not even count 
 the hours; he was simply the prey of a dumb terror in 
 presence of this contradiction that bewildered his brain: 
 to-day life, to-morrow death. He ate nothing, he slept no 
 more; he sat timidly all night long on a stool, with his legs 
 crossed under him, or else he walked up and down his cell 
 
 
 
26 THE SEVEN THAT WEKE SBaAnGep 
 with furtive steps. He appeared to be in a state of open- 
 mouthed astonishment; before taking the most common- 
 place article into his hands he would examine it suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 The gaolers ceased to pay attention to him. His was the 
 ordinary condition of the condemned man, resembling, ac- 
 cording to his gaoler who had not experienced it himself, 
 that of an ox felled by a club. 
 
 “He is stunned; now he will feel nothing more until the 
 moment of death,” said the guard, examining him with 
 his experienced eye. “Ivan, do you hear? Ho there, Ivan!” 
 
 “Т must not be hanged!’ answered Yanson, in a color- 
 less voice; his lower jaw had dropped. 
 
 “Tf you had not killed, they would not hang you,” re- 
 proachfully said the chief gaoler, a highly important young 
 man, wearing a decoration. ““To steal, you have killed, and 
 you do not want to be hanged!” 
 
 “Т do not want to be hanged!” replied Yanson. 
 
 “Well, you don’t have to want to; that’s your affair. 
 But, instead of talking nonsense, you would do better to 
 dispose of your possessions. You surely must have some- 
 thing.” 
 
 “He has nothing at all! A shirt and a pair of panta- 
 loons! And a fur cap!” 
 
 Thus time passed until Thursday. And Thursday, at 
 midnight, a large number of people entered Yanson’s cell; 
 a man with cloth epaulets said to him: 
 
 “Get ready! it is time to start.” 
 
 Always with the same slowness and the same indolence 
 
 
 
| ОЕ TBE HAN.GED zy 
 “Yanson dressed himself in all that he possessed, and tied 
 his dirty shawl around his neck. While watching him dress, 
 the man with the epaulets, who was smoking a cigarette, 
 said to one of the assistants : 
 
 “How warm it is to-day! It is spring!” 
 
 Yanson’s eyes closed; he was in a complete drowse. The 
 guard shouted: 
 
 ~ “Come, come! Make haste! You are going to sleep!” 
 
 Suddenly Yanson ceased to move. 
 
 “T must not be hanged,” said he, with indolence. 
 
 He began to walk submissively, shrugging his shoulders. 
 In the courtyard the moist spring air had a sudden effect 
 ‘upon him; his nose began to run; it was thawing; close 
 by, drops of water were falling with a joyous sound. While 
 the gendarmes were getting into the unlighted vehicle, 
 bending over and rattling their swords, Yanson lazily passed 
 his finger under his running nose, or arranged his badly- 
 tied shawl. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
28 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 IV 
 WE OF OREL 
 
 Tue court that had tried Yanson sentenced to death 
 at the same session Michael Goloubetz, known as Michka 
 the Tzigane, a peasant of the department of Orel, district 
 of Eletz. The last crime of which they accused him, with 
 evidence in support of the charge, was robbery, followed 
 by the assassination of three persons. As for his past, it 
 was unknown. There were vague indications to warrant 
 the belief that the Tzigane had taken part in a whole series 
 of other murders. With absolute sincerity and frankness 
 he termed himself a brigand, and overwhelmed with his 
 irony those who, to follow the fashion, pompously styled 
 themselves “expropriators”; his last crime he described 
 willingly in all its details. But, at the slightest reference to 
 the past, he answered: 
 
 “Go ask the wind that blows over the fields!” 
 
 And, if they persisted in questioning him, the Tzigane 
 assumed a dignified and serious air. 
 
 “We of Orel are all hot-heads, the fathers of all the 
 robbers of the world,” said he, in a sedate and judicial tone 
 
 They had nicknamed him Tzigane because of his physiog: 
 nomy and his thieving habits. He was thin and strangely 
 dark; yellow spots outlined themselves upon his cheek | 
 
 
 

 
 Wir O Fy O REL 29 
 bones which were as prominent as those of a Tartar. He 
 had a way of rolling the whites of his eyes, that reminded 
 one of a horse. His gaze was quick and keen, full of curt- 
 osity, terrifying. The things over which his swift glance 
 passed seemed to lose something or other, and to become 
 transformed by surrendering to him part of themselves. 
 One hesitated to take a cigarette that he had looked at, as 
 if it had already been in his mouth. His extraordinarily 
 mobile nature made him seem now to coil and concentrate 
 himself like a twisted handkerchief, now to scatter him- 
 self like a sheaf of sparks. He drank water almost by the 
 pailful, like a horse. 
 
 When the judges questioned him, he raised his head 
 quickly, and answered without hesitation, even with satis- 
 faction: 
 
 ALS ALU te 
 
 Sometimes, to lend emphasis, he rolled his “г’5” vigor- 
 ously. 
 
 Suddenly he jumped to his feet, and said to the pre- 
 siding judge: 
 
 “Permit me to whistle?” | 
 
 “Why?” exclaimed the judge, in astonishment. 
 
 “The witnesses say that I gave the signal to my com- 
 rades; I will show you how I did it. It is very interesting.” 
 
 A little disconcerted, the judge granted the desired per- 
 mission. The Tzigane quickly placed four fingers in his 
 mouth, two of each hand; he rolled his eyes furiously. 
 And the inanimate air of the court-room was rent by a 
 truly savage whistle. There was everything in the piercing 
 
| 
 | 
 | 
 
 30 ТНЕ ЗЕУЕМ. ТВАТ МЕ АОИ 
 sound, partly human, partly animal; the mortal anguish 
 of the victim, and the savage joy of the assassin; a threat, 
 a call, and the tragic solitude, the darkness, of a rainy 
 autumn night. 
 
 The judge shook his hand; with docility the Tzigane 
 stopped. Like an artist who has just played a difficult air 
 with assured success, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers 
 on his cloak, and looked at the spectators with a satisfied 
 air. 
 
 “What a Биеапа!” exclaimed one of the judges, rub- 
 bing his ear. But another, who had Tartar eyes, like the 
 Tzigane’s, was looking dreamily into the distance, over the 
 brigand’s head; he smiled, and replied: 
 
 “It was really interesting.” 
 
 Without remorse, the judges sentenced the Tzigane to 
 death. 
 
 “ТЕ is just!’ said the Tzigane, when the sentence had 
 been pronounced. 
 
 And, turning to a soldier of the guard, he added with 
 an air of bravado: 
 
 “Well, let us be off, imbecile! And keep a good hold of 
 your gun, lest I snatch it from you!” 
 
 The soldier looked at him seriously and timidly; he ex- 
 changed a glance with his comrade, and tested his weapon 
 to see if it was in working order. The other did the same. 
 And all the way to the prison it seemed to the soldiers that 
 they did not walk, but flew; they were so absorbed by the 
 condemned man that they were unconscious of the route, 
 of the weather, and of themselves. 
 
 
 

 
 WET OFSORETL Ss 31 
 
 Like Yanson, Michka the Tzigane remained seventeen 
 days in prison before being executed. And the seventeen 
 days passed as rapidly as a single day, filled with a single 
 thought, that of flight, of liberty, of life. The turbulent 
 and incoercible spirit of the Tzigane, stifled by the walls, 
 the gratings, and the opaque window through which nothing 
 could be seen, employed all its force in setting Michka’s 
 brain on fire. As in a vapor of intoxication, bright but 
 incomplete images whirled, clashed, and mingled in his 
 head; they passed with a blinding and irresistible rapidity, 
 and they all tended to the same end: flight, liberty, life. 
 For entire hours, with nostrils distended like those of a 
 horse, the Tzigane sniffed the air; it seemed to him that 
 he inhaled the odor of hemp and flame, of dense smoke. 
 Or else he turned in his cell like a top, examining the walls, 
 feeling them with his fingers, measuring them, piercing 
 the ceiling with his gaze, sawing the bars in his mind. His 
 agitation was a source of torture to the soldier who watched 
 -him through the window; several times he threatened to 
 fire on him. 
 
 During the night the Tzigane slept deeply, almost without 
 stirring, in an invariable but living immobility, like a tem- 
 porarily inactive spring. But, as soon as he jumped to his 
 feet, he began again to plan, to grope, to study. His hands 
 were always dry and hot. Sometimes his heart suddenly 
 congealed, as if they had placed in his breast а new 
 block of ice which did not melt, and which caused a con- 
 tinuous shiver to run over his skin. At these times his 
 naturally dark complexion became darker still, taking on 
 
Be THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 the blue-black shade of bronze. Then a queer tic seized 
 him; he constantly licked his lips, as if he had eaten a dish 
 that was much too sweet; then, with a hiss, and with set 
 teeth, he spat upon the ground the saliva that had thus 
 accumulated in his mouth. He left his words unfinished; 
 his thoughts ran so fast that his tongue could no longer 
 keep up with them. 
 
 One day the chief of the guards entered his cell, accom- 
 panied by a soldier. He squinted at the spittle with which 
 the ground was spattered, and said rudely: 
 
 “See how he has dirtied his cell!” 
 
 The Tzigane replied quickly: 
 
 “And you, you ugly mug, you have soiled the whole 
 earth, and I haven’t said a word to you. Why do you 
 annoy те?” 
 
 With the same rudeness the chief of the guards offered 
 him the post of hangman. The Tzigane showed his teeth, 
 and began to laugh: 
 
 “So they can find none! That’s not bad! Go on then 
 hanging people! Ah! Ah! There are necks and ropes, and 
 nobody to do the hanging! My God, that’s not bad.” 
 
 “They will give your life as a reward!” 
 
 “T should say so: I could hardly play the hangman after 
 I am dead!” 
 
 “Well, what do you say, yes ог по?” 
 
 “And how do they hang here? They probably choke people 
 
 secretly.” 
 “No, they hang them to music!” retorted the chief. 
 “Tmbecile! Of course there must be music . . . like 
 
 9? 
 
 ise. 
 

 
 WE OF OREL 33 
 ° And he began to sing a captivating air. 
 - “You have gone completely mad, my friend!’ said the 
 guard. “Come, speak seriously, what is your decision?” 
 
 The Tzigane showed his teeth. 
 
 “Are you in a hurry? Come back later, and I will tell 
 you !” 
 
 And to the chaos of unfinished images which оуег- 
 whelmed the Tzigane was added a new idea: how agree- 
 able it would be to be the headsman! He clearly pictured 
 to himself the square black with people, and the scaffold 
 on which he, the Tzigane, walked back and forth, in a red 
 shirt, with axe in hand. The sun illuminates the heads, 
 plays gaily on the axe blade; everything is so joyous, so 
 sumptuous, that even he whose head is to be cut off smiles. 
 Behind the crowd are to be seen the carts and the noses 
 of the horses; the peasants have come to town for the 
 ‘occasion. Still farther away fields. The Tzigane licked his 
 lips, and spat upon the ground. Suddenly it seemed to 
 him that his fur cap had just been pulled down over his 
 ‘mouth; everything became dark; he gasped for breath; and 
 his heart changed into a block of ice, while little shivers 
 ran through his body. 
 
 Twice more the chief came back; the Tzigane, showing 
 his teeth again, answered: 
 
 “What a hurry you are in! Come back another time!’ 
 
 Finally, one day, the gaoler cried to him, as he was pass- 
 ing by the window: 
 
 “You have lost your chance, my ill-favoured raven. They 
 have found another.” 
 
34 THE SEVENSTHAT WERE и 
 
 “The devil take you! Go, be the hangman yourself!’ 
 replied the Tzigane. And he ceased to dream of the splen- 
 dors of his trade. 
 
 But toward the end, the nearer drew the day of execu- 
 tion, the more intolerable became the impetuosity of the 
 torn images. The Tzigane would have liked to wait, to 
 halt, but the furious torrent carried him on, giving him 
 no chance to get a hold on anything; for everything was 
 in a whirl. And his sleep became agitated; he had new 
 and shapeless visions, as badly squared as painted blocks, 
 and even more impetuous than his thoughts had been. It 
 was no longer a torrent, but a continual fall from an infinite 
 height, a whirling flight through the whole world of colors. 
 Formerly the Tzigane had worn only a mustache tolerably 
 well cared for; in prison he had been obliged to grow his 
 beard, which was short, black, and stubbly, giving him a 
 crazy look. There were moments, in fact, when the Tzigane 
 lost his mind. He turned about in his cell all unconscious 
 of his movements, continuing to feel for the rough and 
 uneven walls. And he always drank great quantities of water, 
 like a horse. 
 
 One evening, when they were lighting the lamps, the 
 Tzigane dropped on all fours in the middle of his cell, and 
 began to howl like a wolf. He did this very seriously, as 
 if performing an indispensable and important act. He 
 filled his lungs with air, and then expelled it slowly in a 
 prolonged and trembling howl. With knit brows, he 
 listened to himself attentively. The very trembling of the 
 voice seemed a little affected; he did not shout indistinctly ; 
 
 
 

 
 WE OF OREL 35 
 he made each note in this wild beast’s cry sound separately, 
 full of unspeakable suffering and terror. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped, and remained silent for a few 
 minutes, without getting up. He began to whisper, as if 
 speaking to the ground: 
 
 “Dear friends, good friends . . . dear friends . . . good 
 friends ... have pit... friends! My friends!” 
 
 He said a word, and listened to it. 
 
 He jumped to his feet, and for a whole hour poured 
 forth a steady stream of the worst curses. 
 
 “Go to the devil, you scoundrels!” he screamed, roll- 
 ing his bloodshot eyes. “If I must be hanged, hang me, 
 instead of ... Ah, you blackguards!” 
 
 The soldier on guard, as white as chalk, wept with 
 anguish and fear; he pounded the door with the muzzle 
 of his gun, and cried in a lamentable voice: 
 
 “T will shoot you! By God, do you hear? I will shoot 
 
 | you!” 
 
 But he did not dare to fire; they never fire on prisoners 
 sentenced to death, except in case of revolt. And the 
 Tzigane ground his teeth, swore, and spat. His brain, placed 
 on the narrow frontier that separates life from death, 
 crumbled like a lump of dried clay. 
 
 When they came, during the night, to take him to the 
 gallows, he regained a little of his animation. His cheeks 
 took on some color; in his eyes the usual strategy, a little 
 savage, sparkled again, and he asked of one of the func- 
 tionaries : 
 
36 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 ‘Who will hang us? The new one? Is he accustomed to 
 it yet?” 
 
 “Vou needn’t disturb yourself about that,” answered the 
 personage thus appealed to. 
 
 “What? Not disturb ‘myself! It is not Your Highness 
 that is going to be hanged, but I! At least don't spare 
 the soap on the slip-noose; the State pays for it!” 
 
 “T beg you to hold your tongue!’ 
 
 “This fellow, you see, consumes all the soap in the prison ; 
 see how his face shines,” continued the Tzigane, pointing 
 to the chief of the guards. 
 
 “Silence !”’ 
 
 “Don’t spare the soap!” 
 
 Suddenly he began to laugh, and his legs became numb 
 Yet, when he arrived in the court-yard, he could still cry 
 
 “Say, there! you fellows yonder, come forward with my 
 carriage !” 
 
“KISS HIM AND BE SILENT” 37 
 
 У 
 “KISS HIM AND BE SILENT” 
 
 _ Tue verdict against the five terrorists was pronounced 
 n its final form and confirmed the same day. The con- 
 lemned were not notified of the day of execution. But 
 hey foresaw that they would be hanged, according to cus- 
 om, the same night, or, at the latest, the night following. 
 When they were offered the opportunity of seeing their fam- 
 lies the next day, they understood that the execution was 
 ‘xed for Friday at daybreak. 
 
 ’ Tanya Kovalchuk had no near relatives. She knew only 
 of some distant relatives living in Little Russia, who prob- 
 bly knew nothing of the trial or the verdict. Musya and 
 Werner, not having revealed their identity, did not insist 
 on seeing any of their people. Only Sergey Golovin and 
 Vasily Kashirin were to see their families. The thought 
 f this approaching interview was frightful to both of 
 hem, but they could not make up their minds to refuse a 
 inal conversation, a last kiss. 
 
 Sergey Golovin thought sadly of this visit. He was fond 
 f his father and mother; he had seen them very recently, 
 nd he was filled with terror at the thought of what was 
 roing to happen. The hanging itself, in all its monstrosity, 
 
 
 
38 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 in its disconcerting madness, outlined itself more readily 
 in his imagination than these few short, incomprehensible 
 minutes, that seemed apart from time, apart from life. 
 What to do? What to say? The most simple and customary 
 gestures—to shake hands, embrace, and say “How do you 
 do, father ?’—seemed to him frightful in their monstrous, 
 inhuman, insane insignificance. 
 
 After the verdict they did not put the condemned in the 
 same cell, as Tanya expected them to do. All the morn- 
 ing, up to the time when he received his parents, Sergey 
 Golovin walked back and forth in his cell, twisting his 
 short beard, his features pitiably contracted. Sometimes 
 he stopped suddenly, filled his lungs with air, and puffed 
 like a swimmer who has remained too long under water. 
 But, as he was in good health, and as his young life was 
 solidly implanted within him, even in these minutes ol 
 atrocious suffering, the blood coursed under his skin 
 coloring his cheeks; his blue eyes preserved their usual bril. 
 liancy. 
 
 Everything went off better than Sergey expected; hi 
 father, Nicolas Sergiévitch Golovin, a retired colonel, wa 
 the first to enter the room where the visitors were received 
 Evrything about him was white and of the same white 
 ness: face, hair, beard, hands. His old and well-brushe 
 garment smelt of benzine; his epaulets seemed new. H 
 entered with a firm and measured step, straightening him 
 self up. Extending his dry, white hand, he said aloud: 
 
 “How do you do, Sergey?” ) 
 
 Behind him came the mother, with short steps; sh 
 
 
 

 
 ТЕЗ TI MVAND ВЕ ЭТЕЕМ ТТ” 39 
 wore а strange smile. But she too shook hands with her 
 son, and repeated aloud: 
 
 “How do you do, my little Sergey ?” 
 
 She kissed him and sat down without saying a word. 
 She did not throw herself upon her son, she did not begin 
 to weep or cry, as Sergey expected her to do. She kissed 
 him and sat down without speaking. With a trembling hand 
 she even smoothed the wrinkles in her black silk gown. 
 
 Sergey did not know that the colonel had spent the entire 
 
 previous night in rehearsing this interview. “We must 
 lighten the last moments of our son’s life, and not make 
 them more painful for him,” the colonel had decided; and 
 he had carefully weighed each phrase, each gesture, of the 
 morrow’s visit. But sometimes, in the course of the re- 
 hearsal, he became confused, he forgot what he had pre- 
 pared himself to say, and he wept bitterly, sunk in’ the 
 ‘corner of his sofa. The next morning he had explained to 
 his wife what she was to do. 
 “Above all, kiss him and be silent,” he repeated. “You 
 will be able to speak later, a little later; but, after kissing 
 him, be silent. Do not speak immediately after kissing him, 
 do you understand? Otherwise you will say what you should 
 not.”’ 
 
 “T understand, Nicolas Sergiévitch!’’ answered the mother, 
 with tears. 
 
 “And do not weep! May God keep you from that! Do 
 not weep! You will kill him if you weep, mother!” | 
 
 “And why do you weep yourself?” 
 
40 THE SEVEN ТНАТМЕВЕАОЮО 
 
 “Why should one not weep here with the rest of you? 
 You must not weep, do you hear?” 
 
 “All right, Nicolas Sergiévitch.” 
 
 They got into a cab and started off, silent, bent, old; they 
 were plunged in their thoughts amid the gay roar of the 
 city; it was the carnival season, and the streets were filled 
 with a noisy crowd. 
 
 They sat down. The colonel assumed a suitable attitude, 
 his right hand thrust in the front of his frock-coat. Sergey 
 remained seated a moment; his look met his mother’s 
 wrinkled face; he rose suddenly. 
 
 “Sit down, my little Sergey!’ begged the mother. 
 
 “Sit down, Sergey!’ repeated the father. 
 
 They kept silence. The mother wore a strange smile. 
 
 “How many moves we have made in your behalf, Sergey! 
 Moun. father idee? 
 
 “Tt was useless, my little mother !” 
 
 The colonel said, firmly: 
 
 “We were in duty bound to do it that you might not think 
 that your parents had abandoned you.” 
 
 Again they became silent. They were afraid to utter a 
 syllable, as if each word of the language had lost its proper 
 meaning and now meant but one thing: death. Sergey looked 
 at the neat little frock-coat smelling of benzine, and thought: 
 “He has no orderly now; then he must have cleaned 
 his coat himself. How is it that I have never seen him 
 clean his coat? Probably he does it in the morning.” Sud- 
 denly he asked: 
 
 “And my sister? Is she well ?” 
 
 
 
 
 
Paton HiM AND BE STLENT” 41 
 
 “Ninotchka knows nothing!” answered the mother, 
 quickly. : 
 
 But the colonel sternly interrupted her: 
 
 “What is the use of lying? She has read the news- 
 ‘paper eter perrey know “Ва! миа Паола 
 have thought... ава...” 
 | Unable to ИЕ, He ка Suddenly the mother’s 
 ‘face contracted, her features became confused and wild. 
 ‘Her colorless eyes were madly distended; more and more 
 ‘she panted for breath. 
 
 cic wen oC a Oe. en a. ., she repeated: withoue 
 moving her lips; “бег...” 
 
 “My little mother !” 
 
 The colonel took a step; trembling all over, without know- 
 ing how frightful he was in his corpse-like pallor, in his 
 desperate and forced firmness, he said to his wife: 
 
 “Be silent! Do not torture him! Do not torture him! Do 
 not torture him! He must die! Do not torture him!” 
 Frightened, she was silent already, and he continued to 
 repeat, with his trembling hands pressed against his breast: 
 | “Do not torture him!” 
 
 Then he took a step backward, and again thrust his hand 
 into the front of his frock-coat; wearing an expression of 
 forced calmness, he asked aloud, with pallid lips: 
 
 “When ?” 
 
 “To-morrow morning,” answered Sergey. 
 
 The mother looked at the ground, biting her lips, as if she 
 heard nothing. And she seemed to continue to bite her lips 
 as she let fall these simple words: 
 
 
 
42 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGES 
 “Ninotchka told me to kiss you, my little Sergey!” 
 “Kiss her for ше!” said the condemned man. 
 “Good! The Chvostofs send their salutations. ... 
 “Who are they? Ah! yes... .” 
 
 The colonel interrupted him: 
 
 “Well, we must start. Rise, mother, it is necessary!” 
 The two men lifted the swooning woman. 
 
 “Bid him farewell!’ ordered the colonel. “Give him your 
 
 |? 
 
 3? 
 
 blessing 
 
 She did everything that she was told. But, while giving 
 her son a short kiss and making on his person the sign of the 
 cross, she shook her head and repeated distractedly : 
 
 “No, it is not that! No, it is not that!” 
 
 “Adieu, Sergey!” said the father. They shook hands, and 
 exchanged a short, but earnest, kiss. 
 
 MV Otte Wy began \Sergey. 
 
 “Well?” asked the father, spasmodically. 
 
 “No, not like that. No, no! What shall I say?’ repeated 
 the mother, shaking her head. 
 
 She had sat down again, and was tottering. 
 
 “You ...” resumed Sergey. Suddenly his face took on 
 a lamentable expression, and he grimaced like a child, tears 
 filling his eyes. Through their sparkling facets he saw be- 
 side him the pale face of his father, who was weeping also.) 
 
 “Father, you are a strong man!” 
 
 “What do you say? What do you say?” said the be-| 
 wildered colonel. Suddenly, as if completely broken, he| 
 fell, with his head on his son’s shoulder. And the two} 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Pasko ni MAND BE ‘SIV END" 43 
 covered each other with ardent kisses, the father receiving 
 them on his light hair, the prisoner on his cloak. 
 | “And I?” asked suddenly a hoarse voice. 
 
 _ They looked: the mother was оп her feet again, and, with 
 her head thrown back, was watching them wrathfully, almost 
 hatefully. 
 
 “What is the matter with you, mother?” cried the colonel. 
 _ “And 1?” she repeated, shaking her head with an insane 
 energy. “You embrace each other, and I? You are men, 
 are you not? And I? and 1?...” 
 
 _ “Mother!” and Sergey threw himself into her arms. 
 The last words of the colonel were: 
 
 “My blessing for your death, Sergey! Die with courage, 
 like an officer !” 
 
 _ And they went away. ... On returning to his cell Ser- 
 gey lay upon his camp-bed, with face turned toward the 
 wall that the soldiers might not see him, and wept a long 
 time. 
 
 
 
 | Vasily Kashirin’s mother came alone to visit him. The 
 father, a rich merchant, had refused to accompany her. 
 When the old woman entered, Vasily was walking in his 
 cell. In spite of the heat, he was trembling with cold. The 
 conversation was short and painful. 
 
 “You ought not to have come, mother. Why should we 
 two torment each other ?” 
 
 “Why all this, Vasya? Why have you done this, my 
 son? God! God!” 
 
 The old woman began to weep, drying her tears with her 
 black silk neckerchief. 
 
 
 
44 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 Accustomed as they were, his brothers and he, to treat 
 their mother roughly, she being a simple woman who а 
 not understand them, he stopped, and, in the midst of his 
 shivering, said to her, harshly: 
 
 “That’s it, I knew how it would be. You understanc 
 nothing, mama, nothing!” 
 
 “Very well, my son. What is the matter with you? Are 
 you cold?” 
 
 “T am cold,’ answered Vasily, and he began to walk 
 again, looking sidewise now and then at the old woman 
 with the same air of irritation. ) 
 
 “You are cold, my son . 
 
 “Ah! You speak of cold, but soon...’ He made а 
 gesture of desperation. 
 
 Again the mother began to sob. 
 
 “T said to your father: ‘Go to see him, he is your son, 
 your flesh; give him a last farewell.’ He would not.” 
 
 “The devil take him! He is not a father. All his life he 
 has been a scoundrel. He remains one!” | 
 
 > et, Уазуа, che 15пуоиг фаер ам. | 
 
 And the old woman shook her head reproachfully. | 
 
 It was ridiculous and terrible. This paltry and useless, 
 conversation engaged them when face to face with death, 
 While almost weeping, so sad was the situation, Vasily; 
 cried out: 
 
 “Understand then, mother. They are going to hang me, 
 to hang me! Do you understand, yes ог по?” 
 
 “And why did you kill?” she cried. | 
 | 
 
 р 
 
 
 
 
 
Witte tM AND BE SILENT” 45. 
 
 “Му God! What are you saying? Even the beasts have 
 ‘eelings. Am I your son or not?” 
 
 He sat down and wept. His mother wept also; but, in 
 heir incapability of communicating in the same affection in 
 order to face the terror of the approaching death, they wept 
 ‘old tears that did not warm the heart. | 
 
 “You ask me if I am your mother? You heap reproaches: 
 ym me; and yet I have turned completely white these last 
 few days.” 
 
 “All right, all right, forgive me. Adieu! Embrace my 
 yrothers for те.” 
 
 “Am I not your mother? Do I not suffer for you?” 
 
 At last she departed. She was weeping so that she could 
 1ot see her way. And, the farther she got from the prison, 
 he more abundant became her tears. She retraced her 
 steps, losing herself in this city in which she was born, 
 n which she had grown up, in which she had grown old. 
 She entered a little abandoned garden, and sat down on a 
 lamp bench. 
 
 And suddenly she understood: to-morrow they would 
 rang her son! She sprang to her feet, and tried to shout and 
 tun, but suddenly her head turned, and she sank to the 
 varth. The path, white with frost, was wet and slippery; 
 ‘he old woman could not rise again. She rested her weight . 
 m her wrists, and then fell back again. The black necker- 
 \hief slipped from her head, uncovering her dirty gray hair. 
 t seemed to her that she was celebrating her son’s wedding. 
 fes, they had just married him, and she had drunk a little 
 vine; she was slightly intoxicated. 
 
 
 
46 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 - “T cannot help myself! My God, I cannot help myself !” 
 And, with swinging head, she said to herself that she had 
 drunk too much, and was crawling around on the wet 
 ground, . . . but they gave her wine to drink, and wine 
 again, and still more wine. And from her heart arose the 
 laugh of the drunkard and the desire to abandon herself to 
 a wild dance; . . . but they kept on lifting cups to her lips, 
 one after another, one after another. 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 THE HOURS FLY . 47 
 
 VI 
 
 THE SIOURS FEY 
 
 In the fortress where the condemned terrorists were con- 
 fined there was a steeple with an old clock. Every hour, 
 every half-hour, every quarter of an hour, this clock struck 
 in a tone of infinite sadness, like the distant and plaintive 
 cry of birds of passage. In the daytime this odd and 
 desolate music was lost in the noise of the city, of the broad 
 and animated street that passed the fortress. The tram- 
 ways rumbled, the shoes of the horses rattled, the trembling 
 automobiles sounded their hoarse horns far into the distance. 
 As the carnival was approaching, the peasants of the sub- 
 urbs had come to town to earn some money as cab-drivers ; 
 the bells of the little Russian horses tinkled noisily. The 
 conversations were gay, and had a flavor of intoxication, real 
 holiday conversations. The weather harmonized with the 
 occasion; the spring had brought a thaw, and the road was 
 wet with dirty puddles. The trees on the squares had sud-. 
 -denly darkened. A slightly warm wind was blowing from 
 the sea in copious moist puffs—a light, fresh air that seemed 
 to have started on a joyous flight toward the infinite. 
 
 By night the street was silent under the brilliancy of the 
 large electric suns. The immense fortress with its smooth 
 walls was plunged in darkness and silence; a barrier of 
 calm and shadow separated it from the ever-living city. 
 Then they heard the striking of the hours, the slow, sad 
 birth and death of a strange melody, foreign to the land. 
 
48 THE: SEVEN: T:-HAIT; WERE ANA D 
 
 Like big drops of transparent glass, the hours and the 
 minutes fell from an immeasurable height into a metallic 
 basin that was vibrating gently. Sometimes they were 
 like birds that passed. 
 
 Into the cells came, day and night, this single sound. It 
 penetrated through the roof, through the thick stone walls; 
 it alone broke the silence. Sometimes they forgot it, or 
 did not hear it. Sometimes they awaited it with despair; 
 they lived only by and for this sound, having learned to be 
 distrustful of silence. The prison was reserved for criminals 
 of note; its special, rigorous regulations were as rigid and 
 sharp as the corners of the walls. If there is nobility in 
 cruelty, then the solemn, deaf, dead silence that caught up 
 every breath and every rustle was noble. 
 
 In this silence, penetrated by the desolate striking of the 
 flying minutes, three men and two women, separated from 
 the world, were awaiting the coming of the night, of Фе 
 dawn, and of the execution; and each was preparing for it 
 in his own fashion. 
 
 Throughout her life Tanya Kovalchuk had thought only 
 of others, and now also it was for her comrades that she 
 underwent suffering and torture. She pictured death to her- 
 self only because it threatened Sergey Golovin, Musya, and 
 the others; but her thoughts did not dwell on the fact that 
 she too would be executed. 
 
 As if to reward herself for the artificial firmness that she 
 had shown before the judges, she wept for hours altogether., 
 This is characteristic of old women who have suffered) 
 much. When it occurred to her that Sergey might be un-| 
 
 
 
haven tro URS PF by 49 
 provided with tobacco, or that Werner possibly was de- 
 prived of the tea of which he was so fond—and this at 
 the moment that they were about to die—she suffered per- 
 haps as much as at the idea of the execution. The execution 
 was something inevitable, even incidental, not worthy of 
 consideration; but that an imprisoned man should be with- 
 out tobacco on the very eve of his execution was an idea 
 absolutely intolerable. Evoking the pleasant memories of 
 their common life, she lamented over the interview between 
 Sergey and his parents. 
 
 For Musya she felt a special pity. For a long time it 
 had seemed to her, mistakenly, however, that Musya was in 
 love with Werner; she had beautiful and luminous dreams 
 for their future. Before her arrest Musya wore a silver ring 
 on which were engraved a skull and crossbones surrounded 
 with a crown of thorns. Often Tanya Kovalchuk had 
 looked at this ring sorrowfully, viewing it as a symbol of 
 enunciation ; half serious, half joking, she had asked Musya 
 о take it off. 
 | “No, Tanya, I will not give it to you. You will soon have 
 another on your finger!” 
 
 Her comrades always thought that she would soon be 
 married, which much offended her. She wanted no hus- 
 band. And, as she recalled these conversations with Musya 
 and reflected that Musya was indeed sacrificed, Tanya, full 
 of motherly pity, felt the tears choking her. Every time 
 the clock struck, she lifted her face, covered with tears, 
 and listened, wondering how this plaintive and persistent 
 summons of death was being received in the other cells. 
 
 
 
50 THE SEVEN ТНАТ МЕНА ОВ 
 
 УП 
 THERE IS NO DEATH 
 
 Амр Musya was happy! 
 With arms folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner’s 
 
 gown that was too large for her and that made her look 
 
 like a youth wearing a borrowed costume, she walked back 
 
 and forth in her cell, at a regular pace, never wearying. She 
 had tucked up the long sleeves of her gown, and her thin 
 and emaciated arms, the arms of a child, emerged from the 
 flaring breadths like flower-stems from a coarse and un- 
 clean pitcher. The roughness of the stuff irritated the skin 
 
 of her white and slender neck; sometimes, with her two | 
 
 hands, she released her throat, and felt cautiously for the 
 spot where her skin was burning. 
 
 Musya walked with a long stride, and tried blushingly 
 to justify to herself the fact that the finest of deaths, re- 
 served hitherto for martyrs, had been assigned to her, so 
 young, so humble, and who had done so little. It seemed to 
 her that, in dying upon the scaffold, she was making a 
 pretentious show that was in bad taste. 
 
 At her last interview with her lawyer she had asked him 
 to procure poison for her, but immediately had given up the 
 idea: would not people think that she was actuated by fear 
 or by ostentation? Instead of dying modestly and unnoticed, 
 
 
 
Me RET S¢NO, DEATH aN 
 would she not cause still further scandal? And she had 
 added, quickly : 
 
 “No, по, it is useless!” 
 
 Now her sole desire was to explain, to prove, that she 
 was not a heroine, that it was not a frightful thing to die, 
 and that no one need pity her or worry on her account. 
 
 Musya sought excuses, pretexts of such a nature as to 
 exalt her sacrifice and give it a real value, as if it had 
 actually been called in question. 
 
 “Tn fact,” she said to herself, “I am young; I might have 
 lived for a long time. But .. .” 
 
 Just as the gleam of a candle is effaced by the radiance of 
 the rising sun, youth and life seem to her dull and sombre 
 beside the magnificent and luminous halo that is about to 
 crown her modest person. 
 
 “Is it possible?” Musya asks herself, in great confusion. 
 “Is it possible that I am worth anybody’s tears ?” 
 
 _ And she is seized with an unspeakable joy. There is no 
 ‘more doubt; she has been taken into the pale. She has a 
 right to figure among the heroes who from all countries go 
 to heaven through flames and executions. What serene peace, 
 what infinite happiness! An immaterial being, she believes 
 herself hovering in a divine light. | 
 
 Of what else was Musya thinking? Of many things, 
 since for her the thread of life was not severed by death 
 but continued to unroll in a calm and regular fashion. She 
 was thinking of her comrades, of those who at a distance 
 were filled with anguish at the idea of her approaching 
 execution, of those who nearer at hand would go with her 
 
52 THE SEVEN THAT У\УЕВЕ ВАМСЕВЬ 
 
 to the gallows. She was astonished that Vasily should be 
 a prey to terror, he who had always been brave. On Tues- 
 day morning, when they had prepared themselves to kill, 
 and then to die themselves, Tanya Kovalchuk had trembled 
 with emotion; they had been obliged to send her away, 
 whereas Vasily joked and laughed and moved about amid 
 the bombs with so little caution that Werner had said to 
 him severely: 
 
 “One should not play with death!” 
 
