Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 1

by Leo Tolstoy

  IV

  MATRYÓNA stopped and said: ‘If he were a good man he would not be naked. Why, he hasn’t even a shirt on him. If he were all right, you would say where you came across the fellow.’

  ‘That’s just what I am trying to tell you,’ said Simon. ‘As I came to the shrine I saw him sitting all naked and frozen. It isn’t quite the weather to sit about naked! God sent me to him, or he would have perished. What was I to do? How do we know what may have happened to him? So I took him, clothed him, and brought him along. Don’t be so angry, Matryóna. It is a sin. Remember, we all must die one day.’

  Angry words rose to Matryóna’s lips, but she looked at the stranger and was silent. He sat on the edge of the bench, motionless, his hands folded on his knees, his head drooping on his breast, his eyes closed, and his brows knit as if in pain. Matryóna was silent, and Simon said: ‘Matryóna, have you no love of God?’

  Matryóna heard these words, and as she looked at the stranger, suddenly her heart softened towards him. She came back from the door, and going to the oven she got out the supper. Setting a cup on the table, she poured out some kvas. Then she brought out the last piece of bread, and set out a knife and spoons.

  ‘Eat, if you want to,’ said she.

  Simon drew the stranger to the table.

  ‘Take your place, young man,’ said he.

  Simon cut the bread, crumbled it into the broth, and they began to eat. Matryóna sat at the corner of the table, resting her head on her hand and looking at the stranger.

  And Matryóna was touched with pity for the stranger, and began to feel fond of him. And at once the stranger’s face lit up; his brows were no longer bent, he raised his eyes and smiled at Matryóna.

  When they had finished supper, the woman cleared away the things and began questioning the stranger. ‘Where are you from?’ said she.

  ‘I am not from these parts.’

  ‘But how did you come to be on the road?’

  ‘I may not tell.’

  ‘Did someone rob you?’

  ‘God punished me.’

  ‘And you were lying there naked?’

  ‘Yes, naked and freezing. Simon saw me and had pity on me. He took off his coat, put it on me and brought me here. And you have fed me, given me drink, and shown pity on me. God will reward you!’

  Matryóna rose, took from the window Simon’s old shirt she had been patching, and gave it to the stranger. She also brought out a pair of trousers for him.

  ‘There,’ said she, ‘I see you have no shirt. Put this on, and lie down where you please, in the loft or on the oven.’

  The stranger took off the coat, put on the shirt, and lay down in the loft. Matryóna put out the candle, took the coat, and climbed to where her husband lay.

  Matryóna drew the skirts of the coat over her and lay down, but could not sleep; she could not get the stranger out of her mind.

  When she remembered that he had eaten their last piece of bread and that there was none for to-morrow, and thought of the shirt and trousers she had given away, she felt grieved; but when she remembered how he had smiled, her heart was glad.

  Long did Matryóna lie awake, and she noticed that Simon also was awake – he drew the coat towards him.

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You have had the last of the bread, and I have not put any to rise. I don’t know what we shall do to-morrow. Perhaps I can borrow some off neighbour Martha.’

  ‘If we’re alive we shall find something to eat.’

  The woman lay still awhile, and then said, ‘He seems a good man, but why does he not tell us who he is?’

  ‘I suppose he has his reasons.’

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We give; but why does nobody give us anything?’

  Simon did not know what to say; so he only said, ‘Let us stop talking,’ and turned over and went to sleep.

  V

  IN the morning Simon awoke. The children were still asleep; his wife had gone to the neighbour’s to borrow some bread. The stranger alone was sitting on the bench, dressed in the old shirt and trousers, and looking upwards. His face was brighter than it had been the day before.

  Simon said to him, ‘Well, friend; the belly wants bread, and the naked body clothes. One has to work for a living. What work do you know?’

  ‘I do not know any.’

  This surprised Simon, but he said, ‘Men who want to learn can learn anything.’

  ‘Men work, and I will work also.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Well, Michael, if you don’t wish to talk about yourself, that is your own affair; but you’ll have to earn a living for yourself. If you will work as I tell you, I will give you food and shelter.’

  ‘May God reward you! I will learn. Show me what to do.’

