someone's body.
A silence, as dark and as miserable as the autumn night, continued for
a few moments longer. Then someone spoke in a whisper.
"What is it?" the others asked aloud.
"I say that after all he was a good sort of fellow; he had a clever
head on his shoulders, and so quiet and gentle!"
"Yes; and when he got hold of money he never grudged spending it
amongst his friends."
Once more silence fell on the company.
"He is going!"
Tiapa's cry rang out over the captain's head.
Aristide Fomitch rose, making an effort to walk, firmly, and went
towards the doss-house.
"What are you going for?" said Tiapa, stopping him. "Don't you know
that you are drunk, and that it's not the right thing?"
The captain paused and reflected.
"And is anything right on this earth? Go to the devil!" And he pushed
Tiapa aside.
On the walls of the doss-house the shadows were still flickering and
dancing, as if struggling silently with one another.
On a bunk, stretched out at full length, lay the schoolmaster, with
the death-rattle in his throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare
breast heaved painfully, and froth oozed from the corners of his mouth.
His face wore a strained expression, as if he were trying to say
something important and difficult; and the failure to say it caused him
inexpressible suffering.
The captain placed himself opposite, with his hands behind his back,
and watched the dying man for a moment in silence. At last he spoke,
knitting his brows as if in pain.
"Philippe, speak to me! Throw a word of comfort to your friend. You
know I love you; all the others are brute beasts. You are the only one
I look upon as a man, although you are a drunkard. What a one you were
to drink vodka, Philippe! That was what caused your ruin. You ought to
have kept yourself in hand and listened to me. Was I not always telling
you so?"
The mysterious all-destructive force, called Death, as if insulted
by the presence of this drunken man, during its supreme and solemn
struggle with life, decided to finish its impassive work, and the
schoolmaster, after sighing deeply, groaned, shuddered, stretched
himself out, and died.
The captain swayed backwards and forwards, and continued his speech.
"What's the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some vodka?
It's better not to drink, Philippe! restrain yourself. Well, drink if
you like! To speak candidly, what is the use of restraining oneself?
What's the use of it, Philippe?"
And he took the body by the leg and pulled it towards him.
"Ah! you are already asleep, Philippe! Well, sleep on. Good-night.
To-morrow I'll explain it all to you, and I hope I shall convince you
that it's no use denying oneself anything. So now, go to sleep, if you
are not dead."
He went out, leaving dead silence behind him; and approaching his mates
exclaimed--
"He's asleep or dead, I don't know which. I'm a--little--drunk."
Tiapa stooped lower still, and crossed himself. Martianoff threw
himself down on the ground without saying a word. "The Meteor" began
sobbing in a soft, silly way, like a woman who has been ill-treated.
"Scraps" wriggled about on the ground, saying in a low, angry,
frightened voice--
"Devil take you all! A set of plagues! Dead? ... what of that? Why
should I be bothered with it? When my time comes I shall have to die
too! just as he has done; I'm no worse than the rest!"
"That's right! that's it!" exclaimed the captain, dropping himself down
heavily on the earth. "When the time comes, we shall all die, just like
the rest! Ha! ha! It doesn't much matter how we live; but die we shall,
like the rest. For that's the goal of life, trust my word for it! Man
lives that he may die. And he dies, and this being so, isn't it all the
same what he dies of, or how he dies, or how he lived? Am I not right,
Martianoff? Let's have another drink, and yet another, and another, as
long as there is life in us."
Rain began to fall. Thick, heavy darkness enshrouded the figures of the
outcasts, as they lay on the ground in all the ugliness of sleep or
of drunkenness. The streak of light issuing from the doss-house grew
paler, flickered, and finally disappeared. Either the wind had blown
the lamp out, or the oil was exhausted. The drops of rain falling on
the iron roof of the doss-house pattered down softly and timidly. The
solemn sound of a bell came at intervals from the town above, telling
that the watchers in the church were on duty.
The metallic sound wafted from the steeple melted into the soft
darkness, and slowly died away; but before the gloom had smothered the
last trembling note, another stroke was heard, and yet another, whilst
through the silence of the night spread and echoed the sad booming sigh
of the bell.
The following morning Tiapa was the first to awake.
Turning over on his back, he looked at the sky; for this was the only
position in which his distorted neck would allow him to look upwards.
It was a monotonously grey morning. A cold, damp gloom, hiding the sun,
and concealing the blue depths of the sky, shed sadness over the earth.
Tiapa crossed himself, and leaning on his elbow looked round to see
if there was no vodka left. The bottle was near, but it proved to
be--empty. Crawling over his companions, Tiapa began inspecting the
mugs. He found one nearly full, and swallowed the contents, wiping his
mouth with his sleeve, and then shook the captain by the shoulder.
"Get up! Can't you hear?"
The captain lifted his head, and looked at Tiapa with dim, bloodshot
eyes.
"We must give notice to the police! so get up."
"What's the matter?" asked the captain in an angry, drowsy voice.
"Why, he's dead."
"Who's dead?"
"Why, the learned man."
"Philippe? Ah, yes, so he is!"
"And you had already forgotten!" hissed Tiapa reproachfully.
The captain rose to his feet, yawned loudly, and stretched himself till
his bones cracked.
"Well, go and give notice."
"No, I shan't go. I'm not fond of those gentry!" said Tiapa gloomily.
"Well, go and wake the deacon, and I'll go and see what can be done."
"Yes, that's better. Get up, deacon!"
The captain entered the doss-house, and stood at the foot of the bunk
where lay the schoolmaster, stretched out at full length; his left
hand lay on his breast, his right was thrown backwards, as if ready to
strike. The idea crossed the captain's mind that if the schoolmaster
were to get up now, he would be as tall as "Tarass and a half." Then he
sat down on the bunk at the feet of his dead friend, and recalling to
his mind the fact that they had lived together for three long years, he
sighed.
