Doctor Moselweiser’s hydropathic establishment was open on New Year’s
Day as usual; the only difference was that Andrei Khrisanfitch, the
doorkeeper, was wearing unusually shiny boots and a uniform trimmed with
new gold braid, and that he wished every one who came in a happy New
Year.
It was morning. Andrei was standing at the door reading a paper. At ten
o’clock precisely an old general came in who was one of the regular
visitors of the establishment. Behind him came the postman. Andrei took
the general’s cloak, and said:
“A happy New Year to your Excellency!”
“Thank you, friend, the same to you!”
And as he mounted the stairs the general nodded toward a closed door and
asked, as he did every day, always forgetting the answer:
“And what is there in there?”
“A room for massage, your Excellency.”
When the general’s footsteps had died away, Andrei looked over the
letters and found one addressed to him. He opened it, read a few lines,
and then, still looking at his newspaper, sauntered toward the little
room down-stairs at the end of a passage where he and his family lived.
His wife Efimia was sitting on the bed feeding a baby, her oldest boy
was standing at her knee with his curly head in her lap, and a third
child was lying asleep on the bed.
Andrei entered their little room, and handed the letter to his wife,
saying:
“This must be from the village.”
Then he went out again, without raising his eyes from his newspaper, and
stopped in the passage not far from the door. He heard Efimia read the
first lines in a trembling voice. She could go no farther, but these
were enough. Tears streamed from her eyes and she threw her arms round
her eldest child and began talking to him and covering him with kisses.
It was hard to tell whether she was laughing or crying.
“This is from granny and granddaddy,” she cried—“from the village—oh,
Queen of Heaven!—Oh! holy saints! The roofs are piled with snow there
now—and the trees are white, oh, so white! The little children are out
coasting on their dear little sleddies—and granddaddy darling, with his
dear bald head is sitting by the big, old, warm stove, and the little
brown doggie—oh, my precious chickabiddies——”
Andrei remembered as he listened to her that his wife had given him
letters at three or four different times, and had asked him to send them
to the village, but important business had always interfered, and the
letters had remained lying about unposted.
“And the little white hares are skipping about in the fields now—”
sobbed Efimia, embracing her boy with streaming eyes. “Granddaddy dear
is so kind and good, and granny is so kind and so full of pity. People’s
hearts are soft and warm in the village.—There is a little church there,
and the men sing in the choir. Oh, take us away from here, Queen of
Heaven! Intercede for us, merciful mother!”
Andrei returned to his room to smoke until the next patient should come
in, and Efimia suddenly grew still and wiped her eyes; only her lips
quivered. She was afraid of him, oh, so afraid! She quaked and shuddered
at every look and every footstep of his, and never dared to open her
mouth in his presence.
Andrei lit a cigarette, but at that moment a bell rang up-stairs. He put
out his cigarette, and assuming a very solemn expression, hurried to the
front door.
The old general, rosy and fresh from his bath, was descending the
stairs.
“And what is there in there?” he asked, pointing to a closed door.
Andrei drew himself up at attention, and answered in a loud voice:
“The hot douche, your Excellency.”