PIOTR PETROVITCH KARATAEV

One autumn five years ago, I chanced, when on the road from Moscow to

Tula, to spend almost a whole day at a posting station for want of

horses. I was on the way back from a shooting expedition, and had been

so incautious as to send my three horses on in front of me. The man in

charge of the station, a surly, elderly man, with hair hanging over his

brows to his very nose, with little sleepy eyes, answered all my

complaints and requests with disconnected grumbling, slammed the door

angrily, as though he were cursing his calling in life, and going out on

the steps abused the postilions who were sauntering in a leisurely way

through the mud with the weighty wooden yokes on their arms, or sat

yawning and scratching themselves on a bench, and paid no special

attention to the wrathful exclamations of their superior. I had already

sat myself down three times to tea, had several times tried in vain to

sleep, and had read all the inscriptions on the walls and windows; I was

overpowered by fearful boredom. In chill and helpless despair I was

staring at the upturned shafts of my carriage, when suddenly I heard the

tinkling of a bell, and a small trap, drawn by three jaded horses, drew

up at the steps. The new arrival leaped out of the trap, and shouting

'Horses! and look sharp!' he went into the room. While he was listening

with the strange wonder customary in such cases to the overseer's answer

that there were no horses, I had time to scan my new companion from top

to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He

appeared to be nearly thirty. Small-pox had left indelible traces on his

face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his

long blue-black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was

twisted into jaunty curls in front; his small swollen eyes were quite

expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed

like a dissipated country gentleman, given to frequenting horse-fairs,

in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk-tie, a

waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge

funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be

discerned. He smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red

hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and Tula

rings. Such figures are met in Russia not by dozens, but by hundreds; an

acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any

particular pleasure; but in spite of the prejudice with which I looked

at the new-comer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly good-natured

and passionate expression of his face.

'This gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here too,' observed the

overseer indicating me.

More than an hour! The rascal was making fun of me.

'But perhaps he doesn't need them as I do,' answered the new comer.

'I know nothing about that,' said the overseer sulkily.

'Then is it really impossible? Are there positively no horses?'

'Impossible. There's not a single horse.'

'Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I'll wait a little; there's

nothing else to be done.'

The new comer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and

passed his hand over his hair.

'Have you had tea already?' he inquired of me.

'Yes.'

'But won't you have a little more for company.'

I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth

time on the table. I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in

taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property.

His name was Piotr Petrovitch Karataev.

We got into conversation. In less than half-an-hour after his arrival,

he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness.

'I'm on my way to Moscow now,' he told me as he sipped his fourth glass;

'there's nothing for me to do now in the country.'

'How so?'

'Well, it's come to that. My property's in disorder; I've ruined my

peasants, I must confess; there have been bad years: bad harvests, and

all sorts of ill-luck, you know.... Though, indeed,' he added, looking

away dejectedly; 'how could I manage an estate!'

'Why's that?'

'But, no,' he interrupted me? 'there are people like me who make good

managers! You see,' he went on, screwing his head on one side and

sucking his pipe assiduously, 'looking at me, I dare say you think I'm

not much... but you, see, I must confess, I've had a very middling

education; I wasn't well off. I beg your pardon; I'm an open man, and if

you come to that....'

He did not complete his sentence, but broke off with a wave of the hand.

I began to assure him that he was mistaken, that I was highly delighted

to meet him, and so on, and then observed that I should have thought a

very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of

property.

'Agreed,' he responded; 'I agree with you. But still, a special sort of

disposition's essential! There are some may do anything they like, and

it's all right! but I.... Allow me to ask, are you from Petersburg or

from Moscow?'

'I'm from Petersburg.'

He blew a long coil of smoke from his nostrils.

'And I'm going in to Moscow to be an official.'

'What department do you mean to enter?'

'I don't know; that's as it happens. I'll own to you, I'm afraid of

official life; one's under responsibility at once. I've always lived in

the country; I'm used to it, you know... but now, there's no help for

it... it's through poverty! Oh, poverty, how I hate it!'

'But then you will be living in the capital.'

'In the capital.... Well, I don't know what there is that's pleasant in

the capital. We shall see; may be, it's pleasant too.... Though nothing,

I fancy, could be better than the country.'

'Then is it really impossible for you to live at your country place?'

He gave a sigh.

'Quite impossible. It's, so to say, not my own now.'

'Why, how so?'

'Well, a good fellow there--a neighbour--is in possession... a bill of

exchange.'

