Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966

by Wassner, Selig O. ;

  “I feel so-o-o sorry for her,” Lola chanted.

  “What can we do, dear? We have no yard; we can’t keep her in the apartment. You understand that?”

  “I feel so-o-o-rry,” Lola was almost in tears. She sorrowfully wrinkled her lovely nose.

  “The Dogayevs have been offering me a puppy for a long time,” her mother soothed. “They say it’s a pure breed, and already trained. Do you hear me? This one here is nothing but a mongrel.”

  “I feel so-o-o-rry,” Lola reiterated tearlessly.

  Again strangers came to the house, again lorries squeaked and floor boards groaned under the heavy steps of porters. But there was less talk this time and no laughter at all. Vaguely sensing trouble, Nippie ran off to the border of the orchard and watched intently through the thinned shrubbery as those strange people in red shirts were bustling in her corner of the terrace.

  “That’s where you are, my poor little Nippie,” Lola stooped down to pet her. She was already dressed in traveling clothes, in a black blouse and that brown skirt from which Nippie had torn a piece. “Come with me,” Lola suggested.

  They went to the highway. It was raining on and off. The whole space between the darkened earth and the sky was filled with curling, rapidly moving clouds. From the ground they looked like a wall firmly saturated with moisture, repelling light and condemning the sun to loneliness.

  To the left of the highway, a field of grey stubble stretched into the hills of the near horizon where trees and bushes rose here and there in lonely clusters. Straight ahead, near the gates of a tavern with a red, iron roof, a group of people were teasing the village idiot.

  A yellow, anemic sunray pierced the clouds; it appeared to be coming from an incurably sick sun. The autumn distance shrouded in fog seemed to be widening and saddening.

  “It’s dreary here, Nippie,” Lola whispered. Without looking back she turned around.

  Only in the waiting room of the railway station did she remember that she hadn’t said goodbye to Nippie.

  5

  After the people left, Nippie was sniffing at their footprints for some time. She came running to the station only to return drenched and dirty to the datcha. There she performed a new trick nobody had ever seen before—for the first time she went up onto the terrace, and rising on her hind legs, she looked into the glass door. She scraped with her paw—no response.

  The rain began coming down harder. The murk of the long fall night moved in from all directions. Creeping out noiselessly from the bushes and pouring down from the sky, it rapidly filled the empty datcha. The light still wrestled for some time with the darkness upon the glowing footprints of dirty boots before it, too, finally surrendered.

  Night came.

  Then, when the dog had no more doubts about its arrival, she voiced a mournful, loud howl. It was a howl of despair, ringing and sharp, which intruded into the monotonous, grimly subdued murmur of the rain. The howl cut the darkness and died, drifting over the black, naked fields.

  The dog howled in an evenly insistent but hopelessly calm voice. Whoever had heard must have thought that the spirit of the night was moaning, striving toward the light, reaching out toward a warm, bright fire of a loving heart.

  The dog howled and howled. …

  1900

  The Saltmine

  by Maxim Gorky

  Maxim Gorki, 1868-1936, born Alexei Maximovitch Peshkov, probably the foremost Russian short story writer, novelist, and playwright of the twentieth century. After losing his parents as a young child, he was raised by his grandparents. Left home at the age of twelve to wander, mostly on foot, over Russia for more than a decade and work at various odd jobs. His first short story, Makar Chudra, appeared in 1892. His autobiographical trilogy, Childhood, in the World, and My Universities, is considered one of his best literary creations.

  “Go to the ‘brine,’ man,” the grizzled old fisherman spat aside before scanning the blue sea horizon. “Go, man, you’ll have no trouble getting a job there … no trouble,” he spat again through clenched teeth.

  “Why are you so sure?” I asked. I had spent the night in the old man’s mud hut, and now, sitting in its shade, I watched my host lazily mending canvas pants.

  “Why?” he drawled, “’cause they come and go there. It’s murder, you can’t last long—not many do. You want to try?”

  “What’s the pay, do you know?”

  “Seven pennies a barrow—like as not that’s enough for a day’s chow. You think you’ll make seven barrows till sundown?”

  “I don’t know,” I hesitated.

