Дневник писателя 1876 ноябрь

ИСТОРИЯ ОДНОГО ТОРГОВОГО ПРЕДПРИЯТИЯ

Maxim and the Wood Request

Как ваши дела! У меня к вам просьба, мадам. Я бы хотела дерева, мадам. Мне нужно построить хижину для Степана, но древесины нет. Мне нужны доски.

Ну?- сквозь зубы ответила женщина.

Лицо Максима осветилось.

Вам лучше сообщить об этом Феликсу Адамычу, да благословит вас Господь! Теперь Степка получит свою хижину.

Но я ведь вас за это хорошо возьму, Журкин! Вы же знаете, что я не продавец древесины, мне она нужна самой, и если я дам, то дорого.

Лицо Максима растянулось.

Что вы имеете в виду?

Я не хочу за это деньги.

А как же вы хотите?

Я не отдам даром.

Максим сжал в кулаке шляпу и начал уставиться на потолок.

Вы действительно это говорите?- спросил он после короткого молчания.

Да, я. А у вас еще есть что-то сказать?

Я не знаю.

Максим посмотрел на старуху, кашлянул, хмыкнул и ушел. Он дрожал от гнева.

Так вот кто ты, плут! – подумал он и направился к конюшне. В конюшне Степан лениво сидел на скамейке и чесал бок лошади, стоящей перед ним. Максим не зашел в конюшню, а остановился в дверном проеме.

Степан!- закричал он.

Степан не ответил и не посмотрел на отца. Лошадь слегка пошевелилась.

Готовься идти домой!- сказал Максим.

Не хочу.

Так ты можешь мне так ответить?

Могу, если захочу.

Приказываю!

Степан вскочил и захлопнул дверь конюшни перед Максимом.

Maxims Anger and Stepans Drunken Outing

Вечером мальчик из деревни прибежал к Степану и сказал ему, что Максим выгнал Марию, и Марии не знают, где она может переночевать.

Она сейчас сидит перед церковью и плачет,- сказал мальчик. И люди собрались вокруг нее и ругают вас.

На следующий день, ранним утром, пока поместье еще спало, Степан надел свою старую одежду и отправился в деревню. Звонили колокола для утренней службы. Было воскресенье утро, яркое и веселое – просто жить и радоваться! Степан прошел мимо церкви, уставился на колокольню и зашел в таверну. К сожалению, таверна открывалась раньше церкви. Когда он вошел, уже были пьяницы возле стойки.

Водку!- заказал Степан. Ему налили немного водки. Он выпил, сел и выпил еще. Степан напился и начал обслуживать. Началась шумная пьянка.

Сколько ты получаешь от Стрельчика?- спросил один из мужчин.

Столько, сколько положено. Пейте, ослик!

Отличная идея! Счастливого праздника, Степан Максимыч! Счастливого воскресенья! Как успехи?

Ха-ха! Как может щеголь жить на десять рублей? О чем вы говорите? Он получает сто!

Степан посмотрел на человека, который это сказал, и узнал своего брата Семена, который сидел на скамейке в углу, пьющий. За спиной Упившийся лицо Манафилова, попа, выглядывало и усмехалось иронично.

Позвольте спросить вас, сэр, – сказал Семен, снимая шляпу, – у леди хорошие лошади или нет? Они вам нравятся?

Степан налил себе стакан водки и молча выпил.

Манафилов подошел к Степану, потрясая головой.

Уходите! Это глупости!

СИРЕНА

Когда был подан шампанское, мы попросили провинциального секретаря Оттягаева, нашего Ренана и нашего Спинозу, произнести речь. Немного поколебавшись, он согласился, и, оглядываясь на дверь, сказал:

Мы посмотрели вокруг и увидели почтительно улыбающихся слуг.

В тот момент дверь скрипнула. Кто-то вошел. Мы оглянулись и увидели маленького человека с большой лысиной и учительской улыбкой на губах. Этот маленький человек был нам так знаком! Он вошел и остановился, чтобы выслушать тост.

Старик подошел к столу и ласково кивнул нам головой. Он, очевидно, был в восторге.

