It was ten o’clock at night. Stepan, the coachman, Mikailo, the house
porter, Aliosha the coachman’s grandson who was visiting his
grandfather, and the old herring-vender Nikander who came peddling his
wares every evening were assembled around a lantern in the large coach
house playing cards. The door stood open and commanded a view of the
whole courtyard with the wide double gates, the manor-house, the ice and
vegetable cellars, and the servants’ quarters. The scene was wrapped in
the darkness of night, only four brilliantly lighted windows blazed in
the wing of the house, which had been rented to tenants. The carriages
and sleighs, with their shafts raised in the air, threw from the walls
to the door long, tremulous shadows which mingled with those cast by the
players around the lantern. In the stables beyond stood the horses,
separated from the coach house by a light railing. The scent of hay hung
in the air, and Nikander exhaled an unpleasant odour of herring.
They were playing “Kings.”
“I am king!” cried the porter, assuming a pose which he thought
befittingly regal, and blowing his nose loudly with a red and white
checked handkerchief. “Come on! Who wants to have his head cut off?”
Aliosha, a boy of eight with a rough shock of blond hair, who had lacked
but two tricks of being a king himself, now cast eyes of resentment and
envy at the porter. He pouted and frowned.
“I’m going to lead up to you, grandpa,” he said, pondering over his
cards. “I know you must have the queen of hearts.”
“Come, little stupid, stop thinking and play!”
Aliosha irresolutely led the knave of hearts. At that moment a bell rang
in the courtyard.
“Oh, the devil—” muttered the porter rising. “The king must go and open
the gate.”
When he returned a few moments later Aliosha was already a prince, the
herring-man was a soldier, and the coachman was a peasant.
“It’s a bad business in there,” said the porter resuming his seat. “I
have just seen the doctor off. They didn’t get it out.”
“Huh! How could they? All they did, I’ll be bound, was to make a hole in
his head. When a man has a bullet in his brain it’s no use to bother
with doctors!”
“He is lying unconscious,” continued the porter. “He will surely die.
Aliosha, don’t look at my cards, lambkin, or you’ll get your ears boxed.
Yes, it was out with the doctor, and in with his father and mother; they
have just come. The Lord forbid such a crying and moaning as they are
carrying on! They keep saying that he was their only son. It’s a pity!”
All, except Aliosha who was engrossed in the game, glanced up at the
lighted windows.
“We have all got to go to the police station to-morrow,” said the
porter. “There is going to be an inquest. But what do I know about it?
Did I see what happened? All I know is that he called me this morning,
and gave me a letter and said: ‘Drop this in the letter-box.’ And his
eyes were all red with crying. His wife and children were away; they had
gone for a walk. So while I was taking his letter to the mail he shot
himself in the forehead with a revolver. When I came back his cook was
already shrieking at the top of her lungs.”
“He committed a great sin!” said the herring-man in a hoarse voice,
wagging his head. “A great sin.”
“He went crazy from knowing too much,” said the porter, picking up a
trick. “He used to sit up at night writing papers—play, peasant! But he
was a kind gentleman, and so pale and tall and black-eyed! He was a good
tenant.”
“They say there was a woman at the bottom of it,” said the coachman,
slapping a ten of trumps on a king of hearts. “They say he was in love
with another man’s wife, and had got to dislike his own. That happens
sometimes.”
“I crown myself king!” exclaimed the porter.
The bell in the courtyard rang again. The victorious monarch spat
angrily and left the coach house. Shadows like those of dancing couples
were flitting to and fro across the windows of the wing. Frightened
voices and hurrying footsteps were heard.
“The doctor must have come back,” said the coachman. “Our Mikailo is
running.”
A strange, wild scream suddenly rent the air.
Aliosha looked nervously first at his grandfather, and then at the
windows, and said:
“He patted me on the head yesterday, and asked me where I was from.
Grandfather, who was that howling just now?”
His grandfather said nothing, and turned up the flame of the lantern.
“A man has died,” he said with a yawn. “His soul is lost and his
children are lost. This will be a disgrace to them for the rest of their
lives.”
The porter returned, and sat down near the lantern.
“He is dead!” he said. “The old women from the almshouse have been sent
for.”
“Eternal peace and the kingdom of heaven be his!” whispered the coachman
crossing himself.
Aliosha also crossed himself with his eyes on his grandfather.
“You mustn’t pray for souls like his,” the herring-man said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a sin.”
“That’s the truth,” the porter agreed. “His soul has gone straight to
the Evil One in hell.”
“It’s a sin,” repeated the herring-man. “Men like him are neither
shriven nor buried in church, but shovelled away like carrion.”
The old man got up, and slung his sack across his shoulder.
“It happened that way with our general’s lady,” he said, adjusting the
pack on his back. “We were still serfs at that time, and her youngest
son shot himself in the head just as this one did, from knowing too
much. The law says that such people must be buried outside the
churchyard without a priest or a requiem. But to avoid the disgrace, our
mistress greased the palms of the doctors and the police, and they gave
her a paper saying that her son had done it by accident when he was
crazy with fever. Money can do anything. So he was given a fine funeral
with priests and music, and laid away under the church that his father
had built with his own money, where the rest of the family were. Well,
friends, one month passed, and another month passed, and nothing
happened. But during the third month our mistress was told that the
church watchmen wanted to see her. ‘What do they want?’ she asked. The
watchmen were brought to her, and they fell down at her feet. ‘Your
ladyship!’ they cried. ‘We can’t watch there any longer. You must find
some other watchmen, and let us go!’ ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘No!’ they said.