 Why, then, was Vasily afraid now? And this incom- 
 prehensible terror was so foreign to Musya’s soul that she 
 soon ceased to think about it and to inquire into its cause. 
 Suddenly she felt a mad desire to see Sergey Golovin and 
 laugh with him. 
 
 Perhaps too her thought was unwilling to dwell long on 
 the same subject, resembling therein a light bird that hovers 
 before infinite horizons, all space, the caressing and tender 
 azure, being accessible to it. The hours continued to strike. 
 Thoughts. blended in this harmonious and distant sym- 
 ‘phony; fleeting images became a sort of music. It seemed 
 to Musya that she was travelling on a broad and easy 
 road in a quiet night; the carriage rode easily on its springs. 
 All care had vanished; the tired body was dissolved in the 
 darkness; joyous and weary, the thought peacefully created 
 vivid images, and became intoxicated on their beauty. 
 Musya recalled three comrades who had been hanged lately; 
 their faces were illuminated and near, nearer than those of 
 the living. . . . So in the morning one thinks gaily of the 
 hospitable friends who will receive you in the evening with 
 smiles on their lips. 
 
 
 
hey St NODE ATH 53 
 
 At last Musya became weary from walking. She lay 
 down cautiously on the camp-bed and continued to dream, 
 with half-closed eyes. 
 
 “Ts this really death? My God, how beautiful it is! Or 
 is it life? I do not know, I do not know! I am going to see 
 Bnd; неа: ©’ 
 
 From the first days of her imprisonment she had been а 
 prey to hallucinations. She had a very musical ear; her 
 sense of hearing, sharpened by the silence, gathered in the 
 slightest echoes of life; the footsteps of the sentinels in the 
 corridor, the striking of the clock, the whispering of the 
 wind over the zinc roof, the creaking of a lantern, all 
 
 blended for her in a vast and mysterious symphony. At 
 
 first the hallucinations frightened Musya, and she drove 
 them away as morbid manifestations; then, perceiving that 
 she was in good health and had no pathological symptoms, 
 she ceased to resist. 
 
 But now she hears very plainly the sound of the military 
 band. She opens her eyes in astonishment, and raises her 
 head. Through the windows she sees the night; the clock 
 strikes. “Again!” she thought, as she closed her eyes with- 
 out disturbing herself. Again the music begins. Musya 
 clearly distinguishes the steps of the soldiers as they turn 
 the corner of the prison; a whole regiment is passing 
 before her windows. The boots keep time to the music on 
 the frozen ground; one! two! one! two! Sometimes a boot 
 squeaks; a foot slips and then recovers itself. The music 
 draws nearer; it is playing a noisy and stirring triumphal 
 march which Musya does not know. There 1$ probably 
 some festival in the fortress. 
 
 
 
 
 
54 THE SEVEN ТНАТ WEIS Et 2 Wee 
 
 The soldiers are under her windows, and the cell is filled 
 with joyous, regular, and harmonious sounds. A big brass 
 trumpet emits false notes: it is not in time; now it is in 
 advance, now it lags behind in a ridiculous fashion. Musya 
 pictures to herself a little soldier playing this trumpet as- 
 siduously, and she laughs. 
 
 The regiment has passed; the sound of the footsteps 
 grows fainter and fainter; one! two! one! two! In the dis- 
 tance the music becomes gayer and more beautiful. Sev- 
 eral times more the trumpet sounds out of time, with its 
 metallic, sonorous, and gay voice, and then all is quiet. 
 Again the clock in the steeple strikes the hours. 
 
 New forms come and lean over her, surrounding her 
 with transparent clouds and lifting her to a great height, 
 where birds of prey are hovering. At left and right, above 
 and below, everywhere birds are crying like heralds; they 
 call, they warn. They spread their wings, and immensity 
 sustains them. And on their inflated breasts that split the 
 air is reflected the sparkling azure. The beating of Musya’s 
 heart becomes more and more regular, her respiration more 
 and more calm and peaceful. She sleeps; her face is pale: 
 her features are drawn; there are dark rings around her 
 eyes. On her lips a smile. To-morrow, when the sun shal! 
 rise, this intelligent and fine face will be deformed by < 
 grimace in which no trace of the human will be left; the 
 brain will be inundated with thick blood; the glassy eye; 
 will protrude from their orbits. But to-day Musya sleep: 
 quietly, and smiles in her immortality. 
 
 
 

 
 THERE IS NO DEATH 55 
 
 Musya sleeps. 
 
 And the prison continues to live its special, blind, vigilant 
 fe, a sort of perpetual anxiety. They walk. They whisper. 
 \ gun rings out. It seems as if someone cries out. Is this 
 eality or hallucination? 
 
 The grating in the door lowers noiselessly. In the dark 
 
 pening appears a sinister bearded face. For a long time the 
 videly-opened eyes view with astonishment the sleeping 
 Ausya; then the face disappears as quietly as it came. 
 _ The bells in the steeple ring and sing interminably. One 
 vould say that the weary hours were climbing a high moun- 
 ain toward midnight. The ascent grows more and more 
 ainful. They slip, fall back with a groan, and begin again 
 о toil painfully toward the black summit. 
 
 There is a sound of foosteps. Whispering voices are 
 eard. Already they are harnessing the horses to the sombre, 
 nlighted vehicle. 
 
56 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 УПТ 
 DEATH EXISTS; AND*LIFE АВ ЗО 
 
 SERGEY GOLOVIN never thought of death. It seemed to 
 him something incidental and foreign. He was robust, en- 
 dowed with that serenity in the joy of living which causes 
 all evil thoughts, all thoughts fatal to life, to disappear 
 rapidly, leaving the organism intact. Just as, with him, 
 physical wounds healed quickly, so all injuries to his soul 
 were immediately nullified. He brought into all his acts, 
 into his pleasures and into his preparations for crime, the 
 same happy and tranquil gravity: everything in life was 
 gay, everything was important, worthy of being well done. 
 
 And he did everything well; he sailed a boat admirably, 
 he was an excellent marksman. He was as faithful in 
 friendship as in love, and had an unshakeable confidence in 
 the “word of honor.’ His comrades declared laughingly 
 that, if one who had been proved a spy should swear to 
 Sergey that he was not a spy, Sergey would believe him and 
 shake hands with him. A single fault: he thought himself 
 a good singer, whereas he sang atrociously false, even Ш 
 the case of revolutionary hymns. He got angry when they 
 laughed at him. — ) 
 
 “Either you are all asses, or else | am an ass!” he said 
 

 
 
 
 heb eS 5 AND LLEE AL ЗО 57 
 in a serious and offended tone. And, after a moment’s res 
 flection, the comrades declared, in a tone quite as serious: 
 
 “It is you who are an ass. You show it in your voice!” 
 
 And, as is sometimes the case with worthy people, they 
 loved him perhaps more for his eccentricities than for his 
 virtues. 
 
 He thought so little of death, he feared it so little, that 
 on the fatal morning, before leaving the dwelling of Tanya 
 Kovalchuk, he alone had breakfasted with appetite, as 
 usual. He had taken two glasses of tea, and eaten a whole 
 two-cent loaf. Then, looking with sadness at Werner’s un- 
 touched bread, he said to him: 
 
 “Why don’t you eat? Eat; it is necessary to get strength 
 
 “T am not hungry.” 
 
 “Well, I will eat your bread! Shall I?” 
 
 “What an appetite you have, Sergey!” 
 
 By way of reply, Sergey, with his mouth full, began to 
 sing, in a false and hollow voice: 
 
 | 
 
 “А hostile wind is blowing o’er our heads.” 
 
 After the arrest Sergey had a moment of sadness; the 
 plot had been badly planned. But he said to himself: 
 “Now there is something else that must be done well: to 
 idie.’ And his gaiety returned. On his second day in the 
 fortress he began gymnastic exercises, according to the 
 extremely rational system of a German named Muller, 
 lwhich interested him much. He undressed himself com- 
 pletely; and, to the amazement of the anxious sentinel, he 
 jwent carefully through the eighteen prescribed exercises. 
 
58 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 As a propagander of the Miiller system, it gave him muck 
 satisfaction to see the soldier follow his movements. AI- 
 though he knew that he would get no answer, he said to the 
 eye that appeared at the grating: 
 
 “That is the kind of thing that does you good, brother 
 that gives you strength! That is what they ought to make 
 you do in the regiment,” he added, in a gentle and per- 
 suasive voice, that he might not frighten the soldier, not 
 suspecting that his guardian took him for a madman. 
 
 The fear of death showed itself in him progressively 
 seemingly by shocks: it seemed to him that someone wa: 
 thumping him violently in the heart from below. Then th 
 sensation disappeared, but came back a few hours later 
 each time more intense and prolonged. It was beginnins 
 already to take on the vague outlines of an unendurabl 
 anguish. | 
 
 “Ts it possible that I am afraid?” thought Sergey, ii 
 astonishment. “How stupid!’ | 
 
 It was not he who was afraid; it was his young, robust) 
 and vigorous body, which neither the gymnastics of Mulle 
 nor the cold shower-baths could deceive. The stronger ап. 
 fresher he became after his cold-water ablutions, the mor 
 acute and unendurable was his sensation of temporary feat 
 And it was in the morning, after his deep sleep and physica 
 exercises, that this atrocious fear like something foreig) 
 appeared—exactly at the moment when formerly he hai 
 been particularly conscious of his strength and his joy 1 
 living. He noticed this, and said to himself : 
 
 “You are stupid, my friend. In order that the bod 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 DEATH EXISTS, AND LIFE ALSO 59 
 
 may die more easily, it should be weakened, not fortified.” 
 
 From that time he gave up his gymnastics and his mas- 
 
 sage. And, to explain this right-about-face, he cried to the 
 soldier : 
 
 “Brother, the method is a good one. It is only for those 
 who are going to be hanged that it is good for nothing.” 
 
 In fact, he felt a sort of relief. He tried also to eat less 
 in order to further weaken himself, but, in spite of the lack 
 of air and exercise, his appetite remained excellent. Sergey 
 could not resist it, and ate everything that they brought him. 
 Then he resorted to a subterfuge; before sitting down to 
 table, he poured half of his soup into his bucket. And this 
 method succeeded; a great weariness, a vague numbness, 
 took possession of him. 
 
 “T will teach you!” he said, threatening his body; and 
 he caressed his softening muscles sadly. 
 
 But soon the body became accustomed to this régime 
 and the fear of death appeared again, not in so acute a 
 form, but as a vague sensation of nausea, still harder to 
 bear. “It is because this lasts so long,’ thought Sergey. 
 “Tf only I could sleep all the time until the day of execu- 
 tion !’’ He tried to sleep as much as possible. His first efforts 
 were not altogether fruitless; then insomnia set in, accom- 
 panied with obsessing thoughts and, with these, a regret that 
 he must part with life. 
 
 “Am I then afraid of it: > he asked himself, thinking of 
 death. “It is the loss of life that I regret. Life is an ad- 
 mirable thing, whatever the pessimists may say. What 
 
60 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 would a pessimist say if they were to hang him? Ah! I 
 regret to lose my life, I regret it much.” 
 
 When he clearly understood that for him all was over, 
 that he had before him only a few hours of empty waiting 
 and then death, he had a queer feeling. It seemed to him 
 that they had stripped him naked in an extraordinary fash- 
 ion. Not only had they taken away his clothes, but also 
 sun, air, sound and light, speech and the power of action. 
 Death had not yet arrived, and yet life seemed already ab- 
 sent; he felt a strange sensation, sometimes incomprehen- 
 sible, sometimes intelligible, but very subtle and mys- 
 terious. 
 
 “What is it then?’ wondered Sergey, in his torment. 
 and. ls where ат I? То Ма (22 
 
 He examined himself attentively, with interest, begin- 
 ning with his loose slippers, such as the prisoners wore, and 
 stopping with his belly, over which hung his ample cloak. 
 He began to walk back and forth in his cell, with arms apart, 
 and continued to look at himself as a woman does when 
 trying on a gown that is too long. He tried to turn his 
 head: it turned. And what seemed to him a little terrifying 
 was he himself, Sergey Golovin, who soon would be ao 
 more! 
 
 Everything became strange. 
 
 He tried to walk, and it seemed queer to him to walk. 
 He tried to sit down, and he’was surprised that he could 
 do so. He tried to drink water, and it seemed queer to | 
 him to drink, to swallow, to hold the goblet, to see his fin- 
 
 
 
DEATH EXISTS, AND LIFE ALSO 61 
 gers, his trembling fingers. He began to cough, and thought: 
 “How curious it is! I cough.” 
 
 “What is the matter? Am I going mad?” he asked him- 
 self. “That would be the last straw, indeed!” 
 
 He wiped his brow, and this gesture seemed to him 
 equally surprising. Then he fixed himself in a motionless 
 posture, without breathing—for entire hours, it seemed 
 to him, extinguishing all thought, holding his breath, avoid- 
 ing all motion; for every thought was madness, every 
 gesture an aberration. Time disappeared as if transformed 
 into space, into a transparent space in which there was no 
 air, into an immense place containing everything—land and 
 life and men. And one could take in everything at a glance, 
 to the very extremity, to the edge of the unknown gulf, to 
 death. And it was not because he saw death that Sergey 
 suffered, but because he saw life and death at the same time. 
 A sacrilegious hand had lifted the curtain which from all 
 eternity had hidden the mystery of life and the mystery of 
 death; they had ceased to be mysteries, but they were no 
 more comprehensible than truth written in a foreign 
 anguage. 
 
 “And here we are back to Miiller again!” he suddenly 
 leclared aloud, in a voice of deep conviction. He shook his 
 read and began to laugh gaily, sincerely: 
 
 “Ah, my good Miller! My dear Miller! My worthy 
 зегтап! You are right, after all, Miller; as for me, brother 
 Miller, I am only an ass!” 
 
 He quickly made the round of his cell; and, to the great 
 istonishment of the soldier who was watching him through 
 
 
 
62 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 the grating, he entirely undressed and went through the 
 eighteen exercises with scrupulous exactness. He bent anc 
 straightened up his young body which had grown a little 
 thin; he stooped, inhaling and exhaling the air; he raisec 
 himself on tiptoe, and moved his arms and legs. 
 
 “Ves, but, you know, Miiller,” reasoned Sergey, throw: 
 ing out his chest, his ribs outlining themselves plainly unde: 
 his thin, distended skin—“you know, Muller, there is still < 
 nineteenth exercise—suspension by the neck in a fixed posi 
 tion. And that is called hanging. Do you understand, Muller 
 They take a living man, Sergey Golovin, for example, they 
 wrap him up like a doll, and they hang him by the necl 
 until he is dead. It is stupid, Miller, but that is the wa‘ 
 it is; one must be resigned!” 
 
 He leaned on his right side, and repeated: 
 
 “One must be resigned, Miller !”’ 
 
 
 
THE HORRIBLE SOLITUDE 63 
 
 IX 
 
 | THE HORRIBLE SOLITUDE 
 | Омрев the same roof and to the same melodious chant 
 »f the indifferent hours, separated from Sergey and from 
 Musya by a few empty cells, but as isolated as if he alone 
 lad existed in the whole universe, the unhappy Vasily 
 азии was finishing his life in anguish and terror. 
 
 Covered with sweat, his shirt adhering to his body, his 
 ormerly curly hair now falling in straight locks, he went 
 ack and forth in his cell with the jerky and lamentable 
 ‘ait of one suffering atrociously with the toothache. He 
 at down for a moment, and then began to run again; then 
 e rested his forehead against the wall, stopped, and looked 
 bout as if in search of a remedy. He had so changed that 
 ne might think that he possessed two different faces, one 
 f which, the younger, had gone nobody knows where, to 
 ive place to the second, a terrible face, that seemed to have 
 ome from darkness. 
 
 Fear had shown itself suddenly to him, and had seized 
 pon his person as an exclusive and sovereign mistress. 
 Jn the fatal morning, when he was marching to certain 
 eath, he had played with it; but that evening, confined 
 1 his cell, he had been carried away and lashed by a wave 
 f mad terror. As long as he had gone freely forward to 
 
 
 
 
 
64 THE SEVEN ‘THATAWERECHAW GED 
 
 meet danger and death, as long as he had held his fate in 
 his own hands, however terrible it might be, he had ap- 
 peared tranquil and even joyous, the small amount of 
 shameful and decrepit fear that he had felt having dis- 
 appeared in a consciousness of infinite liberty, in the firm 
 and audacious affirmation of his intrepid will, leaving no 
 trace behind. With an infernal machine strapped around 
 his waist, he had transformed himself into an instrument 
 of death, he had borrowed from the dynamite its cruel 
 reason and its flashing and homicidal power. In the street, 
 among the busy people preoccupied with their affairs and 
 quickly dodging the tramcars and the cabs, it seemed to 
 him as if he came from another and an unknown world, 
 where there was no such thing as death or fear. 
 
 Suddenly a brutal, bewildering change had taken place. 
 Vasily no longer went where he wanted to go, but was led 
 where others wanted him to go. He no longer chose his 
 place; they placed him in a stone cage and locked him in, 
 as if he were a thing. He could no longer choose betweer 
 life and death; they led him to death, certainly and inevi- 
 tably. He who had been for a moment the incarnation of 
 will, of life, and of force, had become a lamentable speci- 
 men of impotence; he was nothing but an animal destined 
 for the slaughter. Whatever he might say, they would not 
 listen; if he started to cry out, they would stuff a rag ir 
 his mouth; and, if he even tried to walk, they would take 
 him away and hang him. If he resisted, if he struggled 
 if he lay down on the ground, they would be stronger thar 
 he; they would pick him up, they would tie him, and thus 
 
ua ae ed on eae tao, BS ОТР 65° 
 they would carry him to the gallows. And his imagination 
 gave to the men charged with this execution, men like him- 
 self, the new, extraordinary, and terrifying aspect of un- 
 thinking automata, whom nothing in the world could stop, 
 and who seized a man, overpowered him, hanged him, 
 oulled him by the feet, cut the rope, put the body in a 
 coffin, carried it away, and buried it. 
 
 From the first day of his imprisonment, people and life 
 iad transformed themselves for him into an unspeakably 
 ‘rightful world filled with mechanical dolls. Almost mad with 
 ‘ear, he tried to fancy to himself that these people had 
 ongues and spoke, but he did not succeed. Their mouths 
 pened, something like a sound came from them; then they 
 jeparated with movements of their legs, and all was over. 
 de was in the situation of a man who, left alone in a 
 house at night, should see all things become animate, move, 
 ind assume over him an unlimited power; suddenly the 
 wardrobe, the chair, the sofa, the writing-table would sit 
 п judgment upon him. He would cry out, call for help, 
 eg, and rove from room to room; and the things would 
 peak to each other in their own tongue; and then the ward- 
 obe, the chair, the sofa, and the writing-table would start 
 9 hang him, the other things looking оп. 
 
 In the eyes of Vasily Kashirin, sentenced to be hanged, 
 verything took on a puerile aspect; the cell, the grated 
 oor, the striking apparatus of the clock, the fortress with 
 “3 carefully modelled ceilings, and, above, the mechanical 
 ‘oll equipped with a musket, who walked up and down in 
 
 ‘ye corridor, and the other dolls who frightened him by 
 s 
 
 
 
 
 
66 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 looking through the grating and handing him his food with 
 out a word. 
 
 A man had disappeared from the world. 
 
 In court the presence of the comrades had brough 
 Kashirin back to himself. Again for a moment he saw peo 
 ple; they were there, judging him, speaking the languag 
 of men, listening, and seeming to understand. But, whe 
 he saw his mother, he felt clearly, with the terror of 
 man who is going mad and he knows it, that this old woma 
 in a black neckerchief was a simple mechanical doll. H 
 was astonished at not having suspected it before, and < 
 having awaited this visit as something infinitely sorrowft 
 in its distressing gentleness. While forcing himself to speal 
 he thought with a shudder: 
 
 “My God! But it is a doll! A doll-mother! And yonde 
 is a doll-soldier; at home there is a doll-father, and th 
 is the doll Vasily Kashirin.” 
 
 When the mother began to weep, Vasily again saw som« 
 thing human in her, but this disappeared with the fir: 
 words that she uttered. With curiosity and terror he watche 
 the tears flow from the doll’s eyes. 
 
 When his fear became intolerable, Vasily Kashirin trie 
 to pray. There remained with him only a bitter, detes 
 able, and enervating rancor against all the religious pri 
 ciples upon which his youth had been nourished, in tl 
 house of his father, a large merchant. He had no fait 
 But one day, in his childhood, he had heard some wor¢ 
 that had made an impression upon him and that remaint| 
 
BEuniLORRUBLEt*SOLITUDE 67 
 surrounded forever with a gentle poesy. These words 
 were : 
 
 “Joy of all the afflicted!” 
 
 Sometimes, in painful moments, he whispered, without 
 Iraying, without even accounting to himself for what he 
 was doing: “Joy of all the afflicted!’ And then he sud- 
 Jenly felt relieved; he had a desire to approach someone 
 who was dear to him and complain gently: 
 
 [Our citetmtinadiobutsis)it: really»a Ше? + Зау myy dear; 
 $ it really a Ше?” 
 | And then suddenly he felt himself ridiculous; he would 
 зауе liked to bare his breast and ask someone to beat it. — 
 
 He had spoken to no one, not even to his best comrades, 
 
 of his “Joy of all the afflicted!” He seemed to know nothing 
 pf it himself, so deeply hidden was it in his soul. And he 
 pvoked it rarely, with precaution. 
 _ Now that the fear of the unfathomable mystery which 
 was rising before him completely covered him, as the water 
 overs the plants on the bank when the tide is rising, he 
 aad a desire to pray. He wanted to fall upon his knees, 
 ut was seized with shame before the sentinel; so, with 
 aands clasped upon his breast, he murmured in a low 
 lvoice : 
 
 “Joy of all the afflicted!” 
 
 1 And he repeated with anxiety, in a tone of supplication: 
 “Joy of all the afflicted, descend into me, sustain me!” 
 Something moved softly. It seemed to him that a sor- 
 
 rowful and gentle force hovered in the distance and then 
 
 vanished, without illuminating the shades of the agony. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
68 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 In the steeple the hour struck. The soldier yawned long 
 and repeatedly. | 
 
 “Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! And you will 
 say nothing to Vasily Kashirin!’’ 
 
 He wore an imploring smile, and waited. But in his 
 soul there was the same void as around him. Useless and 
 tormenting thoughts came to him; again he saw the lighted 
 candles, the priest in his robe, the holy image painted on 
 the wall, his father bending and straightening up again, 
 praying and kneeling, casting furtive glances at Vasily to 
 see if he too was praying or was simply amusing himself. 
 And Kashirin was in still deeper anguish than before. 
 
 Everything disappeared. 
 
 His consciousness went out like the dying embers that 
 one scatters on the hearth; it froze, like the body of a 
 man just dead in which the heart is still warm while the 
 hands and feet are already cold. 
 
 Vasily had a moment of wild terror when they came into 
 nis cell to get him. He did not even suspect that the hour 
 of the execution had arrived; he simply saw the people and 
 took fright, almost like а child. 
 
 “T will not do it again! I will not do it again!’ he 
 whispered, without being heard; and his lips became icy 
 as he recoiled slowly toward the rear of his cell, just as in 
 childhood he had tried to escape the punishments of his 
 father. 
 
 “You will have to go. 
 
 They talked, they walked around him, they gave him 
 he knew not what. He closed his eyes, staggered, and 
 
 bP. 
 ‘ 
 
 
 

 
 Lar rORRIBLE,SOLIEUDE 6Y 
 egan to prepare himself painfully. Undoubtedly he had 
 scovered consciousness; he suddenly asked a cigarette of 
 ne of the officials, who amiably extended his cigarette- 
 ise. 
 
70 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 Xx 
 THE WALLS CRUMBLE 
 
 THE unknown, surnamed Werner, was a man fatigued 
 by struggle. He had loved life, the theatre, society, art, 
 literature, passionately. Endowed with an excellent mem- 
 ory, he spoke several languages perfectly. He was fond 
 of dress, and had excellent manners. Of the whole group 
 of terrorists he was the only one who was able to appear 
 in society without risk of recognition. 
 
 For a long time already, and without his comrades having 
 noticed it, he had entertained a profound contempt for 
 men. More of a mathematician than a poet, ecstasy and 
 inspiration had remained so far things unknown to him ; 
 at times he would look upon himself as a madman seeking 
 to square the circle in seas of human blood. The enemy 
 against which he daily struggled could not inspire him with 
 respect; it was nothing but a compact network of stupidi- 
 ties, treasons, falsehoods, base deceits. The thing that had 
 finally destroyed in him forever, it seemed to him, the desire 
 to live, was his execution of a police-spy in obedience 
 to the order of his party. He had killed him tranquilly 
 but at sight of this human countenance, inanimate, calm 
 but still false, pitiable in spite of everything, he suddenly 
 lost his esteem for himself and his work. He considerec 
 
Pree ALLS СВОМВЪЕ 71 
 himself as the most indifferent, the least interesting, of 
 beings. Being a man of will, he did not leave his party; 
 apparently he remained the same; but from that time there 
 was something cold and terrifying in his eyes. He said 
 nothing to anyone. 
 
 He possessed also a very rare quality: he knew not fear. 
 He pitied those of his comrades who had this feeling, 
 especially Vasily Kashirin. But his pity was cold, almost 
 official. 
 
 Werner understood that the execution was not simply 
 death, but also something more. In any case, he was de- 
 termined to meet it calmly, to live until the end as if noth- 
 ing had happened or would happen. Only in this way could 
 he express the profoundest contempt for the execution 
 and preserve his liberty of mind. In the courtroom—his 
 comrades, although knowing well his cold and haughty 
 intrepidity, perhaps would not have believed it themselves 
 —he thought not of life or of death: he played in his mind 
 a difficult game of chess, giving it his deepest and quietest 
 jattention. An excellent player, he had begun this game on 
 ithe very day of his imprisonment, and he kept it up con- 
 \tinually. And the verdict that condemned him did not displace 
 |а single piece on the invisible board. 
 
 The idea that he probably would not finish the game 
 idid not stop Werner. On the morning of the last day he 
 |began by correcting a plan that had failed the night before. 
 |With hands pressed between his knees, he sat a long time 
 imotionless; then he arose, and began to walk, reflecting. 
 [He had a gait of his own; the upper part of his body 
 
 
 
72 THE SEVEN THAT WERE НАМСЕО 
 
 inclined a little forward, and he brought down his heel 
 forcibly ; even when the ground was dry, he left clear foot 
 prints behind him. He whistled softly a rather simple Italia 
 melody, which helped him to reflect. 
 
 But now he was shrugging his shoulders and feeling hi 
 pulse. His heart beat fast, but tranquilly and regularly, wit 
 a sonorous force. Like a novice thrown into prison for th 
 first time, he examined attentively the cell, the bolts, th 
 chair screwed to the wall, and said to himself: 
 
 “Why have I such a sensation of joy, of liberty? Ye: 
 of liberty; I think of to-morrow’s execution, and it seem 
 to me that it does not exist. I look at the walls, and the 
 seem to me not to exist either. And I feel as free as i 
 instead of being in prison, I had just come out of anothe 
 cell in which I had been confined all my life.” 
 
 Werner’s hands began to tremble, a thing unknown t 
 him. His thought became more and more vibrant. It seeme 
 to him that tongues of fire were moving in his head, tryin 
 to escape from his brain to lighten the still obscure dis 
 tance. Finally the flame darted forth, and the horizon we 
 brilliantly illuminated. 
 
 The vague lassitude that had tortured Werner aude th 
 last two years had disappeared at the sight of death; hi 
 beautiful youth came back as he played. It was eve 
 something more than beautiful youth. With the astonist 
 ing clearness of mind that sometimes lifts man to the st. 
 preme heights of meditation, Werner saw suddenly bot 
 life and death; and the majesty of this new spectacle struc 
 him. He seemed to be following a path as narrow as th 
 
ТНЕ WALLS CRUMBLE 73 
 
 dge of a blade, on the crest of the loftiest mountain. 
 dn one side he saw life, and on the other he saw death; 
 ind they were like two deep seas, sparkling and beautiful, 
 jaclting into each other at the horizon in a single infinite 
 eosin, 
 
 | “What is this, then? What a divine spectacle!” said he 
 ‘lowly. 
 
 ' He arose involuntarily and straightened up, as if in pres- 
 nce of the Supreme Being. And, annihilating the walls, 
 ‘nnihilating space and time, by the force of his all‘pene- 
 ting look, he cast his eyes into the depths of the life 
 ‘hat he had quitted. 
 
 And life took on a new aspect. He no longer tried, as 
 \f old, to translate into words what he was; moreover, in 
 Бе whole range of human language, still so poor and miserly, 
 ле found no words adequate. The paltry, dirty, and evil 
 ‘hings that suggested to him contempt and sometimes even 
 ‘lisgust at the sight of men had completely disappeared, 
 ‘ust as, to people rising in a balloon, the mud and filth of 
 ‘he narrow streets become invisible and ugliness changes 
 nto beauty. 
 
 | With an unconscious movement Werner walked toward 
 he table and leaned upon it with his right arm. Haughty 
 ‘nd authoritarian by nature, he had never been seen in a 
 brouder, freer, and more imperious attitude; never had his 
 lace worn such a look, never had he so lifted up his head, 
 for at no previous time had he been as free and powerful 
 is now, in this prison, on the eve of execution, at the 
 'hreshold of death. 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 [ 
 | 
 
 
 
 
 
74 DAE SEVEN THAT WERE HAG 
 
 In his illuminated eyes men wore a new aspect, an un- 
 known beauty and charm. He hovered above time, and 
 never had this humanity, which only the night before was 
 howling like a wild beast in the forests, appeared to him 
 so young. What had heretofore seemed to him terrible, un- 
 pardonable, and base became suddenly touching and naive, 
 just as we cherish in the child the awkwardness of its be- 
 haviour, the incoherent stammerings in which its uncon- 
 scious genius glimmers, its laughable errors and blunders, its 
 cruel bruises. 
 
 “My dear friends!’ 
 
 Werner smiled suddenly, and his attitude lost its haughty 
 and imposing force. Again he became the prisoner suffer- 
 ing in his narrow cell, weary of seeing a curious eye steadily 
 fixed upon him through the door. He sat down, but not in 
 his usual stiff position, and looked at the walls and the grat- 
 ings with a weak and gentle smile such as his face had never 
 worn. And something happened which had never happened 
 to him before: he wept. 
 
 “Му dear comrades!” he whispered, shedding bitter tears. 
 “My dear comrades!” | 
 
 What mysterious path had he followed to pass from a 
 feeling of unlimited and haughty liberty to this passionate 
 and moving pity? He did not know. Did he really pity his 
 comrades, or did his tears hide something more passionate, 
 something really greater? His heart, which had suddenly 
 revived and reblossomed, could not tell him. Werner wept, 
 and whispered : 
 
 “My dear comrades! My dear comrades!” 
 
 
 

 
 DHE WALLS ‘CRUMBLE 75 
 
 And in this man who wept, and who smiled through his 
 
 tears, no one—not the judges, or his comrades, or himself 
 
 —would have recognized the cold and haughty Werner, 
 skeptical and insolent. 
 
76 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 XI 
 ON THE WAY TO THE GALLOWS 
 
 BEFoRE getting into the vehicles, all five of the con 
 demned were gathered in a large cold room with an arche 
 ceiling, resembling an abandoned office or an unused re 
 ception-room. They were permitted to talk with eac 
 other. 
 
 Only Tanya Kovalchuk took immediate advantage o 
 the permission. The others pressed in silence hands as coli 
 as ice or as hot as fire; dumb, trying to avoid each other’ 
 gaze, they formed a confused and distracted group. Nov 
 that they were reunited, they seemed to be ashamed o 
 what they had felt individually in the solitude. They wer 
 afraid to look at each other, afraid to show the new, spe 
 cial, somewhat embarrassing thing that they felt or sus 
 pected in each other. ; 
 
 Nevertheless, they did look, and, after a smile or two 
 all found themselves at ease, as before; no change revealec 
 itself, or, if something had happened, all had taken an equa’ 
 share in it, so that nothing special was noticeable in am 
 one of them. All talked and moved in a queer and jerk 
 fashion, impulsively, either too slowly ог too quickly 
 Sometimes one of them quickly repeated the same words 
 or else failed to finish a phrase that he had begun or though 
 
ONSDHE, WAY TO THE GALLOWS 77 
 he had already spoken. But nothing of all this did they 
 notice. All blinkingly examined the familiar objects without 
 tecognizing them, like people who have suddenly taken off 
 their glasses. They often turned around quickly, as if some- 
 yne were calling them from the rear. But they did not notice 
 this. The cheeks and ears of Musya and Tanya were burn- 
 ing. At first Sergey was a little pale; he soon recovered, 
 and appeared as usual. 
 
 | Vasily alone attracted attention. Even in such a group he 
 was extraordinary and dreadful. Werner was moved, and 
 said in a low voice to Musya, with deep anxiety: 
 
 “What is the matter with him, Musya? 15’ possible that 
 1e has .. . ? Really, we must speak to him.” 
 
 Vasily looked at Werner from a distance, as if he had 
 1ot recognized him; then he lowered his eyes. 
 
 “But, Vasily, what is the matter with your hair? What 
 is the matter with you? It is nothing, brother, it will soon 
 ре over! We must control ourselves! We really must!” 
 : 
 
 
 
 
 
 Vasily did not break the silence. But, when they had al- 
 ‘eady concluded that he would say absolutely nothing, there 
 ‘tame a hollow, tardy, terribly distant reply, such as the 
 rrave might give up after a long appeal: 
 
 “But there is nothing the matter with me. I am in con- 
 
 
 
 He repeated : 
 
 “T am in control of myself!” 
 
 Werner was delighted. 
 
 “Good, good! You are a brave fellow! All is well 
 But, when his.eyes met the dark and heavy gaze of 
 
 | 
 
 
 
78 THE’ SEVEN THAT МЕКБЕВНАВОВО 
 Vasily, he felt a momentary anguish, asking himself: “But 
 whence does he look? whence does he speak?” In a tone 
 of deep tenderness, he said: 
 
 “Vasily, do you hear? I love you much!” 
 
 “And I too, I love you much!” replied a tongue that 
 moved painfully. 
 
 Suddenly Musya seized Werner by the arm, and, ex- 
 pressing her astonishment forcibly, like an actress on the 
 stage, she said: 
 
 “Werner, what is the matter with you? You said: 
 ‘I love you’? You never said that to anyone before. And 
 why is your face so sparkling and your voice so tender? 
 What is it? What is it?” 
 
 And Werner, also in the manner of an actor dwelling 
 upon his words, answered, as he pressed the young girl’s 
 hand: 
 
 “Yes, I love, now! Do not tell the others. I am ashamed 
 of it, but I love my brothers passionately !” 
 
 Their eyes met and burst into flame: everything about 
 them became extinct, just as all other lights pale in the 
 fugitive flash of the lightning. 
 
 “VYes!’”? said Musya. “Yes, Werner!” 
 
 “Уез!” he answered. “Уез, Musya, yes!” 
 
 They had understood something and ratified it forever. 
 With sparkling eyes and quick steps Werner moved on 
 again in the direction of Sergey. 
 
 “Sergey !” 
 
 But it was Tonya Kovalchuk that answered. Full of 
 
ON THE WAY TO THE GALLOWS 79 
 joy, almost weeping with maternal pride, she pulled Sergey 
 violently by the sleeve. 
 
 “Just listen, Werner! I weep on his account. I torment 
 myself, and he, he does gymnastics!” 
 
 “The Muller system?” asked Werner, with a smile. 
 
 Sergey, somewhat confused, knit his brows. 
 