  Simon took yarn, put it round his thumb and began to twist it.

  ‘It is easy enough – see!’

  Michael watched him, put some yarn round his own thumb in the same way, caught the knack, and twisted the yarn also.

  Then Simon showed him how to wax the thread. This also Michael mastered. Next Simon showed him how to twist the bristle in, and how to sew, and this, too, Michael learned at once.

  Whatever Simon showed him he understood at once, and after three days he worked as if he had sewn boots all his life. He worked without stopping, and ate little. When work was over he sat silently, looking upwards. He hardly went into the street, spoke only when necessary, and neither joked nor laughed. They never saw him smile, except that first evening when Matryóna gave them supper.

  VI

  DAY by day and week by week the year went round. Michael lived and worked with Simon. His fame spread till people said that no one sewed boots so neatly and strongly as Simon’s workman, Michael; and from all the district round people came to Simon for their boots, and he began to be well off.

  One winter day, as Simon and Michael sat working, a carriage on sledge-runners, with three horses and with bells, drove up to the hut. They looked out of the window; the carriage stopped at their door, a fine servant jumped down from the box and opened the door. A gentleman in a fur coat got out and walked up to Simon’s hut. Up jumped Matryóna and opened the door wide. The gentleman stooped to enter the hut, and when he drew himself up again his head nearly reached the ceiling, and he seemed quite to fill his end of the room.

  Simon rose, bowed, and looked at the gentleman with astonishment. He had never seen anyone like him. Simon himself was lean, Michael was thin, and Matryóna was dry as a bone, but this man was like someone from another world: red-faced, burly, with a neck like a bull’s, and looking altogether as if he were cast in iron.

  The gentleman puffed, threw off his fur coat, sat down on the bench, and said, ‘Which of you is the master bootmaker?’

  ‘I am, your Excellency,’ said Simon, coming forward.

  Then the gentleman shouted to his lad, ‘Hey, Fédka, bring the leather!’

  The servant ran in, bringing a parcel. The gentleman took the parcel and put it on the table.

  ‘Untie it,’ said he. The lad untied it.

  The gentleman pointed to the leather.

  ‘Look here, shoemaker,’ said he, ‘do you see this leather?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘But do you know what sort of leather it is?’

  Simon felt the leather and said, ‘It is good leather.’

  ‘Good, indeed! Why, you fool, you never saw such leather before in your life. It’s German, and cost twenty rubles.’

  Simon was frightened, and said, ‘Where should I ever see leather like that?’

  ‘Just so! Now, can you make it into boots for me?’

  ‘Yes, your Excellency, I can.’

  Then the gentleman shouted at him: ‘You can, can you? Well, remember whom you are to make them for, and what the leather is. You must make me boots that will wear for a year, neither losing
shape nor coming unsewn. If you can do it, take the leather and cut it up; but if you can’t, say so. I warn you now, if your boots come unsewn or lose shape within a year, I will have you put in prison. If they don’t burst or lose shape for a year, I will pay you ten rubles for your work.’

  Simon was frightened, and did not know what to say. He glanced at Michael and nudging him with his elbow, whispered: ‘Shall I take the work?’

  Michael nodded his head as if to say, ‘Yes, take it.’

  Simon did as Michael advised, and undertook to make boots that would not lose shape or split for a whole year.

  Calling his servant, the gentleman told him to pull the boot off his left leg, which he stretched out.

  ‘Take my measure!’ said he.

  Simon stitched a paper measure seventeen inches long, smoothed it out, knelt down, wiped his hands well on his apron so as not to soil the gentleman’s sock, and began to measure. He measured the sole, and round the instep, and began to measure the calf of the leg, but the paper was too short. The calf of the leg was as thick as a beam.

  ‘Mind you don’t make it too tight in the leg.’

  Simon stitched on another strip of paper. The gentleman twitched his toes about in his sock, looking round at those in the hut, and as he did so he noticed Michael.

  ‘Whom have you there?’ asked he.

  ‘That is my workman. He will sew the boots.’

  ‘Mind,’ said the gentleman to Michael, ‘remember to make them so that they will last me a year.’