THE SIREN

После одного из собраний N-го Всемирного конгресса судей собрались в комнату совещаний, чтобы снять свои униформы, отдохнуть минутку и отправиться домой на обед. Председатель конгресса, очень видный мужчина с пушистыми бакенбарами, у которого возникло отличное мнение по одному из случаев, который он только что рассмотрел, сидел за столом и торопливо писал свое мнение. Районный судья Милкин, молодой человек с унылым, меланхоличным лицом, известный как философ и недовольный своим окружением, ищущий смысл жизни, стоял у окна и угрюмо смотрел во двор. Еще один районный полицейский и один из уважаемых судей уже ушли. Оставшиеся уважаемый – вялый, тяжело дышащий толстяк и друг прокурора – молодой немец с больным лицом, сидели на диване и ждали, пока председатель закончит писать, чтобы они могли пойти поужинать вместе. Перед ними стоял Жилин, секретарь конгресса, крошечный мужчина с бакенбарами возле ушей и выражением милоты на лице.

Жареные гуси хозяева запаха, – сказал вялый офицер мира, тяжело дыша.

Слушайте, – сказал председатель, поднимая глаза на секретаря, говорите потише! Из-за вас я уже испортил второй лист!

Иван Гурич! – прервал председатель слезливым голосом, – Из-за тебя я испортил третий лист!

Черт его знает почему – он только о еде думает! – ворчал философ Милкин, с презрением хмуря брови. Разве тут в жизни нет других интересов, кроме грибов и кулебяки?

Секретарь косил глаза и крутил рот до ушей. Вялый офицер мира фыркнул и, вероятно, представив кулебяку, пошевелил пальцами.

И еще хорошо иметь кольцо из осетра, – сказал вялый офицер мира, закрыв глаза, и сразу, к удивлению всех, подскочил со своего места, сделал грубое лицо и завопил в сторону председателя: Петр Николаич, ты скоро закончишь? Я больше не могу ждать! Просто не могу!

Подожди, позволь закончить!

Тогда я пойду сам! К черту тебя!

О ДРАМЕ

Полный мужчина жестикулировал рукой, схватил шляпу и помчался из комнаты, не попрощавшись. Секретарь вздохнул и, наклонившись к уху своего товарища-прокурора, продолжил шепотом: Щука с томатным и грибным соусом тоже хороша. Но не стоит переусердствовать с рыбой, Степан Франческ; рыба-то не важная пища, в обеде главное не рыба и соус, а жареное. Какую птицу ты любишь больше?

Товарищ-прокурор нахмурился и с вздохом сказал: К сожалению, не могу с вами согласиться: у меня катар желудка.

Философ Милкин нахмурился и, видимо, хотел что-то сказать, но внезапно облизнул губы, вероятно, представив жареную утку, и, не сказав ни слова, будто оттолкнутый неведомой силой, схватил шляпу и выбежал.

Председатель встал, прошелся и опять сел.

После жаркого человек наестся и погружается в сладкую ступорную мечтательность, продолжал секретарь. Тогда и душа, и тело чувствуют себя хорошо. Чтобы насладиться этим моментом, можно выпить бокал коньяка.

Председатель фыркнул и вычеркнул свой лист. Сломал шестой лист! – сердито сказал он. Это бесстыдство!

О, пошли же, Петр Николаич! – сказал прокурор, нетерпеливо отставляя ногу.

Да, сударь, продолжал секретарь. С коньяком хорошо покурить сигару и выдуть кольца, и в тот момент в голову начинают приходить такие мечтательные мысли, будто ты генералиссимус или женат на самой красивой женщине в мире, и будто эта красотка целый день плавает перед твоими окнами в своем своего рода бассейне с золотыми рыбками. Она плывет, и ты говоришь ей: Дорогая, приди поцелуй меня!

Петр Николаич! – прогудел товарищ прокурора.

Да, сударь!, продолжил секретарь, Покурив, поднимешь подол халата и идешь ко сну! Там ложишься на спину и берешь в руки газету. Когда глаза устают и все тело оцепеневает сонливостью, приятно почитать о политике: видишь, тут Австрия ошиблась, там Франция кому-то не угодила, там Папа пошел наперекосяк – читаешь, очень приятно!

Председатель вскочил, бросил перо в сторону, схватил шляпу обеими руками. Товарищ прокурора, который уже забыл о своем катаре и был в припадке нетерпения, также вскочил.

Пошли же! – закричал он.

Петр Николаич, а меньшинственное мнение? – запаниковал секретарь. Когда ты его напишешь, благодетель? Ведь тебе надо в город в шесть часов!