 “You do wrong to laugh, Werner! I have absolutely 
 convinced myself .. .” 
 
 Everybody began to laugh. Gaining strength and firm- 
 ness from their mutual communion, they gradually became 
 again what they used to be; they did not notice it, and 
 thought that they were always the same. Suddenly Wer- 
 ner stopped laughing; with perfect gravity he said to 
 Sergey: 
 
 “You are right, Sergey! You are perfectly right!” 
 
 “Understand this then!” rejoined Sergey, satisfied. “Of 
 Course Wwe ...) -) | 
 
 Just then they were asked to get into the vehicles. The 
 officials even had the amiability to allow them to place 
 themselves in their own fashion, in pairs. In general, they 
 were very amiable with them, even too much so; were they 
 trying to give evidence of a little humanity, or to show 
 that they were not responsible for what was taking place 
 and that everything was happening of itself? It is im- 
 possible to say, but all those taking part were pale. 
 
 “Go with him, Musya!” said Werner, pointing the young 
 girl to Vasily, who stood motionless. 
 
 “T understand!” she answered, nodding her head. “And 
 you?” 
 
80 THE SEVEN THAT WERE НАМ 
 
 “I? Tanya will go with Sergey, you with Vasily. As 
 for me, I shall be alone! What matters it? I can stand 
 it, you know!” 
 
 When they had reached the courtyard, the damp and 
 slightly warm air fell softly upon their faces and eyes, cut 
 their breathing, and penetrated their shivering bodies, puri- 
 fying them. It was hard to believe that this stimulant was 
 simply the wind, a spring wind, gentle and moist. 
 
 The astonishing spring night had a flavor of melted 
 snow, of infinite space; it made the stones resound. Brisk 
 and busy little drops of water fell rapidly, one after an- 
 other, making a sonorous song. But, if one of them de- 
 layed a little or fell too soon, the song changed into a 
 joyous splash, an animated confusion. Then a big гор 
 fell heavily, and again the spring-like song began, rhyth- 
 mical and sonorous. Above the city, higher than the walls 
 of the fortress, was the pale halo formed by the electric 
 lights. 
 
 ‘Sergey Golovin heaved a deep sigh, and then held his 
 breath, as if regretting to expel from his lungs air so pure 
 and fresh. 
 
 “Have we had this fine weather long?’ Werner т: 
 quired. “It is spring!” 
 
 “Only since yesterday!” they answered politely anc 
 promptly. “There have been many cold days.” 
 
 One after another the black vehicles came up, took ir 
 two persons, and went away in the darkness, toward the 
 spot where a lantern was swinging in the gateway. Arounc 
 each vehicle were moving the gray outlines of soldiers 
 
ПВА У -TO THE GADEOW > 81 
 heir horses’ shoes resounded loudly ; often the beasts slipped 
 m the wet snow. 
 
 When Werner bent to get into the vehicle, a gendarme 
 ‘aid to him, in a vague way: 
 “There is another in there who goes with you!” 
 Werner was astonished. 
 “Who goes where? Ah! Yes! Another one! Who 
 Bite’ 
 | The soldier said nothing. In a dark corner something 
 jimall and motionless, but alive, lay rolled up; an open 
 ye shone under an oblique ray of the lantern. As he sat 
 HMown, Werner brushed against a knee with his foot. 
 “Pardon me, comrade!” 
 There was no answer. Not until the vehicle had started 
 Hid the man ask hesitatingly, in bad Russian: 
 | “Who are you?” 
 “My name is Werner, sentenced to be hanged for an 
 uttempt upon the life of XX. And you?” 
 | “ТГ am Yanson. ... I must not be hanged... .” 
 In two hours they would be face to face with the great 
 nystery as yet unsolved; in two hours they would leave 
 life for death; thither both were going, and yet they be- 
 came acquainted. Life and death were marching simul- 
 taneously on two different planes, and to the very end, even 
 in the most laughable and most stupid details, life remained 
 life. 
 “What did you do, Yanson ?” 
 “T stuck a knife into my boss. I stole money.” 
 From the sound of his voice it seemed as if Yanson were 
 
 
 
82 THE SEVEN THAT WERE BANGED 
 asleep. Werner found his limp hand in the darkness, and 
 pressed it. Yanson lazily withdrew it. 
 
 “You are afraid?” asked Werner. 
 
 “Т do not want to be hanged.” 
 
 They became silent. Again Werner found the Esthonian’s 
 hand, and pressed it tightly between his dry and burn- 
 ing palms. It remained motionless, but Yanson did not try 
 again to release it. 
 
 They stifled m the cramped vehicle, whost musty smell 
 mingled with the odors of the soldiers’ uniform, of the 
 muck-heap, and of wet leather. The breath of a young 
 gendarme, redolent of garlic and bad tobacco, streamed 
 continually into the face of Werner, who sat opposite. But 
 the keen fresh air came in at the windows, and thanks to 
 this the presence of spring was felt in the little moving 
 box even more plainly than outside. The vehicle turned 
 now to the right, now to the left; sometimes it seemed to 
 turn around and go back. There were moments when it 
 appeared to the prisoners as if they had been going in a 
 circle for hours. At first the bluish electric light came in 
 between the heavy lowered curtains; then suddenly, after 
 a turn, darkness set in; it was from this that the travellers 
 gathered that they had reached the suburbs and were ap- 
 proaching the station of S . Sometimes, at a sudden 
 turn, Werner’s bent and living knee brushed in a friendly 
 way against the bent and living knee of the gendarme, and 
 it was hard to believe in the approaching execution. 
 
 “Where are we going?’ asked Yanson, suddenly. The 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 | ON DHE WAY ТО ТНЕ GALLOWS 83 
 continuous and prolonged shaking of the sombre vehicle gave 
 him vertigo and a little nausea. 
 
 Werner answered, and pressed the Esthonian’s hand 
 more tightly than before. He would have liked to say 
 specially friendly and kind words to this little sleeping 
 man, whom already he loved more than anyone in the 
 world. 
 
 “Dear friend! I think that you are in an uncomfortable 
 position! Draw nearer to те!” 
 
 At first Yanson said nothing, but after a moment he 
 replied : 
 
 “Thank you! I am comfortable! And you, they are going 
 to hang you too?” 
 
 “Yes!” replied Werner, with an unlooked-for gaiety, 
 almost laughing. He made a free-and-easy gesture, as if 
 they were speaking of some futile and stupid prank that 
 a band of affectionate practical jokers were trying to play 
 upon them. 
 
 “You have a wife?’ asked Yanson. 
 
 “No! A wife! I! No, I am alone!” 
 
 $50, а! Т am alone. 
 
 Werner, too, was beginning to feel the vertigo. At 
 times it seemed to him that he was on his way to some 
 festivity. A queer thing; almost all those who were going 
 to the execution had the same feeling; although a prey 
 to fear and anguish, they rejoiced vaguely in the extraor- 
 dinary thing that was about to happen. Reality became 
 intoxicated on madness, and death, coupling with life, gave 
 birth to phantoms. 
 
84 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 “Here we are at last!” said Werner, gay and curiou: 
 when the vehicle stopped; and he leaped lightly to th 
 ground. Not so with Yanson, who resisted, without say 
 ing a word, very lazily it seemed, and who refused t 
 descend. He clung to the handle of the door; the gendarm 
 loosened his weak fingers, and grasped his arm. Ivan caugh 
 at the corner, at the door, at the high wheel, but yieldec 
 at every intervention of the gendarme. He adhered t 
 things rather than gripped them. And it was not necessary 
 to use much force to loosen his grasp. In short, they pre 
 vailed over him. 
 
 As always at night, the station was dark, deserted, anc 
 inanimate. The passenger trains had already passed, anc 
 for the train that was waiting on the track for the prisoner: 
 there was no need of light or activity. Werner was seizec 
 with ennui. He was not afraid, he was not in distress, but 
 he was bored; an immense, heavy, fatiguing ennui fillec 
 him with a desire to go away no matter where, lie down 
 and close his eyes. He stretched himself, and yawned re- 
 peatedly. | 
 
 “If only they did these things more quickly!” said Ве, 
 wearily. 
 
 Yanson said nothing, and shuddered. 
 
 When the condemned passed over the deserted platform 
 surrounded with soldiers, on their way to the poorly- 
 lighted railway carriages, Werner found himself placed 
 beside Sergey Golovin. The latter designated something 
 with his hand, and began to speak; his neighbor clearly 
 
ONe le WAY TOI THE GALLOWS 85 
 | understood only the word “lamp”; the rest of the phrase 
 was lost in a weary and prolonged yawn. 
 
 “What did you say?” asked Werner, yawning also. 
 
 “The reflector . . . the lamp of the reflector is smok- 
 ing,” said Sergey. 
 
 Werner turned around. It was true; the glass shades 
 were already black. 
 
 “Yes, it is smoking!” 
 
 Suddenly he thought: “What matters it to me whether 
 the lamp is smoking, when... ?” Sergey undoubtedly 
 had the same idea. He threw a quick glance at Werner, and 
 turned away his head. But both stopped yawning. 
 
 All walked to the train without difficulty; Yanson alone 
 had to be led. At first he stiffened his legs, and glued the 
 soles of his feet to the platform; then he bent his knees. 
 The entire weight of his body fell upon the arms of the 
 policemen; his legs dragged like those of a drunken man; 
 and the toes of his boots ground against the wooden plat- 
 form. With a thousand difficulties, but in silence, they lifted 
 him into the railway-carriage. 
 
 Vasily Kashirin himself walked unsupported; uncon- 
 sciously he imitated the movements of his comrades. After 
 mounting the steps of the carriage, he drew back; a police- 
 man took him by the elbow to sustain him. Then Vasily 
 began to tremble violently and uttered a piercing cry, pushing 
 away the policeman! 
 
 AEN 
 
 “Vasily, what is the matter with you?’ asked Werner, 
 _ rushing toward him. 
 
86 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 Vasily kept silence, shivering the while. The policeman. 
 vexed and even chagrined, explained: 
 
 “TI wanted to sustain him, and he—he... 
 
 “Come, Vasily, I will sustain you,” said Werner. 
 
 He tried to take his comrade’s arm. But the latter re- 
 pulsed him, and cried louder than ever. 
 
 “Vasily, it is I, Werner!’ 
 
 “T know! Don’t touch me! I want to walk alone!” 
 
 And, still trembling, he entered the carriage and sat down 
 in a corner. Werner leaned toward Musya, and asked in a 
 low voice, designating Vasily with his eyes: 
 
 “Well, how are things with him?” 
 
 “Вау!” answered Musya, in a whisper. “Не is already 
 dead. Tell me, Werner, does death really exist?” 
 
 “Т don’t know, Musya; but I think not!” answered Wer- 
 ner in a serious and thoughtful tone. 
 
 “That is what I thought! And he? I suffered on his 
 account during the whole ride; it seemed to me that I was 
 travelling beside a dead man.” 
 
 “Т don’t know, Musya. Perhaps death still exists for 
 some. Later it will not exist at all. For me, for instance, 
 death has existed, but now it exists no more.” 
 
 The slightly pallid cheeks of Musya reddened. 
 
 “Tt has existed for you, Werner? For you?” 
 
 “Yes, but no more. As for you!” 
 
 They heard a sound at the door of the railway carriage; 
 Michka the Tzigane entered spitting, breathing noisily, and 
 making a racket with his boot-heels. He glanced about him, 
 and stopped short. 
 
 9? 
 
 
 
Pee WV OY LOU TE GALL Uno 87 
 “There is no room left, officer!’ he declared to the 
 fatigued and irritated policeman. “See to it that I travel 
 comfortably, otherwise I will not go with you! Rather hang 
 ne right here, to the lamp-post! Oh, the scoundrels, what 
 1 carriage they have given me! Do you call this a carriage? 
 The devil’s guts, yes, but not a carriage!” 
 
 But suddenly he lowered his head, stretched out his neck, 
 und advanced towards the other prisoners. From the frame 
 of his bushy hair and beard his black eyes shot a savage, 
 sharp, and rather crazy look. 
 
 “Oh, my God!” he cried; “so this is where we are! How 
 о you do, sir!” 
 
 He sat down opposite Werner, holding out his hand; then, 
 with a wink, he leaned over and swiftly passed his hand 
 icross his companion’s neck: 
 
 “You too? Eh?” 
 
 “Yes!” smiled Werner. 
 
 “АП?” 
 
 “АП!” 
 
 “Oh! oh!” said the Tzigane, showing his teeth. He ex- 
 amined the other prisoners with a swift glance, which 
 nevertheless dwelt longest on Musya and Yanson. 
 
 “On account of the Minister?” 
 
 * Yes даа vou? 
 
 “Oh, sir, my case is quite another story. I am not so 
 listinguished! I, sir, am a brigand, an assassin. That makes 
 no difference, sir; move up a little to make room for me; 
 № is not my fault that they have put me in your com- 
 рапу! In the other world there will be room for all.” 
 
88 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 He took the measure of all the prisoners with a watch- 
 ful, distrustful, and savage gaze. But they looked at him 
 without a word, seriously and even with evident compas- 
 sion. Again he showed his teeth, and slapped Werner sev- 
 eral times on the knee. 
 
 “So that is how it is, sir! As they say in the song: 
 
 ““Take саге to make no sound, О forest of green oaks!” 
 
 bP] 
 
 “Why do you call me sir, when all of us... 
 
 “You are right!” acquiesced the Tzigane, with satisfac- 
 tion. “Why should you be sir, since you are to be hanged 
 beside me? There sits the real sir!” 
 
 He pointed his finger at the silent policeman. 
 
 “And your comrade yonder, he doesn’t seem to be en- 
 joying himself hugely!” he added, looking at Vasily. “Say 
 there, you are afraid?” 
 
 “No!” answered a tongue that moved with difficulty. 
 
 “Well, then, don’t be so disturbed; there is nothing to 
 be ashamed of. It is only dogs that wag their tails and 
 show their teeth when they are going to be hanged; you are 
 a man. And this marionette, who is he? He certainly is 
 not one of your crowd?” 
 
 His eyes danced incessantly; constantly, with a hissing 
 sound, he spat out his abundant and sweetish saliva. Yan- 
 son, doubled up motionless in a corner, slightly shook the 
 ears of his bald fur cap, but said nothing. Werner an- 
 swered for him. 
 
 “He killed his employer.” 
 
РА ТОНЕ GALLOWS 89 
 
 “My God!” exclaimed the Tzigane, in astonishment. “Ном 
 is it that they permit such birds as that to kill people?” 
 
 _ For a moment he looked at Musya stealthily; then sud- 
 denly he turned, and fixed his straight and piercing gaze 
 upon her. 
 
 “Miss! Say there, Miss! what is the matter with you? 
 Your cheeks are pink, and you are laughing! Look, she is 
 ‘really laughing! Look! Look!” And he seized Werner’s 
 ‘knee with his hooked fingers. , 
 _ Blushing and somewhat confused, Musya squarely re- 
 turned the gaze of the attentive and savage eyes that ques- 
 tioned her. All kept silence. 
 
 The little cars bounced speedily along the narrow track. 
 At every turn or grade-crossing the whistle blew, the en- 
 gineer being afraid of crushing somebody. Was it not 
 atrocious to think that so much care and effort, in short all 
 human activity, was being expended in taking men to be 
 hanged? The maddest thing in the world was being done > 
 with an air of simplicity and reasonableness. Cars were 
 running; people were sitting in them as usual, travelling as 
 people ordinarily travel. Then there would be a halt as usual: 
 “Five minutes’ stop.” 
 
 And then would come death—eternity—the great mystery. 
 
90 ТНЕ SEV EN;THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 ХИ 
 THE ARRIVAL 
 
 THE train advanced rapidly. 7 
 
 Sergey Golovin remembered to have spent the summer. 
 some years before, in a little country-house along this very 
 line. He had often travelled the road by day and by night. 
 and knew it well. Closing his eyes, he could fancy himself 
 returning by the last train, after staying out late at night 
 with friends. 
 
 “T shall arrive soon,” thought he, straightening up: and 
 his eyes met the dark grated window. Around him noth- 
 ing stirred. Only the Tzigane kept on spitting, and his eyes 
 ran the length of the car, seeming to touch the doors and 
 the soldiers. 
 
 “It is cold,’ said Vasily Kashirin between his thin lips, 
 which seemed frozen. 
 
 Tanya Kovalchuk bestirred herself in a maternal fashion: 
 
 “Here’s a very warm kerchief to wrap around your .. .” 
 ‚ “Neck?” asked Sergey, and he was frightened by his 
 own question. 
 
 “What matters it, Vasya? Take it.” 
 
 “Wrap yourself up. You will be warmer,’ added 
 Werner. 
 
 He turned to Yanson, and asked him tenderly: 
 
THE ARRIVAL 91 
 
 “And aren’t you cold, too?” 
 
 “Werner, perhaps he wants to smoke. Comrade, do you 
 vant to smoke?” asked Musya. “We have some tobacco.” 
 
 “Ves, I want to.” 
 
 “Give him a cigarette, Зегоеу,” said Werner. 
 
 But Sergey was already holding out his cigarette-case. 
 
 And all began to watch tenderly Yanson’s clumsy fingers 
 s they took the cigarette and struck the match, and the 
 ittle curl of bluish smoke that issued from his mouth, 
 
 “Thank you,” said Yanson. “It is good.” 
 
 “How queer it is,” said Sergey. 
 
 “How queer what is?’ asked Werner. 
 
 “The cigarette,” answered Sergey, unwilling to say all that 
 ie thought. ? 
 
 Yanson held the cigarette between his pale and living 
 ingers. With astonishment he looked at it. And all fixed 
 heir gaze on this tiny bit of paper, on this little curl of 
 moke rising from the gray ashes. 
 
 The cigarette went out. 
 
 “Tt is out,” said Tanya. 
 
 Pest 19-096. 
 
 “The devil take it!” said Werner, looking anxiously at 
 Гапзоп, whose hand, holding the cigarette, hung as if dead. 
 Suddenly the Tzigane turned, placed his face close to Wer- 
 ier’s, and, looking into the whites of his eyes, whispered: 
 
 “Suppose, sir, we were to attack the soldiers of the con- 
 roy? What do you think about it?” 
 
 “No,” answered Werner. 
 
92 THE SEVEN: THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 “Why? It is better to die fighting. I will strike a blow, 
 they strike back, and I shall die without noticing it.” 
 
 “No, it is not necessary,” said Werner. And he turned 
 to Yanson: 
 
 “Why don’t you smoke?’ 
 
 Yanson’s dried-up face wrinkled pitifully, as if someone 
 had pulled the threads that moved the creases in his face. 
 As in a nightmare, Yanson sobbed in a colorless voice, shed- 
 ding no tears: 
 
 “T can’t smoke. Ah! Ah! Ah! I must not be hanged. 
 Ah! Ah! Ah!” 
 
 Everybody turned toward him. Tanya, weeping copiously, 
 stroked his arms and readjusted his fur cap. 
 
 “My dear, my friend, don’t cry, my friend! My poor 
 friend !” 
 
 Suddenly the cars bumped into one another and began 
 to slow up. The prisoners rose, but immediately sat down 
 again. 
 
 “Here we are,” said Sergey. 
 
 It was as if all the air had suddenly been pumped out of 
 the car. It became difficult to breathe. Their swollen hearts 
 became heavy in their breasts, rose to their throats, beat 
 desperately and their blood, in its terror, seemed to revolt. 
 Their eyes looked. at the trembling floor, their ears listened 
 to the slowly-turning wheels, which began to turn more 
 slowly still, and gently stopped. 
 
 The train halted. 
 
 The prisoners were plunged into a strange stupor. They | 
 did not suffer. They seemed to live an unconscious life. 
 
 ’ 
 
 
 

 
 THE ARRIVAL 93 
 Their corporeal being was absent; only its phantom moved 
 about, voiceless but speaking, silent but walking. They went 
 out. They arranged themselves in pairs, breathing in the 
 fresh air of the woods. Like one in a dream, Yanson strug- 
 gled awkwardly: they dragged him from the car. 
 
 “Are we to go on foot?” asked someone, almost gaily. 
 
 “It isn’t far,’ answered a careless voice. 
 
 Without a word they advanced into the forest, along a 
 damp and muddy road. Their feet slipped and sank into 
 the snow, and their hands sometimes clung involuntarily to 
 those of their comrades. Breathing with difficulty the soldiers 
 marched in single file, on either side of the prisoners. An 
 irritated voice complained: 
 
 “Could they not have cleared the road? It is difficult to 
 advance.” 
 
 A deferential voice answered : 
 
 “Tt was cleaned, Your Honour, but it is thawing. There 
 is nothing to be done.” 
 
 The prisoners began to recover their consciousness. Now 
 they seemed to grasp the idea: “It is true, they could not 
 clean the roads”; now it became obscured again, and there 
 remained only the sense of smell, which perceived with 
 singular keenness the strong and healthy odor of the forest ; 
 and now again all became very clear and comprehensible, 
 the forest, and the night, and the road . . . and the cer- 
 tainty that very soon, in a minute, implacable death would 
 lay its hands upon them. And little by little a whispering 
 began: 
 
 “Tt is almost four o’clock.” 
 
94 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 “I told you so. We started too early.” 
 
 “The sun rises at five.” 
 
 “That’s right, at five: we should have waited.” 
 
 They halted in the twilight. Near by, behind the trees 
 whose huge shadows were waving on the ground, swun; 
 silently two lanterns. There the gallows had been erected. 
 
 “T have lost one of my rubbers,” said Sergey. 
 
 “Well?” asked Werner, not understanding. 
 
 “T have lost it. I am cold.” 
 
 “Where is Vasily?” 
 
 “T don’t know. There he is.” 
 
 Vasily was standing close by them, gloomy and motion 
 less. 
 
 “Where is Мизуа?” 
 
 “Here I am. Is that you, Werner?” 
 
 They looked at each other, their eyes avoiding the silen 
 and terrible significant swaying of the lanterns. At th 
 left the thin forest seemed to be growing lighter. An 
 beyond, something vast and gray and flat appeared, whenc 
 came a moist breeze. 
 
 “That is the sea,” said Sergey, sucking in the damp ап 
 ma hateis: the; sea’? 
 
 Musya answered by a line from the song: 
 
 “My love as broad as is the sea.” 
 “What did you say, Мизуа?” 
 
 “The shores of life cannot contain 
 My love as broad as is the sea.” 
 
 “My love as broad as is the зеа’” repeated Sergey 
 pensively. | 
 
 ’ 
 
 
 
THE ARRIVAL 95 
 “Му love as broad as is the sea,’”’ echoed Werner. And 
 iddenly he exclaimed in astonishment: 
 “Мизуа, my little Musya, how young you still are!’ 
 Just then, close to Werner’s ear, sounded the breathless 
 14 passionate voice of the Tzigane: 
 “Sir, sir, look at the forest. My God! What is all that? 
 nd yonder! The lanterns! My God, is that the scaffold?” 
 Werner looked at him. The convulsed features of the un- 
 yrtunate man were frightful to see. 
 “We must say our farewells,’ said Tanya. 
 “Wait! They still have to read the sentence. Where is 
 ‘апзоп ?” 
 Yanson lay stretched in the snow, surrounded by people. 
 ‚ strong smell of ammonia filled the air around him. 
 “Well, doctor, will you soon be through?” asked someone, 
 npatiently. 
 “Тез nothing. A fainting fit. Rub his ears with snow. He 
 ‚ better already. You can read.” 
 The light of a dark lantern fell upon the paper and the 
 ngloved white hands. Both paper and hands trembled. The 
 dice also. 
 “Gentlemen, perhaps it is better not to read. You all 
 now the sentence.” 
 “Do not read!” answered Werner for all; and the light 
 nmediately went out. 
 The condemned refused also the services of the priest. 
 aid the Tzigane: 
 “No nonsense, father; you will forgive me, they will 
 ang me.” 
 
 
 
 
 
96 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGE® 
 
 The broad dark silhouette of the priest took a few steps 
 backward and disappeared. The day was breaking. The snow 
 became whiter, the faces of the condemned darker, and 
 the forest barer and sadder. 
 
 “Gentlemen, you will go in pairs, choosing your com- 
 panion. But I beg you to make haste.” 
 
 Werner pointed to Yanson, who now was standing again, 
 sustained by two soldiers. 
 
 “T will go with him. You, Sergey, take Vasily. You go 
 first.” 
 
 goleri¢ht.?” 
 
 “T am going with you, Musya,” said Tanya. “Come, let 
 us kiss each other !” 
 
 Quickly they kissed all round. The Tzigane kissed for- 
 cibly; they felt his teeth. Yanson kissed gently and softly, 
 with mouth half open. He did not seem to understand what 
 he was doing. When Sergey and Kashirin had taken a few 
 steps, the latter stopped suddenly, and in a loud voice, which 
 seemed strange and unfamiliar, shouted: 
 
 “Good-bye, comrades.” 
 
 “Good-bye, comrade,” they answered him. 
 
 The two started off again. All was quiet. The lanterns 
 behind the trees became motionless. They expected to hear 
 a cry, a voice, some sound or other, but there as here all 
 was calm. 
 
 “Oh! My God!” exclaimed someone hoarsely. 
 
 They turned around: it was the Tzigane, crying des- 
 perately: 
 
 “They are going to hang us.” 
 

 
 THE ARRIVAL 97 
 
 He struggled, clutching the air with his hands, and cried 
 again: 
 
 “God! Am I to be hanged alone? My God!” 
 
 His convulsive hands gripped the hand of Werner, and 
 he continued : 
 
 “Sir, my dear sir, my good sir. You will come with me, 
 won’t you?” 
 
 Werner, his face drawn with sorrow, answered: 
 
 “T cannot; I am with Уапзоп.” 
 
 “Oh! My God! then I shall be alone. Why? Why?” 
 
 Musya took a step toward him, and said softly: 
 
 “T will go with you.” 
 
 The Tzigane drew back, and fixed his big swollen eyes 
 upon her: 
 
 “Will you?” 
 
 ке 
 
 “But you are зо little! You are not afraid of me? No, 
 Т don’t want you to. I will go alone.” 
 
 “But I am not afraid of you.” 
 
 The Tzigane grinned. 
 
 “Don’t you know that I am a brigand? And you are 
 willing to go with me? Think a moment. I shall not be 
 angry if you refuse.” 
 
 Musya was silent. And in the faint light of the dawn 
 her face seemed to take on a luminous and mystic pallor. 
 Suddenly she advanced rapidly toward the Tzigane, and, 
 taking his head in her hands, kissed him vigorously. He 
 took her by the shoulders, put her away a little, and then 
 kissed her loudly on her cheeks and eyes. 
 
98 THE SEVEN THAT WERE HANGED 
 
 The soldier nearest them stopped, opened his hands, anc 
 let his gun fall. But he did not stoop to pick it up. He 
 stood still for a moment, then turned suddenly, and begar 
 to walk into the forest. 
 
 “Where are you going?” shouted his comrade, in a fright 
 ened voice. “Stay!” 
 
 But the other painfully endeavored to advance. Sud 
 denly he clutched the air with his hands, and fell, face down 
 ward. 
 
 “Milksop, pick up your gun, or I will pick it up for you, 
 cried the Tzigane, firmly. “Уои don’t know your duty. Hav 
 you never seen a man die?” 
 
 Again the lantern swung. The turn of Werner and Yan 
 son had come. 
 
 “Good-bye, sir!” said the Tzigane, in a loud voice. ““W 
 shall meet again in the other world. When you see me there 
 don’t turn away from me.” 
 
 “Good-bye!” 
 
 “T must not be hanged,” said Yanson again, in a fain 
 voice. 
 
 But Werner grasped his hand, and Yanson took a fey 
 steps. Then he was seen to sink into the snow. They ber 
 over him, lifted him up, and carried him, while he weakl 
 struggled in the soldiers’ arms. 
 
 And again the yellow lanterns became motionless. 
 
 “And I, Musya? Am I then to go alone?” said Tany: 
 sadly. “We have lived together, and now .. a 
 
 “Tanya, my good Tanya!” 
 
THE ARRIVAL 99 
 
 The Tzigane hotly interrupted, holding Musya as if he 
 eared that they might tear her from him. 
 
 “Miss,” he cried, “you are able to go alone. You have a 
 ure soul. You can go alone where you like. But 1 cannot. 
 
 am a bandit. I cannot go alone. ‘Where are you going?’ 
 1ey will say to me, ‘you who have killed, you who have - 
 ‘olen 2’ For I have stolen horses, too, Miss. And with her 
 
 shall be as if I were with an innocent child. Do you 
 nderstand ?” 
 
 “Ves, I understand. Go on then! Let me kiss you once 
 зоге, Musya.” 
 
 “Kiss each other! Kiss each other!” said the Tzigane. 
 You are women. You must say good-bye to each other.” 
 
 Then came the turn of Musya and the Tzigane. The 
 готап walked carefully, her feet slipping, lifting her skirts 
 y force of habit. Holding her with a strong hand, and 
 eeling the ground with his foot, the man accompanied her 
 o death. The lights became motionless. Around Tanya all 
 vas tranquil again, and solitary. The soldiers, gray in the 
 lawn’s pale light, were silent. 
 
 “T am left alone,’ said Tanya. And she sighed. “Sergey 
 s dead, Werner and Vasily are dead. And Musya is dying. 
 -am alone. Soldiers, my little soldiers, you see, I am alone, 
 BONER toys, 
 
 The sun appeared above the sea.... 
 
 They placed the bodies in boxes, and started off with 
 hem. With elongated necks, bulging eyes, and blue tongues 
 гонга те from their mouths, the dead retraced the road by 
 which, living, they had come. 
 
100 ТНЕЗЕУЕМ THAT. W RE. PACNa eee 
 
 And the snow was still soft, and the air of the forest 
 was still pure and balmy. 
 
 On the white road lay the black rubber that Sergey had 
 ОЕ. 
 
 Thus it was that men greeted the rising sun. 
 

 
 ЕВЕ БАОСН 
 
» 
 о-в 
 
 и а В ne > Ave in 
 УЧ 4 } 
 и 9 
 
 
 
The Red Laugh 
 
 ВАВЯ И 
 
 
 
 FRAGMENT I 
 
 ‚.. Horror and madness. 
 
 I felt it for the first time as we were marching along 
 the road—marching incessantly for ten hours without stop- 
 ping, never diminishing our step, never waiting to pick 
 up those that had fallen, but leaving them to the enemy, 
 that was moving behind us in a compact mass only three 
 or four hours later effacing the marks of our feet by their 
 own. 
 
 It was very sultry. I do not know how many degrees 
 there were—120°, 140°, or more—I only know that the 
 heat was incessant, hopelessly even and profound. The 
 sun was so enormous, so fiery and terrible, that it seemed 
 as if the earth had drawn nearer to it and would soon be 
 burnt up altogether in its merciless rays. Our eyes had 
 
 ceased to look. The small shrunk pupil, as small as a 
 103 
 
 
 
104 THEOREDADAWGH 
 
 poppy-seed, sought in vain for darkness under the closed 
 eyelid; the sun pierced the thin covering and penetrated 
 into the tortured brain in a blood-red glow. But, never- 
 theless, it was better so: with closed eyelids, and for a 
 long time, perhaps for several hours, I walked along with 
 my eyes shut, hearing the multitude moving around me: 
 the heavy, uneven tread of many feet, men’s and horses, 
 the grinding of iron wheels, crushing the small stones, 
 somebody’s deep strained breathing and the dry smack- 
 ing of parched lips. But I heard no word. All were 
 silent, as if an army of dumb people were moving, and 
 when anyone fell down, he fell in silence; others stum- 
 bled against his body, fell down and rose mutely, and, 
 without turning their heads, marched on, as though these 
 dumb men were also blind and deaf. I stumbled and fell 
 several times and then involuntarily opened my eyes, and 
 all that I saw seemed a wild fiction, the terrible raving 
 of a mad world. The air vibrated at a white-hot tem- 
 perature, the stones seemed to be trembling silently, ready 
 to flow, and in the distance, at a curve of the road, the 
 files of men, guns and horses seemed detached from the 
 earth, and trembled like a mass of jelly in their onward 
 progress, and it seemed to me that they were not living 
 people that I saw before me, but an army of incorporate 
 shadows. 
 
 The enormous, near, terrible sun lit up thousands of 
 tiny blinding suns on every gun-barrel and metal plate, 
 and these suns, as fiery-white and sharp as the white-hot 
 points of the bayonets, crept into your eyes from every 
 
 
 
ТНЕ ВЕБ LAUGH 105 
 side. And the consuming, burning heat penetrated into your 
 body—into your very bones and brain—and at times it 
 seemed to me that it was not a head that swayed upon my 
 shoulders, but a strange and extraordinary globe, heavy and 
 light, belonging to somebody else, and horrible. 
 
 And then—then I suddenly remembered my home: a 
 corner of my room, a scrap of light-blue wall-paper, and 
 a dusty untouched water-bottle on my table—on my table, 
 which has one leg shorter than the others, and had a small 
 piece of paper folded under it. While in the next room— 
 and I cannot see them—are my wife and little son. If I had 
 had the power to cry out, I would have done so—so wonder- 
 ful was this simple and peaceful picture—the scrap of light- 
 blue wall-paper and dusty untouched water-bottle. I know 
 that I stood still and lifted up my arms, but somebody gave 
 me a push from behind, and I quickly moved on, thrusting 
 the crowd aside, and hastening whither I knew not, but 
 feeling now neither heat nor fatigue. And I marched on 
 thus for a long time through the endless mute files, past 
 red sunburnt necks, almost touching the helplessly lowered 
 hot bayonets, when suddenly the thought of what I was 
 doing, whither I was hastening, stopped me. I turned aside 
 in the same hasty way, forced my way to the open, clambered 
 across a gulley and sat down on a stone in a preoccupied 
 manner, as if that rough hot stone was the aim of all 
 my strivings. 
 
 And then I felt it for the first time. I clearly perceived 
 that all these people, marching silently on in the glaring 
 sun, torpid from fatigue and heat, swaying and falling— 
 
106 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 that they were all mad. They did not know whither they 
 were going, they did not know what that sun was for, they 
 did not know anything. It was not heads that they had on 
 their shoulders, but strange and terrible globes. There— 
 I saw a man in the same plight as I, pushing his way hur- 
 riedly through the rows and falling down; there—another, 
 and a third. Suddenly a horse’s head appeared above the 
 throng with bloodshot and senseless eyes and a wide-open 
 grinning mouth, that only hinted at a terrible unearthly 
 cry; this head appeared, fell down, and for an instant the 
 crowd stopped, growing denser in that spot; I could hear 
 hoarse, hollow voices, then a shot, and again the silent 
 endless march continued. 
 
 An hour passed as I sat on that stone, but the multi- 
 tude still moved on past me, and the air and earth and the 
 distant phantom-like ranks trembled as before. And again 
 the burning heat pierced my body and I forgot what for 
 an instant I had pictured to myself; and the multitudes 
 moved on past me, but I did not know who they were. 
 An hour ago I was alone on the stone, but now I was 
 surrounded by a group of grey people; some lying motion- 
 less, perhaps dead; others were sitting up and staring va- 
 cantly at those passing by. Some had guns and resembled 
 soldiers; others were stripped almost naked, and the skin 
 on their bodies was so livid, that one did not саге to look 
 at it. Not far from me someone was lying with his bared 
 back upturned. 
 
 One could see by the unconcerned manner in which he 
 had buried his face in the sharp burning sand, by the white- 
 
 
 
lid? RE DAE AUGH 107 
 iess of the palm of his upturned hand, that he was dead, 
 wut his back was аз red as if he were alive, and only a 
 light yellowish tinge, such as one sees on smoked meat, 
 роке of death. I wanted to move away from him, but I 
 iad not the strength, and, tottering from weakness, I con- 
 inued looking at the endless phantom-like swaying files of 
 nen. By the condition of my head I knew that I should 
 юоп have a sunstroke too, but I awaited it calmly, as in 
 ‚ dream, where death seems only a stage on the path of 
 vonderful and confused visions. 
 