Poor Piotr Petrovitch passed his hand over his face, thought a minute,

and shook his head.

'Well?'... I must own, though,' he added after a brief silence, 'I

can't blame anybody; it's my own fault. I was fond of cutting a dash, I

am fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul!'

'You had a jolly life in the country?' I asked him.

'I had, sir,' he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the

face, 'twelve harriers--harriers, I can tell you, such as you don't very

often see.' (The last words he uttered in a drawl with great

significance.) 'A grey hare they'd double upon in no time. After the red

fox--they were devils, regular serpents. And I could boast of my

greyhounds too. It's all a thing of the past now, I've no reason to lie.

I used to go out shooting too. I had a dog called the Countess, a

wonderful setter, with a first-rate scent--she took everything.

Sometimes I'd go to a marsh and call "Seek." If she refused, you might

go with a dozen dogs, and you'd find nothing. But when she was after

anything, it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well-bred. If

you gave her bread with your left hand and said, "A Jew's tasted it,"

she wouldn't touch it; but give it with your right and say, "The young

lady's had some," and she'd take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of

hers--capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow,

but a friend asked me for him, together with a gun; he said, "In Moscow

you'll have other things to think of." I gave him the pup and the gun;

and so, you know, it stayed there.'

'But you might go shooting in Moscow.'

'No, what would be the use? I didn't know when to pull myself up, so now

I must grin and bear it.

But there, kindly tell me rather about the living in Moscow--is it

dear?'

'No, not very.'

'Not very.... And tell me, please, are there any gypsies in Moscow?'

'What sort of gypsies?'

'Why, such as hang about fairs?'

'Yes, there are in Moscow....'

'Well, that's good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul! I like 'em....'

And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Piotr Petrovitch's eyes.

But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder,

dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me.

'Give me some of your rum,' he said.'

'But the tea's all finished.'

'Never mind, as it is, without tea... Ah--h!' Karataev laid his head in

his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without

speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations,

possibly even the tears of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when

he raised his head, I was, I must own, impressed by the profoundly

mournful expression of his face.

'What's wrong with you?'

'Nothing.... I was thinking of old times. An anecdote that... I would

tell it you, but I am ashamed to trouble you....'

'What nonsense!'

'Yes,' he went on with a sigh:--'there are cases... like mine, for

instance. Well, if you like, I will tell you. Though really I don't

know....'

'Do tell me, dear Piotr Petrovitch.'

'Very well, though it's a... Well, do you see,' he began; 'but, upon my

word, I don't know.'

'Come, that's enough, dear Piotr Petrovitch.'

'All right. This, then, was what befel me, so to say. I used to live in

the country... All of a sudden, I took a fancy to a girl. Ah, what a

girl she was!... handsome, clever, and so good and sweet! Her name was

Matrona. But she wasn't a lady--that is, you understand, she was a serf,

simply a serf-girl. And not my girl; she belonged to someone else--that

was the trouble. Well, so I loved her--it's really an incident that one

can hardly... well, and she loved me, too. And so Matrona began begging

me to buy her off from her mistress; and, indeed, the thought had

crossed my mind too.... But her mistress was a rich, dreadful old body;

she lived about twelve miles from me. Well, so one fine day, as the

saying is, I ordered my team of three horses to be harnessed abreast to

the droshky--in the centre I'd a first-rate goer, an extraordinary

Asiatic horse, for that reason called Lampurdos--I dressed myself in my

best, and went off to Matrona's mistress. I arrived; it was a big house

with wings and a garden.... Matrona was waiting for me at the bend of

the road; she tried to say a word to me, but she could only kiss her

hand and turn away. Well, so I went into the hall and asked if the

mistress were at home?... And a tall footman says to me: "What name

shall I say?" I answered, "Say, brother, Squire Karataev has called on a

matter of business." The footman walked away; I waited by myself and

thought, "I wonder how it'll be? I daresay the old beast'll screw out a

fearful price, for all she's so rich. Five hundred roubles she'll ask, I

shouldn't be surprised." Well, at last the footman returned, saying, "If

you please, walk up." I followed him into the drawing-room. A little

yellowish old woman sat in an armchair blinking. "What do you want?" To

begin with, you know, I thought it necessary to say how glad I was to

make her acquaintance.... "You are making a mistake; I am not the

mistress here; I'm a relation of hers.... What do you want?" I remarked

upon that, "I had to speak to the mistress herself." "Marya Ilyinishna

is not receiving to-day; she is unwell.... What do you want?" There's

nothing for it, I thought to myself; so I explained my position to her.