A carriage pulled by a couple of handsome Vyatka horses came up to Maxim Zhurkin’s house, rustling and swishing over the dry, dusty grass there. Lady Elena Yegorovna Strelkova and her steward Felix Adamovich Rzhevetsky were sitting in the carriage. The steward jumped smartly out of the carriage, approached the hut and tapped on the window with his index finger. A light flickered in the hut.

“Who is it?” An old woman’s voice asked, and Maxim’s wife’s head appeared in the window.

“Come out into the street, Granny!” the lady shouted. A moment later Maxim and his wife came out of the hut.

They stopped at the gate and bowed silently to the baroness and then to the steward.

“Tell me,” Elena Yegorovna turned to the old man, "what is the meaning of all this?”

“What is it?”

“What do you mean? Don’t you know? Is Stepan at home?”

“No, he isn’t. He’s gone to the mill.”

“What’s he playing at? I don’t understand that man at all! Why did he leave me?”

“We don’t know, ma’am. What do we know?”

“It’s awfully naughty of him! He’s left me without a coachman! Because of him, Felix Adamovich has to harness the horses and to drive himself. It’s terribly stupid! You’ll understand that it’s really foolish! Isn’t his salary enough, or what?”

“Only Christ knows him!” replied the old man, squinting at the steward who was peeping through the windows. “He doesn’t tell us anything, and you cannot get into his head. He says he’s gone, and so is the Sabbath! He has his own will! I suppose his wages weren’t enough!”

“And who is that sitting on the bench under the images?” Felix Adamovich asked, looking into the window.

“Semyon, father! And Stepan isn’t here.”

“How impertinent of him!” continued the young lady, lighting a cigarette. “Monsieur Rzhevetsky, how much were his wages?”

“Ten roubles a month.”

“If ten weren’t enough for him, I could give him fifteen! He didn’t say a word and just left! Is that honest? Is it honest?”

“I told you we must never be ceremonious with these people!” Rzhevetsky spoke, stamping out every syllable, taking care not to stress the penultimate syllable. “You have spoilt these freeloaders! You should never give all your wages in one go! What’s the use? And why do you want to add to his wages? He’ll come back anyway! He’s made a deal, he’s hired himself out!”

“Tell him,” the Pole said to Maximus, "that he’s a pig and nothing more!”

“Do you hear, man? When you’re hired, serve, not leave whenever you like, damn it! Don’t let him come tomorrow! I’ll show him to disobey! And you’ll get it! Do you hear me, old woman?

“You’ll all get it! Don’t come to my office then, you old dog! You’re not to be trifled with? Are you people? Do you understand proper words? You only understand if you get your necks slapped when you get in trouble! I want him to come tomorrow!”

“Tell him I’m giving him a raise,’’ said Elena Yegorovna. “I can’t be without a coachman. When I find another one, I’ll let him go then, if he wants to. Tomorrow morning I want him at my place again! Tell him that I am deeply offended by his impolite behaviour! And you too, Granny, tell him! I hope he’ll be at my place and won’t make me send for him. Come here, Granny! Here you are, sweetheart! Isn’t it hard to handle such big children? Take it, my dear!”

She took a pretty cigarette case out of her pocket, drew a yellow paper from under the cigarettes, and gave it to the old woman.

Rzhevetsky jumped into the carriage, grasped the reins and the carriage began to roll along the soft road.

“How much did she give you?” the old man asked.

“Give it to me!

The old man took the rouble, stroked it with both hands, folded it carefully, and hid it in his pocket.

“Stepan gone!” he sneered as he entered the hut. “I told her he had gone to the mill. She was frightened out of her wits!”

As soon as the carriage had driven off and disappeared from view, Stepan appeared in the window. Pale as death and trembling he half-crawled out of the window and shook his big fist at the darkening garden. The garden was a lordly one. Threatening six more times he muttered something and then reached back into the hut and lowered the frame with a bang.

Half an hour after the baroness had left supper was being served in Zhurkin’s hut. In the kitchen Zhurkin and his wife were sitting at the greasy table near to the cooker . Opposite them was Maxim’s eldest son Semyon, on temporary leave, who had a reddish, weary face, a long, grayish nose and greasy eyes. His face was like his father’s except that he was grey-haired, bald, and had none of the sly, gipsy eyes of his father. Next to Semyon sat Maxim’s other son, Stepan. He wasn’t eating but was leaning his handsome blond head on his fist, staring up at the sooty ceiling and thinking hard about something. Dinner was served by Stepan’s wife, Marya. The soup was eaten in silence.