  Simon also looked at Michael, and saw that Michael was not looking at the gentleman, but was gazing into the corner behind the gentleman, as if he saw someone there. Michael looked and looked, and suddenly he smiled, and his face became brighter.

  ‘What are you grinning at, you fool?’ thundered the gentleman. ‘You had better look to it that the boots are ready in time.’

  ‘They shall be ready in good time,’ said Michael.

  ‘Mind it is so,’ said the gentleman, and he put on his boots and his fur coat, wrapped the latter round him, and went to the door. But he forgot to stoop, and struck his head against the lintel.

  He swore and rubbed his head. Then he took his seat in the carriage and drove away.

  When he had gone, Simon said: ‘There’s a figure of a man for you! You could not kill him with a mallet. He almost knocked out the lintel, but little harm it did him.’

  And Matryóna said: ‘Living as he does, how should he not grow strong? Death itself can’t touch such a rock as that.’

  VII

  THEN Simon said to Michael: ‘Well, we have taken the work, but we must see we don’t get into trouble over it. The leather is dear, and the gentleman hot-tempered. We must make no mistakes. Come, your eye is truer and your hands have become nimbler than mine, so you take this measure and cut out the boots. I will finish off the sewing of the vamps.’

  Michael did as he was told. He took the leather, spread it out on the table, folded it in two, took a knife and began to cut out.

  Matryóna came and watched him cutting, and was surprised to see how he was doing it. Matryóna was accustomed to seeing boots made, and she looked and saw that Michael was not cutting the leather for boots, but was cutting it round.

  She wished to say something, but she thought to herself: ‘Perhaps I do not understand how gentlemen’s boots should be made. I suppose Michael knows more about it – and I won’t interfere.’

  When Michael had cut up the leather, he took a thread and began to sew not with two ends, as boots are sewn, but with a single end, as for soft slippers.

  Again Matryóna wondered, but again she did not interfere. Michael sewed on steadily till noon. Then Simon rose for dinner, looked around, and saw that Michael had made slippers out of the gentleman’s leather.

  ‘Ah!’ groaned Simon, and he thought, ‘How is it that Michael, who has been with me a whole year and never made a mistake before, should do such a dreadful thing? The gentleman ordered high boots, welted, with whole fronts, and Michael has made soft slippers with single soles, and has wasted the leather. What am I to say to the gentleman? I can never replace leather such as this.’

  And he said to Michael, ‘What are you doing, friend? You have ruined me! You know the gentleman ordered high boots, but see what you have made!’

  Hardly had he begun to rebuke Michael, when ‘rat-tat’ went the iron ring that hung at the door. Someone was knocking. They looked out of the window; a man had come on horseback, and was fastening his horse. They opened the door, and the servant who had been with the gentleman came in.

  ‘Good day,’ said he.

  ‘Good day,’ replied Simon. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘My mistress has sent me about the boots.’

  ‘What about the boots?’

  ‘Why, my master no longer needs them. He is dead.’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘He did not live to get home after leaving you, but died in the carriage. When we reached home and the servants came to help him alight, he rolled over like a sack. He was dead already, and so stiff that he could hardly be got out of the carriage. My mistress sent me here, saying: “Tell the bootmaker that the gentleman who ordered boots of him and left the leather for them no longer needs the boots, but that he must quickly make soft slippers for the corpse. Wait till they are ready, and bring them back with you.” That is why I have come.’

  Michael gathered up the remnants of the leather; rolled them up, took the soft slippers he had made, slapped them together, wiped them down with his apron, and handed them and the roll of leather to the servant, who took them and said: ‘Good-bye, masters, and good day to you!’

  VIII

  ANOTHER year passed, and another, and Michael was now living his sixth year with Simon. He lived as before. He went nowhere, only spoke when necessary, and had only smiled twice in all those years – once when Matryóna gave him food, and a second time when the gentleman was in their hut. Simon was more than pleased with his workman. He never now asked him where he came from, and only feared lest Michael should go away.

  They were all at home one day. Matryóna was putting iron pots in the oven; the children were running along the benches and looking out of the window; Simon was sewing at one window, and Michael was fastening on a heel at the other.

  One of the boys ran along the bench to Michael, leant on his shoulder, and looked out of the window.

