“Titular Councilor and Chevalier Yegor Gryaznorukov,”1 he read. “I knew that gentleman.… He loved his wife, wore the order of St. Stanislas, and never read a single word.… His stomach punctually digested his food.… Why is he dead? It would appear he had no reason to die, but—alas!—fate watched over him. The poor fellow fell a victim to curiosity. He happened to be listening behind a door when the door opened, and he received a blow on the head which caused a shock to his brain (he had a brain), and so he died. The man who lies beneath this monument abhorred verses and epigrams from the cradle, and so the monument is derisively dotted all over with verses.… Well, someone is coming!”
A man wearing a worn coat, and with a shaved bluish-purple face, came up to where we were standing. There was a bottle under his arm and a sausage in its wrappings was sticking out of his pocket.
“Where is the tomb of the actor Mushkin?” he asked hoarsely.
We led him in the direction of Mushkin’s tomb. The actor died two years ago.
“Are you a government official?” we asked him.
“No, gentlemen, I am an actor. Nowadays it is hard to distinguish actors from ecclesiastical functionaries, as you rightly observed. Quite characteristic, of course, though not altogether flattering to the functionaries.”
We had some difficulty finding the tomb of the actor Mushkin. It had collapsed, weeds grew over it, and it no longer resembled a tomb. The little cheap cross, falling to pieces, coated with green moss and blackened by frost, gazed at us with an old man’s despondent look, and seemed to be ill.
We read: “… forgettable friend Mushkin.” Time had destroyed the “un,” and corrected the human lie.
“Some actors and journalists collected money to buy him a monument, but the dear fellows drank it all up,” the actor sighed, making a low bow, falling to his knees and bending so that his hat touched the damp earth.
“What do you mean—they drank it all up?”
“Very simple. They collected the money, put an announcement in the newspapers, and drank it all up. I’m not standing in judgment over them, but that’s how it was.… Angels, to your health! Here’s to your health, and eternal remembrance!”
“As for that, drinking is bad for the health, and eternal remembrance—there’s grief for you! God gives us temporary memories. Who wants an eternal accounting?”
“True, true! Mushkin was a celebrated man. A dozen wreaths followed his coffin, and already he is forgotten! Those he favored have forgotten him, and those who were ill served by him remember him. Myself, I shall never, never forget him, because I never received anything but harm from him. I have no love for the dead man.”
“What harm did he do you?”
“A great deal of harm,” sighed the actor, and an expression of bitterness and outrage spread over his face. “He was a man who sinned against me, a great malefactor, God have mercy on him! Looking at him and listening to him, I became an actor. His art enticed me from my parental home, seduced me with vain artifices, promised much, and left me in tears, sorrowing. An actor’s lot is a bitter one. I lost my youth, I lost sobriety, I lost the divine image. Without a penny in my pocket, down at heels, wearing trousers frayed and patched like a chessboard, and with a face which looked as though it had been gnawed by dogs … My head filled with wild thoughts and inanities … Yes, that robber robbed me of my faith! Maybe there was some talent in me, but I lost all for something not worth a cent. It is cold, gentlemen. You want none of it, eh? Well, there’s enough for everyone! Brrrr … Let us drink to the dear departed! Though I have no love for him, and though he is dead, he’s all I have left in the world. This is the last time I’ll ever pay him a visit. The doctors say I’ll soon be dead from alcoholism, and so I have come to bid him my last farewell. One should forgive one’s enemies!”
We left the actor holding converse with the dead Mushkin, and went on. A fine cold rain was beginning to fall.
At a turning in the main road through the cemetery, a road entirely strewn with rubbish, we encountered a funeral procession. Four pallbearers with white calico sashes round their waists, dead leaves glued to their muddy boots, were carrying a dark-brown coffin. It was growing dark, and they were hurrying and stumbling under the weight of the coffin.
“We have been walking about here for two hours, gentlemen, and already this is the third funeral we have seen. Shall we go now?”