“Take it!” Maxim said after the soup had been eaten. Marya took an empty cup from the table, but did not carry it safely to the cooker, although the oven was close by. She staggered and fell on the bench. The cup fell out of her hands and slid from her lap to the floor. Sobbing was heard.

“Who’s crying, then?” Maxim asked.

Marja cried louder. Two minutes passed. The old woman got up and served gruel on the table herself, Stepan grunted and stood up.

“Shut up!" he muttered.

Marya continued to cry.

“Shut up, I’m telling you!” Stepan shouted.

“Death doesn’t like a woman’s crying!” Semyon boldly muttered, scratching the back of his stiff neck. “She roars and does not know what she is roaring about! She’s a woman! She can roar in the courtyard if she likes!”

“A woman’s tear is a drop of water!” Maxim said. “No tears to buy, they’re free. Well, why are you crying? Hey! Stop it! They won’t take your Stepka! You’re spoiled! You’re too tender! Go eat your porridge!”

Stepan leaned over to Marya and lightly slapped her elbow.

“What’s the matter? Shut up, I’m telling you! Damn it!”

Stepan swung round and smashed his fist on the bench where Marja was lying. A large glistening tear crawled down his cheek. He wiped the tear from his face, sat down at the table and began to eat his porridge. Marya got up and, sobbing, sat down behind the cooker, away from people. They ate their porridge.

“Marya, some kvask! Mind your own business, young woman! You should be ashamed of your snotting!” the old man shouted. “You’re no little girl!”

Marya, her face pale and tearful, came out and handed the old man a ladle without looking at anyone. The ladle went over his hands. Semyon took the ladle in his hands, crossed himself, took a sip and choked on it.

“What are you laughing at?”

Semyon threw his head back, opened his big mouth and giggled.

“Has the baroness come?” he asked, looking at Stepan sideways. “Eh? What did she offer you, eh? Ha-ha!”

Stepan looked at Semyon and blushed thickly.

“Fifteen roubles," said the old man.

“Look at you! She’ll give you a hundred, if only you want it! God forbid she should!”

Semyon blinked his eye and stretched himself.

Semyon shrank back, slapped Stepan on the shoulder and laughed.

“That’s right, my soul! You’re so embarrassing! Our brother’s shouldn’t be embarrassing! You’re a fool, Stepan! What a fool!”

“You’re obviously a fool!" the father said.

Sobbing was heard again.

“Your woman’s crying again! Do you know, she’s jealous, she’s ticklish! I don’t like women’s squeals. It’s like a knife! Oh, women, women! And what did God create you for? For what purpose? Merci for the dinner, gentlemen! Now let’s have some wine to make me dream some beautiful dreams! Your madam must have a lot of wine! Drink what you like!”

“You’re an insensitive brute, Senka!”

After some silence Semyon sat down comfortably, lit a small pipe and spoke:

“I don’t want to.”

“Leave me alone!”

Semyon was silent for a while and then he went on:

“And if the soul sins?” Stepan suddenly asked, turning to Semyon.

“Sin? How can there be sin? Nothing is sin for a poor man.”

“What sin is there? If you don’t go to her, she comes to you! You scarecrow!”

“I need it, but it’s not someone else’s.”

Semyon stood up and stretched.

“Marja a cow?”

Semyon turned and, whistling, staggered towards the hut. Five minutes later the grass rustled near Stepan. He looked up. Marja was walking towards him. Marya came over, stood there and then lay down beside Stepan.

“Don’t go, Stepan!” she whispered. “Don’t go, my darling! She’ll ruin you! She’s not enough of a Pole, she needs you. Don’t go to her, Stepan!”

Marya’s tears fell in a fine hot rain on Stepan’s face.

“Go to bed!

“Marja!” Maxim’s voice was heard. “Where are you? Come on, mother’s calling!”

Marya got up, fixed her hair and ran into the house. Maxim slowly approached Stepan. He had already undressed and looked like a dead man in his underclothes. The moon played over his bald head and shone in his gypsy eyes.

“Are you going to go to the barina tomorrow or the day after tomorrow?” he asked Stepan.

Stepan didn’t answer.

“If you are going, go there tomorrow, and early. I bet the horses aren’t clean. Don’t forget that you were promised fifteen. Don’t go for ten.”

“There’s no way I’m going!” Stepan said.

“You know why.”