 And I saw a soldier part from the crowd and direct his 
 ‘teps in a decided manner towards us. For an instant I 
 ost sight of him in a ditch, but when he reappeared and 
 noved on towards us, his gait was unsteady, and in his 
 *ndeavors to control his restlessly tossing body, one felt 
 le was using his last strength. He was coming so straight 
 троп me that I grew frightened and, breaking through 
 he heavy torpor that enveloped my brain, I asked: “What 
 lo you want?” 
 
 He stopped short, as if it was only a word that he was 
 waiting for, and stood before me, enormous, bearded, in a 
 orn shirt. Не had no gun, his trousers hung only by one 
 yutton, and through a slit in them one could see his white 
 ›о4у. He flung his arms and legs about and he was vis- 
 bly trying to control them, but could not; the instant he 
 jrought his arms together, they fell apart again. 
 
 “What 15 the matter? You had better sit down,” I said. 
 
 But he continued standing, vainly trying to gather him- 
 self together, and stared at me in silence. Involuntarily I 
 
108 ТНЕ RED LAUGH 
 
 got up from the stone and, tottering, looked into his eyes 
 —and saw an abyss of horror and insanity in them. Every- 
 body’s pupils were shrunk—but his had dilated and cov- 
 ered his whole eye: what a sea of fire he must have seen 
 through those enormous black windows! Maybe I had 
 only imagined it, maybe in his look there was only death 
 —but, no, I was not mistaken—in those black, bottomless 
 pupils, surrounded by a narrow orange-colored rim, like 
 a bird’s eye, there was more than death, more than the 
 horror of death. “Go away!” I cried falling back. “Go 
 away!” And as if he was only waiting for a word, enor- 
 mous, disorderly and mute as before, he suddenly fell down 
 upon me, knocking me over. With a shudder I freed my 
 legs from under him, jumped up and longed to run—some- 
 where away from men into the sunlit, unpeopled and quiver- 
 ing distance, when suddenly, on the left-hand side, a cannon 
 boomed forth from a hill-top, and directly after it two others, 
 like an echo. And somewhere above our heads a shell flew 
 past with a gladsome, many-voiced scr-e-e-ch and howl. 
 
 We were outflanked. 
 
 The murderous heat, fear and fatigue disappeared in- 
 stantly. My thoughts cleared, my mind grew clear and sharp, 
 and when I ran up, out of breath, to the files of men 
 drawing up, I saw serene, almost joyous faces, heard hoarse, 
 but loud voices, orders, jokes. The sun seemed to have 
 drawn itself up higher so as not to be in the way, and had 
 grown dim and still—and again a shell, like a witch, cut 
 the air with a gladsome scr-e-e-ch. 
 
 I came up.... 
 
a heORE DIbAUG H 109 
 
 FRAGMENT II 
 
 . МЕАвгх all the horses and men. The same in the 
 НЕ battery. In our twelfth battery, towards the end 
 of the third day, there remained only three guns—all the 
 others being disabled—six men and one officer, myself. We 
 had neither slept nor eaten for twenty hours; for three 
 days and nights a Satanic roar and howl enveloped us in a 
 ‘cloud of insanity, isolated us from the earth, the sky and 
 ourselves—and we, the living, wandered about like lunatics. 
 ‘The dead—they lay still, while we moved about doing our 
 duty, talking and laughing, and we were—like lunatics. All 
 our movements were quick and certain, our orders clear, 
 the execution of them precise, but if you had suddenly asked 
 any one of us who we were, undoubtedly we should not 
 have been able to find an answer in our troubled brain. As 
 in a dream all faces seemed familiar, and all that was going 
 on seemed quite familiar and natural—as if it had hap- 
 pened before; but when I looked closely at any face or 
 gun, or began listening to the din, I was struck by the nov- 
 elty and endless mystery of everything. Night approached 
 imperceptibly, and before we had time to notice it and won- 
 der where it had come from, the sun was again burning 
 above our heads. And only from those who came to our 
 battery we learnt that it was the third day of the battle that 
 was dawning, and instantly forgot it again: to us it ap- 
 peared as one endless day without any beginning, some- 
 times dark, sometimes bright, but always incomprehensible 
 
 
 
110 THE RED’ LAUGH 
 and blind. And nobody was afraid of death, for nobody 
 understood what death was. 
 
 On the third or fourth night—I do not remember which 
 —I lay down for a minute behind the breastwork, and, as 
 soon as I shut my eyes, the same familiar and extraordinary 
 picture stood before them: the scrap of light-blue wall-paper 
 and the dusty untouched water-bottle on my table. While 
 in the next room—and I could not see them—were my wife 
 and little son. But this time a lamp with a green shade was 
 burning on the table, so it must have been evening or night. 
 The picture stood motionless, and I contemplated it very 
 calmly and attentively for a long time, letting my eyes rest on 
 the light reflected in the crystal of the water-bottle, and on 
 the wall-paper, and wondered why my son was not asleep: 
 for it was night and time for him to go to bed. Then I 
 again began examining the wall-paper: every spiral, silvery 
 flower, square and line—and never imagined that I knew 
 my room so well. Now and then I opened my eyes and 
 saw the black sky with beautiful fiery stripes upon it, then 
 shut them again and saw once more the wall-paper, the 
 bright water-bottle, and wondered why my son was not asleep, 
 for it was night and time for him to go to bed. Once 
 a shell burst not far from me, making my legs give a jerk, 
 “and somebody cried out loudly, louder than the bursting 
 of the shell, and I said to myself: “Somebody is killed,’ 
 but I did not get up and did not tear my eyes away from 
 the light-blue wall-paper and the water-bottle. 
 
 Afterwards I got up, moved about, gave orders, lookec 
 at the men’s faces, trained the guns, and kept on wondering 
 
THE RED LAUGH 111 
 why my son was not asleep. Once I asked the sergeant, and 
 he explained it to me at length with great detail, and we 
 kept nodding our heads. And he laughed, and his left eye- 
 drow kept twitching, while his eye winked cunningly at 
 somebody behind us. Behind us were somebody’s feet—and: 
 nothing more. 
 
 By this time it was quite light, when suddenly there fell 
 : drop of rain. Rain—just the same as at home, the most 
 ordinary little drops of rain. But it was so sudden and out 
 pf place, and we were so afraid of getting wet, that we 
 eft our guns, stopped firing, and tried to find shelter any- 
 where we could. 
 
 The sergeant with whom I had only just been speaking 
 xot under the gun-carriage and dozed off, although he might 
 зауе been crushed any minute; the stout artilleryman, for 
 some reason or other, began undressing a corpse, while I 
 yegan running about the battery in search of something— 
 . cloak or an umbrella. And the same instant over the whole 
 enormous area, where the rain-cloud had burst, a wonderful 
 stillness fell. А belated shrapnel-shot shrieked and burst, 
 ind everything grew still—so still that one could hear the 
 ‘tout artilleryman panting, and the drops of rain splashing 
 ipon the stones and guns. And this soft and continuous 
 sound, that reminded one of autumn—the smell of the moist. 
 ‘arth and the stillness—seemed to tear the bloody, savage 
 uightmare asunder for an instant; and when I glanced at 
 he wet, glistening gun it unexpectedly reminded me of 
 something dear and peaceful—my childhood, or perhaps 
 ny first love. But in the distance a gun boomed forth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
112 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 particularly loud, and the spell of the momentary lull dis- 
 appeared; the men began coming out of their hiding-places 
 as suddenly as they had hid themselves; a gun roared, then 
 another, and once again the weary brain was enveloped by 
 bloody, indissoluble gloom. And nobody noticed when the 
 rain stopped. I only remember seeing the water rolling off 
 the fat, sunken yellow face of the killed artilleryman; so 
 I supposed it rained for rather а long time... . 
 
 . . . Before me stood a young volunteer holding his 
 hand to his cap and reporting to me that the general wanted 
 us to retain our position for only two hours more, when we 
 should be relieved. I was wondering why my son was not 
 in bed, and answered that I could hold on as much as he 
 wished. But suddenly I became interested in the young 
 man’s face, probably because of its unusual and _ striking 
 pallor. I never saw anything whiter than that face: even 
 the dead have more colour than that young, beardless face 
 had. I suppose he became terrified on his way to us, and 
 could not recover himself; and in holding his hands to his 
 cap he was only making an effort to drive away his mad 
 fear by a simple and habitual gesture. | 
 
 “Are you afraid?’ I asked, touching his elbow. But 
 his elbow seemed as if made of wood, and he only smiled 
 and remained silent. Better to say, his lips alone were 
 twitching into a smile, while his eyes were full of youth 
 and terror only—nothing more. | 
 
 “Are you afraid!” I repeated kindly. His lips twitched, 
 trying to frame a word, and the same instant there hap- 
 
) 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE RED LAUGH 113 
 pened something incomprehensible, monstrous and super- 
 natural. I felt a draught of warm air upon my right cheek 
 that made me sway—that is all—while before my eyes, in 
 place of the white face, there was something short, blunt 
 and red, and out of it the blood was gushing as out of an 
 uncorked bottle, such as is drawn on badly executed sign- 
 boards. And that short red and flowing “something” still 
 seemed to be smiling a sort of smile, a toothless laugh—a 
 red laugh. 
 
 I recognised it—that red laugh. I had been searching for 
 it, and I had found it—that red laugh. Now I understood 
 what there was in all those mutilated, torn, strange bodies. 
 It was a red laugh. It was in the sky, it was in the sun, 
 and soon it was going to overspread the whole earth—that 
 red laugh! 
 
 While they, with precision and calmness, like lunatics. . . . 
 
 FRAGMENT III 
 
 TueEy say there are a great number of madmen in our. 
 army as well as in the enemy’s. Four lunatic wards have 
 been opened. When I was on the staff our adjutant showed 
 ес 
 
 _ лев 
 
114 THE RED LAUGH 
 FRAGMENT IV 
 
 - . . CoILED round like snakes. He saw the wire, chopped 
 through at one end, cut the air and coil itself round three 
 soldiers. The barbs tore their uniforms and stuck into 
 their bodies, and, shrieking, the soldiers spun round in 
 frenzy, two of them dragging the third, who was already 
 dead, after them. Then only one remained alive, and he tried 
 to push the two that were dead away from him; but they 
 trailed after him, whirling and rolling over each other and 
 over him; and suddenly all three became motionless. 
 
 He told me that no less than two thousand men were 
 lost at that one wire entanglement. While they were hack- 
 ing at the wire and getting entangled in its serpentine coils, 
 they were pelted by an incessant rain of balls and grape- 
 shot. He assured me it was very terrifying, and if only 
 they had known in which direction to run, that attack would 
 have ended in a panic flight. But ten or twelve continuous 
 lines of wire and the struggle with it, a whole labyrinth of 
 pitfalls with stakes driven in at the bottom, had muddled 
 them so, that they were quite incapable of defining the 
 direction of escape. 
 
 Some, like men blind, fell into the funnel-shaped pits, and 
 hung upon the sharp stakes, pierced through the stomach, 
 twitching convulsively and dancing like toy clowns; they 
 were crushed down by fresh bodies, and soon the whole pit 
 filled to the edges, and presented a writhing mass of bleed- 
 ing bodies, dead and living. Hands thrust themselves out of 
 
THE RED LAUGH 115 
 it in all directions, the fingers working convulsively, catching 
 at everything; and those who once got caught in that trap 
 could not get back again: hundreds of fingers, strong and 
 blind, like the claws of a lobster, gripped them firmly by 
 the legs, caught at their clothes, threw them down upon 
 themselves, gouged out their eyes and throttled them. Many 
 seemed as if they were intoxicated, and ran straight at the 
 wire, got caught in it, and remained shrieking, until a bullet 
 finished them. 
 
 Generally speaking, they all seemed like people intoxi- 
 cated: some swore dreadfully, others laughed when the 
 wire caught them by the arm or leg and died there and then. 
 He himself, although he had had nothing to eat or drink 
 since the morning, felt very queer. His head swam, and 
 there were moments when the feeling of terror in him 
 changed to wild rapture, and from rapture again to terror. 
 When somebody struck up a song at his side, he caught up 
 the tune, and soon a whole unanimous chorus broke forth. 
 He did not remember what they sang, only that it was lively 
 in a dancing strain. Yes, they sang, while all around them 
 was red with blood. The very sky seemed to be red, and 
 one could have thought that a catastrophe had overwhelmed 
 the universe—a strange disappearance of colors: the light- 
 blue and green and other habitual peaceful colors had dis- 
 appeared, while the sun blazed forth in a red flare-light. 
 
 “The red laugh,” said I. 
 
 But he did not understand. 
 
 “Yes, and they laughed, as I told you before, like people 
 intoxicated. Perhaps they even danced. There was some- 
 
116 | THE RED LAUGH 
 
 $ 
 
 * 
 
 thing of the sort. At least the movements of those three: 
 
 resembled dancing.”’ 
 
 He remembers distinctly, when he was shot through the | 
 chest and fell, his legs twitched for some time until he lost 
 
 consciousness, as if he were dancing to music. And at the 
 present moment, when he thinks of that attack, a strange 
 
 feeling comes over him: partly fear and partly the desire 
 
 to experience it all over again. 
 “And get another ball in your chest?” asked I. 
 
 “There now, why should I get a ball each time? But it 
 
 would not be half so bad, old boy, to get a medal for bravery.” 
 
 He was lying on his back with a waxen face, sharp nose, 
 prominent cheek-bones and sunken eyes. He was lying look- 
 ing like a corpse and dreaming of a medal! Mortification 
 had already set in; he had a high temperature, and in three 
 days’ time he was to be thrown into the grave to join the 
 dead; nevertheless he lay smiling dreamingly and talking 
 about a medal. 
 
 “Have you telegraphed to your mother?” I asked. 
 
 He glanced at me with terror, animosity and anger, and 
 did not answer. I was silent, and then the groans and 
 ravings of the wounded became audible. But when I rose 
 to go, he caught my hand in his hot, but still strong one, 
 and fixed his sunken burning eyes upon me in a lost and 
 distressed way. 
 
 “What does it all mean, ay? What does it all mean?” 
 asked he in a frightened and persistent manner, pulling at 
 my hand. 
 
 “What ?” 
 
PHEI RED EAUGH 117 
 
 “Everything . . . in general. Now, she is waiting for 
 ne. But I cannot. My country—is it possible to make her 
 inderstand, what my country means?” 
 
 “The red laugh,” answered I. 
 | “Ah! you are always joking, but I am serious. It is 
 ndispensable to explain it; but is it possible to make her 
 inderstand? If you only knew what she says in her letters! 
 —what she writes. And you know her words—are grey- 
 iaired. And you—” he looked curiously at my head, pointed 
 lis finger and suddenly breaking into a laugh said: “Why, 
 rou have grown bald. Have you noticed it?” 
 
 “There are no looking-glasses here.” 
 
 “Many have grown bald and grey. Look here, give me 
 ‚ looking-glass. Give me one! I feel white hair growing 
 put of my head. Give me a looking-glass!” He became de- 
 irious, crying and shouting out, and I left the hospital. 
 
 That same evening we got up an entertainment—a sad 
 ind strange entertainment, at which, amongst the guests, 
 he shadows of the dead assisted. We decided to gather 
 n the evening and have tea, as if we were at home, at a 
 yicnic. We got а samovar, we even got a lemon and glasses, 
 ind established ourselves under a tree, as if we were at ! 
 qome, at a picnic. Our companions arrived noisily in twos — 
 ind threes, talking, joking and full of gleeful expectation— 
 jut soon grew silent, and avoided looking at each other, for 
 there was something fearful in this meeting of spared men. 
 [п tatters, dirty, itching, as if we were covered by a dread- 
 ful ringworm, with hair neglected, thin and worn, having 
 lost all familiar and habitual aspect, we seemed to see each 
 
118 PHE? RE DAY Aaa 
 
 other for the first time as we gathered round the samovar, 
 and seeing each other, we grew terrified. In vain 1 looked 
 for a familiar face in this group of disconcerted men—l 
 could not find one. These men, restless, hasty and jerky 
 in their movements, starting at every sound, constantly 
 looking for something behind their backs, trying to fill up 
 that mysterious void into which they were too terrified to 
 look, by superfluous gesticulations—were new, strange men, 
 whom I did not know. And their voices sounded different, 
 articulating the words with difficulty in jerks, easily pass- 
 ing into angry shouts or senseless irrepressible laughter at 
 the slightest provocation. And everything around us was 
 strange to us. The tree was strange, and the sunset strange, 
 and the water strange, with a peculiar taste and smell, as 
 if we had left the earth and entered into a new world to- 
 gether with the dead—a world of mysterious phenomena 
 and ominous sombre shadows. The sunset was yellow and 
 cold; black, unillumined, motionless clouds hung heavily 
 over it, while the earth under it was black, and our faces 
 in that ill-omened light seemed yellow, like the faces of the 
 dead. We all sat watching the samovar, but it went out, its 
 sides reflecting the yellowishness and menace of the sun- 
 set, and it seemed also an unfamiliar, dead and incompre- 
 hensible object. 
 
 “Where are we?’ asked somebody, and uneasiness and 
 fear sounded in his voice. Somebody sighed; somebody 
 convulsively cracked his fingers; somebody laughed; some- 
 body jumped up and began walking quickly round the 
 table. These last days one could often meet with such men, 
 
a tH EPRED LAUGH 119 
 who were always walking hastily, almost running, at times 
 strangely silent, at times mumbling something in an un- 
 canny way. 
 
 “At the war,” answered he who had laughed, and again 
 burst into a hollow, lingering laugh, as if something was 
 choking him. 
 
 “What is he laughing at?’ asked somebody indignantly. 
 “Look here, stop it!’ 
 
 The other choked once more, gave a titter and stopped’ 
 obediently. 
 
 It was growing dark, the cloud seemed to be settling down 
 on the earth, and we could with difficulty distinguish each 
 other’s yellow phantom-like faces. Somebody asked,— 
 
 “And where is Fatty-legs?” 
 
 “Fatty-legs” we called a fellow-officer, who, being short, 
 wore enormous water-tight boots. 
 
 “Не was here just now. Fatty-legs, where are you?” 
 
 “Fatty-legs, don’t hide. We can smell your boots.” 
 
 Everybody laughed, but their laugh was interrupted by a 
 rough, indignant voice that sounded out of the darkness: 
 
 “Stop that! Are you not ashamed? Fatty-legs was killed 
 this morning reconnoitring.” 
 
 “He was here just now. It must be a mistake.” 
 
 “You imagined it. Heigh-ho! you there, behind the samo- 
 var, cut me a slice of lemon.” 
 
 “And me!” 
 
 “And me!” 
 
 “The lemon is finished.” 
 
 “How is that, boys?” sounded a gentle, hurt voice, full 
 
120 THE RED LAUGH 
 of distress and almost crying; “why, I only came for the 
 sake of the lemon.” 
 
 The other again burst into a hollow and lingering laugh, 
 and nobody checked him. But he soon stopped. He gave a 
 snigger, and was silent. Somebody said: 
 
 “To-morrow we begin the advance on the enemy.” 
 
 But several voices cried out angrily: 
 
 “Nonsense, advance on the enemy, indeed!” 
 
 “But you know yourself i 
 
 “Shut up. As if we cannot talk of something else.” 
 
 The sunset faded. The cloud lifted, and it seemed to 
 grow lighter; the faces became more familiar, and he, who 
 kept circling round us, grew calmer and sat down. 
 
 “T wonder what it’s like at home now?” asked he vaguely, 
 and in his voice there sounded a guilty smile. 
 
 And once again all became terrible, incomprehensible and 
 strange—so intensely so that we were filled with horror, 
 almost to the verge of losing consciousness. And we all 
 began talking and shouting at the same time, bustling about, 
 moving our glasses, touching each other’s shoulders, hands, 
 knees—and all at once became silent, giving way before the 
 incomprehensible. 
 
 “At home?” cried somebody out of the darkness. His 
 voice was hoarse and quivering with emotion, fear anc 
 hatred. And some of the words would not come out, as 11 
 he had forgotten how to say them. 
 
 “At home? What home? Why, is there home anywhere! 
 Don’t interrupt me or else I shall fire. At home I usec 
 to take а bath every day—can you understand?—a batt 
 
 
 
THE RED LAUGH 121 
 with water—water up to the very edges. While now—I 
 do not even wash my face every day. My head is covered 
 with scurf, and my whole body itches and over it crawl, 
 crawl . . . Г am going mad from dirt, while you talk 
 9f—home! I am like an animal, I despise myself, I can- 
 aot recognise myself and death is not at all terrifying. 
 You tear my brain with your shrapnel-shots. Aim at what 
 you will, all hit my brain—and you can speak of—home. 
 What home? Streets, windows, people, but I would not go 
 nto the street now for anything. I should be ashamed 
 0. You brought a samovar here, but I was ashamed to 
 ook at it.” 
 
 The other laughed again. Somebody called out: 
 
 “D—n it all! I shall go home.” 
 
 “Home ?” 
 
 *“You don’t understand what duty is!” 
 
 “Home? Listen! he wants to go home!” 
 
 There was a burst of laughter and of painful shouts— 
 114 again all became silent—giving way before the incom- 
 orehensible. And then not only I, but every one of us felt 
 that. It was coming towards us out of those dark, mys- 
 ‘erious and strange fields; it was rising from out of those 
 obscure dark ravines, where, maybe, the forgotten and lost 
 umong the stones were still dying; it was flowing from 
 the strange, unfamiliar sky. We stood around the dying-out 
 samovar in silence, losing consciousness from horror, while 
 in enormous, shapeless shadow that had risen above the 
 world, looked down upon us from the sky with a steady and 
 silent gaze. Suddenly, quite close to us, probably at the 
 
122 THE RED, LA GGG 
 Commanders’ house, music burst forth, and the frenzied, 
 joyous, loud sounds seemed to flash out into the night and 
 stillness. The band played with frenzied mirth and defi- 
 ance, hurriedly, discordantly, too loudly, and too joyously, 
 and one could feel that those who were playing, and those 
 who were listening, saw as we did, that same enormous, 
 shapeless shadow, risen above the world. And it was 
 clear the player on the trumpet carried in himself, in his 
 very brain and ears, that same enormous dumb shadow. 
 The abrupt and broken sound tossed about, jumping and 
 running away from the others, quivering with horror and 
 insanity in its lonesomeness. And the other sounds seemed 
 to be looking round at it, so clumsily they ran, stumbling, 
 falling, and again rising in a disorderly crowd—too loud, 
 too joyous, too close to the black ravines, where most prob- 
 ably the forgotten and lost among the boulders were still 
 dying. 
 
 And we stood for a long time around the cold samovar 
 and were silent. 
 
 FRAGMENT V 
 
 ... I was already asleep when the doctor roused me by 
 pushing me cautiously. I woke, and jumping up, cried out, 
 as we all did when anybody wakened us, and rushed to the 
 entrance of our tent. But the doctor held me firmly by the 
 arm, excusing himself: 
 
ha BRIE DADA UGH 123 
 
 “Т frightened you, forgive me. I know you want to 
 RICED РИ” 
 
 “Five days and nights .. .” I muttered, dozing off. I 
 fell asleep and slept, as it seemed to me for a long time, 
 when the doctor again began speaking, poking me cautiously 
 in the ribs and legs. 
 
 “But it is very urgent. Dear fellow, please—it is so press- 
 ing. I keep thinking ... 1 cannot ...I keep thinking, that 
 some of the wounded were left .. .” 
 
 “What wounded? Why, you were bringing them in the 
 whole day long. Leave me in peace. It is not fair—I have 
 mot slept for five days!” 
 
 “Dear boy, don’t be angry,’ muttered the doctor, awk- 
 wardly putting my cap on my head; “everybody 15 asleep, 
 it’s impossible to rouse anybody. I’ve got hold of an en- 
 gine and seven carriages, but we’re in want of men. I un- 
 derstand. . . . Dear fellow, I implore you. Everybody is 
 asleep and everybody refuses. I’m afraid of falling asleep 
 myself. I don’t remember when I slept last. I believe I’m 
 beginning to have hallucinations. There’s a dear fellow, put 
 down your feet, just one—there—there. .. .” 
 
 The doctor was pale and tottering, and one could see 
 ‘that if he were only to lie down for an instant he would 
 fall asleep and remain so without waking for several days 
 running. My legs sank under me, and I am certain I fell 
 asleep as I walked—so suddenly and unexpectedly ap- 
 peared before us a row of black outlines—the engine and 
 carriages. Near them, scarcely distinguishable in the dark- 
 ness, some men were wandering about slowly and silently. 
 
 
 
124 Pe Rie AA 
 
 There was not a single light either on the engine or car- 
 riages, and only the shut ash-box threw a dim reddish light 
 on to the rails. 
 
 “What is 111$?” asked I, stepping back. 
 
 “Why, we are going in the train. Have you forgotten? 
 We are going in the train,’’ muttered the doctor. 
 
 The night was chilly and he was trembling from cold, 
 and as I looked at him I felt the same rapid tickling shiver 
 all over my body. 
 
 “D—n you!” I cried loudly. “Just as if you couldn’t have 
 taken somebody else.” 
 
 “Hush! please, hush!” and the doctor caught me by the 
 arm. 
 
 Somebody out of the darkness said: 
 
 “If you were to fire a volley from all the guns, nobody 
 would stir. They are all asleep. One could go up and 
 bind them all. Just now I passed quite close to the sentry. 
 He looked at me and did not say a word, never stirred. 
 I suppose he was asleep too. It’s a wonder he does not 
 fall down.” 
 
 He who spoke yawned and his clothes rustled, evidently 
 he was stretching himself. I leaned against the side of the 
 carriage, intending to climb up—and was instantly over- 
 come by sleep. Somebody lifted me up from behind and 
 laid me down, while I began pushing him away with my 
 feet, without knowing why, and again I fell asleep, hear- 
 ing as in a dream fragments of a conversation: 
 
 “At the seventh verst.” 
 
 “Have you forgotten the lanterns?” 
 
THE RED LAUGH 125 
 
 “No, he won’t ge.” 
 
 “Give them here. Back a little. That’s it.’ 
 
 The carriages were jerking backwards and forwards, 
 omething was rattling. And gradually, because of all these 
 ounds and because I was lying comfortably and quietly, 
 leep deserted me. But the doctor was sound asleep, and 
 vhen I took him by the hand it was like the hand of a 
 ‘огрзе, heavy and limp. The train was now moving slowly 
 nd cautiously, shaking slightly, as if groping its way. The 
 tudent acting as hospital orderly lighted the candle in the 
 antern, lighting up the walls and the black aperture of the 
 ntrance, and said angrily: 
 
 “D—n it! Much they need us by this time. But you had 
 etter wake him, before he falls into a sound sleep, for then 
 ou won't be able to do anything with him. I know by 
 nyself.” 
 
 We roused the doctor and he sat up, rolling his eyes 
 cantly. He tried to lie down again, but we did not let him. 
 
 “It would be good to have а drop of vodka now,” said 
 he student. 
 
 We drank a mouthful of brandy, and all sleepiness dis- 
 ppeared entirely. The big black square of the door began 
 0 grow pink, then red—somewhere from behind the hills 
 ppeared an enormous mute flare of a conflagration as if 
 he sun was rising in the middle of the night. 
 
 “It’s far away. About twenty versts.” 
 
 “T feel cold,” said the doctor, snapping his teeth. 
 
 The student looked out of the door and beckoned me 
 о come up to him. I looked out: at different points of 
 
126 THE’ RED/ LAUGH 
 
 the horizon motionless flares of similar conflagration stood 
 out in a mute row: as if dozens of suns were rising simul- 
 taneously. And now the darkness was not so great. The 
 distant hills were growing more densely black, sharply out- 
 lined against the sky in a broken and wavy contour, while in 
 the foreground all was flooded with a red soft glow, silent 
 and motionless. I glanced at the student; his face was tinged 
 by the same red fantastic color of blood, that had changed 
 itself into air and light. 
 
 “Are there many wounded?” asked I. 
 
 He waved his hand. 
 
 “A great many madmen. More so than wounded.” 
 
 “Real madmen?” 
 
 “What others can there be?” 
 
 He was looking at me, and his eyes wore the same fixed, 
 wild expression, full of cold horror, that the soldier’s had, 
 who died of sunstroke. 
 
 “Stop that,” said I, turning away. 
 
 “The doctor is mad also. Just look at him.” 
 
 The doctor had not heard. He was sitting cross-legged, 
 like a Turk, swaying to and fro, soundlessly moving his 
 lips and finger-tips. And in his gaze there was the same 
 fixed, stupefied, blunt, stricken expression. 
 
 “T feel cold,” said he, and smiled. 
 
 “Hang you all!” cried I, moving away into a corner of 
 the carriage. “What did you call me up for?” 
 
 Nobody answered. The student stood gazing out at the 
 mute spreading glow, and the back of his head with its curly 
 hair was youthful; and when I looked at him, I do not know 
 
Е ЛЕРА Н 127 
 why, but I kept picturing to myself a delicate woman’s hand 
 passing through that hair. And this image was so unpleasant, 
 that a feeling of hatred sprang up in my breast, and I 
 could not not look at him without a feeling of loathing. 
 
 “How old are you?” I asked, but he did not turn his 
 пеа and did not answer. 
 
 The doctor kept on rocking himself. 
 
 “Г feel cold.” 
 
 “When I think,” said the student, without turning round, 
 ‘when I think that there are streets, houses, a Univer- 
 eas 
 
 He broke off, as if he had said all and was silent. Sud- 
 lenly the train stopped almost instantaneously, making me 
 cnock myself against the wall, and voices were to be heard. 
 We jumped out. In front of the very engine upon the rails 
 ay something, a not very large lump, out of which a leg 
 was projecting. 
 
 “Wounded ?” 
 
 “No, dead. The head is torn off. Say what you will, 
 sut I will light the head-light. Otherwise we shall be crush- 
 ng somebody.” 
 
 The lump with the protruding leg was thrown aside; for 
 in instant the leg lifted itself up, as if it wanted to run 
 through the air, and all disappeared in a black ditch. The 
 read-light was lit and the engine instantly grew black. 
 
 “Listen!” whispered somebody, full of silent terror. 
 
 How was it that we had not heard it before? From 
 »verywhere—the exact place could not be defined—a groan, 
 inbroken and scraping, wonderfully calm in its breadth, and 
 
128 THE’‘RED LAUGH 
 
 even indifferent, as it seemed, was borne upon us. We 
 had heard many cries and groans, but this resembled none 
 of those heard before. On the dim reddish surface out 
 eyes could perceive nothing, and therefore the very earth 
 and sky, lit up by a never-rising sun, seemed to be groaning, 
 
 “The fifth verst,” said the engine-driver. | 
 
 “That is where it comes from,” and the doctor pointed 
 forwards. The student shuddered, and slowly turned to- 
 wards us. 
 
 “What is it? It’s terrible to listen to!” 
 
 “Let’s move on.” 
 
 We walked along in front of the engine, throwing ¢ 
 dense shadow upon the rails, but it was not black but of @ 
 dim red color, lit up by the soft motionless flares, thai 
 stood out mutely at the different points of the black sky 
 And with each step we made, that wild unearthly groan 
 that had no visible source, grew ominously, as if it was the 
 red air, the very earth and sky, that were groaning. Ir 
 its ceaselessness and strange indifference it recalled at time 
 the noise of grasshoppers in a meadow—the ceaseless noist 
 of grasshoppers in a meadow on a warm summer day. Ап‹ 
 we came upon dead bodies oftener and оНепег. We exam 
 ined them rapidly, and threw them off the rails—those in 
 different, calm, limp bodies, that left dark oily stains wher 
 the blood had soaked into the earth where they had lain 
 At first we counted them, but soon got muddled, and ceased 
 They were many—too many for that ominous night, tha 
 breathed cold and groans from each fibre of its being. 
 
THE RED LAUGH 129 
 
 “What does it mean?” cried the doctor, and threatened 
 
 omebody with his fist. “Just listen .. .” 
 We were nearing the sixth verst, and the groans were 
 rowing distinct and sharp, and we could almost feel the 
 istorted mouths, from which those terrible sounds were 
 ssuing. 
 
 We looked anxiously into the rosy gloom, so deceitful in 
 s fantastic light, when suddenly, almost at our feet, be- 
 ide the rails, somebody gave a loud, calling, crying groan. 
 Ve found him instantly, that wounded man, whose face 
 zemed to consist only of two eyes, so big they appeared, 
 then the light of the lantern fell on his face. He stopped 
 roaning, and rested his eyes on each of us and our lan- 
 2rns in turn, and in his glance there was a mad joy at 
 eeing men and lights—and a mad fear that all would dis- 
 ppear like a vision. Perhaps he had seen men with lan- 
 -гпз bending over him many times, but they had always 
 isappeared in a bloody confused nightmare. 
 
 We moved on, and almost instantly stumbled against two 
 1ore wounded, one lying on the rails, the other groaning 
 за ditch. As we were picking them up, the doctor, trem- 
 ling with anger, said to me: “Well?” and turned away. 
 several steps farther on we met a man wounded slightly, 
 vho was walking alone, supporting one arm with the other. 
 Те was walking with his head thrown back, straight towards 
 5, but seemed not to notice us, when we drew aside to 
 - him pass. I believe he did not see us. He stopped for 
 n instant near the engine, turned aside, and went past 
 he train. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
130 THE RED: LAUGH 
 “You had better get in!” cried the doctor, but he did 
 not answer. | 
 
 These were the first that we found, and they horrified us, 
 But later on we came upon them oftener and oftener along 
 the rails or near them, and the whole field, lit up by the 
 motionless red flare of the conflagrations, began stirring as 
 if it were alive, breaking out into loud cries, wails, curses 
 and groans. All those dark mounds stirred and crawled 
 about like half-dead lobsters let out of a basket, with out- 
 spread legs, scarcely resembling men in their broken, un- 
 conscious movements and ponderous immobility. Some 
 were mute and obedient, others groaned, wailed, swore and 
 showed such a passionate hate towards us who were saving 
 them, as if we had brought about that bloody, indifferent 
 night, and been the cause of all those terrible wounds and 
 their loneliness amidst the night and dead bodies. 
 
 The train was full, and our clothes were saturated with 
 blood, as if we had stood for a long time under a rain of 
 blood, while the wounded were still being brought in, and 
 the field, come to life, was stirring wildly as before. 
 
 Some of the wounded crawled up themselves, some 
 walked up tottering and falling. One soldier almost ran 
 up to us. His face was smashed, and only one eye re- 
 mained, burning wildly and terribly, and he was almost 
 - naked, as if he had come from the bath-room. Pushing me 
 aside, he caught sight of the doctor, and rapidly seized him 
 by the chest with his left hand. 
 
 “РИ smash your snout!” he cried, shaking the doctor, 
 
> 
 
 Poe RED LAUGH 131 
 and added slowly and mordantly a coarse oath. “ГИ smash 
 your snouts, you rabble!” 
 
 The doctor broke away from the soldier, and advancing 
 towards him, cried chokingly: 
 
 “TJ will have you court-martialled, you scoundrel! То 
 prison with you! You’re hindering my work! Scoundrel! 
 Brute!” 
 
 We pulled them apart, but the soldier kept on crying out 
 for a long time: “Rabble! ГИ smash your snout !” 
 
 I was beginning to get exhausted, and went a little way 
 off to have a smoke and rest a bit. The blood, dried to 
 my hands, covered them like a pair of black gloves, making 
 it difficult for me to bend my fingers, so that I kept drop- 
 ping my cigarettes and matches. And when I succeeded 
 in lighting my cigarette, the tobacco smoke struck me as 
 novel and strange, with quite a peculiar taste,,the like of 
 which I never experienced before or after. Just then the 
 ambulance student with whom I had travelled came up 
 to me, and it seemed to me as if I had met with him several 
 years back, but where I could not remember. His tread was 
 firm as if he were marching, and he was staring through 
 me at something farther on and higher up. 
 