‘We can’t possibly stay. Your young gentleman howls under the church all
night long.’”
Aliosha trembled and buried his face in his grandfather’s back so as not
to see those shining windows.
“At first our mistress wouldn’t listen to their complaints,” the old man
went on. “She told them they were silly to be afraid of ghosts, and that
a dead man couldn’t possibly howl. But in a few days the watchmen came
back, and the deacon came with them. He, too, had heard the corpse
howling. Our mistress saw that the business was bad, so she shut herself
up in her room with the watchmen and said to them: ‘Here are twenty-five
roubles for you, my friends. Go into the church quietly at night when no
one can hear you, and dig up my unhappy son, and bury him outside the
churchyard.’ And she probably gave each man a glass of something to
drink. So the watchmen did as she told them. The tombstone with its
inscription lies under the church to-day, but the general’s son is
buried outside the churchyard. Oh, Lord, forgive us poor sinners!”
sighed the herring-man. “There is only one day a year on which one can
pray for such souls as his, and that is on the Saturday before Trinity
Sunday. It’s a sin to give food to beggars in their name, but one may
feed the birds for the peace of their souls. The general’s widow used to
go out to the crossroads every three days, and feed the birds. One day a
black dog suddenly appeared at the crossroads, gobbled up the bread, and
took to his heels. She knew who it was! For three days after that our
mistress was like a mad woman; she refused to take food or drink, and
every now and then she would suddenly fall down on her knees in the
garden, and pray. But I’ll say good night now, my friends. God and the
Queen of Heaven be with you! Come Mikailo, open the gate for me.”
The herring-man and the porter went out, and the coachman and Aliosha
followed them so as not to be left alone in the coach house.
“The man was living and now he is dead,” the coachman reflected, gazing
at the windows across which the shadows were still flitting. “This
morning he was walking about the courtyard, and now he is lying there
lifeless.”
“Our time will come, too,” said the porter as he walked away with the
herring-man and was lost with him in the darkness.
The coachman, followed by Aliosha, timidly approached the house and
looked in. A very pale woman, her large eyes red with tears, and a
handsome grey-haired man were moving two card-tables into the middle of
the room; some figures scribbled in chalk on their green baize tops were
still visible. The cook, who had shrieked so loudly that morning was now
standing on tiptoe on a table trying to cover a mirror with a sheet.
“What are they doing, grandpa?” Aliosha asked in a whisper.
“They are going to lay him on those tables soon,” answered the old man.
“Come, child, it’s time to go to sleep.”
The coachman and Aliosha returned to the coach house. They said their
prayers and took off their boots. Stepan stretched himself on the floor
in a corner, and Aliosha climbed into a sleigh. The doors had been shut,
and the newly extinguished lantern filled the air with a strong smell of
smoking oil. In a few minutes Aliosha raised his head, and stared about
him; the light from those four windows was shining through the cracks of
the door.
“Grandpa, I’m frightened!” he said.
“There, there, go to sleep!”
“But I tell you I’m frightened!”
“What are you afraid of, you spoiled baby?”
Both were silent.
Suddenly Aliosha jumped out of the sleigh, burst into tears, and rushed
to his grandfather weeping loudly.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” cried the startled coachman, jumping
up, too.
“He’s howling!”
“Who’s howling?”
“I’m frightened, grandpa! Can’t you hear him?”
“That is some one crying,” his grandfather answered. “Go back to sleep,
little silly. They are sad and so they are crying.”
“I want to go home!” the boy persisted, sobbing and trembling like a
leaf. “Grandpa, do let us go home to mamma. Let us go, dear grandpa! God
will give you the kingdom of heaven if you will take me home!”
“What a little idiot it is! There, there, be still, be still. Hush, I’ll
light the lantern, silly!”
The coachman felt for the matches, and lit the lantern, but the light
did not calm Aliosha.
“Grandpa, let’s go home!” he implored, weeping. “I’m so frightened here!
Oh, _oh_, I’m so frightened! Why did you send for me to come here, you
hateful man?”
“Who is a hateful man? Are you calling your own grandfather names? I’ll
beat you for that!”
“Beat me, grandpa, beat me like Sidorov’s goat, only take me back to
mamma! Oh, do! do!...”
“There, there, child, hush!” the coachman whispered tenderly. “No one is
going to hurt you, don’t be afraid. Why, I’m getting frightened myself!
Say a prayer to God!”
The door creaked and the porter thrust his head into the coach house.
“Aren’t you asleep yet, Stepan?” he asked. “I can’t get any sleep
to-night, opening and shutting the gate every minute. Why, Aliosha, what
are you crying about?”
“I’m frightened,” answered the coachman’s grandson.
Again that wailing voice rang out. The porter said:
“They are crying. His mother can’t believe her eyes. She is carrying on
terribly.”
“Is the father there, too?”
“Yes, he’s there, but he’s quiet. He’s sitting in a corner, and not
saying a word. The children have been sent to their relatives. Well,
Stepan, shall we have another game?”
“Come on!” the coachman assented. “Go and lie down, Aliosha, and go to
sleep. Why you’re old enough to think of getting married, you young
rascal, and there you are bawling! Run along, child, run along!”
The porter’s presence calmed Aliosha; he went timidly to his sleigh and
lay down. As he fell asleep he heard a whispering:
“I take the trick,” his grandfather murmured.
“I take the trick,” the porter repeated.
The bell rang in the courtyard, the door creaked and seemed to say:
“I take the trick!”
When Aliosha saw the dead master in his dreams, and jumped up weeping
for fear of his eyes, it was already morning. His grandfather was
snoring, and the coach house no longer seemed full of terror.