  “Go on, man, take a stab at it. If you can’t stomach it, come back here to rest. You’ll tell me all about it. It’s not far from here—a mile or so. Follow the shore and you can’t miss it.”

  I listened for a while to the melancholy melody he was mumbling into his beard, then thanked him for his hospitality and took off. It was a hot August morning; the sky was bright and clear, the Black Sea was serenely deserted. Greenish waves rolled one after another onto the sand with plaintive splashes. Ahead, in the bluish mist loomed white spots—the town of Otchakoff. Behind me the hut seemed to be sinking into the bright-yellow sand dunes.

  Soon before my eyes unfolded the panorama of the “brine”—three square areas, each about five hundred yards long, marked off by low embankments and narrow ditches—the three stages of salt mining. The first one had been full of seawater. Now the salt was settling by evaporation into a pale-grey layer, shining with a pinkish tint. In the second area the salt was being scraped into heaps—women with shovels, stumping knee-deep in glistening, black silt moved about listlessly, without shouting or chattering. As I reached the third square, I saw men doubled up over wheelbarrows, carting loads of the greasy silt in grim silence. The wheels were whining, as if trying to convey to heaven the vexed protestations of the long file of human backs.

  “Spill it to the left, to the left you dirty bastards,” a deep, gruff bass suddenly boomed above the monotonous screeching of barrows. That had been the foreman. He was a tall man, hair black as coal, dressed in a blue denim shirt and white, wide slacks. He had climbed on a tall heap of salt, waving a shovel and barking orders at the top of his lungs while the laborers were wheeling up their loads to him on a raised plank.

  “You lame-brain,” he cursed, mopping off his sweat-covered face with his shirt-tail. “Where the hell are ya shovin’? How would ya like t’get the spade between your peepers?” Not waiting for a reply, he rapped the salt heap with his shovel, poured on it water from a bucket, and smoothed it. As the laborers, like zombies, wheeled their barrows up to him, discharging them to his commands “to right, to left,” the foreman was building his salt into an oblong pyramid.

  “Move faster,” he blared. The stolidly silent workers, one after another, first straightened out their sore backs, then turned around with stubbornly pursed lips. Heavy-footed, they dragged their empty, less squeaky barrows down another greasy, silt-coated plank to bring more salt.

  I watched. The wheel of a barrow skidded from the plank—into the mud. Those ahead moved on, those behind stared indifferently at their companion as he was struggling to raise the wheel of the quarter-ton barrow back onto the plank.

  Another few minutes, and I decided to try my luck. Assuming as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I approached the plank on which the workers were coming down with empty carts.

  “Hello there, need a hand?” I cheerfully exclaimed.

  The response was quite unexpected. The first man—a grey-haired, vigorous old-timer, with pants tucked up above his knees, boasting a tanned, sinewy body—went by without deigning to give me a look. The second—a young lad with light-brown hair and grey, hostile eyes—gave me a hateful glance, made an ugly mug, and in addition threw in a hefty curse. The third man—apparently Greek, with curly hair, black as a beetle—pulling alongside me voiced regret that his hands were rather busy, that he could not welcome me with his fist in my nose. Yet his threat sound
ed sincerely empty. When the fourth man came by, he gibed at me at the top of his lungs: “Hello, glassy four-eyes.”

  Never before had I been subjected to such a brusque reception, or “discourteous welcome,” as they call it in cultured society. Discouraged, I mechanically removed my glasses and made a few steps toward the foreman now standing at the parapet in front of a shed.

  “You, there,” he called. “What d’ya want? Don’t tell me a job?”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you know your way with barrows?”

  “I carted dirt.”

  “Dirt! No good, dirt is not the same as salt. Here you cart salt, not dirt. Go back to your pigs, peasant! And you, Nightmare,” the foreman turned to a frayed giant, “pile right at my feet!”

  Nightmare, a scalplocked Ukrainian with a long, greying moustache, a livid, pimply nose, drew a deep, resonant breath and upset the wheelbarrow. The salt spilled out; the Scalplock swore, the foreman cursed back at him. Both smiled at each other, and both, at the same time, turned their attention to me.

  “You still here?” the foreman asked.