 “And they are sleeping,’ said he, as it seemed, quite 
 calmly. 
 
 I flew in a rage, as if the reproach was addressed to 
 me. 
 
 “You forget, that they fought like lions for ten days.” 
 
 “And they are sleeping,” he repeated, looking through 
 me and higher up. Then he stooped down to me and shak- 
 
132 THE: REDFLAUGH 
 ing his finger, continued in the same dry and calm way 
 “T will tell you—I will tell you... .” 
 
 “What ?” 
 
 He stooped still lower towards me, shaking his finge’ 
 meaningly, and kept repeating the words as if they ex 
 pressed a completed idea: 
 
 “T will tell you—I will tell you. Tell them ...” An 
 still looking at me in the same severe way, he shook hi 
 finger once more, then took out his revolver and shot him 
 self in the temple. And this did not surprise or terrif; 
 me in the least. Putting my cigarette in the left hand, I fel 
 his wound with my fingers, and went back to the train. 
 
 “The student has shot himself. I believe he is still alive, 
 said I to the doctor. The latter caught hold of his hea 
 and groaned. 
 
 “D—n him! .. . There is no room. There} that .on 
 will go and shoot himself, too, soon. And I give you m 
 word of honor,” cried he, angrily and menacingly, “I wil 
 do the same! Yes! And let me beg you—just walk back 
 There is no room. You can lodge a complaint against m 
 if you like.” 
 
 And he turned away, still shouting, while I went up to th 
 other who was about to commit suicide. He was an ambu 
 lance man, and also, I believe, a student. He stood, pressin: 
 his forehead against the wall of the carriage, and his shoul 
 ders shook with sobs. | | 
 
 “Сор!” said I, touching his quivering shoulder. But В 
 did not turn round or answer, and continued crying. An 
 the back of his head was youthful, like the other student’s 
 
THE RED LAUGH 133 
 ind as terrifying, and he stood in an absurd manner with 
 115 legs spread out like a person drunk, who is sick; and 
 115 neck was covered with blood; probably he had clutched 
 t with his own hands. 
 
 “Well?” said I, impatiently. 
 
 He pushed himself away from the carriage and, stoop- 
 ng like an old man, with his head bent down, he went away 
 nto the darkness away from all of us. I do not know 
 why, but I followed him, and we walked along for a long 
 ‘ime away from the carriages. I believe he was crying, 
 ind a feeling of distress stole over me, and I wanted to 
 cry too. 
 
 “Stop!” I cried, standing still. 
 
 But he walked on, moving his feet ponderously, bent 
 down, looking like an old man with his narrow shoulders 
 and shuffling gait. And soon he disappeared in the red- 
 dish haze, that resembled light and yet lit nothing. And 
 I remained alone. To the left of me a row of dim lights 
 floated past—it was the train. I was alone—amidst the 
 dead and dying. How many more remained? Near me all 
 was still and dead, but farther on the field was stirring, 
 as if it were alive—or so it seemed to me in my loneli- 
 ness. But the moan did not grow less. It spread along the 
 earth—high-pitched, hopeless, like the cry of a child or 
 the yelping of thousands of cast-away puppies, starving 
 and cold. Like a sharp, endless, icy needle it pierced your 
 brain and slowly moved backwards and forwards—back- 
 wards and forwards. . 
 
134 THE RED PAU 
 FRAGMENT VI 
 
 . .. THEY were our own men. During the strange con: 
 fusion of all movements that reigned in both armies, ou 
 own and the enemy’s, during the last month, frustrating 
 all orders and plans, we were sure it was the enemy tha 
 was approaching us, namely, the 4th corps. And every: 
 thing was ready for an attack, when somebody clearl; 
 discerned our uniforms, and ten minutes later our gues: 
 had become a calm and happy certainty: they were out! 
 own men. They apparently had recognized us too: they 
 advanced quite calmly, and that calm motion seemed t 
 express the same happy smile of an unexpected meeting. 
 
 And when they began firing, we did not understand fo: 
 some time what it meant, and still continued smiling— 
 under a hail of shrapnel and bullets, that poured dows 
 upon us, snatching away at one stroke hundreds of men 
 Somebody cried out by mistake and—lI clearly remembe: 
 —we all saw that it was the enemy, that it was his uni 
 form and not ours, and instantly answered the fire. Abou 
 fifteen minutes after the beginning of that strange engage 
 ment both my legs were torn off, and I recovered conscious 
 ness in the hospital after the amputation. 
 
 I asked how the battle had ended, and received an eva 
 sive, reassuring answer, by which I could understand tha 
 we had been beaten; and afterwards, legless as I was, | 
 was overcome by joy at the thought that now I woul 
 be sent home, that I was alive—alive for a long time t 
 
THE RED LAUGH 135 
 ome, alive for ever. And only a week later I learnt 
 ome particulars, that once more filled me with doubts 
 nd a new, unexperienced feeling of terror. Yes, Г be- 
 ieve they were our own men after all—and it was with 
 пе of our shells, fired out of one of our guns by one of 
 иг men, that my legs had been torn off. And nobody 
 ould explain how it had happened. Something occurred, 
 omething darkened our vision, and two regiments, belong- 
 ng to the same army, facing each other at a distance of 
 me verst, had been destroying each other for а whole 
 iour in the full conviction that it was the enemy they had 
 yefore them. Later оп the incident was remembered and 
 spoken of reluctantly in half-words and—what is most sur- 
 rising of all—one could feel that many of the speakers 
 34 not admit the mistake even then. That is to say, they 
 admitted it, but thought that it had occurred later оп, 
 that in the beginning they really had the enemy before 
 them, but that he disappeared somewhere during the gen- 
 eral fray, leaving us in the range of our own shells. Some 
 spoke of it openly, giving precise explanations, which 
 iseemed to them plausible and clear. Up to this very min- 
 lute I cannot say for certain how the strange blunder began, 
 las I saw with equal clearness first our red uniforms and 
 then their orange-colored ones. And somehow very soon 
 feverybody forgot about the incident, forgot about it to 
 such an extent that it was spoken of as a real battle’ and 
 in that sense many accounts were written and sent to 
 the papers in all good faith; I read them when I was 
 back home. At first the public’s attitude towards us, the 
 
 
 
136 THE КЕБ! LAUGH 
 
 wounded in that engagement, was rather strange—we 
 seemed to be less pitied than those wounded in other bat- 
 tles, but soon even that disappeared too. And only new 
 facts, similar to the one just described, and a case in the 
 enemy’s army, when two detachments actually destroyed 
 each other almost entirely, having come to a hand-to-hand 
 fight during the night—gives me the right to think that a 
 mistake did occur. 
 
 Our doctor, the one that did the amputation, a lean, bony 
 old man, tainted with tobacco smoke and carbolic acid, ever- 
 lastingly smiling at something through his yellowish-grey 
 thin mustache, said to me, winking his eye: 
 
 “You're in luck to be going home. There’s something 
 wrong here.” 
 
 “What is it?” 
 
 “Something’s going wrong. In our time it was sim- 
 pler.” 
 
 He had taken part in the last European war almost < 
 quarter of a century back and often referred to it with 
 pleasure. But this war he did not understand, and, аз ] 
 noticed, feared it. 
 
 “Yes, there’s something wrong,” sighed he, and frowned 
 disappearing in a cloud of tobacco smoke. “I would leave 
 too, if I could.” 
 
 And bending over me he whispered through his yellow 
 smoked mustache : 
 
 “А time will come when nobody will be able to go away 
 from here. Yes, neither I nor anybody,’ and in his о 
 eyes, so close to me, I saw the same fixed, dull, stricker 
 
THE RED LAUGH 137 
 »xpression. And something terrible, unbearable, resembling 
 the fall of thousands of buildings, darted through my head, 
 und growing cold from terror, I whispered: 
 
 “The red laugh.” 
 
 And he was the first to understand me. He hastily nodded 
 ais head and repeated: 
 
 “Yes. The red laugh.” 
 
 He sat down quite close to me and looking round began 
 whispering rapidly, in a senile way, wagging his sharp, grey 
 little beard. 
 
 “You are leaving soon, and I will tell you. Did you 
 ever see a fight in an asylum? No? Well, I saw one. 
 And they fought like sane people. You understand—like 
 sane people.” He significantly repeated the last phrase sev- 
 eral times. 
 
 “Well, and what of that?’ asked I, also in a whisper, 
 full of terror. 
 
 “Nothing. Like sane people.” 
 
 “The red laugh,” said I. 
 
 “They were separated by water being poured over them.” 
 
 I remembered the rain that had frightened us so, and got 
 angry. 
 
 “You are mad, doctor!’ 
 
 “Not more than you. Not more than you in any case.” 
 
 He hugged his sharp old knees and chuckled; and, look- 
 ing at me over his shoulder and still with the echo of that 
 unexpected painful laugh on his parched lips, he winked 
 at me slyly several times, as if we two knew something 
 very funny, that nobody else knew. Then with the solem- 
 
138 ТНЕ ВЕРЫ 
 
 nity of a professor of black magic giving а conjuring per- 
 formance, he lifted his arm and, lowering it slowly, care- 
 fully touched with two fingers that part of the blanket 
 under which my legs would have been, if they had not been 
 cut off. 
 
 “And do you understand this?’ he asked mysteriously. 
 
 Then, in the same solemn and significant manner, he 
 waved his hand towards the row of beds on which the 
 wounded were lying, and repeated: 
 
 “And can you explain this?” 
 
 “The wounded ?” said I. ‘““The wounded ?” 
 
 “The wounded,” repeated he, like an echo. “The wounded 
 Legless and armless, with pierced sides, smashed-in chest: 
 and torn-out eyes. You understand it? I am very glad 
 So I suppose you will understand this also?” 
 
 With an agility, quite unexpected for his age, he flung 
 himself down and stood on his hands, balancing his leg: 
 in the air. His white working clothes turned down, hi: 
 face grew purple and, looking at me fixedly with a strange 
 upturned gaze, he threw at me with difficulty a few broker 
 words: 
 
 “And this... do you... also.) . часов 
 
 “Stop!” whispered I in terror, “or else I will cry out.’ 
 
 He turned over into a natural position, sat down agait 
 near my bed, and, taking breath, remarked instinctively : 
 
 “And nobody can understand it.” 
 
 “Yesterday they were firing again.” 
 
 “Yes, they were firing yesterday and the day before,’ 
 said he, nodding his head affirmatively. 
 
ВЕСЕ: RE Dy LAUGH 139 
 
 “T want to go home!’ said I in distress. “Doctor, dear 
 fellow, I want to go home. I cannot remain here any longer. 
 At times I cannot bring myself to believe that I have a 
 поте, where it is so 2004.” 
 
 He was thinking of something and did not answer, and 
 | began to cry. 
 
 “My God, I have no legs. I used to love my bicycle so, 
 o walk and run, and now I have no legs. | used to dance 
 ny boy on the right foot and he laughed, and now. . 
 curse you all! What shall I go home for? I am only 
 hhirty. . . . Curse you all!” 
 
 And I sobbed and sobbed, as I thought of my dear legs, 
 ny fleet, strong legs. Who took them away from me, 
 who dared to take them away! 
 
 “Listen,” said the doctor, looking aside. “Yesterday I 
 ам a mad soldier that came to us. An enemy’s soldier. 
 He was stripped almost naked, beaten and scratched and 
 qungry as an animal, his hair was unkempt, as ours is, and 
 ae resembled a savage, primitive man or monkey. Не 
 waved his arms about, made grimaces, sang and shouted 
 ind wanted to fight. He was fed and driven out again— 
 nto the open country. Where could we have kept him? 
 Days and nights they wander about the hills, backwards 
 and forwards in all directions, keeping to no path, having 
 по aim or resting-place, all in tatters like ominous phan- 
 coms. They wave their arms, laugh, shout and sing, and 
 when they come across anybody they begin to fight, or 
 maybe, without noticing each other, pass by. What do 
 they eat? Probably nothing, or, maybe, they feed on the 
 
 
 
140 THE RED DCAUIGH 
 
 dead bodies together with the beasts, together with those 
 fat wild dogs, that fight in the hills and yelp the whole 
 night long. At night they gather about the fires like mon- 
 strous moths or birds awakened by a storm, and you need 
 only light a fire to have in less than half-an-hour a dozen 
 noisy, tattered wild shapes, resembling chilled monkeys, gath- 
 ering around it. Sometimes they are fired at by mistake, 
 sometimes on purpose, for they make you lose all patience 
 with their unintelligible, terrifying cries... .” 
 
 “Т want to go home!” cried I, shutting my ears. 
 
 But new terrible words, sounding hollow and phantom- 
 like, as if they were passing through a layer of wadding, 
 kept hammering at my brain. 
 
 “They are many. They die by hundreds in the precipices 
 and pitfalls, that are made for sound and clever men, in the 
 remnants of the barbed wire and on the stakes they take 
 part in the regular battles and fight like heroes—always 
 in the foremost ranks, always undaunted, but often turn 
 against their own men. Г like them. At present I am only 
 beginning to go mad, and that is why I am sitting and 
 talking to you, but when my senses leave me entirely, I will 
 go out into the open country—I will go out into the open 
 country, and I will give a call—I will give a call, I will 
 gather those brave ones, those knights-errant, around me, 
 and declare war to the whole world. We will enter the 
 towns and villages in a joyous crowd, with music and songs, 
 leaving in our wake a trail of red, in which everything 
 will whirl and dance like fire. Those that remain alive will 
 join us, and our brave army will grow like an avalanche, 
 
THE RED LAUGH 141 
 and will cleanse the whole world. Who said that one must 
 not kill, burn or rob? .. .” 
 
 He was shouting now, that mad doctor, and seemed to 
 have awakened by his cries the slumbering pain of all those 
 around him with their ripped-open chests and sides, torn- 
 out eyes and cut-off legs. The ward filled with a broad, 
 rasping, crying groan, and from all sides pale, yellow, ex- 
 hausted faces, some eyeless, some so monstrously mutilated 
 that it seemed as if they had returned from hell turned 
 toward us. And they groaned and listened, and a black 
 shapeless shadow, risen up from the earth, peeped in cau- 
 tiously through the open door, while the mad doctor went on 
 shouting, stretching out his arms. 
 
 “Who said one must not kill, burn, or rob? We will 
 kill and burn and rob. We, a joyous careless band of 
 braves, we will destroy all; their buildings, universities 
 and museums, and merry as children, full of fiery laughter, 
 we will dance on the ruins. I will proclaim the madhouse 
 our fatherland; all those that have not gone mad—our 
 enemies and madmen; and when I, great, unconquerable 
 and joyous, will begin to reign over the whole world, its 
 sole lord and master, what a glad laugh will ring over the 
 whole universe.” 
 
 “The red laugh!” cried I, interrupting him. “Help! Again 
 I hear the red laugh!’ 
 
 “Friends!’ continued the doctor, addressing himself to 
 the groaning, mutilated shadows. “Friends! we shall have 
 a red moon and a red sun, and the animals will have a 
 merry red coat, and we will skin all those that are too 
 
142 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 white—that are too white. . . . You have not tasted blood! 
 It is slightly sticky and slightly warm, but it is red, and has 
 such a merry red laugh! .. .” 
 
 FRAGMENT VII 
 
 . . . Ir was godless and unlawful. The Red Cross is ге- 
 spected by the whole world, as a thing sacred, and they 
 saw that it was а train full of harmless wounded and not 
 soldiers, and they ought to have warned us of the mine. 
 The poor fellows, they were dreaming of home. ... 
 
 FRAGMENT VIII 
 
 . . . AROUND а samovar, around a real samovar, out of 
 which the steam was rising as out of an engine—the glass 
 on the lamp had even grown dim, there was so much steam. 
 And the cups were the same, blue outside and white inside, 
 very pretty little cups, a wedding present. My wife’s sister 
 gave them—she is a very kind and good woman. 
 
 “Ts it possible they are all whole?” asked I, incredu- 
 
THE RED LAUGH 143 
 susly, mixing the sugar in my glass with a clean silver 
 poon. 
 
 “One was broken,” said my wife, absently ; she was hold- 
 ag the tap open just then and the water was running out 
 asily and prettily. 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 “What’s it about?” asked my brother. 
 
 “Oh, nothing. Wheel me into the study just once more. 
 Zou may as well trouble yourself for the sake of a hero. 
 Tou idled away your time while I was away, but now 
 hat is over, ГИ bring you to order,” and I began singing, 
 ба joke of course—“My friends, we’re bravely hurrying 
 lowards the foe...” 
 | They understood the joke and smiled, only my wife did 
 10 lift up her face, she was wiping the cups with a clean 
 mbroidered cloth. And in the study I saw once again 
 he light-blue wall-paper, a lamp with a green shade and 
 ‚ table with a water-bottle upon it. And it was a little 
 lusty. 
 
 “Pour me some water out of 115,” ordered I, merrily. 
 “But you’ve just had tea.” 
 
 “That doesn’t matter, pour me out some. And you,” said 
 | to my wife, “take our son, and go into the next room 
 or a minute. Please.” 
 
 | And I drank the water with delight in small sips, while 
 ny wife and son were in the next room, and I could not 
 hee them. 
 
 “That’s all right. Now come here. But why is he not 
 in bed by this time?” 
 
 
 
144 THEJRED (LAUGH 
 
 “He is so glad you have come home. Darling, go to 
 your father.”’ 
 
 But the child began to cry and hid himself at his mother’s 
 feet. 
 
 “Why is he crying?” asked I, in perplexity, and looked 
 around, “‘why are you all so pale and silent, following me 
 like shadows?” | 
 
 My brother burst into a loud laugh and said, “We are 
 _ not silent.” 
 
 And my sister said, “We are talking the whole time.” 
 
 “T will go and see about the supper,” said my mother, 
 and hurriedly left the room. 
 
 “Yes, you are silent,” I repeated, with sudden convic- 
 tion. “Since morning I have not heard a word from you; 
 I am the only one who chats, laughs, and makes merry. 
 Are you not glad to see me then?.And why do you all 
 avoid looking at me? Have I changed so? Yes, I am changed. 
 But I do not see any looking-glasses about. Have you put 
 them all away? Give me a looking-glass.” 
 
 “T will bring you one directly,” answered my wife, and 
 did not come back for a long time, and the looking-glass 
 was brought by the maid. I looked into it, and—I had seen 
 myself before in the train, at the station—it was the same 
 face, grown older a little, but the most ordinary face. While 
 they, I believe, expected me to cry out and faint—so glad 
 were they when I asked calmly— 
 
 “What is there so unusual in me?” 
 
 Laughing louder and louder, my sister left the room 
 
THE RED LAUGH 145 
 hurriedly, and my brother said with calm assurance: “Yes, 
 you have not changed much, only grown slightly bald.” 
 
 “You can be thankful that my head is not broken,” 
 answered I, unconcernedly. “But where do they all disap- 
 pear ?—first one, then another. Wheel me about the rooms, 
 please. What a comfortable armchair, it does not make the 
 slightest sound. How much did it cost? You bet I won't 
 spare the money; I will buy myself such a pair of legs, 
 better . . . My bicycle!” 
 
 It was hanging on the wall, quite new, only the tires 
 were limp for want of pumping. A tiny bit of mud had 
 dried to the tire of the back wheel—the last time I had rid- 
 den it. My brother was silent and did not move my chair, 
 and I understood his silence and irresoluteness. 
 
 “Only four officers remained alive in our regiment,” said 
 I, surlily. “I am very lucky... . You can take it for your- 
 self—take it away to-morrow.” 
 
 “All right, I will take 1,” agreed my brother submissively. 
 “Yes, you are lucky. Half of the town is in mourning. 
 While legs—that is really .. .” 
 
 “Of course I am not a postman.” 
 
 My brother stopped suddenly and asked—“But why does 
 your head shake?” 
 
 “That’s nothing. The doctor said it will pass.” 
 
 “And your hands too?” 
 
 “Yes, yes. And my hands too. It will all pass. Wheel me 
 on, please. I am tired of remaining still.” 
 
 They upset me, those discontented people, but my elad- 
 ness returned to me when they began making my bed; а real 
 
146 DHE SRE ЗАЩ СН 
 
 bed, a handsome bed, that I had bought just before ow 
 wedding four years ago. They spread a clean sheet, ther 
 they shook the pillows and turned down the blanket; whik 
 I watched the solemn proceedings, my eyes were full о 
 tears with laughing. 
 
 “And now undress me and put me to bed,” said I к 
 my wife. “How good it 15!” 
 
 “This minute, dear.” 
 
 mOnicker Г’ 
 
 “This minute, dear.” 
 
 “Why; what are you doing?” 
 
 “This minute, dear.” 
 
 She was standing behind my back, near the toilet table 
 and I vainly tried to turn my head so as to see her. And 
 suddenly she gave a cry, such a cry as one hears only at 
 the war— 
 
 “What does it all mean?” 
 
 She rushed towards me, put her arms round me, and fell 
 down, hiding her head near the stumps of my cut-off legs, 
 from which she turned away with horror, and again pressed 
 herself against them, kissing them, and crying 
 
 “What have you become? Why, you are only thirty 
 years old. You were young and handsome. What does it 
 all mean? How cruel men are. What is it for? For 
 whom is it necessary? You, my gentle, poor darling, dar- 
 При.” 
 
 At her cry they all ran up—my mother, sister, nurse 
 —and they all began crying and saying something or other, 
 and fell at my feet wailing. While on the threshold stood 
 
 
 
MEE REDEL A U.GH 147 
 my brother, pale, terribly pale, with a trembling jaw, and 
 cried out in a high-pitched voice 
 
 “TI shall go mad with you all. I shall go mad!” 
 
 While my mother grovelled at my chair and had not 
 the strength to cry, but only gasped, beating her head 
 against the wheels. And there stood the clean bed with 
 the well-shaken pillows and turned-down blanket, the same 
 bed that I bought just before our wedding four years 
 BOF инт 
 
 
 
 FRAGMENT IX 
 
 _.. I was sitting in a warm bath, while my brother was 
 pacing up and down the small room in a troubled manner, 
 sitting down, getting up again, catching hold of the soap and 
 ‘towel, bringing them close up to his short-sighted eyes and 
 again putting them back in their places. At last he stood up 
 with his face to the wall and picking at the plaster with his 
 inger, continued hotly: 
 
 “Judge for yourself: one cannot teach people mercy, 
 sense, logic—teach them to act consciously for tens and 
 qundreds of years running with impunity. And, in particu- 
 ar, to act consciously. One can become merciless, lose all 
 sensitiveness, get accustomed to blood and tears and pain—. 
 for instance butchers, and some doctors and officers do, 
 nut how can one renounce truth, after one has learnt to 
 
148 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 know it? In my opinion it is impossible. I was taught 
 from infancy not to torture animals and be compassionate; 
 all the books that I have read told me the same, and I am 
 painfully sorry for all those that suffer at your cursed 
 war. But time passes, and I am beginning to get accus- 
 tomed to all those deaths, sufferings and all this blood; I 
 feel that I am getting less sensitive, less responsive in my 
 everyday life and respond only to great stimulants, but I 
 cannot get accustomed to war; my brain refuses to under- 
 stand and explain a thing that is senseless in its basis. 
 Millions of people gather at one place and, giving their ac- 
 tions order and regularity, kill each other, and it hurts 
 everybody equally, and all are unhappy—what is it if not 
 madness?” My brother turned round and looked at me 
 inquiringly with his shortsighted, artless eyes. 
 
 “The red laugh,” said I merrily, splashing about. 
 
 “T will tell you the truth,” and my brother put his cold 
 hand trustingly on my shoulder, but quickly pulled it back, 
 as if he was frightened at its being naked and wet. “I 
 will tell you the truth; I am very much afraid of going 
 mad. I cannot understand what is happening. I cannot 
 understand it, and it is dreadful. If only anybody could 
 explain it to me, but nobody can. You were at the front, 
 you saw it all—explain it to me.” 
 
 “Deuce take you,” answered I jokingly, splashing about. 
 
 “There, and you too,” said my brother sadly. “Nobody 
 is capable of helping me. It’s dreadful. And I am begin- 
 ning to lose all understanding of what is permissible and 
 what is not, what has sense and what is senseless. If I 
 
frre) RE Del AU Ge 149 
 were to seize you suddenly by the throat, at first gently, as if 
 ‘aressing you, and then firmly, and strangle you, what would 
 that Бе?” 
 
 “You are talking nonsense. Nobody does such things.” 
 
 My brother rubbed his cold hands, smiled softly, and 
 continued : 
 
 “When you were away there were nights when I did 
 10 sleep, could not sleep, and strange ideas entered my 
 1ead—to take a hatchet, for instance, and go and kill every- 
 »0dy—mother, sister, the servants, our dog. Of course they 
 were only fancies, and I would never do so.” 
 
 “Т should hope not,” smiled I, splashing about. 
 
 “Then again, I am afraid of knives, of all that is sharp 
 ind shining; it seems to me that if I were to take up a 
 csnife I should certainly kill somebody with it. Now, is it 
 qot true—why should I not plunge it into somebody, if 
 { were sharp enough?” 
 
 “The argument is sufficient. What a queer fellow you are, 
 ого ег! Just open the hot-water фар.” 
 
 My brother opened the tap, let in some hot water, and 
 continued : 
 
 “Then, again, I am afraid of crowds—of men, when 
 many of them gather together. When of an evening | 
 hear a noise in the street—a loud shout, for instance—l 
 start and believe that . . . a massacre has begun. When 
 several men stand together, and I cannot hear what they 
 are talking about, it seems to me that they will suddenly 
 ery out, fall upon each other, and blood will flow. And 
 you know’—he bent mysteriously towards my ear—‘the 
 
150 THE, REDGLAUGH 
 
 papers are full of murders—strange murders. It is all non-_ 
 sense that there are as many brains as there are men; man-_ 
 
 kind has only one intellect, and it is beginning to get mud- 
 dled. Just feel my head, how hot it is. It is on fire. And 
 sometimes it gets cold, and everything freezes in it, grows 
 benumbed, and changes into a terrible deadlike piece of ice. 
 I must go mad; don’t laugh, brother, I must go mad. A 
 quarter of an hour has passed, it’s time for you to get 
 out of your bath.” 
 
 “A little bit more. Just a minute.” 
 
 It was so good to be sitting again in that bath and listen- 
 ing to the well-known voice, without reflecting upon the 
 words, and to see all the familiar, simple and ordinary things 
 around me: the brass, slightly-green tap, the walls, with the 
 familiar pattern, and all the photographic outfit laid out in 
 order upon the shelves. I would take up photography again, 
 take simple, peaceful landscapes and portraits of my son 
 walking, laughing and playing. One could do that without 
 legs. And I would take up my writing again—about clever 
 books, the progress of human thought, beauty, and peace. 
 
 “Но, ho, ho!” roared I, splashing about. | 
 
 “What is the matter with you?” asked my brother, grow- 
 ing pale and full of fear. 
 
 “Nothing. I am glad to be home.” 
 
 He smiled at me as one smiles at a child or on one 
 younger than oneself, although I was three years older 
 than he, and grew thoughtful, like a grown-up person or 
 an old man who has great, burdensome old thoughts. 
 
 “Where can one fly to?” he asked, shrugging his shoul- 
 
: THE RED LAUGH 151 
 ders. “Every day, at about the same hour, the papers close 
 the circuit, and all mankind gets a shock. This simul- 
 taneousness of feelings, tears, thoughts, sufferings and hor- 
 ‘ror deprives me of all stay, and I am like a chip of wood 
 ‘tossing about on the waves, or a bit of dust in a whirlwind. 
 I am forcibly torn away from all that is habitual, and there 
 is one terrible moment every morning, when I seem to hang 
 in the air over the black abyss of insanity. And I shall fall 
 into it, I must fall. into it. You don’t know all, brother. 
 You don’t read the papers, and much is held back from you 
 —you don’t know all, brother.” 
 
 | I took all his words for rather a gloomy joke—the usual 
 attitude towards all those who, being touched by insanity, 
 have an inkling of the insanity of war, and gave us а warn- 
 ‘ing. I considered it as a joke, as if I had forgotten for the 
 ‘moment, while I was splashing about in the hot water, all 
 that I had seen over there. “Well, let them hold things 
 back from me, but I must get out of the bath, anyway,” 
 said I lightly, and my brother smiled and called my man, 
 ‘ап together they lifted me out of my bath and dressed 
 me. Afterwards I had some fragrant tea, which I drank 
 out of my cut-glass tumbler, and said to myself that life 
 was worth living even without a pair of legs; and then they 
 wheeled me into the study up to my table and I prepared 
 for work. 
 
 Before the war I was on the staff of a journal review- 
 ing foreign literature, and now, disposed within my reach, 
 lay a heap of those dear, sweet books in yellow, blue and 
 brown covers. My joy was so great, my delight so pro- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
152 ЦН EA RY cD le Agger et 
 
 found, that I could not make up my mind to begin reading 
 them, and I merely fingered the books, passing my hand 
 caressingly over them. I felt a smile spread over my face 
 most probably a very silly smile, but I could not keep if 
 back, as I contemplated admiringly the type, the vignettes, 
 the severe beautiful simplicity of the drawings. How much 
 thought and sense of beauty there was in them all! How 
 many people had to work and search, how much talent anc 
 taste were needed to bring forth that letter, for instance. 
 so simple and elegant, so clever, harmonious and eloquent 
 in its interlaced lines. 
 
 “And now I must set to work,” said I, seriously, full of 
 respect for work. 
 
 And I took up my pen to write the heading and, like a 
 frog tied to a string, my hand began plunging about the 
 paper. The pen stuck into the paper, scratched it, jerked 
 about, slipped irresistibly aside, and brought forth hideous 
 lines, broken, crooked, devoid of all sense. And I did 
 not cry out or move, I grew cold and still as the approach- 
 ing terrible truth dawned upon me; while my hand danced 
 over the brightly illuminated paper, and each finger shook 
 in such hopeless, living, insane horror, as if they, those fin- 
 gers, were still at the front and saw the conflagrations and 
 blood; and heard the groans and cries of undescribable pain. 
 They had detached themselves from me, those madly quiv- 
 ering fingers, they were alive, they had become ears and 
 eyes; and, growing cold from horror, without the strength 
 to move or cry out, I watched their wild dance over the 
 clean, bright white page. 
 
THE RED.LAUGH 153 
 
 And all was quiet. They thought I was working, and 
 had shut all the doors, so as not to interrupt me by any 
 sound—and I was alone in the room, deprived of the power 
 of moving, obediently watching my shaking hands. 
 
 “Tt’s nothing,” said I aloud, and in the stillness and lone- 
 liness of the study my voice sounded hollow and nasty like 
 the voice of a madman. “It is nothing. I will dictate. Why, 
 Milton was blind when he wrote his Paradise Regained. I 
 can think, and that is the chief thing, in fact it is all.” 
 
 And I began inventing a long clever phrase about the 
 blind Milton, but the words got confused, fell away as out 
 of a rotten printing frame, and when I came to. the end 
 of the phrase I had forgotten the beginning. Then I tried 
 to remember what made me begin, and why I was inventing 
 that strange senseless phrase about Milton, and could -not. 
 
 “Paradise Regained, Paradise Regained,” I repeated, and 
 could not understand what it meant. 
 
 And then I saw that I often forgot very many things, 
 that I had become strangely absent-minded, and confused 
 familiar faces; that I forgot words even in a simple con- 
 versation, and sometimes, remembering a word, I could not 
 understand its meaning. And I clearly pictured to myself 
 my daily existence. A strange short day, cut off like my 
 legs, with empty mysterious spaces, long hours of uncon- 
 sciousness or apathy, about which I could remember 
 nothing. 
 
 I wanted to call my wife, but could not remember her 
 name—and this did not surprise or frighten me. Softly 1 
 whispered : 
 
154 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 “Wife!” 
 
 The incoherent, unusual word sounded softly and died 
 away without bringing any response. And all was quiet. 
 They were afraid of disturbing me at my work by any care- 
 less sound, and all was quiet—a perfect study for a savant 
 —cosy, quiet, disposing one to meditation and creative 
 energy. “Dear ones, how solicitous they are of ше!” I 
 thought tenderly. | 
 
 ... And inspiration, sacred inspiration, came to me. The 
 sun burst forth in my head, and its burning creative rays 
 darted over the whole world, dropping flowers and songs— 
 flowers and songs. And I wrote on through the whole night, 
 feeling no exhaustion, but soaring freely on the wings of 
 mighty, sacred inspiration. I was writing something great 
 —something immortal—flowers and songs—flowers and 
 songs. ... 
 
THE RED LAUGH 155 
 
 PART IT 
 
 
 
 FRAGMENT X 
 
 _. . Happrty he died last week on Friday. I say “hap- 
 pily,” and repeat that my brother’s death was a great bless- 
 ing to him. A cripple with no legs, palsied, with a smitten 
 soul, he was terrible and piteous in his senseless creative 
 ecstasy. Ever since that night he wrote for two months, 
 without leaving his chair, refusing all food, weeping and 
 scolding whenever we wheeled him away from his table 
 even for a short time. He moved his dry pen over the 
 paper with wonderful rapidity, throwing aside page after 
 page, and kept on writing and writing. Sleep deserted him, 
 and only twice did we succeed in putting him to bed for a 
 few hours, thanks to a strong narcotic; but, later, even a 
 narcotic was powerless to conquer his senseless creative 
 ecstasy. At his order the curtains were kept drawn over 
 all the windows the whole day long and the lamp was 
 allowed to burn, giving the illusion of night, while he wrote 
 on, smoking one cigarette after another. Apparently he 
 was happy, and I never happened to meet any healthy per- 
 son with such an inspired face—the face of a prophet or 
 of a great poet. He became extremely emaciated, with the 
 waxen transparency of a corpse or of an ascetic, and his 
 hair grew quite grey; he began his senseless work a com- 
 
156 THE*R ED LAGGH 
 
 paratively young man, but finished it an old one. Some; 
 times he hurried on his work, writing more than usual, 
 and his pen would stick into the pages and break, but he 
 never noticed it; at such times one durst not touch him, fot 
 at the slightest contact he was overtaken by fits of tears anc 
 laughter; but sometimes, very rarely, he rested blissfully 
 from his work and talked to me affably, each time asking 
 the same questions: Who was I, what was my name, апс 
 since when had I taken up literature. 
 
 And then he would condescendingly ‘tell, always using 
 the same words, what an absurd fright he had had at the 
 thought that he had lost his memory and was incapable о: 
 work, and how splendidly he had refuted the insane sup: 
 position there and then by beginning his great immortal worl 
 about the flowers and songs. 
 
 “Of course I do not count upon being recognized by 
 my contemporaries,” he would say proudly and unassumingly 
 at the same time, putting his trembling hand on the Веа] 
 of empty sheets, “but the future—the future—will under 
 stand my idea.” 
 