“Can you say that to your parents? Who are you talking to? Watch out! The milk’s not even dry on your lips, and you’re talking rudely to your father.”

“I won’t go, that’s all! You go to church, but you’re not afraid of sin!”

“I want to put you straight, you fool! Should we build a new house or not? What do you think? Who are we going to get the timber from? From Strelcha, perhaps? Who will we borrow money from? From her or not from her? She’ll give you the forest, and she’ll give you money. She’ll reward you!”

“Let her reward others. I don’t need it.”

“I’ll take your skin off!”

“Then take it off! Take it off!”

Maxim smiled and held out his hand. He had a whip in his hand.

“I will, Stepan!”

Stepan turned on his other side and pretended to be disturbed in his sleep.

“So you won’t go? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s right. God strike my soul if I do!”

Maxim raised his hand and Stepan felt a sharp pain on his shoulder and cheek. Stepan jumped up like a madman.

“Don’t beat me, father!” he shouted. “Don’t beat me! Do you hear? Don’t beat me!”

Maxim thought about it and hit Stepan again. He hit him a third time.

“Listen to your father when he tells you to go! You’ll go, you rascal!”

“Don’t beat me! Do you hear me?”

Stepan roared and quickly sank down to the ground.

“All right. You’ll go for yourself, not for me. I don’t need a new hut, you do. I told you I’d pull your skin off, so I pulled it off.”

“All right. Provoke me! Talk to me like that again!”

Stepan stopped crying, turned on his stomach and quietly cried some more.

Maxim stroked his beard and turned towards the hut. Stepan thought that when Maxim entered the house he said: "I did it!" Semyon’s laughter could be heard.

III

As usually happens after a big financial loss or after a drinking session, when he feels ill: Stepan Stepanych Zhilin woke up in an unusually gloomy mood. He looked sour, rumpled and disheveled; there was an expression of dissatisfaction on his gray face: he was either offended, or he was disdainful about something. He got dressed slowly, slowly drinks down his Vichy water and began to walk around all the rooms.

“I’d like to know what kind of damn beast goes around here and doesn’t close the doors?” he grumbled angrily, wrapping himself in his robe and spitting loudly. “Put these papers away! Why are they lying there? We keep twenty servants but there’s less order than in a tavern. Who called on us there? Who’s just come in?”

“It was our Fedya who’s with Grandma Anfisa,” his wife answered.

“I don’t understand you, Stepan Stepanych.” she said, “You invited her yourself, and now you’re swearing at her.”

“I’m not swearing, I’m speaking! I wish I could do something else, mother, than sit around like this with folded arms, arguing! I don’t understand these women, I swear on my honor! I don’t understand them! How can they spend whole days doing nothing? The husband works, he works like an ox, like cattle, and the wife, his life’s companion, sits there like a little girl, does nothing and just waits for an opportunity to quarrel with her husband out of boredom. It’s time, mother, to leave those school-time habits behind! Now you’re no longer a college student nor a young lady, but a mother and a wife! Are you turning away from me? Why? Is it unpleasant to listen to bitter truths?”

“It’s odd that you only talk of bitter truths when your liver hurts.”

“Were you out of town yesterday? Or did you play cards with someone?”

“And even if I did? Who cares? Am I obliged to report to anyone? Am I not losing my own money? What I spend myself and what’s spent on this house belong to me! Do you hear? To me!”

And so on, everything like that. But at no other time is Stepan Stepanich so reasonable, virtuous, strict and fair as at dinnertime, when his whole household is sitting around him. It usually starts with soup. Having swallowed the first spoon, Zhilin suddenly winces and stops eating.

“And why’s that?” his wife is worried. “Isn’t the soup good?”

Fedya, a seven-year-old boy with a pale, sickly face, stops eating and lowers his eyes. His face turns even more pale.

Fedya lifts up his chin and stretches out his neck, and it seems to him that he’s sitting straighter. Tears well up in his eyes.

“You call that eating? Hold your spoon properly! Wait, I’ll get to you, bad boy! Don’t you dare cry! Look straight at me!”

Fedya tries to look straight at him, but his face is trembling and his eyes are filled with tears.

Fedya, twisting his face with his whole body twitching, slides off the chair and goes to the corner.

“I’m not afraid of strangers,” Zhilin answers in Russian. “Anfisa Ivanovna sees that I’m telling the truth! Well, do you think I should be pleased with this boy? Do you know how much he costs me? Do you know, you vile little boy, how much you cost me? Or do you think that I fabricate money, that I get it for nothing? Stop crying! Be quiet! Well, can you hear me or not? Do you want me to whip you, you scoundrel?”