The old lady heard me out. "Matrona! what Matrona?"

'"Matrona Fedorovna, Kulik's daughter."

'"Fedor Kulik's daughter.... But how did you come to know her?" "By

chance." "And is she aware of your intention?" "Yes." The old lady was

silent for a minute. Then, "Ah, I'll let her know it, the worthless

hussy!" she said. I was astounded, I must confess. "What ever for? upon

my word!... I'm ready to pay a good sum, if you will be so good as to

name it."'

'The old hag positively hissed at me. "A surprising idea you've

concocted there; as though we needed your money!... I'll teach her, I'll

show her!... I'll beat the folly out of her!" The old lady choked with

spitefulness. "Wasn't she well off with us, pray?... Ah, she's a little

devil! God forgive my transgressions!" I fired up, I'll confess. "What

are you threatening the poor girl for? How is she to blame?" The old

lady crossed herself. "Ah, Lord have mercy on me, do you suppose I'd..."

"But she's not yours, you know!" "Well, Marya Ilyinishna knows best

about that; it's not your business, my good sir; but I'll show that chit

of a Matrona whose serf she is." I'll confess, I almost fell on the

damned old woman, but I thought of Matrona, and my hands dropped. I was

more frightened than I can tell you; I began entreating the old lady.

"Take what you like," I said. "But what use is she to you?" "I like her,

good ma'am; put yourself in my position.... Allow me to kiss your little

hand." And I positively kissed the wretch's hand! "Well," mumbled the

old witch, "I'll tell Marya Ilyinishna--it's for her to decide; you come

back in a couple of days." I went home in great uneasiness. I began to

suspect that I'd managed the thing badly; that I'd been wrong in

letting her notice my state of mind, but I thought of that too late. Two

days after, I went to see the mistress. I was shown into a boudoir.

There were heaps of flowers and splendid furniture; the lady herself was

sitting in a wonderful easy-chair, with her head lolling back on a

cushion; and the same relation was sitting there too, and some young

lady, with white eyebrows and a mouth all awry, in a green gown--a

companion, most likely. The old lady said through her nose, "Please be

seated." I sat down. She began questioning me as to how old I was, and

where I'd been in the service, and what I meant to do, and all that very

condescendingly and solemnly. I answered minutely. The old lady took a

handkerchief off the table, flourished it, fanning herself.... "Katerina

Karpovna informed me," says she, "of your scheme; she informed me of it;

but I make it my rule," says she, "not to allow my people to leave my

service. It is improper, and quite unsuitable in a well-ordered house;

it is not good order. I have already given my orders," says she. "There

will be no need for you to trouble yourself further," says she. "Oh, no

trouble, really.... But can it be, Matrona Fedorovna is so necessary to

you?" "No," says she, "she is not necessary." "Then why won't you part

with her to me?" "Because I don't choose to; I don't choose--and that's

all about it. I've already," says she, "given my orders: she is being

sent to a village in the steppes." I was thunderstruck. The old lady

said a couple of words in French to the young lady in green; she went

out. "I am," says she, "a woman of strict principles, and my health is

delicate; I can't stand being worried. You are still young, and I'm an

old woman, and entitled to give you advice. Wouldn't it be better for

you to settle down, get married; to look out a good match; wealthy

brides are few, but a poor girl, of the highest moral character, could

be found." I stared, do you know, at the old lady, and didn't understand

what she was driving at; I could hear she was talking about marriage,

but the village in the steppes was ringing in my ears all the while. Get

married!... what the devil!...'

Here he suddenly stopped in his story and looked at me.

'You're not married, I suppose?'

'No.'

'There, of course, I could see it. I couldn't stand it. "But, upon my

word, ma'am, what on earth are you talking about? How does marriage come

in? I simply want to know from you whether you will part with your

serf-girl Matrona or not?" The old lady began sighing and groaning. "Ah,

he's worrying me! ah, send him away! ah!" The relation flew to her, and

began scolding me, while the lady kept on moaning: "What have I done to

deserve it?... I suppose I'm not mistress in my own house? Ah! ah!" I

snatched my hat, and ran out of the house like a madman.