 He never once remembered the war or his wife anc 
 son; the mirage of his endless work engrossed his atten: 
 tion so undividedly that it is doubtful whether he was 
 conscious of anything else. One could walk and talk i 
 his presence—he noticed nothing, and not for an instan 
 did his face lose its expression of terrible tension and in 
 spiration. In the stillness of the night, when everybody wai 
 asleep and he alone wove untiringly the endless threac 
 of insanity, he seemed terrible, and only his mother anc 
 
Е. RE DIBA UGH 157 
 
 ventured to approach him. Once I tried to give him a 
 encil instead of his dry pen, thinking that perhaps he 
 eally wrote something, but on the paper there remained 
 nly hideous lines, broken, crooked, devoid of any sense. And 
 e died in the night at his work. I knew my brother well, and 
 is insanity did not come as a surprise to me; the passionate 
 lream of work that filled all his letters from the war and 
 vas the stay of his life after his return, had to come 
 ato inevitable collision with the impotence of his exhausted, 
 ortured brain, and bring about the catastrophe. And I be- 
 ieve that I have succeeded in reconstructing with sufficient 
 ccuracy the successive feelings that brought him to the 
 nd during that fatal night. Generally speaking, all that 
 ' have written down concerning the war is founded upon 
 he words of my dead brother, often so confused and in- 
 ‘coherent; only a few separate episodes were burnt into his 
 тай so deeply and indelibly that I could cite the very 
 vords that he used in telling me them. I loved him, and his 
 leath weighs upon me like a stone, oppressing my brain by 
 ts senselessness. It has added one more loop to the in- 
 somprehensible that envelops my head like a web, and has 
 frawn it tight. The whole family has left for the country 
 yn a visit to some relatives, and I am alone in the house 
 —the house that my brother loved so. The servants have 
 yeen paid off, and only the porter from the next door comes 
 every morning to light the fires, while the rest of the time 
 [ am alone, and resemble a fly caught between two window- 
 frames,* plunging about and knocking myself against a 
 
 *In Russia the windows have double panes during the winter 
 for the purpose of keeping out the cold—Trans. 
 

 
 158 ££ НЕВЕРНО 
 transparent but insurmountable obstacle. And I feel, I know, 
 that I shall never leave the house. Now, when I am alone, 
 the war possesses me wholly and stands before me like an 
 inscrutable mystery, like a terrible spirit, to which I can 
 give no form. I give it all sorts of shapes: of a headless 
 skeleton on horseback, of a shapeless shadow, born in a black: 
 thundercloud mutely enveloping the earth, but not one of 
 them can give me an answer and extinguish the cold, соп- 
 stant, blunt horror that possesses me. | 
 
 I do not understand war, and I must go mad, like my 
 brother, like the hundreds of men that are sent back from 
 there. And this does not terrify me. The loss of reason 
 seems to me honorable, like the death of a sentry at his 
 post. But the expectancy, the slow and infallible approach 
 of madness, the instantaneous feeling of something enormous 
 falling into an abyss, the unbearable pain of tortured 
 thought. . . . My heart has grown benumbed, it is dead, 
 and there is no new life for it, but thought is still alive— 
 still struggling, once mighty as Samson, but now helpless 
 and weak as a child—and, I am sorry for my poor thought. 
 There are moments when I cannot endure the torture of 
 those iron clasps that are compressing my brain; I feel an 
 irrepressible longing to run out into the street, into the 
 market-place, where there are people and cry out: 
 
 “Stop the war this instant—or else . . .” . 
 
 But what “else” is there? Are there any words that. 
 can make them come to their senses? Words, in answer 
 to which one cannot find just such other loud and lying, 
 words? Or must I fall upon my knees before them and 
 
 
 
THE RED LAUGH 159 
 burst into tears? But then, hundreds of thousands are 
 making the earth resound with their weeping, but does that 
 change anything? Or, perhaps, kill myself before them all? 
 Kill myself! Thousands are dying every day, but does that 
 change anything? 
 
 And when I feel my impotence, I am seized with rage— 
 the rage of war, which I hate. Like the doctor, I long to 
 burn down their houses with all their treasures, their wives 
 and children; to poison the water which they drink; to 
 raise all the killed from their graves and throw the corpses 
 into their unclean houses on to their beds. Let them sleep 
 with them as with their wives or mistresses! 
 
 Oh, if only I were the Devil! I would transplant all the 
 horrors that hell exhales on to their earth. I would become 
 the lord of all their dreams, and, when they cross their chil- 
 dren with a smile before falling asleep, I would rise мр 
 before them a black vision. .. . Yes, I must go mad—only 
 let it come quicker—let it come quicker. ... 
 
 FRAGMENT XI 
 
 ... PRISONERS, a group of trembling, terrified men. When 
 they were led out of the train the crowd gave a roar— 
 the roar of an enormous savage dog, whose chain is too 
 short and not strong enough. The crowd gave a roar and 
 was silent, breathing deeply,-while they advanced in a сот- 
 
160 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 pact group with their hands in their pockets, smiling with 
 their white lips as if currying favour, and stepping out in 
 such a manner as if somebody was just going to strike 
 them with a long stick under their knees from behind. But 
 one of them walked at a short distance from the others, 
 calm, serious, without a smile, and: when my eyes met his 
 black ones I saw bare open hatred in them. I saw clearly 
 that he despised me and thought me capable of anything; 
 if I were to begin killing him, unarmed as he was, he would 
 not have cried out or tried to defend or right himself—he 
 considered me capable of anything. 
 
 I ran along together with the crowd, to meet his gaze 
 once more, and only succeeded as they were entering a 
 house. He went in the last, letting his companions pass 
 before him, and glanced at me once more. And then ] 
 saw such pain, such an abyss of horror and insanity if 
 his big black eyes, as if I had looked into the most wretchec 
 soul on earth. 
 
 “Who is that with the eyes?’ I asked of a soldier ol 
 the escort. 
 
 “An officer—a madman. There are many such.” 
 
 “What is his name?” 
 
 “Не does not say. And his countrymen don’t know him 
 A stranger they picked up. He has been saved from hanging 
 himself once already, but what is there to be done!” . . 
 and the soldier made a vague gesture and disappeared и 
 the door. 
 
 And now, this evening I am thinking of him. He № 
 alone amidst the enemy, who, in his opinion, are capabl 
 
ЗЫ RED LAUGH 161 
 of doing anything with him, and his own people do not 
 <now him. He keeps silence and waits patiently for the 
 moment when he will be able to go out of this world alto- 
 zether. I do not believe that he is mad, and he is no coward; 
 ae was the only one who held himself with dignity in 
 that group of trembling, terrified men, whom apparently he 
 Joes not regard as his own people. What is he thinking 
 ibout? What a depth of despair must be in the soul of 
 that man, who, dying, does not wish to name himself. Why 
 vive his name? He has done with life and men, he has 
 xrasped their real value and notices none around him, either 
 ais own people or strangers, shout, rage and threaten as 
 they will. I made inquiries about him. He was taken in the 
 last terrible battle during which several tens of thousands 
 of men lost their lives and he showed no resistance when 
 he was being taken prisoner: he was unarmed for 
 some reason or other, and, when the soldier, not having 
 noticed it, struck him with his sword he did not get up or 
 try to act in self-defence. But the wound, unhappily for 
 him, was a slight one. 
 
 But, maybe, he is really mad? The soldier said there 
 were many such... . 
 
 
 
162 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 FRAGMENT XII 
 
 ... IT 1s beginning. When I entered my brother’s study 
 yesterday evening he was sitting in his armchair at his 
 table heaped with books. The hallucination disappeared 
 the moment I lighted a candle, but for a long time I could 
 not bring myself to sit down in the armchair that he had 
 occupied. At first it was terrifying—the empty rooms in 
 which one was constantly hearing rustlings and crackings 
 were the cause of this dread, but afterwards I even liked 
 it—better he than somebody else. Nevertheless, I did not 
 leave the armchair the whole evening; it seemed to me 
 that if I were to get up he would instantly sit down in my 
 place. And I left the room very quickly without looking 
 round. The lamps ought to have been lit in all the rooms, 
 but was it worth while? It would have been perhaps worse 
 if I had seen anything by lamp-light—as it was, there was 
 still room for doubt. 
 
 To-day I entered with a candle and there was nobody 
 in the armchair. Evidently it must have been only a 
 shadow. Again I went to the station—I go there every 
 morning now—and saw a whole carriage full of our mad 
 soldiers. It was not opened, but shunted on to another 
 line, and I had time to see several faces through the win- 
 dows. They were terrible, especially one. Fearfully drawn, 
 the colour of a lemon, with an open black mouth and 
 fixed eyes, it was so like a mask of horror that I could not 
 tear my eyes away from it. And it stared at me, the whole 
 
en ERD esa Ue FL 163 
 of it, and was motionless, and glided past together with 
 the moving carriage, just as motionless, without the slight- 
 est change, never transferring its gaze for an instant. If 
 it were to appear before me this minute in that dark door, 
 I do not believe I should be able to hold out. I made in- 
 quiries: there were twenty-two men. The infection is 
 spreading. The papers are hushing up something and, I 
 believe, there is something wrong in our town too. Black, 
 closely-shut carriages have made their appearance—l 
 counted six during one day in different parts of the town. I 
 suppose I shall also go off in one of them one of these 
 days. 
 
 And the papers clamour for fresh troops and more blood 
 every day, and I am beginning to understand less and less 
 what it all means. Yesterday I read an article full of 
 suspicion, stating that there were many spies and traitors 
 amongst the people, warning us to be cautious and mindful, 
 and that the wrath of the people would not fail to find 
 out the guilty, What guilty, and guilty of what? As I 
 was returning from the station in the tram, I heard a 
 strange conversation, I suppose in reference to the same 
 article. 
 
 “They ought to be all hung without any trial,” said one, 
 looking scrutinisingly at me and all the passengers. “Traitors 
 ought to be hung, yes.” | 
 
 “Without any mercy,” confirmed the other. “They’ve been 
 shown mercy enough!” 
 
 I jumped out of the tram. The war was making every- 
 body shed tears, and they were crying too—why, what did 
 
164 THEARED LAUGH 
 
 it mean? A bloody mist seemed to have enveloped thy 
 earth, hiding it from our gaze, and I was beginning to think 
 that the moment of the universal catastrophe was approach 
 ing. The red laugh that my brother saw. The madness wai 
 coming from over there, from those bloody burnt-out fields 
 and I felt its cold breath in the air. 1 am a strong mai 
 and have none of those illnesses that corrupt the body 
 bringing in their train the corruption of the brain also, bu 
 I see the infection catching me, and half of my thought 
 belong to me no longer. It is worse than the plague an 
 its horrors. One can hide from the plague, take measures 
 but how can one hide from all-penetrating thought, tha 
 knows neither distances nor obstacles? 
 
 In the daytime I can still fight against it, but durin) 
 the night I become, as everybody else does, the slave o 
 my dreams—and my dreams are terrible and full of mad 
 ness. ... 
 
 FRAGMENT XIII 
 
 ... UNrversAL mob-fights, senseless and sanguinary. Th 
 slightest provocation gives rise to the most savage clul 
 law, knives, stones, logs of wood coming into action, an 
 it is all the same who is being killed—red blood asks 1 
 be let loose, and flows willingly and plentifully. 
 
 There were six of them, all peasants, and they wei 
 
BE RED CLA UGH 165. 
 ето led by three soldiers with loaded guns. In their quaint 
 yeasant’s dress, simple and primitive like a _ savage’s, 
 vith their quaint countenances, that seemed as if made 
 4 clay and adorned with felted wool instead of hair, 
 n the streets of a rich town, under the escort of disci- 
 ined soldiers—they resembled slaves of the antique world. 
 Chey were being led off to the war, and they moved along 
 n obedience to the bayonets as innocent and dull as cattle 
 ed to the slaughter-house. In front walked a youth, tall, 
 reardless, with a long goose neck, at the end of which 
 vas a motionless little head. His whole body was bent for- 
 vard like a switch, and he stared at the ground under 
 из feet as fixedly as if his gaze penetrated into the very 
 lepths of the earth. The last in the group was a man of 
 mall stature, bearded and middle-aged; he had no desire 
 f resistance, and there was no thought in his eyes, but 
 he earth attracted his feet, gripped them tightly, not let- 
 ing them loose, and he advanced with his body thrown 
 ack, as if struggling against a strong wind. And at each 
 tep the soldier gave him a push with the butt-end of his 
 ifle, and one leg, tearing itself from the earth, convul- 
 ively thrust itself forward, while the other still stuck 
 ightly. The faces of the soldiers were weary and angry, 
 nd evidently they had been marching so for a long time; 
 me felt they were tired and indifferent as to how they 
 arried their guns and how they marched, keeping no step, 
 vith their feet turned in like countrymen. The senseless, 
 ingering and silent resistance—of the peasants, seemed to 
 ave dimmed their disciplined brains, and they had ceased 
 
ag 9 
 
 166 THE ВЕР! LAUGH 
 to understand where they were going and what their coal 
 was. 
 
 “Where are you leading them to?” I asked of one of the 
 soldiers. He started, glanced at me, and in the keen flash 
 of his eyes I felt the bayonet as distinctly as if it were 
 already at my breast. 
 
 “Go away!” said the soldier; “go away, or else . 
 
 The middle-aged man took advantage of the moment and 
 ran away; he ran with a light trot up to the iron railings 
 of the boulevard and sat down on his heels, as if he 
 were hiding. No animal would have acted so stupidly, so 
 senselessly. But the soldier became savage. I saw him go 
 close up to him, stoop down and, thrusting his gun into 
 the left hand, strike something soft and flat with the right 
 one. And then again. A crowd was gathering. Laughter 
 and shouts were heard.... 
 
 39 
 
 FRAGMENT XIV 
 
 ‚ In the eleventh row of stalls. Somebody’s arms were 
 bb estinit closely against me on my right- and left-hand side 
 while far around me in the semi-darkness stuck out mo: 
 tionless heads, tinged with red from the lights upon the 
 stage. And gradually the mass of people, confined in tha’ 
 narrow space, filled me with horror. Everybody was silent 
 listening to what was being said on the stage or, perhaps 
 
MHE RED‘LAUGH 167 
 thinking out his own thoughts, but as they were many 
 they were more audible, for all their silence, than the loud 
 voices of the actors. They were coughing, blowing their 
 noses, making a noise with their feet and clothes, and I 
 could distinctly hear their deep, uneven breathing, that 
 was heating the air. They were terrible, for each of them 
 could become a corpse, and they all had senseless brains. 
 In the calmness of those well-brushed heads, resting upon 
 white, stiff collars, 1 felt a hurricane of madness ready to 
 burst every second. 
 
 My hands grew cold as I thought how many and how 
 terrible they were, and how far away I was from the 
 entrance. They were calm, but what if 1 were to cry out 
 “Fire!” ... And full of terror, I experienced a painfully 
 passionate desire, of which I cannot think without my 
 hands growing cold and moist. Who could hinder me from 
 crying out—yes, standing up, turning round and crying out: 
 “Fire! Save yourselves—fre!” 
 
 A convulsive wave of madness would overwhelm their 
 still limbs. They would jump up, yelling and howling like 
 animals; they would forget that they had wives, sisters, 
 mothers, and would begin casting themselves about like men 
 stricken with sudden blindness, in their madness throttling 
 each other with their white fingers fragrant with scent. 
 The light would be turned on, and somebody with an ashen 
 face would appear upon the stage, shouting that all was 
 in order and that there was no fire, and the music, trem- 
 bling and halting, would begin playing something wildly 
 merry—but they would be deaf to everything—they would 
 
 
 
 
 
168 THE RED LAUGH | 
 be throttling, trampling, and beating the heads of the 
 women, demolishing their ingenious, cunning headdresses, 
 They would tear at each other’s ears, bite off each other’s 
 noses, and tear the very clothes off each other’s bodies, 
 feeling no shame, for they would be mad. Their sensitive, 
 delicate, beautiful, adorable women would scream and 
 writhe helplessly at their feet, clasping their knees, still 
 believing in their generosity—while they would beat them 
 viciously upon their beautiful upturned faces, trying to 
 force their way towards the entrance. For men are al- 
 ways murderers, and their calmness and generosity is the 
 calmness of a well-fed animal, that knows itself out of 
 danger. 
 
 And when, having made corpses of half their number, 
 they would gather at the entrance in a trembling, tattered 
 group of shamefaced animals, with a false smile upon their 
 lips, I would go on the stage and say with a laugh: 
 
 “It has all happened because you killed my brother.” Yes, 
 I would say with a laugh: “It has all happened because 
 you killed my brother.” 
 
 I must have whsipered something aloud, for my neigh- 
 bor on the right-hand side moved angrily in his chair and 
 said: 
 
 “Hush! You are interrupting.” 
 
 I felt merry and wanted to play a joke. Assuming a 
 warning severe expression, I stooped towards him. 
 
 “What is 11?’ he asked suspiciously. “Why do you look 
 at me so?” 
 
 “Hush, I implore you, 
 
 ” whispered I with my lips. “Do 
 | 
 
 | 
 я 
 
THE RED LAUGH 169 
 you not perceive a smell of burning? There is a fire in the 
 theatre.” 
 
 He had enough power of will and good sense not to 
 cry out. His face grew pale, his eyes starting out of their 
 sockets and almost protruding over his cheeks, enormous 
 as bladders, but he did not cry out. He rose quietly and, 
 without even thanking me, walked totteringly towards 
 the entrance, convulsively keeping back his steps. He was 
 afraid of the others guessing about the fire and preventing 
 him getting away—him, the only one worthy of being 
 saved. 
 
 I felt disgusted and left the theatre also; besides I did 
 not want to make known my incognito too soon. In the 
 street I looked towards that part of the sky where the war 
 was raging; everything was calm, and the night clouds, 
 yellow from the lights of the town, were slowly and calmly 
 drifting past. 
 
 “Perhaps it is only a dream, and there is no war?” thought 
 I, deceived by the stillness of the sky and town. 
 
 But a boy sprang out from behind a corner, crying 
 joyously : 
 
 “A terrible battle. Enormous losses. Buy a list of tele- 
 grams—night telegrams!” 
 
 I read it by the light of the street lamp. Four thousand 
 dead. In the theatre, I should say, there were not more 
 than one thousand. And the whole way home I kept repeating 
 —“Four thousand dead.” 
 
 Now I am afraid of returning to my empty house. When 
 I put my key into the lock and look at the dumb, flat 
 
170 THE RED LAUGH | 
 door, I can feel all Из dark empty rooms behind it, which, 
 however, the next minute, a man in a hat would pass” 
 through, looking furtively around him. I know the way 
 well, but on the stairs I begin lighting match after match, 
 until I find a candle. I never enter my brother’s study, 
 and it is locked with all that it contains. And I sleep in 
 the dining-room, whither I have shifted altogether; there 
 I feel calmer, for the air seems to have still retained the 
 traces of talking and laughing, and the merry clang of 
 dishes. Sometimes I distinctly hear the scraping of a dry 
 pen—and when I lie down on my bed... 
 
 FRAGMENT XV 
 
 . . . THAT absurd and terrible dream. It seemed as if the 
 skull had been taken off my brain and, bared and unpro- 
 tected, it submissively and greedily imbibed all the horrors 
 of those bloody and senseless days. I was lying curled up, 
 occupying only five feet of space, while my thought em- 
 braced the whole world. I saw with the eyes of all mankind, 
 and listened with its ears; I died with the killed, sorrowed 
 and wept with all that were wounded and left behind, 
 and, when blood flowed out of anybody’s body, I felt the 
 pain of the wound and suffered. Even all that had not 
 happened and was far away, I saw as clearly as if it had 
 
DHE RED DAUGH 171 
 happened and was close by, and there was no end to the 
 sufferings of my bared brain. 
 
 Those children, those innocent little children. I saw them 
 in the street playing at war and chasing each other, and 
 one of them was already crying in a high-pitched, childish 
 voice—and something shrank within me from horror and 
 disgust. And I went home; night came on—and in flery 
 dreams, resembling midnight conflagrations, those innocent 
 little children changed into a band of child-murderers. 
 
 - Something was ominously burning in a broad red glare, 
 and in the smoke there swarmed monstrous, misshapen 
 children, with heads of grown-up murderers. They were 
 jumping lightly and nimbly, like young goats at play, and 
 were breathing with difficulty, like sick people. Their mouths, 
 resembling the jaws of toads or frogs, opened widely and 
 convulsively; behind the transparent skin of their naked 
 bodies the red blood was coursing angrily—and they were 
 killing each other at play. They were the most terrible 
 of all that I had seen, for they were little and could pene- 
 trate everywhere. 
 
 I was looking out of the window and one of the little 
 ones noticed me, smiled, and with his eyes asked me to let 
 him in. 
 
 “T want to go to you,” he said. 
 
 “You will kill me.” 
 
 “I want to go to you,” he said, growing suddenly pale, 
 and began scrambling up the white wall like a rat—just like 
 a hungry rat. He kept losing his footing, and squealed and 
 
 
 
172 THE RED LAUGH 
 darted about the wall with such rapidity that I could not 
 follow his impetuous, sudden movements. | 
 
 “He can crawl in under the door,” said I to myself with 
 horror, and as if he had guessed my thoughts, he grew thin 
 and long and, waving the end of his tail rapidly, he crawled 
 into the dark crack under the front door. But I had time 
 to hide myself under the blanket, and heard him searching 
 for me in the dark rooms, cautiously stepping along with 
 his tiny bare foot. He approached my room very slowly, 
 stopping now and then, and at last entered it; but I did not 
 hear any sound, either rustle or movement, for a long time, 
 as if there was nobody near my bed. And then somebody’s 
 little hand began lifting up the edge of the coverlet, and 1 
 could feel the cold air of the room upon my face and chest. 
 I held the blanket tightly, but it persisted in lifting itself up 
 on all sides; and all of a sudden my feet became so cold, as 
 if I had dipped them into water. Now they are lying un- 
 protected in the chill darkness of the room, and he was 
 looking at them. 
 
 In the yard, behind the house, a dog barked and was 
 silent, and I heard the trail of the chain as it went into its 
 kennel. But he still watched my naked feet and kept silence; 
 I knew he was there by the unendurable horror that was 
 binding me like death with a stony, sepulchral immobility. 
 Н I could have cried out, I would have awakened the whole 
 town, the whole world, but my voice was dead within me, 
 and I lay submissive and motionless, feeling the little cold 
 hands moving over my body and nearing my throat. 
 
 “T cannot!” I groaned, gasping and waking up for an 
 
THE RED LAUGH 173 
 nstant, I saw the vigilant darkness of the night, mysterious 
 ind living, and again I believe I fell asleep. ... 
 
 “Don’t fear,” said my brother, sitting down upon my bed, 
 ind the bed creaked, so heavy was he—dead. “Never fear, 
 rou see it is a dream. You only imagine that you were 
 еп strangled, while in reality you are asleep in the dark 
 ‘ooms, where there is not a soul, and I am in my study 
 умно. Nobody understood what I wrote about, and you. 
 lerided me as one insane, but now I will tell you the truth. 
 ‚ ат writing about the red laugh. Do you see it?” 
 
 : Something enormous, red and bloody, was standing be- 
 ‘ore me, laughing a toothless laugh. 
 
 “That is the red laugh. When the earth goes mad, it 
 yegins to laugh like that. You know, the earth has gone 
 nad. There are no more flowers or songs on it; it has 
 yecome round, smooth and red like a scalped head. Do you 
 ee Tut, 
 
 “Yes, I see it. It is laughing.” 
 
 “Look what its brain is like. It is red, like bloody por- 
 ‘idge, and is muddled.” 
 
 “Tt is crying out.” 
 
 “It is in pain. It has no flowers or songs. And now— 
 et me lie down upon you.” 
 
 “You are heavy and I am afraid.” 
 
 “We, the dead, lie down on the living. Do you feel 
 warm ?” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 “Are you comfortable ?” 
 
 “T am dying.” 
 
 
 
174 THE RED LAUGH 
 “Awake and cry out. Awake and cry out. I am going 
 SWAY alesse 
 
 FRAGMENT XVI 
 
 ... То-рду is the eighth day of the battle. It began last 
 Friday, and Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednes- 
 day and Thursday have passed—and Friday has come again 
 and is gone—and it is still going on. Both armies, hundreds 
 of thousands of men, are standing in front of each other, 
 never flinching, sending explosive, crashing projectiles 
 without stopping, and every instant living men are turned 
 into corpses. The roar and incessant vibration of the air 
 has made the very sky shudder and gather black thunder- 
 clouds above their heads—while they continue to stand 
 in front of each other, never flinching and still killing 
 each other. If a man does not sleep for three nights, he 
 becomes ill and loses his memory, but they have not slept 
 for a whole week, and are all mad. That is why they feel 
 no pain, do not retreat, and go on fighting until they have 
 killed all to the last man. They say that some of the 
 detachments came to the end of their ammunition, but 
 still they fought on, using their fists and stones, and biting 
 each other like dogs. If the remnants of those regiments 
 return home, they will have canine teeth like wolves—but 
 they will not return, they have gone mad and die, every 
 man of them. They have gone mad. Everything is mud- 
 
SHE CREDsDA UGH 175 
 dled in their heads, and they cease to understand anything! 
 If they were to be turned round suddenly and sharply, they 
 would begin firing at their own men, thinking that they 
 were firing at the enemy. 
 
 Strange rumours—strange rumours that are told in a 
 whisper, those repeating them turning white from horror 
 and dreadful forebodings. Brother, brother, listen what is 
 being told of the red laugh! They say phantom regiments 
 have appeared, large bands of shadows, the exact copy of 
 living men. At night, when the men forget themselves for 
 an instant in sleep, or in the thick of the day’s fight, when 
 the bright day itself seems a phantom, they suddenly ap- 
 pear, firing out of phantom guns, filling the air with phan- 
 tom noises; and men, living but insane men, astounded by 
 the suddenness of the attack, fight to the death against 
 the phantom enemy, go mad from horror, become grey in 
 an instant and die. The phantoms disappear as suddenly 
 as they appear, and all becomes still, while the earth is 
 strewn with fresh mutilated bodies. Who killed them? You 
 know, brother, who killed them. When there is а lull 
 between two battles and the enemy is far off, suddenly 
 in the darkness of the night there resounds а solitary, 
 frightened shot. And all jump up and begin firing into the 
 darkness, into the silent dumb darkness, for a long time, 
 for whole hours. Whom do they see there? Whose terrible, 
 silent shape, full of horror and madness appears before 
 them? You know, brother, and I know, but men do not 
 know yet, but they have a foreboding, and ask, turning pale: 
 
176 THE RED LAUGH 
 “Why are there so many madmen? Before there never 
 used to be so many.” 
 
 “Before there never used to be so many madmen,” they 
 say, turning pale, trying to believe that now it is as be- 
 fore, and that the universal violence done to the brains of 
 humanity would have no effect upon their weak little 
 intellects. | | 
 
 “Why, men fought before and always have fought, and 
 nothing of the sort happened. Strife is a law of nature,” 
 they say with conviction and calmness, growing pale, never- 
 theless, seeking for the doctor with their eyes, and calling 
 out hurriedly: “Water, quick, a glass of water!” 
 
 They would willingly become idiots, those people, only 
 not to feel their intellect reeling and their reason succumbing 
 in the hopeless combat with insanity. 
 
 In those days, when men over there were constantly being 
 turned into corpses, I could find no peace, and sought the 
 society of my fellow-men; and I heard many conversations 
 and saw many false smiling faces, that asserted that the 
 war was far off and in no way concerned them. But much 
 oftener I met naked, frank horror, hopeless, bitter tears 
 and frenzied cries of despair, when the great Mind itself 
 cried out of man its last prayer, its last curse, with all the 
 intensity of its power: 
 
 “Whenever will the senseless carnage end?” 
 
 At the home of some friends, whom I had not seen for a 
 long time, perhaps several years, I unexpectedly met a mad 
 officer, invalided from the war. He was a school fellow of 
 
 mine, but I did not recognise him: if he had lain for a year in 
 
PIE RED LAUGH 177 
 his grave, he would have returned more like himself than 
 he was then. His hair was grey and his face quite white, 
 his features were but little changed—but he was always 
 silent, and seemed to be listening to something, and this 
 stamped upon his face a look of such formidable remote- 
 ness, such indifference to all around him, that it was fearful 
 to talk to him. His relatives were told he went mad in the 
 following circumstances: they were in the reserve, while 
 the neighboring regiment was ordered to make a bayonet 
 charge. The men rushed shouting “Hurrah” so loudly as 
 almost to drown the noise of the cannon—and suddenly the 
 guns ceased firing, the “Hurrah” ceased also, and a sepul- 
 chral stillness ensued: they had run up to the enemy and 
 were charging him with their bayonets. And his reason suc- 
 cumbed to that stillness. 
 
 Now he is calm when people make a noise around him, 
 talk and shout, he listens and waits; but if only there is a 
 moment’s silence, he catches hold of his head, rushes up 
 to the wall or against the furniture, and falls down in a fit 
 resembling epilepsy. He has many relations, and they take 
 turns and surround him with sound, but there remain the 
 nights, long solitary nights—but here his father, a grey- 
 haired old man, slightly wandering in his mind too, helped. 
 He hung the walls of his son’s room with loudly ticking 
 clocks, that constantly struck the hour at different times, and 
 at present he is arranging a wheel, resembling an incessantly 
 going rattle. None of them lose hope that he will recover, 
 as he is only twenty-seven, and their house is even gay. He 
 is dressed very cleanly—not in his uniform—great care is 
 
178 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 taken of his appearance, and he is even handsome with his 
 white hair, young, thoughtful face and well-bred, slow, tired 
 movements, 
 
 When I was told all, I went up and kissed his hand, his 
 white, languid hand, which will never more be lifted for a 
 blow—and this did not seem to surprise anybody very much. 
 Only his young sister smiled at me with her eyes, and after- 
 wards showed me such attention that it seemed as if I were 
 her betrothed and she loved me more than anybody in the 
 world. She showed me such attention that I very nearly 
 told her about my dark empty rooms, in which I am worse 
 than alone—miserable heart, that never loses hope. . . . And 
 she managed it so that we remained alone. 
 
 “How pale you are and what dark rings you have under 
 your eyes,” she said kindly. “Are you ill? Are you grieving 
 for your brother ?” 
 
 “I am grieving for everybody. And I do not feel well.” 
 
 “I know why you kissed my brother’s hand. They did 
 not understand. Because he is mad, yes?” 
 
 “Yes, because he is mad.” 
 
 She grew thoughtful and looked very much like her 
 brother, only younger. 
 
 “And will you,’ she stopped and blushed, but did not 
 lower her eyes, “will you let me kiss your hand?” 
 
 I kneeled before her and said: “Bless ше.” | 
 
 She paled slightly, drew back and whispered with her 
 lips: > 
 
 “Т do not believe.” 
 
 “And I also.” 
 
 
 
THE RED LAUGH 179 
 
 For an instant her hand touched my head, and the instant 
 was gone. 
 
 “Do you know,” she said, “I am ieaving for the маг?” 
 
 “Go! But you will not be able to bear it.” 
 
 “T do not know. But they need help, the same as you or 
 my brother. It is not their fault. Will you remember те?” 
 
 “Yes. And you?” 
 
 “And I will remember you too. Good-bye!” 
 
 “Good-bye for ever!” 
 
 And I grew calm and felt happier, as if I had passed 
 through the most terrible that there is in death and madness. 
 And yesterday, for the first time, I entered my house calmly 
 without any fear, and opened my brother’s study and sat 
 for a long time at his table. And when in the night I sud- 
 denly awoke as if from a push, and heard the scraping of 
 the dry pen upon the paper, I was not frightened, but thought 
 to myself, almost with a smile: 
 
 “Work on, brother, work on! Your pen is "not dry, it is 
 steeped in living human blood. Let your paper seem empty 
 —in its ominous emptiness it is more eloquent of war and 
 reason than all that is written by the most clever men. Work 
 on, brother, work on!” 
 
 . And this morning I read that the battle is still raging, 
 and again I was possessed with a dread fear and a feeling 
 of something falling upon my brain. It is coming, it 1s 
 here; it is already standing upon the threshold of these 
 empty, light rooms. Remember, remember me, dear girl; I 
 am going mad. Thirty thousand dead, thirty thousand 
 dead! . 
 
180 THE RED LAUGH 
 FRAGMENT XVII 
 
 ... A FIGHT is going on in the town. There are dark and 
 dreadful rumours... . 
 
 FRAGMENT XVIII 
 
 Тн1$ morning, looking through the endless list of killed 
 in the newspaper, I saw a familiar name; my sister’s af- 
 fianced husband, an officer called for military service at the 
 same time as my dead brother, was killed. And, an hour 
 later, the postman handed me a letter addressed to my 
 brother, and I recognized the handwriting of the deceased 
 on the envelope: the dead was writing to the dead. But 
 still it was better so than the dead writing to the living. A 
 mother was pointed out to me who kept receiving letters 
 from her son for a whole month after she had read of his 
 terrible death in the papers: he had been torn to pieces by 
 a shell. He was a fond son, and each letter was full of 
 endearing and encouraging words and youthful, naive hopes 
 of happiness. He was dead, but wrote of life with a fearful 
 accuracy every day, and the mother ceased to believe in his 
 death; and when a day passed without any letter, then a 
 second and a third, and the endless silence of death ensued, 
 she took a large old-fashioned revolver belonging to her 
 
 son in both hands, and shot herself in the breast. I believe 
 
 she survived, but I am not sure; I never heard. 
 
 I looked at the envelope for a long time, and thought: 
 
 eee 
 
THE RED LAUGH 181 
 He held it in his hands, he bought it somewhere, he gave 
 the money to pay for it, and his servant went to fetch it 
 from some shop; he sealed and perhaps posted it himself. 
 Then the wheel of the complex machine called “post” came 
 into action, and the letter glided past forest, fields and 
 towns, passing from hand to hand, but rushing infallibly 
 towards its destination. He put on his boots that last morn- 
 ing, while it went gliding on; he was killed, but it glided on; 
 he was thrown into a pit and covered up with dead bodies 
 and earth, while it still glided on past forests, fields and 
 towns, a living phantom in a grey stamped envelope. And 
 now I| was holding it in my hands. 
 
 Here are the contents of the letter. It was written with 
 a pencil on scraps of paper, and was not finished: some- 
 thing interfered. 
 
 “... Only now do I understand the great joy of war, 
 the ancient, primitive delight of killing man—clever, schem- 
 ing, artful man, immeasurably more interesting than the 
 most ravenous animal. To be ever taking life is as good 
 as playing at lawn-tennis with planets and stars. Poor 
 friend, what a pity you are not with us, but are constrained 
 to weary away your time amidst an unleavened daily exist- ` 
 ence! In the atmosphere of death you would have found 
 all that your restless, noble heart yearned for. А bloody 
 feast—what truth there is in this somewhat hackneyed 
 comparison! We go about up to our knees in blood, and 
 this red wine, as my jolly men call it in jest, makes our 
 heads swim. To drink the blood of one’s enemy is not at 
 
182 THE RED LAUGH 
 all such a stupid custom as we think: they knew what they 
 were doing. ... 
 
 “. . . The crows are cawing. Do you hear, the crows 
 are cawing. From whence have they all gathered? The 
 sky is black with them; they settle down beside us, having 
 lost all fear, and follow us everywhere; and we are always 
 underneath them, like under a black lace sunshade or a 
 moving tree with black leaves. One of them approached 
 quite close to my face and wanted to peck at it: he thought, 
 most probably, that I was dead. The crows are cawing, 
 and this troubles me a little. From whence have they all 
 meachered fs," % 
 
 se . Yesterday we stabbed them all sleeping. We 
 approached stealthily, scarcely touching the ground with our 
 feet, as if we were stalking wild ducks. We stole up to 
 them so skilfully and cautiously that we did not touch a 
 corpse and did not scare one single crow. We stole up like 
 shadows, and the night hid us. I killed the sentry myself— 
 knocked him down and strangled him with my hands, so as 
 not to let him cry out. You understand: the slightest sound, 
 and all would have been lost. But he did not cry out; he 
 had no time, I believe, even to guess that he was being 
 killed. 
 
