by Ruskin Bond
'I have now had an offer of a position in the province of Kaluga,' the mendicant went on, 'but I haven't the money to get there. Help me kindly; I am ashamed to ask, but—I am obliged to by circumstances.'
Skvortsoff's eyes fell on the man's overshoes, one of which was high and the other low, and he suddenly remembered something.
'Look here, it seems to me I met you the day before yesterday in Sadovaya Street,' he said; 'but you told me then that you were a student who had been expelled, and not a village schoolteacher. Do you remember?'
'N-no, that can't be so,' mumbled the beggar, taken aback. 'I am a village schoolteacher, and if you like I can show you my papers.'
'Have done with lying! You called yourself a student and even told me what you had been expelled for. Don't you remember?'
Skvortsoff flushed and turned from the ragged creature with an expression of disgust.
'This is dishonesty, my dear sir!' he cried angrily. 'This is swindling! I shall send the police for you, damn you! Even if you are poor and hungry, that does not give you any right to lie brazenly and shamelessly!'
The waif caught hold of the door-handle and looked furtively round the antechamber, like a detected thief.
'I—I'm not lying—' he muttered. 'I can show you my papers.'
'Who would believe you?' Skvortsoff continued indignantly. 'Don't you know that it's a low, dirty trick to exploit the sympathy which society feels for village schoolteachers and students? It's rivolting!'
Skvortsoff lost his temper and began to berate the mendicant unmercifully. The impudent lying of the ragamuffin offended what he, Skvortsoff, most prized in himself: his kindness, his tender heart, his compassion for all unhappy beings. That lie, an attempt to take advantage of the pity of its 'subject' seemed to him to profane the charity which he liked to extend to the poor out of the purity of his heart. At first the waif continued to protest innocence, but soon he grew silent and hung his head in confusion.
'Sir!' he said, laying his hand on his heart, 'the fact is I—was lying! I am neither a student nor a schoolteacher. All that was a fiction. Formerly I sang in a Russian choir and was sent away for drunkenness. But what else can I do? I can't get along without lying. No one will give me anything when I tell the truth. With truth a man would starve to death or die of cold for lack of a lodging. You reason justly, I understand you, but—what can I do?'
'What can you do? You ask what you can do?' cried Skvortsoff, coming close to him. 'Work! That's what you can do! You must work!'
'Work—yes. I know that myself: but where can I find work?'
'By God, you judge harshly!' cried the beggar with a bitter laugh. 'Where can I find manual labour? It's too late for me to be a clerk because in trade one has to begin as a boy; no one would ever take me for a porter because they couldn't order me about; no factory would have me because for that one has to know a trade, and I know none.'
'Nonsense! You always find some excuse! How would you like to chop wood for me?'
'I wouldn't refuse to do that, but in these days even skilled woodcutters find themselves sitting without bread.'
'Huh! You loafers all talk that way. As soon as an offer is made you, you refuse it. Will you come and chop wood for me?'
'Yes, sir; I will.'
'Very well; we'll soon find out. Splendid—we'll see—'
Skvortsoff hastened along, rubbing his hands, not without a feeling of malice, and called his cook out of the kitchen.
'Here, Olga,' he said, 'take this gentleman into the wood-shed and let him chop wood.'
The tatterdemalion scarecrow shrugged his shoulders, as if in perplexity, and went irresolutely after the cook. It was obvious from his gait that he had not consented to go and chop wood because he was hungry and wanted work, but simply from pride and shame, because he had been trapped by his own words. It was obvious, too, that his strength had been undermined by vodka and that he was unhealthy and did not feel the slightest inclination for toil.
Skvortsoff hurried into the dining-room. From its windows one could see the wood-shed and everything that went on in the yard. Standing at the window, Skvortsoff saw the cook and the beggar come out into the yard by the back door and make their way across the dirty snow to the shed. Olga glared wrathfully at her companion, shoved him aside with her elbow, unlocked the shed, and angrily banged the door.
'We probably interrupted the woman over her coffee,' thought Skvortsoff. 'What an ill-tempered creature!'