'Perhaps,' he continued, 'you will blame me for being so warmly attached

to a girl of low position; I don't mean to justify myself exactly,

either... but so it came to pass!... Would you believe it, I had no

rest by day or by night.... I was in torment! Besides, I thought, "I

have ruined the poor girl!" At times I thought that she was herding

geese in a smock, and being ill-treated by her mistress's orders, and

the bailiff, a peasant in tarred boots, reviling her with foul abuse. I

positively fell into a cold sweat. Well, I could not stand it. I found

out what village she had been sent to, mounted my horse, and set off. I

only got there the evening of the next day. Evidently they hadn't

expected such a proceeding on my part, and had given no order in regard

to me. I went straight to the bailiff as though I were a neighbour; I go

into the yard and look around; there was Matrona sitting on the steps

leaning on her elbow. She was on the point of crying out, but I held up

my finger and pointed outside, towards the open country. I went into the

hut; I chatted away a bit to the bailiff, told him ten thousand lies,

seized the right moment, and went out to Matrona. She, poor girl, fairly

hung round my neck. She was pale and thin, my poor darling! I kept

saying to her, do you know: "There, it's all right, Matrona; it's all

right, don't cry," and my own tears simply flowed and flowed.... Well,

at last though, I was ashamed, I said to her: "Matrona, tears are no

help in trouble, but we must act, as they say, resolutely; you must run

away with me; that's how we must act." Matrona fairly swooned away....

"How can it be! I shall be ruined; they will be the death of me

altogether." "You silly! who will find you?" "They will find me; they

will be sure to find me. Thank you, Piotr Petrovitch--I shall never

forget your kindness; but now you must leave me; such is my fate, it

seems." "Ah, Matrona, Matrona, I thought you were a girl of character!"

And, indeed, she had a great deal of character.... She had a heart, a

heart of gold! "Why should you be left here? It makes no difference;

things can't be worse. Come, tell me--you've felt the bailiff's fists,

eh?" Matrona fairly crimsoned, and her lips trembled. "But there'll be

no living for my family on my account." "Why, your family now--will they

send them for soldiers?" "Yes; they'll send my brother for a soldier."

"And your father?" "Oh, they won't send father; he's the only good

tailor among us."

'"There, you see; and it won't kill your brother." Would you believe it,

I'd hard work to persuade her; she even brought forward a notion that I

might have to answer for it. "But that's not your affair," said I....

However, I did carry her off... not that time, but another; one night I

came with a light cart, and carried her off.'

'You carried her off?'

'Yes... Well, so she lived in my house. It was a little house, and I'd

few servants. My people, I will tell you frankly, respected me; they

wouldn't have betrayed me for any reward. I began to be as happy as a

prince. Matrona rested and recovered, and I grew devoted to her....

And what a girl she was! It seemed to come by nature! She could sing,

and dance, and play the guitar!... I didn't show her to my neighbours;

I was afraid they'd gossip! But there was one fellow, my bosom friend,

Gornostaev, Panteley--you don't know him? He was simply crazy about her;

he'd kiss her hand as though she were a lady; he would, really. And I

must tell you, Gornostaev was not like me; he was a cultivated man,

had read all Pushkin; sometimes, he'd talk to Matrona and me so that

we pricked up our ears to listen. He taught her to write; such a queer

chap he was! And how I dressed her--better than the governor's wife,

really; I had a pelisse made her of crimson velvet, edged with fur...

Ah! how that pelisse suited her! It was made by a Moscow madame in a

new fashion, with a waist. And what a wonderful creature Matrona was!

Sometimes she'd fall to musing, and sit for hours together looking at

the ground, without stirring a muscle; and I'd sit too, and look at her,

and could never gaze enough, just as if I were seeing her for the first

time.... Then she would smile, and my heart would give a jump as though

someone were tickling me. Or else she'd suddenly fall to laughing,

joking, dancing; she would embrace me so warmly, so passionately, that

my head went round. From morning to evening I thought of nothing but

how I could please her. And would you believe it? I gave her presents

simply to see how pleased she would be, the darling! all blushing with

delight! How she would try on my present; how she would come back with

her new possession on, and kiss me! Her father, Kulik, got wind of it,

somehow; the old man came to see us, and how he wept.... In that way

we lived for five months, and I should have been glad to live with her

for ever, but for my cursed ill-luck!'

Piotr Petrovitch stopped.

'What was it happened?' I asked him sympathetically. He waved his hand.