October 1884
1 Gryaznorukov means “muddy hands.”
Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way
Where art thou hidden, my dearest?
Where shall I find thee?
POPULAR SONG
1st: Take off your hat! Wearing hats is forbidden here!
2nd: It’s not a hat! It’s a silk topper!
1st: It’s all the same thing.…
2nd: I assure you it is not the same thing.… You can buy a hat for fifty kopecks, but just try to buy a silk topper …
1st: Hats, toppers … all of them …
2nd (removing topper): Explain yourself more clearly. (Provokingly.) Hats, hats, I say!
1st: Please be quiet! You are preventing the others from hearing!
2nd: It’s you who are talking and preventing them from hearing, not me! My dear fellow, I was keeping my mouth shut! In fact, I would have been absolutely quiet if you hadn’t annoyed me!
1st: Shushshsh …
2nd: How dare you shush me? (After a silence.) I, too, can say shush. You don’t have to gape at me, either!… You can’t frighten me!… I’ve seen others like you.…
Wife of 2nd: Keep quiet now! You’ve said enough!
2nd: Why does he have it in for me? I wasn’t disturbing him, was I? Didn’t say anything, did I? Then why does he have to crawl all over me? Or maybe you think I should complain to his superior?
1st: Later, later … Now keep quiet!…
2nd: You can see I’ve got him scared. Just as they say, the devil catches his tail, or the tail catches the devil.…
Voice from public: Shushshshsh …
2nd: Even the public has noticed it! His job is to keep order, but instead he creates disorder. (Smiles sarcastically.) And all those medals on his chest! Sword, too!… Well, dear public, you’ll soon see sparks flying. (The 1st leaves for a moment.)
2nd: He was ashamed of himself—that’s why he went away. It would appear that he is not entirely without honor, seeing that he was overcome with shame by his words.… If he had delivered himself of one word more, I assure you I would have given him a mouthful. I know how to make fellows like that run off with their tails between their legs.
Wife of 2nd: Please keep quiet! They are all staring at you!
2nd: Let them stare at me! I paid for my seat with my own money, not with someone else’s.… And if I have to unburden myself, you don’t have to nag!… He’s gone now.… Well, I won’t say another word.… If he hadn’t sailed into me, I wouldn’t have started talking, would I? Wouldn’t have any reason for talking.… I know that.… (Applauds.) Bis! Bis!
1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th (as though they had sprung out of the ground): Come on now! Out you go!
2nd: Why? Where? (Turning pale.) What’s the reason for all this?
1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th: Come on now! (They take him by the arms.) Don’t kick out with your legs! Forward, march! (They drag him off.)
2nd: I paid with my own money, didn’t I?… It’s a rotten shame!…
Voice from public: Seems they just arrested a thief.
October 1884
To His Excellency
The Commissioner of Police
of the Second Class
A Report
I have the honor to inform Your Excellency that in the Mikhalkovo Woods, not far from the Old Ravine, while crossing the footbridge I observed the hanged body of a dead man showing no signs of life, bearing the name, according to documents found in his possession, of Stepan Maximov Kachagov, 51 years old. From the state of his wallet and his rags, he was clearly in an impecunious
condition. Except for the rope I found no other marks on his body, while all his effects were still in his possession. No motive for the suicide was disclosed, but these things happen from vodka. The peasants of Zhabrovo saw him leaving the pothouse. Should I make an official report, or await the coming of Your Excellency?
Policeman Denis Ch.
March 1885
The Threat
A NOBLEMAN’S horse was stolen. The next day the following announcement appeared in all the newspapers: “Unless the horse is returned to my possession, I shall be forced to have recourse to the extreme measures formerly employed by my father in similar circumstances.” The threat was effective. The thief, not knowing exactly what was in store, but supposing he would fall victim to some extraordinary and fearful punishment, became panic-stricken, and he secretly returned the horse. The nobleman rejoiced in the successful issue of the affair, and told his friends how very glad he was that he would not have to follow his father’s example.