Next he saw the pseudo-student seat himself on a log and become lost in thought with his red cheeks resting on his fists. The woman flung down an axe at his feet, spat angrily, and, judging from the expression of her lips, began to scold him. The beggar irresolutely pulled a billet of wood toward him, set it up between his feet, and tapped it feebly with the axe. The billet wavered and fell down. The beggar again pulled it to him, blew on his freezing hands, and tapped it with his axe cautiously, as if afraid of hitting his overshoe or of cutting off his finger. The stick of wood again fell to the ground.
Skvortsoff's anger had vanished and he now began to feel a little sorry and ashamed of himself for having set a spoiled, drunken, perchance sick man to work at menial labour in the cold.
'Well, never mind,' he thought, going into his study from the dining-room. 'I did it for his own good.'
An hour later Olga came in and announced that the wood had all been chopped.
'Good! Give him half a rouble,' said Skvortsoff. 'If he wants to he can come back and cut wood on the first day of each month. We can always find work for him.'
On the first of the month the waif made his appearance and again earned half a rouble, although he could barely stand on his legs. From that day on he often appeared in the yard and every time work was found for him. Now he would shovel snow, now put the wood-shed in order, now beat the dust out of rugs and mattresses. Every time he received from twenty to forty copecks, and once, even a pair of old trousers were sent out to him.
When Skvortsoff moved into another house he hired him to help in the packing and hauling of the furniture. This time the waif was sober, gloomy, and silent. He hardly touched the furniture, and walked behind the wagons hanging his head, not even making a pretence of appearing busy. He only shivered in the cold and became embarrassed when the carters jeered at him for his idleness, his feebleness, and his tattered, fancy overcoat. After the moving was over Skvortsoff sent for him.
'Well, I see that my words have taken effect,' he said, handing him a rouble. Here's for your pains. I see you are sober and have no objection to work. What is your name?'
'Lushkoff.'
'Well, Lushkoff, I can now offer you some other, cleaner employment. Can you write?'
'I can.'
'Then take this letter to a friend of mine tomorrow and you will be given some copying to do. Work hard, don't drink, and remember what I have said to you. Goodbye!'
Pleased at having put a man on the right path, Skvortsoff tapped Lushkoff kindly on the shoulder and even gave him his hand at parting. Lushkoff took the letter, and from that day forth came no more to the yard for work.
Two years went by. Then one evening, as Skvortsoff was standing at the ticket window of a theatre paying for his seat, he noticed a little man beside him with a coat collar of curly fur and a worn sealskin cap. This little individual timidly asked the ticket seller for a seat in the gallery and paid for it in copper coins.
'Lushkoff, is that you?' cried Skvortsoff, recognising in the little man his former wood-chopper. 'How are you? What are you doing? How is everything with you?'
'All right. I am a notary now and get thirty-five roubles a month.'
'Thank heaven! That's fine! I am delighted for your sake. I am very, very glad, Lushkoff. You see, you are my godson, in a sense. I gave you a push along the right path, you know. Do you remember what a roasting I gave you, eh? I nearly had you sinking into the ground at my feet that day. Thank you, old man, for not forgetting my words.'
'Thank you,
too,' said Lushkoff. 'If I hadn't come to you then I might still be calling myself a teacher or a student to this day. Yes, by flying to your protection I dragged myself out of a pit.'
'I am very glad indeed.'
'Thank you for your kind words and deeds. You talked splendidly to me then. I am very grateful to you and to your cook. God bless that good and noble woman! You spoke finely then. And I shall be indebted to you to my dying day; but, strictly speaking, it was your cook, Olga, who saved me.'
'How is that?'
'Like this. When I used to come to your house to chop wood she used to begin: "Oh, you sot, you! Oh, you miserable creature! There's nothing for you but ruin." And then she would sit down opposite me and grow sad, look into my face and weep. "Oh, you unlucky man! There is no pleasure for you in this world and there will be none in the world to come. You drunkard! You will burn in hell. Oh, you unhappy one!" And so she would carry on, you know, in that strain. I can't tell you how much misery she suffered, how many tears she shed for my sake. But the chief thing was—she used to chop the wood for me. Do you know, sir, that I did not chop one single stick of wood for you? She did it all. Why this saved me, why I changed, why I stopped drinking at the sight of her I can not explain. I only know that, owing to her words and noble deeds a change took place in my heart; she set me right and I shall never forget it. However, it is time to go now; there goes the bell.'