  “You, Moscow, maybe you come to saltmine to eat blintzes?” the Scalplock winked at the foreman.

  I pleaded with the foreman to give me a job. “I’ll get used to it,” I assured him, “and will cart as good as anybody.”

  “Yeah? We shall see,” the foreman tried to size me up. “O.K., it’s your funeral. Mind you, the first day I won’t tally ya more than four bits. Hey, somebody give him a barrow.”

  From somewhere emerged a fellow, short, barefoot, dressed in nothing but a shirt. His legs were tied around up to his knees with dirty rags. “O.K., let’s go,” he muttered, scowling at me.

  He led me to a pile of wheelbarrows stacked up one on top of the other. As I was about to pick one, he suddenly interrupted his leg-scratching. “Don’t ya see the wheel’s crooked?” he scolded. Then having had his say, Shortie indifferently moved away and lay on the ground.

  I chose another barrow and got in line to fetch salt. A vague, heavy feeling pressing inside me prevented me from speaking to my fellow workers. In spite of the harrowing fatigue, their faces expressed a blunt, though still restrained hostility. I wondered whether the burning sun was at fault, or the caustic “brine,” or both. The men had seemed to resent everything around them.

  I barely managed to enter the square and turn my wheelbarrow along one of the criss-crossedly lain boards leading to the heaps of salt when a blow struck my foot from behind.

  “Pick up your heels, you skinny sonofabitch,” the Scalplock snarled at me.

  I began to shovel.

  “Fill it full,” he ordered.

  I filled it as much as it could take. “Out with it,” I heard them yell. I had noticed that before anyone of them budged his wheelbarrow, he’d first spit into his hands, groan, bend over his load at almost a straight angle, then stretch out his body, crane his neck, and give another groan. I tried to do the same. I lifted the handles; the wheel squeaked, my collar bones creaked, and my hands—tense to their last tendons—quivered. I staggered, made a step, two. I reeled, first to the left, then to the right. It jerked me … the wheel ground off the plank … I flew over the barrow, face-down, into the mud. The barrow followed, thumping me on the seat of my pants with authority, before lazily turning its own bottom up. A deafening clamor of shouts, jeers greeted my fall. The noise seemed to push me deeper into the tepid, greasy “brine.”

  “Friend, give me a hand,” I begged my neighbor, the Scalplock, as I was struggling to lift the mud-plastered barrow. In reply he laughed uproariously, clutching at his stomach, reeling from side to side.

  “Oh, what’sa bumblin’ ninnie! You want your mommie, ninnie? Climb up on tsa plank, bend tsa coach to tsa left … Mommie, he cries—Tsa brine shott sok you in.” Again, clasping his sides and croaking, he burst into spasms of laughter until his eyes were full of tears.

  “To hell with ya,” the grey old-timer grunted devastatingly, as he took off with his barrow. Those waiting behind me stared malevolently at my travails. Nobody had offered a helping hand.

  “Out of my way,” the Scalplock thundered by with his barrow, almost taking my ear off.

  I was left alone. Somehow I managed to drag out the barrow, push out of the square, and get myself another one.

  “I see, friend, you’ve had a spill? Well, it happens to everybody at first.” I looked in the direction of the voice. Behind a heap of salt squatted a lad of about twenty, sucking the palm of his hand, smiling at me. “Don’t mind it, friend,” he nodded, “it’s only because you ain’t got used to it yet.”

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” I asked.

  “Scratched it; now it’s festerin’. If you don’t suck it out quick, you may say goodbye to your job. But, friend, get on with your work, the foreman will be mad …”

  I got on. With the second barrow there were no mishaps. I carted the third, fourth, and two more. My fellows workers seemed to ignore me; ordinarily such treatment would have upset me, but not now.

  “Break it up,” somebody yelled. “Chow time.”

  There were sighs of relief but no overt joy. Everything was done reluctantly, as if there would be nothing pleasant in resting. My back, legs, arms ached. Still, trying not to let on, I walked briskly toward the food kettle.

  “Hold it,” the grim, old vagabond stopped me. His tattered blue fatigue shirt matched in color his livid, worn-out face, accentuated by frowning, thick brows. “Hold it,” he repeated, glowering at me with red, inflamed eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Maxim.”