'Everything went to the devil. I was the ruin of her too. My little

Matrona was passionately fond of driving in sledges, and she used to

drive herself; she used to put on her pelisse and her embroidered

Torzhok gloves, and cry out with delight all the way. We used to go out

sledging always in the evening, so as not to meet any one, you know. So,

once it was such a splendid day, you know, frosty and clear, and no wind...

we drove out. Matrona had the reins. I looked where she was driving.

Could it be to Kukuyevka, her mistress's village? Yes, it was to

Kukuyevka. I said to her, "You mad girl, where are you going?" She gave

me a look over her shoulder and laughed. "Let me," she said, "for a

lark." "Well," thought I, "come what may!..." To drive past her

mistress's house was nice, wasn't it? Tell me yourself--wasn't it nice?

So we drove on. The shaft-horse seemed to float through the air, and the

trace-horses went, I can tell you, like a regular whirlwind. We were

already in sight of Kukuyevka; when suddenly I see an old green coach

crawling along with a groom on the footboard up behind.... It was the

mistress--the mistress driving towards us! My heart failed me; but

Matrona--how she lashed the horses with the reins, and flew straight

towards the coach! The coachman, he, you understand, sees us flying to

meet him, meant, you know, to move on one side, turned too sharp, and

upset the coach in a snowdrift. The window was broken; the mistress

shrieked, "Ai! ai! ai! ai! ai! ai!" The companion wailed, "Help! help!"

while we flew by at the best speed we might. We galloped on, but I

thought, "Evil will come of it. I did wrong to let her drive to

Kukuyevka." And what do you think? Why, the mistress had recognised

Matrona, and me too, the old wretch, and made a complaint against me.

"My runaway serf-girl," said she, "is living at Mr. Karataev's"; and

thereupon she made a suitable present. Lo and behold! the captain of

police comes to me; and he was a man I knew, Stepan Sergyeitch Kuzovkin,

a good fellow; that's to say, really a regular bad lot. So he came up

and said this and that, and "How could you do so, Piotr Petrovitch?...

The liability is serious, and the laws very distinct on the subject." I

tell him, "Well, we'll have a talk about that, of course; but come,

you'll take a little something after your drive." He agreed to take

something, but he said, "Justice has claims, Piotr Petrovitch; think for

yourself." "Justice, to be sure," said I, "of course... but, I have

heard say you've a little black horse. Would you be willing to exchange

it for my Lampurdos?... But there's no girl called Matrona Fedorovna in

my keeping." "Come," says he, "Piotr Petrovitch, the girl's with you,

we're not living in Switzerland, you know... though my little horse

might be exchanged for Lampurdos; I might, to be sure, accept it in that

way." However, I managed to get rid of him somehow that time. But the

old lady made a greater fuss than ever; ten thousand roubles, she said,

she wouldn't grudge over the business. You see, when she saw me, she

suddenly took an idea into her head to marry me to her young lady

companion in green; that I found out later; that was why she was so

spiteful. What ideas won't these great ladies take into their heads!...

It comes through being dull, I suppose. Things went badly with me: I

didn't spare money, and I kept Matrona in hiding. No, they harassed me,

and turned me this way and that: I got into debt; I lost my health....

So one night, as I lay in my bed, thinking, "My God, why should I suffer

so? What am I to do, since I can't get over loving her?... There, I

can't, and that's all about it!" into the room walked Matrona. I had

hidden her for the time at a farmhouse a mile and a half from my house.

I was frightened. "What? have they discovered you even there?" "No,

Piotr Petrovitch," said she, "no one disturbs me at Bubnova; but will

that last long? My heart," she said, "is torn, Piotr Petrovitch; I am

sorry for you, my dear one; never shall I forget your goodness, Piotr

Petrovitch, but now I've come to say good-bye to you." "What do you

mean, what do you mean, you mad girl?... Good-bye, how good-bye?"...

"Yes... I am going to give myself up." "But I'll lock you up in a

garret, mad girl!... Do you mean to destroy me? Do you want to kill me,

or what?" The girl was silent; she looked on the floor. "Come, speak,

speak!" "I can't bear to cause you any more trouble, Piotr Petrovitch."

Well, one might talk to her as one pleased... "But do you know, little

fool, do you know, mad..."

And Piotr Petrovitch sobbed bitterly.

'Well, what do you think?' he went on, striking the table with his fist

and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed

cheeks; 'the girl gave herself up.... She went and gave herself up...'

'The horses are ready,' the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the

room.

We both stood up.

'What became of Matrona?' I asked.