“What did your father do?” they asked him.
“You are asking me what my father did, eh? Well, I’ll tell you. He was staying in lodgings when they stole his horse. He threw the saddle over his shoulders and walked home on foot. I’d swear I would have had to do the same thing, if the thief had not been so obliging.”
May 1885
The Huntsman
NOON, hot and stifling, with no clouds in the sky. The sunburned grass had a dismal, hopeless look. Even if the rains came, it was doubtful whether the grass would ever be green again. The forest was silent, motionless, as though gazing out from the treetops or waiting for something to happen.
At the edge of the clearing a tall, narrow-shouldered man of forty, wearing a red shirt, patched trousers which had evidently once belonged to a gentleman, and high leather boots, was sauntering along a pathway with lazy, shambling strides. To the right was the green of the clearing, to the left a golden sea of ripened rye stretching to the horizon. His face was ruddy and sweating. A white cap with a straight visor, like those worn by jockeys, perched jauntily on his handsome blond head—the cap must have been the gift of a generous young nobleman. Over his shoulder hung a game bag with a crumpled woodcock lying in it. The man was holding a double-barreled shotgun in his hand, both barrels cocked, and he was screwing up his eyes as he followed the ancient and lean hunting dog which was running on ahead, sniffing at the bushes. There was silence all round, not a sound anywhere. Every living thing had taken refuge from the heat.
“Yegor Vlassich!” The huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice.
He was startled and turned round, knitting his brows. Beside him, as though she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale peasant woman of thirty, with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to peer into the face, and she was smiling shyly.
“Oh, it is you, Pelageya!” said the huntsman, and he stopped and slowly uncocked the gun. “Well, how do you happen to be here?”
“The women from our village have come to work here, and so I came with them.… I’m working with them, Yegor Vlassich.”
“Ah,” Yegor muttered, and walked slowly on.
Pelageya followed him. They went on in silence for twenty paces.
“It’s a long time since I saw you, Yegor Vlassich,” Pelageya said, gazing tenderly at the movement of his shoulders and shoulder blades. “I remember you dropped into our hut during Easter week for a drink of water, and then I never saw you again.… You dropped in for a moment at Easter, and then God knows what was the matter … you were quite drunk … you swore at me, and gave me a beating, and then you went away.… I’ve waited and waited.… I’ve worn out my eyes waiting.… Ah, Yegor Vlassich, Yegor Vlassich! If only you’d come back just once in all that time!”
“What would I be doing in your place?”
“No use.… Still, there’s the house to look after … seeing about things.… You are the master there!… So you shot a woodcock, Yegor? Why don’t you sit down and rest awhile.…”
Saying this, Pelageya smiled like an idiot and looked up into Yegor’s face. Her own face was glowing with happiness.
“Sit down? Well, if you want me to …” Yegor said in a tone of indifference, and he chose a spot in the shade between two fully grown fir trees. “Why are you standing, eh? You sit down, too!”
Pelageya sat down a little way away in the full sunlight. Ashamed of her happiness, she hid her smiles with her hand. Two minutes passed in silence.
“You might come back to me just once,” Pelageya said softly.
“Why?” Yegor sighed, and he removed his cap and wiped his red forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t see any need for it. There’s no sense in coming for an hour or two—it will only upset you! And as for living all the time in your village, well, it’s beyond endurance! You know yourself how I have been spoiled.… I have to have a bed, and good tea, and fine conversations.… Me, I want all the fine things of life, and as for you—you enjoy the poverty and smoke of your village.… I couldn’t stand it for even a day. Imagine there came an order saying I must live permanently with you—well, I’d rather set fire to the cottage or lay hands on myself! Ever since I was a boy, I was always spoiled—there’s no getting away from it!”
“Where are you living now?”
“With Dmitry Ivanich, a fine gentleman, and I’m his huntsman. I furnish his table with game … and there it is … he keeps me more for his own pleasure than for anything else.”
