He returned home in a calm frame of mind. He convinced himself that
he was innocent in the matter of the dismissal of the workingmen—that
is, as far as he was concerned they might be working for him now, as
at first agreed, only Chyenke and her brood of relatives.... No, he
was not to blame. Yet he felt a strong friendship for Chyenke such as
he had not felt since the wedding.
“I sent your workingmen off,” greeted Chyenke, preparing the samovar.
“It’s all over now!... You won’t put on any lordly airs round here
any more!... Hereafter _I’ll_ do the hiring and the firing!”
“Then _you_ do the hiring,” he replied weakly. He was content that
he should no longer have to haggle with the new hands, and that his
conscience would be clear.
But he was careful not to betray his contentment.
“A fine statesman for you!” scoffed Chyenke with cutting sarcasm,
looking into the chimney of the samovar.
He made no reply and got busy upon his work.
From his bench he cast frequent glances toward Chyenke, who was
occupied with household duties. She was angry, and did not deign to
look in his direction. So he, too, pretended not to look at her.
“She’s good looking, Chyenke is ... a beautiful woman,” he thought,
stealing a glimpse at her. “A fine figure—and what a bust!”...
It suddenly occurred to him that he had never thought of “such
things”.... And try as he might, he could not explain to himself what
had come over him. Something was drawing him to Chyenke. At that
very moment he would gladly have cast his work aside and run over to
her.... He could not imagine himself kissing her, but he would most
certainly do it if he were to run over to her at that very moment. He
was ashamed of the feeling, which made him arise from his place, and
he began to look for something upon the table, then about the room,
finally edging up to Chyenke.
“How about the samovar?” he asked, sullenly, although he had meant to
say something far different and much more friendly.
“Touch it and see,” replied Chyenke ill-humouredly, wiping the
tea-glasses.
“Touch it and see!” he mocked, good-naturedly, smiling and placing
a hand against the samovar. He was at a loss for something nice to
say,—something that would conciliate her.
“Whom are you thinking of giving the jobs to?”
“You’ll find out!”
She felt that he was trying to make up with her, and that it was now
_her_ time to take revenge for yesterday’s episode. She would have
him at her feet yet!
“You’ll find out!” he mimicked again with a smile. But her attitude
was beginning to anger him.
Really, why shouldn’t he fly into a fury, give her a terrible
scolding, thump his fist on the table and show that he was the ruler
of the house?
He clinched his teeth, assumed an angry countenance and returned to
his work.
She, however, took no heed. She knew for certain that she held the
upper hand; just let him try to start something and she’d give it to
him so hot and heavy that he wouldn’t know where it came from!
He sat there, working away, and felt that he was not at all angry
with Chyenke,—that he was merely making a cross face to frighten her
into a more tender mood. He glanced at her furtively and knew that he
loved her, that a little while later he would be holding her in his
arms, on his lap, and would caress her, kiss her, squeeze her. And
the thought brought such a tenderness, such a warmth to his heart
that he worked with renewed enthusiasm, stealing countless glances at
Chyenke.
“Here’s your tea. Drink it!” she ordered, caustically.
He remained seated. This was to signify that he was angry and did not
care to know her or her tea.
“Will you take it or not? If you don’t, I’ll spill your tea into the
slop-pail!”
Leisurely he laid his work aside and arose with a smile. This was to
signify that he was not at all angry, and that he had not intended
to play with her and spite her, but that he had been exceedingly
engrossed in his work and could not have abandoned it any sooner. He
thrust his arms into the air, stretching himself, yawned and smiled.
“My! But you’re hot-tempered!” he laughed.
He really meant it. He wished her to forget her grievance, to be kind
once again, to fondle him as before.
He approached the table and pinched her cheek.
She thrust his hand aside.
“Away from me!”
“Psh, psh, psh! What an angry lady!”... He sat down nearby and placed
his arms about her waist.
“Better go away before I get angry!” she cried, tearing herself from
his grasp.
He pressed her close to him, bent her head toward his and began to
kiss her, stifling her outcries with his lips. She seized the glass
of hot tea, but he snatched it away from her grasp. Only with the
greatest effort did she tear herself free.
“I’ll break your head for you!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. He
laughed with a passionate, repulsive laughter.
The shadow of his repulsive, passionate laughter still lay upon his
lips when he went back to his work. He still felt the kisses upon his
lips and felt, too, that he was sated and that his heart was eased.