  “So your father was an idiot if he gave you a name like that. We ain’t allowing any Maxims to eat from our kettle the first day on the job. Maxims got to work the first day on their own chow. That’s how it is here. See, if your name was Ivan or Stefan, that’s different … Take my name, it’s Matvey; so I’ll have my meal now, but Maxims may just watch. Scram from the kettle, Maxim.”

  I backed away, staring at him in disbelief. I was baffled by their attitude; I hadn’t provoked it at all—I had never experienced anything like it. Any time I’d walk into a shop I’d always be able to fall in on a friendly footing with everybody. But here?

  They ate, belched, and went to have a smoke away from the kettle. The Scalplock and Shortie came to me, sitting down and blocking with themselves the row of barrows left on the planks.

  “Now what, chum?” the Scalplock inquired. “Would you like a smoke?”

  “Gimme one,” I demanded.

  “Why don’t ya roll your own?”

  “If I had I’d not have asked you,” I growled.

  “True! Smoke,” he handed me his shag pouch. “What’ll ya do, go on cartin’?”

  “Sure, as long as I can.”

  “Fine. Where ya from?”

  I told him.

  “Uh-huh. Tell me, is tsat far?”

  “About three thousand kilometers from here.”

  “Oh-ho, khood far … Why you come here?”

  “The same reason as you, I guess.”

  “Ah ha, you too was chased out for tsievin’?”

  “How’s that?” I sensed that I’d stepped into a trap.

  “Tsat’s because I come here ’cause my village chased me out for tsievin.’ You say you come for same reason … So,” he laughed hilariously, pleased with his wittiness.

  His comrade winked at him and smirked.

  “Wait a moment,” I tried to argue.

  “No time t’wait, chum—have to work. Let’s khow, you—right behind me.”

  I was about to take my barrow when he offered eagerly: “Let me, I’ll take it,” and before I could object, he lifted my barrow, by its body, threw it into his, and pushed. “We’ll khive it a ride,” he roared.

  His helpfulness made me suspicious. Walking beside him, I tried to scrutinize the wheels-up barrow but couldn’t discover anything wrong with it. Yet I knew I had become the object of general attention once more. I noti
ced the other workers were winking at each other, nodding in my direction, and whispering—awkwardly trying to be sly about it. I became wary, though I had no idea what to expect.

  “Here we are,” the Scalplock declared, hauling out my barrow and setting it in front of me. “Start shovelin,’ chum.”

  I looked around. Everybody seemed to be working industriously. I, too, started to shovel. There was a kind of heavy silence pressing on my chest, as nothing was heard but the rustle of spilling salt. “This place is not for me,” I decided.

  “What’s the matter, you asleep?” livid, Matvey snapped at me. He gave me a contemptuous look and moved out his barrow.

  I clasped the handles, heaved slowly, and thrust ahead. Suddenly, an excruciating pain! It shot through the palms of my hands … It spread like fire. I screamed wildly. I hurtled away the barrow and pulled my hands back. The pain was unbearable; gnashing my teeth I looked at my palms—a large area of the skin was in shreds. Oh, what animals! They had split the sides of the handles with an axe and wedged the slits with splinters. When I had clasped the handles the splinters had sprung out, the wood had snapped, pinching the skin and tearing it off. I slowly lifted my head; a mass of faces, distorted in their perverse cheerfulness glared at me. Shouts, jeers, whistles, flying at me from all directions, drowned the vulgar curses of the foreman that had been drifting from the parapet. My tormentors began to crowd me, heaping on me ridicule and insults. I gazed in bewilderment—why? A feeling of fury began to boil inside me, turn into hate, into a desire for revenge. I was beginning to burn with a passion, an aching passion to outdo them, humiliate them.

  “You wretches,” I clenched my fists. Snarling insults as vile as theirs, I daringly stepped forward, to fight, fight …

  They wavered … they began to retreat. Only the giant scalplocked Ukrainian and livid Matvey stood their ground. The Scalplock was tucking up his sleeves.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered happily, glowering at me.

  “Give him a rap on the kisser, Havrila,” Matvey eagerly recommended.