“That’s not proper kind of work, Yegor Vlassich!… People call that fooling around—there’s only you who thinks of it as an occupation, a real job of work.…”
“You don’t understand, stupid,” Yegor said, gazing dreamily at the sky. “Ever since you were born, you’ve never understood what kind of man I am, and you never will.… According to you I’m just a crazy half-cocked sort of fellow, but anyone with an ounce of understanding knows that I’m the best shot in the whole district. The gentry know that, and they’ve even written me up in a magazine. There isn’t a man who can be compared with me as a huntsman.… And it isn’t because I am spoiled and proud that I despise the work of your village. From the time when I was a child, as you know, I never had to do with anything except guns and dogs. If they took my gun away, I’d go out with a fishing rod, and if they took my rod away, then I’d find some way to busy myself with my hands. I went in for horse trading and I’d go to fairs when I had money, and you know yourself that when a peasant goes in for hunting and horse trading, then it’s good-by to the plow. Once freedom catches hold of a man, you can never hammer it out of him! In the same way a gentleman who takes up acting or goes in for the arts will never be of any use as an official or a landowner. You’re a peasant girl, and you’ll never understand that, but it’s something you’ve got to know!”
“I do understand it, Yegor Vlassich.”
“You obviously don’t understand, seeing that you’re about to cry.”
“I … I’m not crying,” Pelageya said, turning her head away. “It’s a sin, Yegor Vlassich! You ought to come and spend a bit of time with me. I’m so miserable! We’ve been married for twelve years … never once was there any love between us.… I … I’m not crying.”
“Love,” Yegor muttered, scratching his arm. “There couldn’t be any love between us. It’s only on paper we’re husband and wife—the truth is we are really nothing at all, eh? You think of me as a wild sort of fellow, and I think of you as a simple peasant girl who doesn’t understand anything. We are not much of a pair! I’m a free man, and I’ve been spoiled, and I go where I please. And you’re a laboring woman wearing bast shoes, living in filth, and your back is bent low to the ground. I know all about myself—I know I’m the best huntsman around, and you look at me with pity.… There’s a fine pair for you!”
“We were married in church, Yegor Vlassich,” sobbed Pelageya.
“It wasn’t my fault we got married.… Have you forgotten? You have Count Sergey Pavlich to thank for it … and you had some responsibility, too. He was full
of envy for me because I was a better shot than he was, and he kept me drinking for a whole month, and when a fellow is drunk, you can make him do anything—get married, change his religion, anything! Out of revenge he married me to you when I was drunk.… A huntsman marrying a cow girl! You saw I was drunk, so why did you marry me? You were not a serf—you could have refused! Sure, it is a lucky thing for a cow girl to marry a huntsman, but you have to use your brains. Now you are making yourself miserable, and crying. The count thought it was a joke, but you went right on crying … beating your head against a wall.…”
Silence followed. Three wild ducks flew over the clearing. Yegor watched them, following them until they became three barely perceptible dots, and then they vanished on the other side of the forest far away.
“How do you live?” he asked, no longer looking at the ducks, but at Pelageya.
“This time of year I go out and work, and in the winter I take a baby from the foundling hospital and bring it up on the bottle. For that they give me a ruble and a half a month.”
“So …”
Again there was silence. From a field which had been reaped there came the first soft notes of a song, which broke off abruptly. It was too hot for singing.
“They say you built a new hut for Akulina,” said Pelageya.
Yegor was silent.
“Are you fond of her?”
“It’s just your luck, it’s fate!” said the huntsman, stretching himself. “You have to suffer, poor orphan! Good-by! I’ve been chattering too much!… I have to reach Boltovo by evening.”
Yegor rose, stretched himself, and threw his gun over his shoulder. Pelageya got up.
“When are you coming to the village?” she asked softly.
“No reason for me to come. I won’t come sober, and I won’t be much use to you if I come drunk. I’m mean when I’m drunk. Good-by!”
Forty Stories Page 10