He attacked his work with a happy will and knew that, in the end,
to-morrow or the day after, Chyenke would be won over. He forgot the
whole world.
X
That evening Chashke and her old mother came for a visit. They were
curious to know the state of affairs in Drabkin’s household and how
the matter had turned out.
“Ah, Chashke!” cried Drabkin with forced gaiety. He had not at all
wished her to come. She brought back to him memories of the olden
days, of things he no longer wished to recall. She made him feel,
moreover, a keen sense of his present subjection. He was ashamed and
remained working at his bench.
Chyenke, however, was glad to see them. She wanted to show them that
_she_ was the boss, and that he lay meekly at her feet. And let his
former sweetheart see how he loved his wife, how he fawned upon her.
And let Chashke burst with vexation and jealousy!
“Well, how are things with you?” inquired the old woman.
Chashke did not care to ask. Already she sensed everything and felt
superfluous in Drabkin’s home.
“How should things be?” replied Chyenke, in a triumphant voice. “Not
so bad. He’s changed his mind, my wise man, my know-it-all. Oho! Now,
it seems he would like to....”
She did not say what he would like to do, but nodded her head in
Drabkin’s direction with a glance and with an expression on her face
that spoke far more plainly than words.
He did not raise his head and feigned deep absorption in his work.
Chashke blushed for him. The room began to feel too narrow for her.
She must run away, run away—she sat there as if on burning coals.
The old woman, on the other hand, was soon engrossed in chatter.
“I told him from the very first that you were as clever a woman as I
knew, upon my soul, and my Chashke told him, too, that it couldn’t
be otherwise, and that he’d be foolish to attempt it.”
At these words Drabkin was strongly impelled to raise his head.
Chashke herself had really said that it couldn’t be otherwise. But at
once he recalled what else she had said, and again he felt ashamed
and remained seated, his head closely applied to his task, dumb.
Chyenke began to tell how she had sent off the workingmen, and how
Drabkin had disappeared from home early that same morning——“He simply
didn’t have the heart to witness it.”
“And now,” she concluded, “I alone hire help and settle things as _I_
see fit.”
She looked triumphantly at Chashke. Drabkin said nothing.
“Come, mamma. Let’s be going home!” urged Chashke, rising.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Drabkin.
Chashke would have been delighted to spit square into his face. The
old woman answered that their boarder would come and the door was
locked.
They left.
Drabkin felt that Chashke had been there for the last time, and the
thought was somewhat disquieting. But this unpleasantness was soon
lost in the great contentment that overwhelmed him. He felt more
free, more independent; a yoke fell from his neck; there would be no
one before his eyes as a continual reminder of his former years and
his former talk.
Gone forever,—gone—and forgotten.
Now he would really work,—work honestly. Here God was helping him to
become a man among men,—then why shouldn’t he do it? And, naturally,
he wouldn’t be like those dogs, his former employers. He would know
that a workingman was a human being, too, and would treat his men
altogether differently. They would be to him like his own people,
like brothers. Chashke really was a fool.
“Did you see in what a rage your Chashke left?” asked Chyenke,
interrupting his thoughts.
“Why are you always saying ‘your’ Chashke?” he queried, with a smile.
“I know. You still run to her house.”
“Pah! Better come and sit down here, right beside me. So!”
He slapped his knee and stretched his arms out to her.
* * * * *
Chashke’s heart was heavy. So heavy, indeed, that she would gladly
have wept. Her throat contracted with sorrow. She walked rapidly, and
her mother could scarcely keep pace with her.
“Just mark my word,” gasped the old woman, running after her
daughter, “in a few years Drabkin will be rich,—worth several
thousand roubles. _She_ has a smart head on her shoulders. If you
had only half her brains I wouldn’t have to worry about you! Oh! Oh!
Ah!...”
It was the old mother’s disappointment that spoke in
her,—disappointment that nothing had come of the intimacy between
Drabkin and her daughter.
“What do you want of me, mamma? Please don’t say any more,” entreated
Chashke with a quivering voice, turning her pale countenance toward
her mother.
The little old woman was frightened by the quivering voice and the
pale countenance. Waving her hand, she shook her head.
“There! I mustn’t say a word!” she sighed.
She spoke no more that night.
Chashke felt as if she had just returned from a cemetery, where she
had buried her dearest treasure.
Drabkin, Drabkin!... And he had been _her_ Drabkin!...
Ah, and up to that very day she had dreamed and imagined!