Fedya squeals loudly and begins to sob.

“This is finally unbearable!” his mother says, getting up from the table and throwing down her napkin. “He never let you have dinner in peace! That’s the only place where I’ve got some peace!” She points to her head and, putting a handkerchief up to her eyes, leaves the dining room.

Zhilin gets up and walks over to the door with dignity. Passing by the crying Fedya, he stops.

Waking up the next morning he feels in a great mood and, while washing himself, whistles cheerfully. Arriving at the dining room to drink coffee, he finds Fedya there, who, at the sight of his father, gets up and looks at him in confusion.

“Well, how are you, young man?” Zhilin asks cheerfully, sitting down at the table. “What’s new with you, young man? Are you doing well? Come over here, my little boy and kiss your father!

Fedya, pale, with a serious face, approaches his father and touches his cheek with trembling lips, then moves away and silently sits down at his place.

II.

“Has Stepan come?” Elena Yegorovna asked on waking up the next day.

“He’s come!” the maid replied.

“In the stable.”

The young lady jumped out of bed, dressed quickly and went into the dining-room for coffee.

Strelkova looked young, younger than her years. Her eyes alone betrayed that she had already lived through most of her womanhood, that she was already over thirty. Her eyes were brown, deep, distrustful, male rather than female. She wasn’t beautiful but she could be liked. Her face was full, pretty, healthy, and the neck had Semyon spoken of and her bust were magnificent. If Semyon had known the value of pretty legs and arms he probably wouldn’t have been silent about the lady’s legs and arms either. She was dressed in her simple, light summer clothes. Her hair was unpretentious. Strelkova was lazy and didn’t like to linger with her toilette.

The estate she lived in belonged to her bachelor brother who lived in St Petersburg and rarely thought of his estate. She had been living there ever since she separated from her husband. Colonel Strelkov, her husband, a very respectable man, also lived in St. Petersburg and thought even less often of his wife than her brother did of his estate. She had separated from her husband without living with him for a year. She had cheated on him on the twentieth day after the wedding.

Sitting down to coffee, Strelkova ordered that Stepan be summoned. Stepan appeared and stood at the door. He was pale, disheveled, and looked like a trapped wolf: angry and gloomy. The young lady looked at him and blushed slightly.

“Hello, Stepan," she said, pouring herself a coffee. “Tell me, please, what kind of tricks are you playing? Why on earth did you leave? You stayed for four days and then you left. You left without asking permission. You should have asked!”

“I did ask," Stepan muttered.

“Who did you ask?”

Strelkova was silent and then asked:

“Are you angry or what? Stepan, answer me! I’m asking! Are you angry?”

Stepan turned and stepped back.

“Why should I be angry?”

Stepan waved his hand, blinked and turned away.

“What’s the matter, Stepan?”

The baroness got up, made a worried face and went over to Stepan.

She took Stepan by the sleeve.

“What’s the matter, Stepan? What’s the matter with you? Speak up, will you? Who hurt you?”

She had tears in her eyes.

“Oh, come on!”

“My father and my brother. Not a penny! Let them die out of spite!”

She smiled, wiped her eyes and laughed loudly.

“All right,” she said. “Well, off you go! I’ll send you your clothes in a moment.”

Stepan went out.

"It’s important, Stepan! Important!" she shouted. “That’s it! Drive on! Like the wind!”

Every day in the evening fresh horses came out of the stables. Stepan harnessed them to the buggy and rode to the garden gate. The shining young lady would come out of the gate, get into the carriage and the frantic ride would begin. Not a day was free from these rides. Unfortunately for Stepan, there was never a rainy evening in which he couldn’t go out riding.

After one of these rides Stepan, returning from the steppe, left the yard and went for a walk along the shore. There was the usual fog in his head, no thoughts and a terrible longing in his chest. The night was nice and quiet. Subtle scents wafted through the air and gently flirted with his face. Stepan remembered the village, which was darkening across the river before his eyes.

“Stepa!” he heard a faint voice.

Stepan looked around. Marja was walking towards him. She had just crossed the ford and was holding her clogs in her hands.

“Stepan, why did you leave?”

Stepan looked at her dumbly and turned away.

“Stepan, who have you left me, an orphan, why?”