 “They were all sleeping around the smouldering fires— 
 sleeping peacefully, as if they were at home in their beds. 
 We hacked about us for more than an hour, and only a 
 few had time to awake before they received their death- 
 blow. They howled, and of course begged for mercy. 
 They used their teeth. One bit off a finger on my left hand, 
 
 Я 
 j 
 
 Е, 
 
 есле: рае 
 
TRE RE DALLA UGH 183 
 with which I was incautiously holding his head. He bit off 
 my finger, but I twisted his head clean off: how do you 
 think—are we quits? How they did not all wake up I 
 cannot imagine. One could hear their bones crackling and 
 their bodies being hacked. Afterwards we _ stripped all 
 aaked and divided their clothes amongst ourselves. My 
 friend, don’t get angry over a joke. With your suscepti- 
 Шу you will say this savours of marauding, but then we 
 are almost naked ourselves; our clothes are quite worn-out. 
 [ have been wearing a woman’s jacket for a long time, and 
 
 resemble more a... than an officer of a victorious army. 
 By the bye, you are, I believe, married, and it is not quite 
 right for you to read such things. But ... you under- 
 
 stand? Women. D—n it, I am young, and thirst for love! 
 Stop a minute: I believe it was you who was engaged to 
 ye married? It was you, was it not, who showed me the por- 
 тай of a young girl and told me she was your promised 
 oride?—and there was something sad, something very sad 
 and mournful underneath it. And you cried. That was a 
 ‘ong time ago, and I remember it but confusedly; there is 
 по time for softness at war. And you cried. What did 
 you cry about? What was there written that was as sad 
 and mournful as a drooping flower? And you kept crying 
 and bee . . . Were you not ashamed, an officer, to cry? 
 
 “.. . The crows are cawing. Do you hear, friend, the 
 crows are cawing. What do they want?” 
 
 Further on the pencil-written lines were effaced and it 
 was impossible to decipher the signature. And strange to 
 say the dead man called forth no compassion in me. I dis- 
 
 
 
184 THE URED LAUGH 
 
 tinctly pictured to myself his face, in which all was soft 
 and delicate as a woman’s: the color of his cheeks, the 
 clearness and morning freshness of the eyes, the beard so 
 bushy and soft, that a woman could almost have adorned 
 herself with it. He liked books, flowers and music, feared 
 all that was coarse, and wrote poetry—my brother, as a 
 critic, declared that he wrote very good poetry. And I 
 could not connect all that I knew and remembered of him 
 with the cawing crows, bloody carnage and death. 
 
 . The crows are cawing. 
 
 Ава suddenly for one mad, Е happy instant, I 
 clearly saw that all was a lie and that there was no war. 
 There were no killed, no corpses, there was no anguish of 
 reeling, helpless thought. I was sleeping on my back апа. 
 seeing a dream, as I used to in my childhood: the silent 
 dread rooms, devastated by death and terror, and myself 
 with a wild letter in my hand. My brother was living, and 
 they were all sitting at the tea-table, and I could hear the 
 noise of the crockery. 
 
 . The crows are cawing.... 
 
 No, it is but true. Unhappy earth, it is true. The crows 
 are cawing. It is not the invention of an idle scribbler, 
 aiming at cheap effects, or of a madman, who has lost his 
 senses. The crows are cawing. Where is my brother? He 
 was noble-hearted and gentle and wished no one evil. 
 Where is he? I am asking you, you cursed murderers. I 
 am asking you, you cursed murderers, crows sitting on 
 carrion, wretched, imbecile animals, before the whole world. 
 For you are animals. What did you kill my brother for? 
 

 
 THE RED LAUGH 185 
 If you had a face, I would give you a blow upon it, but 
 you have no face, you have only the snout of a wild beast. 
 You pretend that you are men, but I see claws under your 
 gloves and the flat skull of an animal under your hat; hidden 
 beneath your clever conversation I hear insanity rattling its 
 rusty chains. And with all the power of my grief, my 
 anguish and dishonored thought—I curse you, you wretched, 
 imbecile animals! 
 
 FRAGMENT THE LAST 
 
 “... We look to you for the regeneration of human 
 life!” 
 
 So shouted a speaker, holding on with difficulty to a 
 small pillar, balancing himself with his arms, and waving a 
 flag with a large inscription half-hidden in its folds: “Down 
 with the war!” 
 
 “You, who are young, you, whose lives are only just 
 beginning, save yourselves and the future generations from 
 this horror, from this madness. It is unbearable, our eyes 
 are drowned with blood. The sky is falling upon us, the 
 earth is giving way under our feet. Kind people . . .” 
 
 The crowd was buzzing enigmatically and the voice of 
 the speaker was drowned at times in the living threatening 
 noise. 
 
186 THE ‘RED LAUGH 
 
 “... Suppose Т am mad, but I am speaking the truth. 
 My father and brother are rotting over there like carrion. 
 Make bonfires, dig pits and destroy, bury all your arms. 
 Demolish all the barracks, and strip all the men of their 
 bright clothes of madness, tear them off. One cannot bear 
 ioe va Мещаяе ушей, да” 
 
 Somebody very tall gave him а blow and knocked him 
 off the pillar; the flag rose once again and fell. I had no 
 time to see the face of the man who struck him, as instantly 
 everything turned into a nightmare. Everything became 
 commotion, became agitated and howled; stones and logs 
 of wood went flying through the air, fists, which were beat- 
 ing somebody, appeared above the heads. The crowd, like a 
 living, roaring wave, lifted me up, carried me along several 
 steps and threw me violently against a fence, then carried 
 me back and away somewhere, and at last pressed me against 
 a high pile of wood, that inclined forwards, threaten- 
 ing to fall down upon somebody’s head. Something crackled 
 and rattled against the beams in rapid dry succession; an 
 instant’s stillness—and again a roar burst forth, enormous, 
 open-mouthed, terrible in its overwhelming power. And 
 then the dry rapid crackling was heard again and somebody 
 fell down near me with the blood flowing out of a red hole 
 where his eye had been. And a heavy log of wood came 
 whirling through the air and struck me in the face, and I 
 fell down and began crawling, whither I knew not, amidst 
 the trampling feet, and came to an open space. Then Г 
 climbed over some fences, breaking all my nails, clambered 
 up piles of wood; one pile fell to pieces under me and I fell 
 
 : 
 
 | 
 4 
 4 
 м 
 4} 
 
BPHEIREDILPA UGH 187 
 amidst a cataract of thumping logs; at last I succeeded with 
 difficulty in getting out of a closed-in space—while behind 
 me all crashed, roared, howled and crackled, trying to over- 
 take me. A bell was ringing somewhere; something fell 
 with a thundering crash, as if it were a five-story house. 
 The twilight seemed to have stopped still, keeping back the 
 night, and the roar of shots, as if steeped in red, had 
 driven away the darkness. Jumping over the last fence 1 
 found myself in a narrow, crooked lane resembling a cor- 
 ridor, between two obscure walls, and began running. I ran 
 for a long time, but the lane seemed to have no outlet; it 
 was terminated by a wall, behind which piles of wood and 
 scaffolding rose up black against the sky. And again I 
 climbed over the mobile, shifting piles, falling into pits, 
 where all was still and smelt of damp wood, getting out of 
 them again into the open, not daring to look back, for 1 
 knew quite well what was happening by the dull reddish 
 color that tinged the black beams and made them look like 
 murdered giants. My smashed face had stopped bleeding 
 and felt numbed and strange, like a mask of plaster; and 
 the pain had almost quite disappeared. I believe I fainted 
 and lost consciousness in one of the black holes into which 
 I had fallen, but I am not certain whether 1 only imagined 
 it or was it really so, as I can remember myself only run- 
 ning. 
 
 I rushed about the unfamiliar streets, which had no lamps, 
 “past the black death-like houses for a long time, unable to 
 find my way out of the dumb labyrinth. I ought to have 
 stopped and looked around me to define the necessary direc- 
 
 . 
 
 
 
188 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 tion, but it was impossible to do so: the still distant din and 
 howl was following at my heels and gradually overtaking 
 me; sometimes, at a sudden turning, it struck me in the face, 
 red and enveloped in clouds of livid, curling smoke, and 
 then I turned back and rushed on until it was at my back 
 once more. At one corner I saw a strip of light, that dis- 
 appeared at my approach: it was a shop that was being 
 hastily closed. I caught a glimpse of the counter and a barrel 
 through a wide chink, but suddenly all became enveloped in 
 a silent, crouching gloom. Not far from the shop I met a 
 man, who was running towards me, and we almost collided 
 in the darkness, stopping short at the distance of two steps 
 from each other. I do not know who he was: I only saw the 
 dark alert outline. 
 
 “Are you coming from over there?” he asked. 
 
 с. 
 
 “And where are you running to?” 
 
 “Home.” 
 
 “Ah! Home?” 
 
 He was silent for an instant and suddenly flung himself 
 upon me, trying to bring me to the ground, and his cold 
 fingers searched hungrily for my throat, but got entangled 
 in my clothes. I bit his hand, loosened myself from his 
 grip and set off running through the deserted streets with 
 him after me, stamping loudly with his boots, for a long 
 time. Then he stopped—I suppose the bite hurt him. 
 
 I do not know how I hit upon my street. It had no lamps 
 either, and the houses had not a single light, as if they were 
 dead, and I would have run past without recognising it, if 
 
THE RED LAUGH 189 
 I had not by chance lifted my eyes and seen my house. But 
 I hesitated for some time: the house in which I had lived 
 for so many years seemed to me unfamiliar in that strange 
 dead street, in which my loud breathing awakened an ex- 
 traordinary and mournful echo. Then I was seized with a 
 sudden wild terror at the thought that I had lost my key 
 when I fell, and I found it with difficulty, although it was 
 there all the time in the pocket of my coat. And when I 
 turned the lock the echo repeated the sound so loudly and 
 extraordinarily, as if all the doors of those dead houses in 
 the whole street had opened simultaneously. 
 
 ... At first I hid myself in the cellar, but it was terrible 
 and dull down there, and something began darting before 
 my eyes, so I quietly stole into the rooms. Groping my 
 way in the dark, I locked all the doors and after a short 
 meditation decided to barricade them with the furniture, but 
 the sound of the furniture being moved was terribly loud 
 in the empty rooms and terrified me. “I shall await death 
 thus. It’s all the same,” I decided. There was some water, 
 very warm water in the water-jug, and I washed my face 
 in the dark and wiped it with a sheet. The parts that were 
 smashed galled and smarted much, and I felt a desire to 
 look at myself in the looking-glass. I lit a match—and in 
 its uneven, faint light there glanced at me from out of the 
 darkness something so hideous and terrible that I hastily 
 threw the match upon the floor. I believe my nose was 
 broken. “It makes no difference now,” said I to myself. 
 “Nobody will mind.” 
 
 And I felt gay. With strange grimaces and contortions 
 
 
 
190 THE/REDULDAGGH 
 
 of the body, as if I were personating a thief on the stage, 1 
 went into the larder and began searching for food. ] 
 clearly saw the unsuitableness of all my grimaces, but it 
 pleased me so. And I ate with the same contortions, pre- 
 tending that I was very hungry. 
 
 But the darkness and quiet frightened me. I opened the 
 window into the yard and began listening. At first, prob- 
 ably as the traffic had ceased, all seemed to me to be quite 
 still, And I heard по shots. But soon I clearly distinguished 
 a distant din of voices: shouts, the crash of something fall- 
 ing, a laugh. The sounds grew louder perceptibly. 1 
 looked at the sky; it was livid and sweeping past rapidly, 
 And the coach-house opposite me, and the paving of the 
 streets, and the dog’s kennel, all were tinged with the same 
 reddish glare. I called the dog softly— 
 
 “Neptune !” 
 
 But nothing stirred in the kennel, and near it I distin- 
 guished in the livid light a shining piece of broken chain, 
 The distant cries and noise of something falling kept on 
 growing, and I shut the window. 
 
 “They are coming here!” I said to myself, and began 
 looking for some place to hide myself. I opened the stoves, 
 fumbled at the grate, opened the cupboards, but they would 
 not do. I made the round of all the rooms, excepting the 
 study, into which I did not want to look. I knew he was 
 sitting in his armchair at his table, heaped with books, and 
 this was unpleasant to me at that moment. | 
 
 Gradually it began to appear that I was not alone: around 
 me people were silently moving about in the darkness. They 
 
THE RED LAUGH 191 
 umost touched me, and once somebody’s breath sent a cold 
 БШ through the back of my head. 
 
 “Who is there?’ I asked in a whisper, but nobody an- 
 iwwered. 
 And when I moved on they followed me, silent and ter- 
 ible. I knew that it was only a hallucination because I was 
 Il and apparently feverish, but I could not conquer my fear, 
 ‘rom which I was trembling all over as if I had the ague. I 
 ‘elt my head: it was hot as if on fire. 
 _“T had better go there,” said I to myself. “Не is one of 
 пу own people after all.” 
 He was sitting in his armchair at the table, heaped with 
 »00ks, and did not disappear as he did the last time, but 
 ‘remained seated. The reddish light was making its way 
 hrough the red drawn curtains into the room, but did not 
 ight up anything, and he was scarcely visible. I sat down 
 it a distance from him on the couch and waited. All was 
 till in the room, while from outside the even buzzing noise, 
 he crash of something falling and disjointed cries were 
 югпе in upon us. And they were nearing us. The livid 
 ight became brighter and brighter, and I could distinguish 
 um in his armchair—his black, iron-like profile, outlined 
 зу a narrow stripe of red. 
 ‚ “Brother!” I said. 
 ° But he kept silence, immobile and black, like a monu- 
 nent. A board cracked in the next room and suddenly all 
 yecame so extraordinarily still, as it is where there are many 
 lead. All the sounds died away and the livid light itself 
 issumed a scarcely perceptible shade of deathliness and 
 
 
 
192 THE RED LAUGH 
 stillness and became motionless and a little dim. I thought 
 the stillness was coming from my brother and told him so. 
 
 “No, it is not from me,” he answered. “Look out of the 
 window.” 
 
 I pulled the curtains aside and staggered back. 
 
 “So that’s what it is!” said I. 
 
 “Call my wife; she has not seen that yet,’ ordered my 
 brother. 
 
 She was sitting in the dining-room sewing something and, 
 seeing my face, rose obediently, stuck her needle into her 
 work and followed me. I pulled back the curtains from all 
 the windows and the livid light flowed in through the broad 
 openings unhindered, but somehow did not make the room 
 any lighter: it was just as dark and only the big red squares 
 of the windows burned brightly. 
 
 We went up to the window. Before the house there 
 stretched an even, fiery red sky, without a single cloud, star 
 or sun, and ended at the horizon, while below it lay just 
 such an even dark red field, and it was covered with dead 
 bodies. All the corpses were naked and lay with their legs 
 towards us, so that we could only see their feet and trian- 
 gular heads. And all was still; apparently they were all dead, 
 and there were no wounded left behind in that endless field. 
 
 “Their number is growing,” said my brother. | 
 
 He was standing at the window also, and all were there: 
 my mother, sister and everybody that lived in the house. I 
 could not distinguish their faces, and could recognise them 
 only by their voices. Е 
 
 “Tt only seems so,” said my sister. 
 
THE RED LAUGH 193 
 = “No, it’s true. Just look.” 
 
 _ And, truly, there seemed to be more bodies. We looked 
 attentively for the reason and found it: at the side of a 
 corpse, where there was a free space, a fresh corpse sud- 
 denly appeared; apparently the earth was throwing them 
 up. And all the unoccupied spaces filled rapidly, and the 
 earth grew lighter from the light pink bodies, that were 
 lying side by side with their feet towards us. And the 
 room grew lighter, filled with a light pink dead light. 
 
 ’ “Look, there is not enough room for them,” said my 
 brother. 
 
 And my mother answered: 
 
 “There is one here already.” 
 
 We looked round: behind us on the floor lay a naked, 
 light pink body with its head thrown back. And instantly 
 at its side there appeared a second, and a third. And the 
 earth threw them up one after the other, and soon the 
 orderly rows of light pink dead bodies filled all the rooms. 
 
 “They are in the nursery too,” said the nurse. “I saw 
 Фет.” 
 
 “We must go away,” said my sister. 
 
 “But we cannot pass,” said my brother. 
 
 “Look!” 
 
 And sure enough, they were lying close together, arm to 
 arm, and their naked feet were touching us. And suddenly 
 they stirred and swayed and rose up in the same orderly 
 rows: the earth was throwing up new bodies, and they 
 were lifting the first ones upwards. 
 
 
 
 
 
194 THE RED LAUGH 
 
 
 
 “They will smother из!” said I. “Let us save ourselve 
 through the window.” 
 “We cannot!” cried my brother. “We cannot! Loo 
 what is there!” 
 
 _.. . Behind the window, in a livid, motionless light stood 
 the Red Laugh. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 

 
 
 
 
 ne ree : ивы у 
 
 
 
 
 
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 ой 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ВИОЯН ИАМЯТИЯ 
 
 
 
 ООО АЯ 
 
 
 
 ва = 
 Pos ad a Apes 
 АО 
 м МИ 
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 | 
 oy 
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 ¥, / й 
 к + 
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 ‘ 
 
 
 
The Gentleman From 
 San Francisco 
 
 Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, 
 that mighty city! 
 THE APOCALYPSE 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN from San Francisco—neither at Naples 
 ior at Capri had anyone remembered his name—was journey- 
 ng to the Old World for two full years, with wife and 
 laughter, wholly for recreation. 
 
 He felt firmly assured that he had every right to take a 
 est, pleasure, in a prolonged and comfortable journey, and 
 ther things besides. For such an assurance he had the 
 rood reason, that, in the first place, he was rich, and that, 
 n the second, in spite of his fifty-eight years, he was only 
 ust taking his first plunge into life. Before this he had 
 1ot lived but merely existed—to be sure, not so badly, but 
 one the less putting all his hopes in the future. Не had 
 aboured diligently—the coolies, whom he had employed by 
 he thousands, knew well what this meant !—and at last he 
 aw that much had been achieved, that he was now equal 
 о those he had at one time appointed as his models, and 
 ie decided to give himself a well-earned rest. It was a cus- 
 om among his kind of people to begin the enjoyment of life 
 
 197 
 
198 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 with a journey to Europe, to India, to Egypt. He proposed 
 to follow their example. Before all, of course, he desired 
 to reward himself for his years of hard toil; nevertheless, 
 he was happy also for his wife’s and daughter’s sakes. His 
 wife had never been distinguished for any particular sus- 
 ceptibility to fresh impressions, but then all elderly American 
 women are ardent travellers. As for his daughter, a girl no 
 longer young and somewhat ailing, the journey would do her 
 positive good : to say nothing of the benefits her health would 
 derive, was there not always the likelihood of happy en- 
 counters during journeys? While travelling one may in- 
 deed, at times, sit at the same table with a multi-millionaire, or 
 enjoy looking at frescoes in his company. 
 
 The itinerary planned by the gentleman from San Fran- 
 cisco was an extensive one. In December and January he 
 hoped to enjoy the sun of Southern Italy, the monuments of 
 antiquity, the tarantella, the serenades of strolling singers, 
 and another thing for which men of his age have a peculiar 
 relish: the love of young Neopolitan women, conferred—let 
 us admit—not with wholly disinterested motives; he planned 
 to spend the Carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, toward which 
 the most select society gravitated at this season—that sO- 
 ciety upon which all the blessings of civilization depend: not 
 alone the cut of the smoking jacket, but also the stability 
 of thrones, and the declaration of wars, and the welfare of 
 hotels—where some devote themselves with ardour to auto- 
 mobile and sail races, others to roulette, while a third group 
 engages in what is called flirting ; a fourth in shooting pigeons 
 which, emerging from their shelters, gracefully soar upward 
 
 Я 
 
 Я 
 
 bY 
 i 
 

 
 YHE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 199 
 above emerald-green lawns, against the background of a sea 
 of the colour of forget-me-nots, only in the next instant to 
 ‘strike the ground as crumpled little shapes of white. The be- 
 ginning of March he wanted to devote to Florence; on the 
 eve of the Passion of Our Lord to arrive at Rome, in order 
 to hear the Miserere there; his plans also included Venice, 
 and Paris, and bull-fights in Seville, and sea- -bathing in the 
 British Isles, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Palestine, 
 and Egypt, and even Japan—naturally, on the return jour- 
 ney ... And everything went splendidly at first. 
 
 It was the end of November; almost to Gibraltar itself the 
 ship proceeded now through an icy mist, now through a storm 
 with wet snow; but it sailed on unperturbed and even with- 
 out rolling; the passengers on the steamer were many, and 
 all of them persons of consequence; the ship—the famous 
 Atlantis—resembled the most expensive of European hotels, 
 with all conveniences; an all-night bar, Turkish baths, a 
 newspaper of its own,—and life upon it flowed in accord- 
 ance with a splendid system of regulations: the passengers 
 rose early, to the sound of bugles, sharply reverberating 
 through the passages at the yet dark hour when day was 
 so slowly and reluctantly dawning above the gray-green 
 watery desert, ponderously restless in the mist. They put 
 on their flannel pyjamas, drank coffee, chocolate, cocoa; 
 then they reclined in marble bath-tubs, performed exercises, 
 awakening an appetite and a sense of well-being, attended 
 to their daily toilet and went to breakfast. Until eleven 
 they were supposed to promenade the decks lustily, breath- 
 ing in the cool freshness of the ocean, or to play at shuffle- 
 
 
 
200 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 board and other games for a renewed stimulation of the 
 appetite; and at eleven, to seek refreshment in bouillon and 
 sandwiches; after which they read their newspaper with 
 pleasure and calmly awaited lunch, a meal even more 
 nourishing and varied than the breakfast; the following two 
 hours were dedicated to repose; all the decks were then ar- 
 ranged with chaises longues, upon which the travellers re- 
 clined, covered up with plaid rugs, contemplating the cloudy 
 sky and the foaming billows flashing by beyond the rail, or 
 else gently drowsing. At five o’clock, enlivened and re- 
 freshed, they were served with strong fragrant tea and 
 pastries; at seven, the bugle call announced dinner, con- 
 sisting of nine courses... . At this point the gentleman 
 from San Francisco, greatly cheered, would hurry to his 
 magnificent cabin de luxe, to dress. 
 
 In the evening the tiers of the Atlantis gaped through the 
 dusk as with fiery, countless eyes, and a great multitude of 
 servants worked with especial feverishness in the kitchens, 
 sculleries, and wine vaults. The ocean, heaving on the 
 other side of the walls, was terrifying, but none gave it a 
 thought, firmly believing it under the sway of the captain,— 
 a red-haired man of monstrous bulk and ponderousness, al- 
 ways seeming sleepy, resembling, in his uniform frock-coat, 
 with its golden chevrons, an enormous idol; it was only very 
 rarely that he left his mysterious quarters to appear in pub- 
 lic. A siren on the forecastle howled ceaselessly in hellish 
 sullenness and whined in frenzied malice, but not many of 
 the diners heard the siren,—it was drowned by the strains 
 of a splendid stringed orchestra, playing exquisitely and 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 201 
 without pause in the two-tiered hall, decorated with marble, 
 its floors covered with velvet rugs; festively flooded with 
 the lights of crystal lustres and gilded girandoles, filled to 
 capacity with diamond-bedecked ladies in décoletté and men 
 in smoking jackets, graceful waiters and deferential maitres 
 d’hotel,—among whom one, who took orders for wines ех- 
 clusively, even walked about with a chain around his neck, 
 like a lord mayor. А smoking jacket and perfect linen 
 made the gentleman from San Francisco appear very much 
 younger. Spare, not tall, awkwardly but strongly built, 
 groomed until he shone and moderately animated, he sat 
 in the aureate-pearly refulgence of this palatial room, at a 
 table with a bottle of amber Johannesberg, with countless 
 goblets, small and large, of the thinnest glass, with a fragrant 
 bouquet of curly hyacinths. There was something Mon- 
 golian about his yellowish face with clipped silvery mous- 
 tache; his large teeth gleamed with gold fillings; his stalwart, 
 bald head glistened like old ivory. Rich, yet in keeping with 
 her years, was the attire of his wife,—a big, broad, calm 
 woman; elaborate, yet light and diaphanous, with an inno- 
 cent frankness, was that of his daughter,—a girl innocently 
 frank, tall, slender, with magnificent hair, exquisitely dressed, 
 with breath aromatic from violet cachous and with the ten- 
 derest of tiny moles about her lips and between her shoulder 
 blades, slightly powdered. .. . 
 
 The dinner went on for two whole hours; after dinner 
 there was dancing in the ball-room, during which the men, 
 —the gentleman from San Francisco among their number, of 
 course,—with their feet cocked up, decided, upon the basis 
 
 
 
202 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 of the latest political and stock-exchange news, the destinies 
 of nations, smoking Havana cigars and drinking liqueurs 
 until their faces were flushed, while seated in the bar, where 
 the waiters were Negroes in red jackets, the whites of their 
 eyes resembling peeled, hard-boiled eggs. The ocean, 
 with a dull roar, was moving in black mountains on the 
 other side of the wall; the snow-gale whistled fiercely 
 through the soaked rigging; the whole ship quivered as it 
 mastered both the gale and the mountains, sundering to 
 either side, as though with a plough, their shifting masses, 
 which again and again boiled up and flung themselves high, 
 with tails of foam; the siren, stifled by the fog, was moan- 
 ing with a deathly anguish; the lookouts up in their crow’s- 
 nest froze with the cold and grew dazed from straining 
 their attention beyond their strength. Akin to the grim 
 sultry depths of the infernal regions, akin to their ultimate, 
 their ninth circle, was the womb of the steamer, below the 
 water line——that womb where dully gurgled the gigantic 
 furnaces, devouring with their fiery maws mountains of hard 
 coal, cast into them by men stripped to the waist, purple 
 from the flames, and with smarting, filthy sweat pouring 
 over them; while here, in the bar, men threw their legs over 
 the arms of their chairs with never a care, sipping cognac) 
 and liqueurs, and were wafted among clouds of spicy smoke 
 as they indulged in refined conversation; in the ball-room | 
 everything was radiant with light and warmth and joy; 
 couples were now whirling in waltzes, now swaying in the 
 tango,—and the music insistently, in some delectably-shame- 
 less melancholy, supplicated always of one, always of the 
 
 A 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 203 
 
 same thing. . . . There was an ambassador among this bril- 
 liant throng,—a lean, modest little old man; there was a 
 rich man,—clean-shaven, lanky, of indeterminate years, 
 and with the appearance of a prelate, in an old-fashioned 
 frock-coat; there was a well-known Spanish writer; there 
 was a world-celebrated beauty, already just the very least 
 trifle faded and of an unenviable morality; there was an ex- 
 quisite couple in love with each other, whom all watched 
 with curiosity and whose happiness was unconcealed: he 
 danced only with her; sang—and with great ability—only 
 to her accompaniment; everything they did was carried out 
 so charmingly ; and only the captain knew that this pair was 
 hired by Lloyd’s to play at love for good money, and that 
 they had been sailing for a long time, now on one ship, now 
 on another. 
 
 At Gibraltar everybody was gladdened by the sun,—it 
 seemed like early spring; a new passenger, whose person 
 aroused the general interest, made his appearance on board 
 the Atlantis——he was the hereditary prince of a certain 
 Asiatic kingdom, travelling incognito; a little man who some- 
 how seemed to be all made of wood, even though he was agile 
 in his movements; broad of face, with narrow eyes, in gold- 
 rimmed spectacles; a trifle unpleasant owing to the fact that 
 his skin showed through his coarse black moustache like 
 that of a corpse; on the whole, however, he was charming, 
 simple, and modest. On the Mediterranean Sea there was a 
 whiff of winter again; the billows ran high, were as multi- 
 coloured as the tail of a peacock, and had snowy-white crests, 
 due, in spite of the sparklingly bright sun and perfectly clear 
 
204 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 sky, to a tramontana, a chill northern wind from beyond 
 the mountains, that was joyously and madly rushing to meet 
 the ship. ... Then, on the second day, the sky began to 
 pale, the horizon became covered with mist, land was near- 
 ing; Ischia, Capri appeared; through the binoculars, Naples 
 —lumps of sugar strewn at the foot of some dove-coloured 
 mass—could be seen; while over it and this dove-coloured 
 object were visible the ridges of distant mountains, vaguely 
 glimmering with the dead whiteness of snow. There was a 
 great number of people on deck; many of the ladies and 
 gentlemen had already put on short, light fur coats, with 
 the fur outside; Chinese boys, patient and always speaking 
 in a whisper, bow-legged striplings with pitch-black queues 
 reaching to their heels and with eyelashes as long and thick 
 as those of young girls, were already dragging, little by 
 little, sundry plaids, canes, and portmanteaux and grips of 
 alligator hide toward the companion-ways. . . . The daugh- 
 ter of the gentleman from San Francisco was standing Бе-. 
 side the prince, who had been, by a happy chance, presented 
 to her yesterday evening, and she pretended to be looking. 
 intently into the distance, in a direction he was pointing out 
 to her, telling, explaining something or other to her, hur-_ 
 riedly and quietly. On account of his height he seemed a 
 boy by contrast with others,—he was odd and not at all 
 prepossessing of person, with his spectacles, his bowler, his) 
 English great coat, while his scanty moustache looked just_ 
 as if it were of horse-hair, and the swarthy, thin skin 
 seemed to be drawn tightly over his face, and somehow had 
 the appearance of being lacquered,—but the young girl was. 
 
 | 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 205 
 
 listening to him, without understanding, in her perturbation, 
 what he was saying; her heart was thumping from an in- 
 comprehensible rapture in his presence and from pride 
 that he was speaking with her, and not some one else; every- 
 thing about him that was different from others,—his lean 
 hands, his clear skin, under which flowed the ancient blood of 
 kings, even his wholly unpretentious, yet somehow singularly 
 neat, European dress,—everything held a secret, inexplicable 
 charm, evoked a feeling of amorousness. As for the gentle- 
 ‘man from San Francisco himself,—he, in a high silk hat, in 
 gray spats over patent-leather shoes, kept on glancing at the 
 famous beauty, who was standing beside him,—a tall blonde 
 of striking figure, with eyes painted in the latest Parisian 
 fashion; she was holding a diminutive, hunched-up, mangy: 
 lap dog on a silver chain and was chattering to it without 
 pause. And the daughter, in some vague embarrassment, 
 ‘tried not to notice her father. 7 
 Like all Americans of means, he was very generous while 
 travelling, and, like all of them, believed in the full sin- 
 -cerity and good-will of those who brought him food and 
 drink with such solicitude, who served him from morn till 
 night, anticipating his slightest wish; of those who guarded 
 his cleanliness and rest, lugged his things around, summoned 
 porters for him, delivered his trunks to hotels. Thus had 
 it been everywhere, thus had it been on the ship, and thus 
 it had to be in Naples as well. Naples grew, and drew: 
 nearer; the musicians, the brass of their instruments flash- 
 ing, had already clustered upon the deck, and suddenly deaf-. 
 ened everybody with the triumphant strains of a march; the 
 
 
 
206 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 gigantic captain, in his full-dress uniform, appeared upon 
 his stage, and, like a gracious pagan god, waved his hand 
 amiably to the passengers,—and to the gentleman from San 
 Francisco it seemed that it was for him alone that the 
 march so beloved by proud America was thundering, that it 
 was he whom the captain was felicitating upon a safe arrival. 
 And every other passenger felt similarly about himself 
 —or herself. And when the Aflantis finally entered the 
 harbour, heaved to at the wharf with her many-tiered mass, 
 black with people, and the gang-planks clattered down,— 
 what a multitude of porters and their helpers in caps with 
 gold braid, what a multitude of different commissionaires, 
 whistling gamins, and strapping ragamuffins with packets 
 of coloured postal cards in their hands, made a rush to- 
 ward the gentleman from San Francisco, with offers of 
 their services! And he smiled, with a kindly contemptuous- 
 ness, at these ragamuffins, as he went toward the automo- 
 bile of precisely that hotel where there was a likelihood of 
 
 the prince’s stopping. He drawled through his teeth, now in _ 
 
 English, now in Italian: 
 “Go away! Vial’ 
 
 Life at Naples at once assumed its wonted, ordered routine: | 
 
 in the early morning, breakfast in the gloomy dining-room 
 with its damp draught from windows opening on some sort 
 of a stony little garden. The sky was overcast, holding 
 
 out little promise, and there was the usual crowd of guides 
 
 at the door of the vestibule; then came the first smiles 
 
 of a warm, rosy sun. From the high hanging balcony _ 
 
 Vesuvius came into view, enveloped to its foot by radiant 
 
 ae 
 
 ee eas 
 

 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 207 
 
 morning mists, and the silver-and-pearl eddies on the surface 
 of the Bay, and the delicate contour of Capri against the 
 horizon. One could see tiny burros, harnessed in twos to 
 little carts, running down below over the quay, sticky with 
 mire, and detachments of diminutive soldiers, marching 
 somewhere to lively and exhilarating music. Next came the 
 procession to the waiting automobile and the slow progress 
 through populous, narrow, and damp corridors of streets, 
 between tall, many-windowed houses; the inspection of life- 
 lessly-clean museums, evenly and pleasantly, yet bleakly, 
 lighted, seemingly illuminated by snow; or of cool churches, 
 smelling of wax, which everywhere and always contain the 
 
 same things: a majestic portal, screened by a heavy curtain 
 
 of leather, and inside,—empty vastness, silence, quiescent 
 
 tiny flames of a seven-branched candle-stick glowing redly 
 in the distant depths, on an altar bedecked with laces; a 
 solitary old woman among the dark wooden pews; slippery 
 tombstones underfoot; and someone’s “Descent from the 
 
 _Cross,’’—it goes without saying, a celebrated one. At one 
 o'clock there was luncheon upon the mountain of San Mar- 
 tino, where, toward noon, not a few people of the very first 
 
 quality gathered, and where the daughter of the gentleman 
 from San Francisco had once almost fainted away for joy, 
 
 because she thought she saw the prince sitting in the hall, 
 although she already knew through the newspapers that he 
 had left for a temporary stay at Rome. At five came tea 
 
 at the hotel, in the showy salon, so cosy with its rugs and 
 flaming fireplaces; and after that it was already time to 
 
 prepare for dinner,—and once more came the mighty 
 
208 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 clamour of the gong reverberating through the hotel; once 
 more the moving queues of ladies in décolleté, rustling in 
 their silks upon the staircases and reflected in all the mirrors; 
 once more the palatial dining-room, widely and hospitably 
 opened, and the red jackets of the musicians upon their 
 platform, and the black cluster of waiters about the maitre 
 adhotel, who, with inordinate skill, was ladling some sort of 
 thick, reddish soup into plates. . . . The dinners, as every- 
 where else, were the crowning glory of each day; the guests 
 dressed for them as for a party, and these dinners were so 
 abundant in edibles, and wines, and mineral waters, and 
 sweets, and fruits, that toward eleven o’clock at night the — 
 chambermaids were distributing through all the rooms гаБ- 
 ber bags with hot water to warm the stomachs. 
 
 As it happened, the December of that year proved to be 
 not a wholly successful one for Naples; the porters grew ) 
 confused when one talked with them of the weather, and 
 merely shrugged their shoulders guiltily, muttering that they 
 could not recall such a year,—although it was not the 
 first year that they had been forced to mutter this, and to — 
 base their statement on that “something terrible is happening | 
 everywhere”; there were unheard of storms and torrents | 
 of rain on the Riviera; there was snow in Athens; Etna | 
 was also all snowed over and was aglow at night; tourists | 
 were fleeing from Palermo in all directions, to escape from 
 the cold. The morning sun deceived the Neapolitans every | 
 day that winter: toward noon the sky became gray and а | 
 fine rain began falling, but grew heavier and colder all 
 the time; then the palms near the entrance of the hotel © 
 
 
 
 
| THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 209 
 glistened as though they were of tin, the town seemed 
 especially dirty and cramped, the museums curiously alike; 
 ‘the cigar stumps of the corpulent cabmen, whose rubber- 
 coats flapped in the wind like wings, seemed to have an in- 
 -sufferable stench, while the energetic snapping of their whips 
 over their scrawny-necked nags was patently false; the foot- 
 : gear of the signori sweeping the rails of the tramways seemed 
 horrible; the women, splashing through the mud, their black- 
 haired heads bared to the rain, appeared hideously short- 
 legged; as for the dampness, and the stench of putrid fish 
 | from the sea foaming at the quay,—there was nothing to be 
 said. The gentleman and the lady from San Francisco be- 
 gan quarreling in the morning; their daughter either walked 
 about pale, with a headache, or, coming to life again, went 
 into raptures over everything, and was, at such times both 
 charming and beautiful: beautiful were those tender and. 
 : complex emotions which had been awakened within her by 
 meeting that unsightly man through whose veins flowed 
 ‘uncommon blood; for, after all is said and done, perhaps it 
 is of no actual importance just what it is, precisely, that 
 -awakens а maiden’s soul,—whether it be money, or fame, or 
 illustrious ancestry. ... Everybody asserted that things 
 were quite different in Sorrento, in Capri,—there it was both 
 warmer and sunnier, and the lemons were in blossom, and 
 the customs were more honest, and the wine was better. 
 And so the family from San Francisco resolved to set 
 out with all its trunks to Capri, and, after seeing it all, after 
 treading the stones where the palace of Tiberius had once 
 stood, after visiting the faery-like caverns of the Blue Grotto, 
 
 
 
210 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 and hearing the bag-pipers of Abruzzi, who for a whole 
 month preceding Christmas wander over the island and sing 
 the praises of the Virgin Mary, they meant to settle in 
 Sorrento. 
 