Lushkoff bowed and departed to the gallery.
WITHOUT A TITLE
ANTON CHEKHOV
In the fifteenth century, as now, the sun rose every morning and sank to rest every night. When its first rays kissed the dew the earth awoke and the air was filled with sounds of joy, ecstasy, and hope; at eventide the same earth grew still and sank into darkness. Sometimes a thunder-cloud would roll up and the thunder roar angrily, or a sleepy star drop from heaven, or a pale monk come running in to tell the brothers that he had seen a tiger not far from the monastery—and that was all. Then once again day would resemble day, and night night.
The monks worked and prayed, and their old prior played the organ, composed Latin verses, and wrote out music. This fine old man had a remarkable talent; he played the organ with such skill that even the most ancient of the monks, whose hearing had grown feeble as the end of their lives drew near, could not restrain their tears when the notes of his organ came floating from his cell. When he spoke, even if it were only of the commonest things, such as trees, wild beasts, or the sea, no one could listen to him without either a smile or a tear; the same notes seemed to vibrate in his soul that vibrated in the organ. When he was moved by wrath or great joy, when he spoke of things that were terrible and grand, a passionate inspiration would master him, tears would start from his flashing eyes, his face would flush, his voice peal like thunder, and the listening monks would feel their souls wrung by his exaltation. During these splendid, these marvellous moments his power was unlimited; if he had ordered his elders to throw themselves into the sea they would all have rushed rapturously, with one accord, to fulfil his desire.
His music, his voice, and the verses with which he praised God were a source of never-ending joy to the monks. Sometimes in their monotonous lives the trees, the flowers, the spring and autumn grew tiresome, the noise of the sea wearied them, and the songs of the birds grew unpleasing, but the talents of their old prior, like bread, they needed every day.
A score of years passed. Day resembled day, and night night. Not a living creature showed itself near the monastery except wild beasts and birds. The nearest human habitation was far away, and to reach it from the monastery or to reach the monastery from there one had to cross a desert one hundred miles wide. This only those dared to do who set no value on life, who had renounced it, and journeyed to the monastery as to a tomb.
What, then, was the surprise of the monks when one night a man knocked at their gates who proved to be an inhabitant of the city, the most ordinary of sinners, with a love of life! Before saying a prayer or asking the blessing of the prior this man demanded food and wine. When they asked him how he had got into the desert from the city he answered them by telling a long hunter's tale; he had gone hunting, and had had too much to drink, and had lost his way. To the suggestion that he should become a monk and save his soul he replied with a smile and the words: 'I am no friend of yours.'
Having eaten and drunk his fill, he looked long at the monks who were serving him, reproachfully shook his head, and said:
'You don't do anything, you monks. All you care about is your victuals and drink. Is that the way to save your souls? Think now: while you are living quietly here, eating, drinking, and dreaming of blessedness, your fellow men are being lost and damned to hell. Look what goes on in the city! Some die of starvation, while others, not knowing what to do with their gold, plunge into debauchery and perish like flies in honey. There is no faith nor truth among men. Whose duty is it to save them? Is it mine, who am drunk from morning till night? Did God give you faith and loving and humble hearts that you should sit here between your four walls and do nothing?
The drunken speech of the townsman was insolent and unseemly, yet it strangely affected the prior. The old man and his monks looked at each other; then he paled and said:
'Brothers, he is right! It is true that, owing to folly and weakness, unfortunate mankind is perishing in unbelief and sin, and we do not move from the spot, as if it were no business of ours. Whey should I not go and remind them of the Christ whom they have forgotten?'
The old man was transported by the words of the townsman. On the following day he grasped his staff, bade farewell to the brothers, and set out for the city. So the monks were left without music, without his words and his verses.
