Stumbling in the dark upon the hurdle fence I valiantly strided over
puddles of mud from window to window, tapped, not very loudly, on the
window-panes with my fingers, and cried:
"Give a traveller a night's lodging!"
In reply they sent me to the neighbours or to the Devil; from one
window they promised to let the dog loose upon me, from another they
threatened me silently but eloquently with their fists--and big fists
too. A woman screamed at me.
"Go away, be off while you are still whole! My husband is at home."
I understood her: she only took in lodgers during the absence of her
husband.... Regretting that he was at home I went on to the next window.
"Good people, give a traveller a night's lodging!"
They answered me politely:
"In God's name go--further on!"
The weather was wretched--a fine, cold rain was falling, and the muddy
earth was thickly enveloped in darkness. From time to time a gust of
wind blew from some quarter or other; it moaned softly in the branches
of the trees, rustled the wet straw on the roofs, and gave birth to
many other cheerless noises, breaking in upon the gloomy silence of the
night with its miserable music of sighs and groans: Listening to this
dolorous prelude to the grim poem which they call Autumn, the people
under the roofs were no doubt in a bad humour, and therefore would not
give me a night's lodging. For a long time I had fought against this
resolution of theirs, they as doggedly opposed me and, at last, had
annihilated my hopes of a night's lodging beneath any roof whatsoever.
So I left the village and went forth into the fields, thinking that
there, perhaps, I might find a haycock or a rick of straw ... though
naught but chance could direct me to them in this thick and heavy
darkness.
But lo and behold! I saw, three paces in front of me, something big
rising up--something even darker than the darkness. I went thither, and
discovered that it was a corn magazine. Corn magazines, you know, are
built not right upon the earth but upon piles or stones; between the
floor of the magazine and the ground is a space where an ordinary man
can easily settle down ... all he has to do is to lie upon his belly
and wriggle into it.
Clearly, Destiny desired that I should pass that night not only under
a roof but under a floor. Content therewith, I wriggled along the dry
ground, feeling with my breast and sides for a somewhat more level
place for my night's lodging. And suddenly in the darkness resounded a
calmly-anticipatory voice:
"A little more to the left, if you please!"
This was not alarming, but unexpected it certainly was.
"Who's there?" I inquired.
"A man ... with a stick...."
"I have a stick too."
"And matches?"
"Yes, I have matches also."
"That's good."
I didn't see anything at all good in this, for, according to my view of
the matter, it would only have been good if I had had bread and tobacco
and not merely matches.
"I suppose they wouldn't let you have a night's lodging in the
village?" inquired the invisible voice.
"No, they wouldn't," I said.
"Me also they would not admit."
This was clear--if only he _had_ asked for a night's lodging. But he
might _not_ have asked, he might simply have crept in here to await
a favourable opportunity for executing some sort of risky operation
absolutely desiderating the protection of the night. Every sort of
labour is praiseworthy, I know, but for all that I resolved to clutch
my stick firmly.
"They wouldn't let me in, the Devils!" resumed the voice. "Blockheads!
In fine weather they let you in, while in weather like this ... may
they howl for it!"
"And whither are you going?" I asked.
"To ... Nikolaiev. And you?"