Karataev waved his hand.

* * * * *

A year after my meeting with Karataev, I happened to go to Moscow. One

day, before dinner, for some reason or other I went into a _café_

in the Ohotny row--an original Moscow _café_. In the billiard-room,

across clouds of smoke, I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers,

old-fashioned Hungarian coats, and new-fangled Slavonic costumes.

Thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the Russian papers.

The waiters flitted airily about with trays, treading softly on the

green carpets. Merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking tea.

Suddenly a man came out of the billiard-room, rather dishevelled, and

not quite steady on his legs. He put his hands in his pockets, bent his

head, and looked aimlessly about.

'Ba, ba, ba! Piotr Petrovitch!... How are you?'

Piotr Petrovitch almost fell on my neck, and, slightly staggering, drew

me into a small private room.

'Come here,' he said, carefully seating me in an easy-chair; 'here you

will be comfortable. Waiter, beer! No, I mean champagne! There, I'll

confess, I didn't expect; I didn't expect... Have you been here long?

Are you staying much longer? Well, God has brought us, as they say,

together.'

'Yes, do you remember...'

'To be sure, I remember; to be sure, I remember!' he interrupted me

hurriedly; 'it's a thing of the past...'

'Well, what are you doing here, my dear Piotr Petrovitch?'

'I'm living, as you can see. Life's first-rate here; they're a merry lot

here. Here I've found peace.'

And he sighed, and raised his eyes towards heaven.

'Are you in the service?'

'No, I'm not in the service yet, but I think I shall enter. But what's

the service?... People are the chief thing. What people I have got to

know here!...'

A boy came in with a bottle of champagne on a black tray.

'There, and this is a good fellow.... Isn't that true, Vasya, that

you're a good fellow? To your health!'

The boy stood a minute, shook his head, decorously smiled, and went out.

'Yes, there are capital people here,' pursued Piotr Petrovitch; 'people

of soul, of feeling.... Would you like me to introduce you?--such jolly

chaps.... They'll all be glad to know you. I say... Bobrov is dead;

that's a sad thing.'

'What Bobrov?'

'Sergay Bobrov; he was a capital fellow; he took me under his wing as an

ignoramus from the wilds. And Panteley Gornostaev is dead. All dead,

all!'

'Have you been living all the time in Moscow? You haven't been away to

the country?'

'To the country!... My country place is sold.'

'Sold?'

'By auction.... There! what a pity you didn't buy it.'

'What are you going to live on, Piotr Petrovitch?'

'I shan't die of hunger; God will provide when I've no money. I shall

have friends. And what is money.... Dust and ashes! Gold is dust!'

He shut his eyes, felt in his pocket, and held out to me in the palm of

his hand two sixpences and a penny.

'What's that? Isn't it dust and ashes' (and the money flew on the

floor). 'But you had better tell me, have you read Polezhaev?'

'Yes.'

'Have you seen Motchalov in Hamlet?'

'No, I haven't.'

'You've not seen him, not seen him!...' (And Karataev's face turned

pale; his eyes strayed uneasily; he turned away; a faint spasm passed

over his lips.) 'Ah, Motchalov, Motchalov! "To die--to sleep!"' he said

in a thick voice:

'No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die--to sleep!'

'To sleep--to sleep,' he muttered several times.

'Tell me, please,' I began; but he went on with fire:

'Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Nymph in thy orisons

Be all my sins remembered.'

And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at

random. 'Within a month'! he delivered with fresh fire:

'A little month, or ere those shoes were old,

With which she followed my poor father's body,

Like Niobe--all tears; why she, even she--

O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,

Would have mourned longer!'

He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the

wine, and went on:

'For Hecuba!

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her?...

But I'm a dull and muddy mettled-rascal,

Who calls me coward? gives me the lie i' the throat?

... Why I should take it; for it cannot be,

But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall

To make oppression bitter.'

Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I

understood him.

'Well, well,' he said at last, 'one must not rake up the past. Isn't

that so?' (and he laughed). 'To your health!'

'Shall you stay in Moscow?' I asked him.

'I shall die in Moscow!'

'Karataev!' called a voice in the next room; 'Karataev, where are you?

Come here, my dear fellow!'

'They're calling me,' he said, getting up heavily from his seat.

'Good-bye; come and see me if you can; I live in....'

But next day, through unforeseen circumstances, I was obliged to leave

Moscow, and I never saw Piotr Petrovitch Karataev again.