“God will punish you, Stepushka! He will punish you! He’ll send you to a terrible death, without repentance. Mark my word! Uncle Trofim lived with a soldier’s girl, remember? And how he died! God forbid!”

Stepan took two steps forward. Marya held on to his coat with both hands.

She cried out: “I’m your wife, Stepan! You can’t leave me like this! Stepan!”

Marya began to weep.

“Darling! I’ll wash my feet and we’ll drink water! Come home!”

Stepan rushed forward and punched Marja with his fist; a blow of grief. The blow came right on her belly. Marya gave a yelp, clutched at her stomach and sat down on the ground.

“Oh!” she moaned.

Stepan blinked his eyes, pounded his fist on his temple and without looking back went to the yard.

When he reached his stable he fell down on the bench, put a pillow on his head and bit his hand painfully.

At that time, the lady was sitting in her bedroom, wondering whether the weather would be fine tomorrow evening or not. The cards said that it would be fine.

THE GOOD GERMAN

GROHOLSKY embraced Liza and kept on kissing all her little fingers with their bitten pink nails one after another, and put her on the couch that was covered with cheap velvet. Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, and lay down.

Ahead there were birch trees where the thicket ended, and the misty distance was visible through their trunks and branches. Someone behind the birches was playing a homemade, shepherd’s reed-pipe. He played no more than five or six notes, lazily putting them together without trying to link them into a motif, but nevertheless something harsh and extremely wistful could be heard in his piping. . As the thicket thinned and the fir-trees began to mingle with young birch trees, Meliton saw a herd. A confused mass of horses, cows and sheep was wandering between the bushes and munching the forest grass, crackling the twigs on the ground. At the edge of the forest, leaning against a wet birch tree, there was a skinny old shepherd in tattered serge and hatless. He was staring at the ground thinking about something while playing his pipe, apparently in a mechanical manner.

“Hello, grandfather! God be with you!” Meliton greeted him in a thin, husky voice, which didn’t suit his huge stature and large, fleshy face. “And how cleverly you’re blowing on your pipe! Whose flock are you herding?”

“Armamon’s," the shepherd reluctantly replied, and put his whistle behind his back.

Everything about the fellow was small and didn’t correspond to his height, his breadth and his fleshy face: his smile, his eyes, his buttons, and his cap, which was barely maintained on his fat, shaven head. When he spoke and smiled, there was something womanly, timid and humble in his shaven, plump face and in his whole figure.

“Well, what weather, God forbid!” he said and shook his head. “The men haven’t harvested the oats yet, and rain seems to be coming on, God forbid.”

The shepherd looked up at the sky, where the rain was drizzling down, at the forest, at the wet clothes of the farmhand, thought and said nothing.

“How’s it here?” Meliton asked, lighting a cigarette. “Have you seen a brood of grouse in Armamon’s grounds?”

Meliton grinned and waved his hand. “Such things are being done in this world that it’s a laugh! Birds have become incongruous nowadays, they sit late on their eggs, and there are some that haven’t yet risen from their eggs on Peter’s Day. By God!”

“It all comes down to one thing," said the shepherd, lifting up his face. “There was little game last summer, and even less this year, and in five years’ time there will be none at all! I can see that soon there will be not only be no game, but no birds left!”

“Yes," agreed Meliton, after a moment’s thought. “That’s true!

“To evil, my friend. It’s time for God’s world to perish!”

The old man put on his cap and looked up at the sky.

“It’s a pity!” he sighed after some silence. “And God, how pitiful! Of course it’s God’s will, the world wasn’t created by us, but still, brother, it’s a pity. If one tree dries up, or, say, one cow falls down, it’s a pity, but what’s it like, my good man, to see the whole world go to ruin? The sun, the sky, the forests, the rivers, the creatures – all of these things have been created and have adapted and adjusted to each other. Everything has been brought to the point and knows its place. And all that should be lost!”

A sad smile flashed over the shepherd’s face and he blinked his eyes.

“It’s true that they’re drying up!”

“That’s just it. Every year they’re getting shallower and shallower, and now, brother, there aren’t the same pools as there used to be. There, do you see those bushes?” the old man asked, pointing in their direction. “Behind them there’s an old riverbed, called Zavodina; in my father’s time the Pustoshye used to flow there, but now look where the unclean have taken it! It changes its course and, look, it’ll change until it dries up completely. There used to be swamps and ponds behind Kurgasov, but where are they now? And where have the streams gone? We had a stream flowing in this very forest, and such a stream that men used to put poles in it and catch pikes, wild ducks used to winter near it, but nowadays there’s no current in it even when there are floods. Yes, brother, everywhere you look, everywhere it’s bad. Everywhere!”