They waited first one month and then two, and still the old man did not return. At last, at the end of the third month, they heard the familiar tapping of his staff. The monks flew out to meet him and showered him with questions; but instead of rejoicing with them, he wept bitterly and did not utter a word. The monks saw that he was thin and had aged greatly and that weariness and profound sorrow were depicted on his face. When he wept he had the look of a man who had been deeply hurt.
Then the monks, too, burst into tears and asked why he was weeping and why his face looked so stern, but he answered not a word and went and locked himself in his cell. For five days he stayed there and neither ate nor drank, neither did he play the organ. When the monks knocked at his door and entreated him to come out and share his sorrow with them his answer was a profound silence.
At last he emerged. Collecting all the monks about him, with a face swollen with weeping and with many expressions of indignation and distress, he began to tell them all that had happened to him during the past three months. His voice was calm and his eyes smiled as he described his journey from the monastery to the city. Birds had sung and brooks babbled to him by the wayside, he said, and sweet, new-born hopes had agitated his breast. He felt that he was a soldier advancing to battle and certain victory, he walked along dreaming, composing hymns and verses as he went, and was surprised when he found that he had reached his journey's end.
But his voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and anger burned hot within him when he began to tell of the city and of mankind. Never before had he seen or dared to imagine what he encountered when he entered the town. Here, in his old age, he saw and understood for the first time in his life the might of Satan, the splendour of iniquity, and the weakness and despicable faint-heartedness of mankind. By an evil chance, the first house he entered was an abode of sin. Here half a hundred men with a great deal of money were feasting and drinking wine without end. Overpowered by its fumes, they were singing songs and boldly saying things so shocking and terrible that no Godfearing man would dare to mention them. They were unboundedly free and happy and bold; they feared neither God nor the devil nor death, did and said whatever they had a mind to, and went wherever they were driven by their desires. The wine, clear as amber, was surely intolerably fragrant and deliciou
s, for everyone who quaffed it smiled rapturously and straightway desired to drink again. It returned smile for smile and sparkled joyfully, as if it knew what fiendish seduction lay hidden in its sweetness.
More than ever weeping and burning with anger, the old man went on describing what he had seen. On the table in the midst of the feasters, he said, stood a half-naked woman. It would be hard to imagine anything more glorious and enchanting than she was. Young, long-haired, with dark eyes and thick lips, insolent and shameless, this vermin smiled, showing her teeth as white as snow, as if saying. 'Behold how beautiful, how insolent I am!' Splendid draperies of silk and brocade fell from her shoulders, but her beauty would not be hidden beneath a garment and eagerly made its way through the folds, as young verdure forces itself through the earth in the springtime. The shameless woman drank wine, sang songs, and surrendered herself to the feasters.
Wrathfully brandishing his arms, the old man went on to describe hippodromes, bull-fights, theatres, and the workshops of artists where the forms of naked woman were painted and modeled in clay. He spoke eloquently, sonorously, with inspiration, as if he were playing on some invisible instrument, and the stupefied monks eagerly hung on his words and panted with ecstasy. Having described all the charms of the devil, the beauty of wickedness, and the enchanting grace of the infamous female form, the old man cursed Satan, turned on his heel, and vanished behind his door.
When he came out of his cell next morning not a monk remained in the monastery. They were all on their way to the city
ORANGE BLOSSOMS
A Story from Sri Lanka
J.A.R. GRENIER
Diru had not been to see us for over a year. But then one does not worry too much about not meeting a friend like Diru. He is a genuine friend in whose company one feels so much at home. Even after ages when you meet Diru, he falls into place like a key in a well oiled lock. Diru is a tall, lanky fellow, with a bright, pleasant face, a nice smile and steady, honest eyes. All his life Diru had no vices. He was earnest about his work, his family and his outlook in life. Diru was an engineer, who built bridges. And when he was not busy with bridges he cleared jungle and planted coconut. He also educated his younger brothers and arranged matches for his sisters. When I last saw him he was happy and contented, serious on life's affairs.