 On the day of departure,—a most memorable one for the 
 family from San Francisco!—there was no early morning 
 sun. A heavy fog hid Vesuvius to the very base; this 
 gray fog spread low over the leaden swell of the sea that 
 was lost to the eye at a distance of a half a mile. Capri 
 was quite invisible,—as if there had never been such an island 
 in the world. And the tiny steamer that set out for it was so 
 tossed from side to side that the family from San Francisco 
 was laid prostrate upon the divans in the sorry general cabin 
 of this tiny steamer, their feet wrapped up in plaid rugs, and 
 their eyes closed. The mother suffered,—so she thought, 
 —more than anybody; she was overcome by sea-sickness 
 several times; it seemed to her that she was dying, while 
 the stewardess, who always ran up to her with a small 
 basin,—she had been, for many years, day in and day out, 
 rolling on these waves, in sultry weather and in cold, and yet 
 was still tireless and kind to everybody,—merely laughed. 
 The daughter was dreadfully pale and held a slice of lemon 
 between her teeth; now she could not have been comforted 
 even by the hope of a chance meeting with the prince at Sor- 
 rento, where he intended to be about Christmas. The father, 
 _who was lying on his back, in roomy overcoat and large cap, 
 never opened his jaws all the way over; his face had grown 
 darker and his moustache whiter, and his head ached dread- 
 | fully : during the last days, thanks to the bad weather, he had 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 211 
 
 been drinking too heavily of evenings, and had too much ad- 
 | mired the “living pictures’ in the haunts of manufactured 
 
 libertinage. But the rain kept on lashing against the jarring 
 
 windows, the water from them running down on the divans; 
 _ the wind, howling, bent the masts, and at times, aided by the 
 _ onslaught of a wave, careened the little steamer entirely to one 
 | side, and then something in the hold would roll with a rumble. 
 _ During the stops at Castellamare, at Sorrento, things were а 
 trifle more bearable, but even then the rocking was fearful,— 
 the shore, with all its cliffs, gardens, pine-groves, its pink and 
 white hotels and hazy mountains clad in wavy greenery, 
 | swayed up and down as if оп a swing; boats bumped up 
 against the sides of the ship; sailors and steerage passengers 
 were shouting fiercely ; somewhere, as if it had been crushed, 
 a baby was wailing and smothering; a raw wind was blow- 
 ing in at the door; and, from a swaying boat with the flag 
 of the Hotel Royal, a lisping gamin was screaming, luring 
 travellers: “Kgoya-al! Hotel Kgoya-al!...”’ And the 
 gentleman from San Francisco, feeling himself to be incred- 
 ibly old,—which was as it should be,—was already thinking 
 with sadness and loathing of all these Royals, Splendids, Ex- 
 celsiors, and of these greedy, insignificant little men, reek- 
 ing of garlic, called Italians. Once, having opened his 
 eyes and raised himself from the divan, he saw, underneath 
 the craggy barrier on the shore, a cluster of. stone hovels, 
 mouldy through and through, stuck one on top of another 
 near the very edge of the water, near boats, near all sorts of 
 rags, tins, and brown nets,—hovels so wretched, that, at the 
 recollection this was the very Italy he had come here 
 
 
 
212 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 to enjoy, he felt despair. . . . Finally, at twilight, the dark 
 mass of the island began to draw near, seemingly bored 
 through and through by little red lights near its base; the 
 wind became softer, warmer, more fragrant; over the abat- 
 ing waves, as opalescent as black oil, golden serpents flowed 
 from the lanterns on the wharf. . . . Then came the sudden 
 rumble of the anchor, and it fell with a splash into the water ; 
 the savage shouts of the boatmen, vying with one another, 
 floated in from all quarters,—and at once the heart grew 
 lighter, the lamps in the general cabin shone more brightly, 
 a desire arose to eat, to drink, to smoke, to be stirring. ... 
 Ten minutes later the family from San Francisco had de- 
 scended into a large boat; within fifteen minutes it had set 
 foot upon the stones of the wharf, and had then got into a 
 bright little railway car and to its buzzing started the ascent 
 of the slope, amid the stakes of the vineyards, half-crumbled 
 stone enclosures, and wet, gnarled orange trees, some of them 
 under coverings of straw,—trees with thick, glossy foliage, 
 aglimmer with the orange fruits; all these objects were 
 sliding downward, past the open windows of the little car, to- 
 ward the base of the mountain. . . . Sweetly smells the earth 
 of Italy after rain, and her every island has its own, its espe- 
 cial aroma! 
 
 On this evening the island of Capri was damp and dark. | 
 But now for an instant it came into life; lights sprang up 
 here and there, as always on the steamer’s arrival. At the 
 top of the mountain, where stood the station of the funicular, 
 there was another throng of those whose duty it was to receive _ 
 fittingly the gentleman from San Francisco. There were 
 
 | 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 213 
 
 other arrivals, but they merited no attention,—several Rus- 
 sians, who had settled in Capri,—absent-minded because of 
 their bookish meditations, unkempt, bearded, spectacled, the 
 collars of their old frayed overcoats turned up; and a group 
 of long-legged, long-necked, round-headed German youths 
 in Tyrolean costumes, with canvas knapsacks slung over their 
 shoulders; these stood in no need of anybody’s services, 
 feeling themselves at home everywhere, and knowing how to 
 practise the strictest economies. The gentleman from San 
 Francisco, on the other hand, who was calmly keeping aloof 
 from both the one group and the other, was immediately ob- 
 served. He and his ladies were promptly helped out, 
 some men running ahead of him to show him the way. 
 Again he was surrounded by urchins, and by those stal- 
 wart Caprian wives who bear on their heads the port- 
 manteaux and trunks of respectable travellers. The wooden 
 pattens of these women clattered over a little square, which 
 seemed to belong to some opera, an electric globe swaying 
 above it in the damp wind. The rabble of urchins burst into 
 sharp, bird-like whistles,—and, as if on a stage, the gentle- 
 man from San Francisco proceeded in their midst toward 
 some medizval arch underneath houses that had become 
 merged into one mass, beyond which a little echoing street, 
 —with the tuft of a palm above flat roofs on its left, and 
 with blue stars in the black sky overhead,—led slopingly to 
 the now visible grand entrance of the hotel, all agleam with 
 light. . . . And again it seemed that it was in honour of the 
 guests from San Francisco that this damp little town of stone 
 on a craggy little island of the Mediterranean Sea had come 
 
214 THE GENTLEMAN FROM#SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 to life, that it was they who had made the proprietor of the 
 hotel so happy and affable, that it was only for them 
 that the Chinese gong began to sound the summons to dinner 
 through all the stories of the hotel, the instant they had set 
 foot in the vestibule. 
 
 The proprietor, a young man of courtly elegance, who 
 had met them with a polite and exquisite bow, for a minute 
 dumbfounded the gentleman from San Francisco. After a 
 glance at him, the gentleman from San Francisco suddenly 
 remembered that just the night before, among the confusion 
 of numerous images which had beset him in his sleep, he 
 had seen precisely this gentleman,—just like him, down to 
 the least detail: in the same sort of frock with rounded 
 skirts, and with the same pomaded and painstakingly combed 
 head. Startled, he almost paused. But since, from long, 
 long before, there was not even a mustard seed of any sort 
 of so-called mystical emotions left in his soul, his astonish- 
 ment was dimmed the same instant; as he proceeded through 
 a corridor of the hotel, he spoke jestingly to his wife and 
 daughter of this strange coincidence of dream and reality. 
 And only his daughter glanced at him with alarm at that 
 moment: her heart suddenly contracted from sadness, from 
 a feeling of their loneliness upon this dark alien island,—a. 
 feeling so strong that she almost burst into tears. Neverthe- 
 less, she said nothing of her feelings to her father,—as 
 always. 
 
 An exalted personage—Rais XVII—who had been visit- 
 ing Capri, had just taken his departure. And now the guest 
 from San Francisco were conducted to the same apartments 
 
 | 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 215 
 
 that he had occupied. To them was assigned the ablest and 
 handsomest chambermaid, a Belgian, whose waist was slen- 
 derly and firmly corseted, and whose tiny starched cap looked 
 like a scalloped crown; also, the best-looking and most digni- 
 fied of flunkies, a fiery-eyed Sicilian, black as coal; and the 
 nimblest of bell-boys, the short and stout Luigi,—a fellow 
 who was very fond of a joke, and who had served many 
 masters in his time. And a minute later there was a slight 
 tap at the door of the room of the gentleman from San 
 Francisco,—the French maitre d’hotel had come to find out 
 if the newly arrived guests would dine, and, in the event of 
 an answer in the affirmative,—of which, of course, there was 
 no doubt,—to inform them that the carte de jour consisted 
 of crawfish, roast. beef, asparagus, pheasants, and so forth. 
 The floor was still rocking under the gentleman from San 
 Francisco,—so badly had the atrocious little Italian steamer 
 tossed him about,—but, without hurrying, with his own 
 hands, although somewhat awkwardly from being unaccus- 
 tomed to such things, he shut a window that had banged 
 when the maitre d’hétel had entered and had let in the odours 
 of the distant kitchen and of the wet flowers in the garden, 
 and with a lingering deliberateness replied that they would 
 dine, that their table must be placed as far as possible from 
 the door, at the other end of the dining-room, that they 
 would drink local wine and champagne,—moderately dry 
 and only slightly chilled. The maitre ФИО approved every 
 word of his, in most varied intonations, having, in any case, 
 but one significance,—that there was never a doubt, nor 
 could there possibly be any, about the correctness of the 
 
216 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 wishes of the gentleman from San Francisco, and that every- 
 thing would be carried out with precision. In conclusion he 
 
 inclined his head, and asked deferentially : 
 
 “Will that be all, sir?” 
 
 And, having received in answer a leisurely “Yes,” he added 
 that the tarantella would be danced in the vestibule to-night, 
 -—the dancers would be Carmella and Giuseppe, known to 
 all Italy, and to “the entire world of tourists.” 
 
 ‚ “Т have seen her on post cards,’’ said the gentleman from 
 
 San Francisco in a wholly inexpressive voice. “As for this 
 
 Giuseppe,—is he her husband ?” 
 “Her cousin, э1г,” answered the maitre d’hétel. 
 
 And, after a brief pause, during which he appeared to be 
 
 considering something, the gentleman from San Francisco 
 dismissed him with a nod. 
 
 And then he once more began his preparations, as if for 
 a wedding ceremony: he turned on all the electric lights, fill- 
 
 ing all the mirrors with reflections of light and glitter, of fur- 
 
 niture and opened trunks; he began shaving and washing, 
 
 ringing the bell every minute, while other impatient rings 
 from his wife’s and daughter’s rooms sounded through ео 
 entire corridor and interrupted his. And Luigi, in his те4 
 
 apron, was rushing forward to answer the bell, with ап. 
 agility peculiar to many stout men, not omitting grimaces of — 
 
 се 
 
 horror that made the chambermaids, running by with glazed 
 
 porcelain pails in their hands, laugh till they cried. Не. 
 knocked on the door with his knuckles, and asked with an 
 
 assumed timidity, with a deference which verged on idiocy : 
 “Ha sonato, signore?” 
 
 
 
) 
 | THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 217 
 : 
 
 And from the other side of the door came an unhurried, 
 grating voice, humiliatingly polite: 
 Me ves, come in... 2” 
 ) What were the thoughts, what were the emotions of the 
 -gentleman from San Francisco on this evening, that was to 
 be of such significance to him? He felt nothing exceptional, 
 —for the trouble in this world is just that everything is 
 apparently all too simple! And even if he had sensed within 
 his soul that something was impending, he would, neverthe- 
 less, have thought that this thing would not occur for some 
 time to come,—in any case, not immediately. Besides that, 
 like everyone who has experienced the rocking of a ship, 
 he wanted very much to eat, was looking forward to the first 
 spoonful of soup, the first mouthful of wine, and performed 
 the usual routine of dressing, even with a certain degree of 
 exhilaration that left no time for reflections. 
 : After shaving and washing himself, after inserting several 
 -artificial teeth properly, he remained standing before а 
 ‘mirror, while he wetted the remnants of his thick, pearly-gray 
 hair and plastered it down around his swarthy yellow skull, 
 with brushes set in silver; drew a suit of cream-coloured 
 : silk underwear over his strong old body, beginning to be full 
 vat the waist from excesses in food, and put on silk socks 
 and dancing slippers on his shrivelled, splayed feet; sitting 
 down, he put in order his black trousers, drawn high by 
 black silk braces, as well as his snowy-white shirt, with the 
 ‘bosom bulging out; put the links through the glossy cuffs, 
 ‘and began the agonizing manipulation of the collar-button 
 ‘underneath the stiffly starched collar. The floor was still 
 
 
 
 
 
218 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 swaying beneath him, the tips of his fingers pained him 
 greatly, the collar-button at times nipped hard the flabby skin 
 in the hollow under his Adam’s-apple, but he was persistent 
 and at last, his eyes glittering from the exertion, his face 
 all livid from the collar that was choking his throat,—a 
 collar far too tight,—he did succeed in accomplishing his 
 task, and sat down in exhaustion in front of the pier glass. 
 He was reflected in it from head to foot, a reflection that was 
 repeated in all the other mirrors. 
 
 “Oh, this is dreadful!” he muttered, а his strong 
 bald head, and without trying to understand, without consider- 
 ing, just what, precisely, was dreadful; then, with an accus- 
 tomed and attentive glance, he inspected his stubby fingers, 
 with gouty hardenings at the joints, and his convex nails 
 of an almond colour, and repeated, with conviction: ‘This 
 is dreadful. . . : | 
 
 At this point the second gong, sonorously, as in some 
 pagan temple, dinned through the entire house. And, get- 
 ting up quickly from his seat, the gentleman from San: 
 Francisco drew his collar still tighter with the necktie and 
 his stomach by means of the low-cut vest, put on his smok- 
 ing-jacket, arranged his cuffs, surveyed himself once more 
 in the mirror. . . . This Carmella, swarthy, with eyes which 
 she knew well how to use tellingly, resembling a mulatto 
 woman, clad in a dress of many colours, with the colour of 
 orange predominant, must dance exceptionally, he imagined. 
 And, stepping briskly out of his room and walking over. 
 the carpet to the next one,—his wife’s—he asked, loudly, if 
 they would be ready soon? 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 219 
 
 “Tn five minutes, Dad!” а girl’s voice, ringing and by 
 now gay, responded from the other side of the door. 
 
 “Very well,” said the gentleman from San Francisco. 
 
 And, leisurely, he walked through red-carpeted corridors 
 and down staircases, in quest of the reading room. The 
 servants he met stood aside and hugged the wall to let him 
 pass, but he kept on his way as though he had never even 
 noticed them. An old woman who was late for dinner, 
 already stooping, with milky hair but décolleté in a light- 
 gray gown of silk, was hurrying with all her might, but 
 drolly, in a hen-like manner, and he easily outstripped her. 
 Near the glass doors of the dining-room, where all the 
 guests had already assembled, and were beginning their 
 dinner, he stopped before a little table piled with boxes of 
 cigars and Egyptian cigarettes, took a large Manila cigar, 
 and flung three lire upon the little table. Walking on the 
 terrace, he glanced, in passing, through the open window: 
 out of the darkness he felt a breath of the balmy air upon 
 him, thought he saw the tip of an ancient palm. Its 
 gigantic fronds seemed to reach. out across the stars. He 
 heard the distant, measured din of the sea... . In 
 the reading room,—snug, quiet, and. illuminated only 
 above the tables, some gray-haired German was standing, 
 rustling the newspapers,—unkempt, resembling Ibsen, in 
 round silver spectacles and with mad, astonished eyes. After 
 scrutinizing him coldly, the gentleman from San Francisco 
 sat down in a deep leather chair in a corner near a green-, 
 shaded lamp, put on his pince пез, twitching his head because 
 his collar was choking him, and hid himself completely be- 
 
 
 
220 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO > 
 
 hind the newspaper. Не rapidly ran through the head- 
 lines of certain items, read a few lines about the never- 
 ceasing Balkan war, with an accustomed gesture turned the 
 newspaper over,—when suddenly the lines flared up before 
 him with a glassy glare, his neck became taut, his eyes 
 bulged out, the pince пез flew off his nose. . . . He lunged 
 forward, tried to swallow some air,—and made a wild hoarse 
 sound; his lower jaw sank, lighting up his entire mouth with. 
 the reflection of the gold fillings; his head dropped back оп. 
 his shoulder and began to sway; the bosom of his shirt 
 bulged out like a basket,—and his whole body, squirming, . 
 his heels catching the carpet, slid downward to the floor, 
 desperately struggling with someone. 
 
 Had the German not been in the reading room, the hotel 
 attendants would have managed, quickly and adroitly, to hush 
 up this dreadful occurrence; instantly, through back passages, 
 seizing him by the head and feet, they would have rushed 
 off the gentleman from San Francisco as far away as роз- 
 sible——and not a soul among the guests would have found 
 out what he had been up to. But the German had dashed 
 out of the reading room with a scream,—he had aroused the 
 entire house, the entire dining-room. And many jumped up 
 from their meal, overturning their chairs; many, paling, ran’ 
 toward the reading room. ‘‘What—what has happened?” 
 was heard in all languages,—and no one gave a sensible ап-. 
 swer, no one comprehended anything, since even to this day. 
 men are amazed most of all by death, and will not, in any. 
 tircumstances, believe in it. The proprietor dashed from | 
 one guest to another, trying to detain those who were гип- 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 221 
 
 ning away and to pacify them with hasty assurances that 
 this was just a trifling occurrence, a slight fainting spell of 
 а certain gentleman from San Francisco. . . . No one lis- 
 tened to him; many had seen the flunkeys and corridor at- 
 tendants tearing the necktie, the vest, and the rumpled 
 smoking-jacket off this gentleman, and even, for some reason 
 or other, the dancing slippers off his splayed feet, clad in 
 black silk. He was still struggling. He was still obdurately 
 wrestling with death; he absolutely refused to yield to her, 
 who had so unexpectedly and inconsiderately fallen upon 
 him. His head was swaying, he rattled hoarsely, like one 
 with his throat cut; his eyes had rolled up, like a drunkard’s. 
 . . . When he was hurriedly carried in and laid upon a bed 
 in room Number Forty-three,—the smallest, the poorest, the 
 dampest and the coldest, situated at the end of the bottom 
 corridor,—his daughter ran in, with her hair down, in a 
 little dressing-gown that had flown open, her bosom, raised 
 up by the corset, uncovered; then his wife, big and ponder- 
 ous, already dressed for dinner,—her mouth rounded in 
 terror. ... But by now he had ceased even wagging his 
 head. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later everything in the hotel had 
 assumed a semblance of order. Nevertheless, the evening 
 was irreparably spoiled. Some guests, returning to the din- 
 ing-room, finished their dinner, but in silence, with aggrieved 
 faces, while the proprietor would approach now one group, 
 now another, shrugging his shoulders in polite yet impotent 
 irritation, feeling himself guilty without guilt, assuring every- 
 ‘body that he understood very well “how unpleasant all this 
 
222 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO? 
 
 was,” and pledging his word that he would take “all measures 
 within his power” to remove this unpleasantness. The taran- 
 tella had to be called off, all superfluous electric lights were 
 extinguished, the majority of the guests withdrew into the 
 bar, and it became so quiet that one heard distinctly the 
 ticking of the clock in the vestibule, whose sole occupant 
 was a parrot, dully muttering something, fussing in his cage 
 before going to sleep, contriving to doze off at last with one 
 claw ludicrously stretched up to the upper perch. .'. . The 
 gentleman from San Francisco was lying upon a cheap iron 
 bed, under coarse woolen blankets, upon which the dull light 
 of a single bulb beat down from the ceiling. An ice-bag 
 was askew on his moist and cold forehead. The livid face, 
 already dead, was gradually growing cold; the hoarse rat- 
 tling, expelled from the open mouth, illuminated by the re- 
 flection of gold, was growing fainter. This was no longer 
 the gentleman from San Francisco rattling,—he no longer 
 existed,—but some other. His wife, his daughter, the doctor 
 and the servants were standing, gazing at him dully. Sud- 
 denly, that which they awaited and feared was consummated, 
 —the rattling ceased abruptly. And slowly, slowly, before 
 the eyes of all, a pallor suffused the face of the man who 
 had died, and his features seemed to grow finer, to become 
 irradiated with a beauty which had been rightfully his in: 
 ео avo; и: 
 
 The proprietor entered. “Gia © тотЮю,” said the doctor 
 to him in a whisper. The proprietor, with dispassionate 
 face, shrugged his shoulders. The wife, down whose cheeks 
 the tears were quietly coursing, walked up to him and timidly 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 223 
 
 said that the deceased ought now to be carried to his own 
 room. 
 
 _ “Oh, no, madam,” hastily, correctly, but now without any 
 umiability and not in English, but in French, retorted the 
 proprietor, who was not at all interested now in such trifling 
 sums as the arrivals from San Francisco might leave in his 
 coffers. “That is absolutely impossible, madam,” he said, 
 and added in explanation that he valued the apartments 
 эссир1е4 by them very much; that, were he to carry out 
 her wishes, everybody in Capri would know it and the 
 tourists would shun those apartments. 
 
 The young woman, who had been all this time gazing at 
 him strangely, sat down on a chair, and, pressing a hand- 
 kerchief to her mouth, burst into sobs. The wife dried her 
 tears immediately, her face flaring up. She adopted a louder 
 tone, making demands in her own language, and still in- 
 credulous of the fact that all respect for them had been 
 completely lost. The proprietor, with polite dignity, cut 
 her short: if madam was not pleased with the customs of 
 the hotel, he would not venture to detain her; and he firmly 
 announced that the body must be gotten away this very day, 
 at dawn, that the police had already been notified, and one 
 of the police officers would be here very soon and would 
 carry out all the necessary formalities. Was it possible 
 to secure even a common coffin in Capri?—madam asked. 
 Regrettably, no,—it was beyond possibility, and no one would 
 be able to make one in time. It would be necessary to 
 have recourse to something else. . . . He had a suggestion. 
 —English soda water came in large and long boxes... . It 
 
-24 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 was possible to knock the partitions out of such a box. . . 
 
 At night the whole hotel slept. The window in room 
 Number Forty-three was opened,—it gave out upon a corner 
 of the garden where, near a high stone wall with broken 
 glass upon its crest, a consumptive banana tree was grow- 
 ing; the electric light was switched off; the key was turned 
 in the door, and everybody went away. The dead man re- 
 mained in the darkness,—the blue stars looked down upon 
 him from the sky, a cricket with a pensive insouciance began 
 his song in the wall... .In the dimly lit corridor twe 
 chambermaids were seated on a window sill, at some darn- 
 ing. Luigi, in slippers, entered with a pile of clothing in 
 his arms. 
 
 “Pronto?” he asked solicitously, in an audible whisper, 
 indicating with his eyes the fearsome door at the end 
 of the corridor. And, he waved his hand airily in Фа 
 direction. . . . “Partenza!” he called out in a whisper, | 
 _аз though he were speeding a train, the usual phrase used 
 in Italian depots at the departure of trains,—and the cham- | 
 bermaids, choking with silent laughter, let their heads sink 
 on each other’s shoulder. | 
 
 Thereupon, hopping softly, he ran up to the very доог, 
 gave it the merest tap, and, inclining his head to one side, 
 in a low voice, asked with the utmost deference: 
 
 “На sonato, ядпоте?” 
 
 And, squeezing his throat, thrusting out his lower jaw, 
 in a grating voice, slowly and sadly, he answered his own 
 question, in English, as though from the other side of the 
 door: 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 225 
 "Ус. сотен...’ 
 
 And at dawn, when it had become light beyond the window 
 ‘of room Number Forty-three, and a humid wind had begun 
 ‘to rustle the tattered leaves of the banana tree; when the 
 blue sky of morning had lifted and spread out over the 
 Island of Capri, and the pure and clear-cut summit of 
 Monte Solaro had grown golden against the sun that was 
 rising beyond the distant blue mountains of Italy; when the 
 stone masons, who were repairing the tourists’ paths on the 
 island, had set out to work,—a long box that had formerly 
 been used for soda water was brought to room Number Forty- 
 three. Soon it became very heavy, and was pressing hard 
 against the knees of the junior porter, who bore it off briskly 
 on a one horse cab over the white paved highway that was 
 sinuously winding over the slopes of Capri, among the stone 
 walls and the vineyards, ever downwards, to the sea itself. 
 The cabby, a puny little man with reddened eyes, in an old 
 jacket with short sleeves and in much-worn shoes, was sut- 
 fering the after effects of drink,—he had spent the whole 
 night long in playing with dice in a tratoria, and kept on 
 lashing his sturdy little horse, rigged out in Sicilian fashion, 
 with all sorts of little bells livelily jingling upon the bridle 
 with its tufts of coloured wool, and upon the brass points 
 of its high pad; with a yard-long feather stuck in its cropped 
 forelock,—a feather that shook as the horse ran. The cabby 
 kept silent ; he was oppressed by his shiftlessness, his vices,— 
 by the circumstance that he had, that night, lost to the last 
 mite all those coppers with which his pockets had been 
 filled. But the morning was fresh; in air such as this, with 
 
р. 
 т 
 
 226 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO _ 
 
 the sea all around, under the morning sky, the after effects 
 of drink quickly evaporate, and a man is soon restored to a 
 care-free mood, and the cabby was furthermore consoled by 
 that unexpected windfall, conferred upon him by some gentle- 
 man from San Francisco, whose lifeless head was bobbing 
 from side to side in the box at his back. . . . The little 
 steamer,—a beetle lying far down below, against the tender 
 and vivid deep-blue with which the Bay of Naples is so 
 densely and highly flooded,—was already blowing its final 
 whistles, that reverberated loudly all over the island, whose 
 every bend, every ridge, every stone, was as distinctly visible 
 from every point as if there were absolutely no such thing 
 as atmosphere. Near the wharf the junior porter was sie 
 hy the senior, who was speeding with the daughter an 
 wife of the gentleman from San Francisco in his automols 
 bile—they were pale, with eyes hollow from tears and ; 
 sleepless night. And ten minutes later the little steamer 
 was again noisily making its way through the water, again 
 running toward Sorrento, toward Castellamare, carryin 
 away from Capri, for all time, the family from San Fran- 
 cisco... . And again peace and quiet reigned upon th 
 island. 
 
 Upon this island, two thousand years ago, had lived 
 man who had become completely enmeshed in his cruel an 
 foul deeds, who had for some reason seized the power over 
 millions of people in his hands, and who, having himsel 
 lost his head at the senselessness of this power and fro 
 the fear of death by assassination by some one, lurking roun 
 the corner, had committed cruelties beyond all measure, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 227 
 
 and humankind has remembered him for all time; and those 
 who, in their collusion, just as incomprehensively and, in 
 substance, just as cruelly as he, reign at present in power 
 over this world, gather from all over the earth to gaze upon 
 the ruins of that stone villa where he had dwelt on one of 
 the steepest ascents of the island. On this marvellous 
 morning all those who had come to Capri for just this pur- 
 pose were still sleeping in the hotels, although, toward the 
 entrances, were already being led little mouse-gray burros 
 with red saddles, upon which, after awaking and sating them- 
 ‘selves with food, Americans and Germans, men and women, 
 young and old, would again ponderously clamber up the steep 
 paths this day, and after whom would again run the old 
 ‘Caprian beggar women, with sticks in their gnarled hands,— 
 would run over stony paths, and always up-hill, up to the very 
 ‘summit of Mount Tiberio. Comforted by the knowledge that 
 ‘the dead old man from San Francisco, who had likewise been 
 planning to go with them but instead of that had only fright- 
 ened them with a reminder of death, had already been shipped 
 ‘off to Naples, the travellers slept on heavily, and the quiet 
 ‘of the island was still undisturbed, the shops in the town 
 were still shut. The market place in the little square alone 
 ‘was carrying on traffic,—in fish and greens; and the people 
 ‘there were all simple folk, among whom, without anything 
 to do, as always, was standing Lorenzo the boatman, fa- 
 mous all over Italy,—a tall old man, а care-free rake and a 
 handsome fellow, who had served more than once as a 
 model to many artists; he had brought, and had already 
 sold for a trifle, two lobsters that he had caught that night 
 
 
 
- 
 
 у 
 
 228 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 and which were already rustling in the apron of the cook 
 of that very hotel where the family from San Francisco 
 had passed the night, and now he could afford to stand 
 in calm idleness even until the evening, looking about him 
 with a kingly bearing, consciously and flauntingly picturesque — 
 with his tatters, clay pipe, and a red woolen beretta drooping 
 over one ear. 
 
 And, along the precipices of Monte Solaro, upon the 
 ancient Phcenician road, hewn out of the crags, down Из. 
 stone steps, two mountaineers of Abruzzi were descending 
 from Anacapri. One had bag-pipes under his leathern ~ 
 mantle,—a large bag made from the skin of а she-goat, 
 with two pipes; the other had something in the nature of — 
 wooden Pan’s-reeds. They went on,—and all the land, 
 joyous, lovely, sun-swept, spread out below them: the stony 
 humps of the island, which was lying almost in its entirety | 
 at their feet; and that faery-like deep-blue in which it was 
 afloat ; and the shining morning vapours over the sea, toward 
 the east, under the blinding sun, that was now beating down 
 hotly, rising ever higher and higher; and, still in their 
 morning vagueness, the mistily blue massive outlines of — 
 Italy, of her mountains near and far, whose beauty human 
 speech is impotent to express. . . . Half way down the pipers 
 slackened their pace: over the path, within a grotto in the 
 craggy side of Monte Solaro, all bright in the sun, all 
 bathed in its warmth and glow, in snowy-white raiment of 
 gypsum, and in a royal crown, golden-rusty from inclement 
 weathers, stood the Mother of God, meek and gracious, 
 her orbs lifted up to heaven, to the eternal and happy 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 229 
 
 abodes of Her thrice-blessed Son. The pipers bared their 
 heads, put their reeds to their lips,—and there poured forth 
 their naive and humbly-jubilant praises to the sun, to the 
 “morning, to Her, the Immaculate Intercessor for all those 
 who suffer in this evil and beautiful world, and to Him 
 Who had been born of Her womb in a cavern at Bethle- 
 hem, in a poor shepherd’s shelter in the distant land of 
 ЗЧ 2-а: 71.7... 
 
 Meanwhile, the body of the dead old man from San 
 Francisco was returning to its home, to a grave on the - 
 ‘shores of the New World. Having gone through many 
 “humiliations, through much human neglect, having wan- 
 dered for a week from one port warehouse to another, it 
 had finally gotten once more on board that same famous 
 ship upon which but lately, with so much deference, he 
 had been borne to the Old World. But now he was already 
 being concealed from the quick,—he was lowered in his 
 ae coffin deep into the black hold. And once more 
 the ship was sailing on and on upon its long sea voyage. 
 By night it sailed past the Island of Capri, and, to one 
 watching them from the island, there was something sad 
 about the ships’ lights, slowly disappearing over the dark 
 sea. But, upon the ship itself, in its brilliant salons re- 
 splendent with lustres and marble, there was, as usual, 
 a crowded ball that night. 
 
 There was a ball on the second night, and also on the 
 third,—again in the midst of a raging snow gale, whirl- 
 ing over an ocean booming like a burial mass, and rolling 
 in mountains arrayed in mourning by the silvery foam, The 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
230 THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 innumerable fiery eves of the ship were barely visible, because 
 of the snow, to the Devil watching from the crags of Gibral- 
 tar, from the stony gateway of two worlds, the ship reced- 
 ing into the night and the snow gale. The Devil was as enor- | 
 mous аз а cliff, but even more enormous was the ship, . 
 many-tiered, many-funnelled, created by the pride of the’ 
 New Man with an ancient heart. The snow gale smote | 
 upon its rigging and wide-throated funnels, white from 
 the snow, but the ship was steadfast, firm, majestic—and 
 terrifying. Upon its topmost deck were reared, in their 
 solitude among the snowy whirlwinds, those snug, dimly | 
 lighted chambers where, plunged in a light and pie 
 slumber, was its ponderous guide who resembled a pagan 
 idol, reigning over the whole ship. He heard the pained 
 
 howlings and the ferocious squealings of the storm-stifled 
 siren, but comforted himself by the proximity of that which, 
 in the final summing up, was incomprehensible even to ae 
 self, that which was on the other side of his wall: that. 
 large cabin, which had the appearance of being armoured, 
 and was being constantly filled by the mysterious rumbling, 
 quivering, and crisp sputtering of blue flames, flaring up 
 and exploding around the pale-faced operator with a metal 
 half-hoop upon his head. In the very depths, in the sub- 
 merged womb of the Afélantis, were the thirty-thousand- 
 pound masses of boilers and of all sorts of other machinery 
 —dully glittering with steel, hissing out steam and exud- 
 ing oil and boiling water,—of that kitchen, made red hot 
 from infernal furnaces underneath, wherein was brewing 
 the motion of the ship. Forces, fearful in their concen- 
 
 г 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 231 
 
 tration, were bubbling, were being transmitted to its very 
 keel, into an endlessly long dungeon, into a tunnel, illumi- 
 nated by electricity, wherein slowly, with an inexorableness 
 that was crushing to the human soul, was revolving within 
 its oily couch the gigantic shaft, exactly like a living mon- 
 ster that had stretched itself out in this tunnel. 
 Meanwhile, amidship the Atlantis, its warm and luxurious 
 cabins, its dining halls and ball-rooms, poured forth radiance 
 and joyousness, were humming with the voices of a well- 
 dressed gathering, were fragrant with fresh flowers, and 
 the strains of the stringed orchestra were their song. And 
 again excruciatingly coiled and at intervals feverishly came 
 together among this throng, among this glitter of lights, silks, 
 diamonds and bared feminine shoulders, the pliant pair of 
 hired lovers: the sinfully modest, very pretty young woman, 
 with eyelashes cast down, with a chaste coiffure, and the 
 well-built young man, with black hair that seemed to be 
 pasted on, with his face pale from powder, shod in the 
 most elegant of patent-leather foot-gear, clad in a tight- 
 fitting dress coat with long tails——a handsome man who 
 resembled a huge leech. And none knew that, already for а. 
 long time, this pair had grown weary of languishing dis- | 
 semblingly in their blissful torment to the sounds of the 
 shamelessly sad music,—nor that far, far below, at the bot- - 
 tom of the black hold, stood a tarred coffin, neighbouring 
 on the gloomy, sultry depths of the ship that was ponderously 
 overcoming the darkness, the ocean, the gale... . 
 1915. 
 a THE END 
 

 

 

 
"ay 
 
 Уи 
 
 
 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 086356844