There was silence. Meliton thought and fixed his eyes on one spot. He wanted to remember at least one place in nature that hadn’t yet been touched by the all-encompassing destruction. Light spots slid across the mist and the slanting rain streaks like across frosted glasses, but immediately faded away – it was the rising sun trying to break through the clouds and to look at the earth.

“But the people are better," said the clerk.

“How are they better?

“That’s true," Meliton agreed, “people aren’t worth much these days.”

“They’ve become very poor,” said Meliton.

“They’ve became poor because God took away their power. You can’t go against God.”

The shepherd sighed and, as if wanting to stop the unpleasant conversation, walked away from the birch tree and began to count the cows with his eyes.

“Hey-hey-hey!” he shouted. “Hey-hey-hey! And damn you, no going off for you! The evil spirits have gotten into you! Tu-lyu-lyu!”

He made an angry face and went into the bushes to gather up the herd. Meliton got up and quietly walked along the edge of the forest. He looked at his feet and continued thinking: he still wanted to remember at least something that death hadn’t yet touched. Light spots again crawled along the slanting strips of rain; they jumped up to the tops of the forest and disappeared into the wet leaves. The dog found a hedgehog under a bush and, wanting to draw the owner’s attention to it, began to howl.

“Did we have an eclipse or not?” the shepherd shouted from behind the bushes.

“There was!” Meliton answered.

Having herded the flock to the edge of the forest, the shepherd leaned against a birch tree, looked at the sky, slowly pulled out his pipe from his bosom and began to play on it. As before, he played no more than five or six notes mechanically, as if the pipe had just fallen into his hands for the first time; the sounds flew out of it hesitantly and in disorder, not merging into a motive, but Meliton, who was thinking about the destruction of the world, heard something very melancholy and disgusting in them which he didn’t willingly want to listen to. The highest squeaky notes, which trembled and then broke off, seemed to cry out inconsolably as if the pipe was sick and frightened, and the lowest notes for some reason invoked fog, dull trees and a gray sky. Such music seemed to suit the weather, the old man, and his talk.

In the forest, approaching the edge, heavy rain began to rustle. Meliton looked in the direction of the noise, buttoned up all the buttons and said: “I have to go to the village. Goodbye, grandfather. What’s your name?”

“Well, goodbye, Luka! Thank you for the kind words. Lady, come here!”

Having said goodbye to the shepherd, Meliton trudged along the edge of the forest and then down through the meadow, which gradually turned into a swamp. The water sloshed underfoot and the rusty sedge, still green and juicy, bent to the ground, as if afraid that it would be trampled underfoot. Behind the swamp on the bank of the Pustoshye, which the old man had spoken about, there were willows, and behind the willows the master’s barn shone blue in the fog. He felt the proximity of that unfortunate, unpreventable moment when the fields become dark, the ground is dirty and cold, when the weeping willow seem even sadder and tears are crawling down its trunk, and only the cranes escape from the common misfortune, and even those resound in the skies with a sad, melancholy song as if afraid of offending the sadness of nature by an expression of their happiness .

Meliton trudged over to the river and listened as the sounds of the pipe gradually died away behind him. He still wanted to complain. He looked around sadly, and he felt unbearably sorry for the sky, and the earth, and the sun, and the forest, and his Lady, and when the highest note of the pipe swept through the air and trembled like the voice of a crying man, he felt extremely bitter and offended about the disorder that was so perceptible in nature.

The high note trembled, broke off, and the pipe fell silent.

“Your loving Father,

“Pyotr Bugrov, Priest.”

A DISSERTATION ON DRAMA

Two friends, Justice of the Peace Poluekhtov and Colonel of the General Staff Fintifleev, were sitting over a friendly snack and discussing the arts.

“My uncle," he said, "Mamma bows down to you out of respect, and told me to give you this letter.

He opened the envelope, put on his spectacles, grinned loudly and began to read.

“I won’t do it again, sir!” the colonel heard. “I promise I won’t! A-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya! Honest, I won’t!”

“What was that you had just now?” Fintifleev asked.

“And what did you whip him with?”

The friends drank and talked about Shakespeare.