  ‘Look, Uncle Michael! There is a lady with little girls! She seems to be coming here. And one of the girls is lame.’

  When the boy said that, Michael dropped his work, turned to the window, and looked out into the street.

  Simon was surprised. Michael never used to look out into the street, but now he pressed against the window, staring at something. Simon also looked out, and saw that a well-dressed woman was really coming to his hut, leading by the hand two little girls in fur coats and woollen shawls. The girls could hardly be told one from the other, except that one of them was crippled in her left leg and walked with a limp.

  The woman stepped into the porch and entered the passage. Feeling about for the entrance she found the latch, which she lifted, and opened the door. She let the two girls go in first, and followed them into the hut.

  ‘Good day, good folk!’

  ‘Pray come in,’ said Simon. ‘What can we do for you?’

  The woman sat down by the table. The two little girls pressed close to her knees, afraid of the people in the hut.

  ‘I want leather shoes made for these two little girls, for spring.’

  ‘We can do that. We never have made such small shoes, but we can make them; either welted or turnover shoes, linen lined. My man, Michael, is a master at the work.’

  Simon glanced at Michael and saw that he had left his work and was sitting with his eyes fixed on the little girls. Simon was surprised. It was true the girls were pretty, with black eyes, plump, and rosy-cheeked, and they wore nice kerchiefs and fur coats, but still Simon could no
t understand why Michael should look at them like that – just as if he had known them before. He was puzzled, but went on talking with the woman, and arranging the price. Having fixed it, he prepared the measure. The woman lifted the lame girl on to her lap and said: ‘Take two measures from this little girl. Make one shoe for the lame foot and three for the sound one. They both have the same sized feet. They are twins.’

  Simon took the measure and, speaking of the lame girl, said: ‘How did it happen to her? She is such a pretty girl. Was she born so?’

  ‘No, her mother crushed her leg.’

  Then Matryóna joined in. She wondered who this woman was, and whose the children were, so she said: ‘Are not you their mother, then?’

  ‘No, my good woman; I am neither their mother nor any relation to them. They were quite strangers to me, but I adopted them.’

  ‘They are not your children and yet you are so fond of them?’

  ‘How can I help being fond of them? I fed them both at my own breasts. I had a child of my own, but God took him. I was not so fond of him as I now am of them.’

  ‘Then whose children are they?’

  IX

  THE woman, having begun talking, told them the whole story.

  ‘It is about six years since their parents died, both in one week: their father was buried on the Tuesday, and their mother died on the Friday. These orphans were born three days after their father’s death, and their mother did not live another day. My husband and I were then living as peasants in the village. We were neighbours of theirs, our yard being next to theirs. Their father was a lonely man; a wood-cutter in the forest. When felling trees one day, they let one fall on him. It fell across his body and crushed his bowels out. They hardly got him home before his soul went to God; and that same week his wife gave birth to twins – these little girls. She was poor and alone; she had no one, young or old, with her. Alone she gave them birth, and alone she met her death.

  ‘The next morning I went to see her, but when I entered the hut, she, poor thing, was already stark and cold. In dying she had rolled on to this child and crushed her leg. The village folk came to the hut, washed the body, laid her out, made a coffin, and buried her. They were good folk. The babies were left alone. What was to be done with them? I was the only woman there who had a baby at the time. I was nursing my first-born – eight weeks old. So I took them for a time. The peasants came together, and thought and thought what to do with them; and at last they said to me: “For the present, Mary, you had better keep the girls, and later on we will arrange what to do for them.” So I nursed the sound one at my breast, but at first I did not feed this crippled one. I did not suppose she would live. But then I thought to myself, why should the poor innocent suffer? I pitied her, and began to feed her. And so I fed my own boy and these two – the three of them – at my own breast. I was young and strong, and had good food, and God gave me so much milk that at times it even overflowed. I used sometimes to feed two at a time, while the third was waiting. When one had had enough I nursed the third. And God so ordered it that these grew up, while my own was buried before he was two years old. And I had no more children, though we prospered. Now my husband is working for the corn merchant at the mill. The pay is good, and we are well off. But I have no children of my own, and how lonely I should be without these little girls! How can I help loving them! They are the joy of my life!’