Tiapa entered, holding his head like a goat ready to butt. He placed
himself on the opposite side of the schoolmaster, watching for a time
his sunk, serene, and calm face; then hissed out--
"Sure enough he is dead; it won't be long before I go also."
"It's time you did," said the captain gloomily.
"That's so!" agreed Tiapa. "And you also--you ought to die; it would be
better than living on as you are doing."
"It might be worse. What do you know about it?"
"It can't be any worse. When one dies, one has to deal with God; whilst
here, one has to deal with men. And men, you know what they are."
"That's all right, only stop your grumbling!" said Kouvalda angrily.
And in the half light of early dawn an impressive silence reigned once
more throughout the doss-house.
They sat thus for a long time quietly, at the feet of their dead
companion, occasionally glancing at him, but plunged both of them in
deep thought. At length Tiapa inquired--
"Are you going to bury him?"
"I? No, let the police bury him."
"Ah! now it's you who ought to do it! You took the share of the money
due to him for writing the petition for Vaviloff. If you haven't enough
I'll make it up."
"Yes, I have his money, but I am not going to bury him."
"That doesn't seem right. It's like robbing a dead man. I shall tell
everyone that you mean to stick to his money!"
"You are an old fool!" said Kouvalda disdainfully.
"I'm not such a fool as all that, but it doesn't seem right or
friendly."
"Very well! just leave me alone."
"How much money was there?"
"A twenty-five rouble note," said Kouvalda carelessly.
"Come now! you might give me five out of that."
"What a rogue you are, old man!" scowled the captain, looking blankly
into Tiapa's face.
"Why so? Come now, shell out!"
"Go to the devil! I'll erect a monument to him with the money,"
"What will be the use of that to him?"
"I'll buy a mill-stone and an anchor; I'll put the stone on the tomb,
and I will fasten the anchor to the stone with a chain. That will make
it heavy enough."
"What's that for? Why do you talk such nonsense?"
"That's no business of yours."
"Never mind! I shall tell of you," threatened Tiapa once more.
Aristide Fomitch looked vaguely at him and was silent. And once more
there reigned in the doss-house that solemn and mysterious hush, which
always seems to accompany the presence of death.
"Hark! They are coming," said Tiapa.
And he rose and went out at the door.
Almost at the same moment there appeared the police officer, the
doctor, and the magistrate. All three in turn went up to the body, and
after glancing at it moved away, looking meanwhile at Kouvalda askance
and with suspicion.
He sat, taking no notice of them, until the police officer asked,
nodding towards the schoolmaster's body--
"What did he die of?"
"Ask him yourself. I should say from being unaccustomed"--
"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate.
"I say that, according to my idea, he died from being unaccustomed to
the complaint from which he was suffering."
"H'm! Yes. Had he been ill long?"
"It would be better to bring him over here; one can't see anything in
there," suggested the doctor in a bored voice. "There may be some marks
on him."
"Go and call someone to carry him out!" the police officer ordered
Kouvalda.
"Call them in yourself. I don't mind his staying here," retorted the
captain coolly.
"Be off with you," shouted the police officer savagely.
"Easy there!" threw back Kouvalda, not stirring from his place,
speaking with cool insolence and showing his teeth.
"Damn you!" roared the police officer, his face suffused with blood
from suppressed rage. "You shall remember this!"--
"Good-day to you, honourable gentlemen!" said the oily, insinuating
voice of Petounnikoff, as he appeared in the doorway. Scrutinising
rapidly the faces of the bystanders, he suddenly stopped, shuddered,
drew back a step, and taking off his cap, crossed himself devoutly.
Then a vicious smile of triumph spread over his countenance, and
looking hard at the captain, he asked in a respectful tone, "What is
the matter here? No one has been killed, I hope."
"It looks like it," answered the magistrate.
Petounnikoff sighed deeply, crossed himself again, and in a grieved
tone said--
"Merciful heavens! That's what I always feared! Whenever I came here,
I used to look in, and then draw back with fear. Then when I was at
home, such terrible things came into my mind. God preserve us all from
such things! How often I used to wish to refuse shelter any longer to
this gentleman here, the head of this band; but I was always afraid.
You see, they were such a bad lot, that it seemed better to give in
to them, lest something worse should happen." He made a deprecating
movement with one hand, and gathering up his beard with the other,
sighed once more.
"They are a dangerous set, and this gentleman here is a sort of chief
of the gang--quite like a brigand chief."
"Well, we shall take him in hand!" said the police officer in a meaning
tone, looking at the captain with a vindictive expression. "I also know
him well."
"Yes, my fine fellow, we are old pals," agreed Kouvalda in a tone of
familiarity. "How often have I bribed you and the like of you to hold
your tongues?"
"Gentlemen!" said the police officer, "did you hear that? I beg you
will remember those words. I won't forgive that. That's how it is,
then? Well, you shan't forget me! I'll give you something, my friend,
to remember me by."
"Don't holloa till you are out of the wood, my dear friend," said
Aristide Fomitch coolly. The doctor, a young man in spectacles, looked
at him inquiringly; the magistrate with an attention that boded no
good; Petounnikoff with a look of triumph; whilst the police officer
shouted and gesticulated threateningly.
At the door of the doss-house appeared the dark figure of Martianoff;
he came up quietly and stood behind Petounnikoff, so that his chin
appeared just above the merchant's head. The old deacon peeped from
behind Martianoff, opening wide his small, swollen red eyes.
"Well, something must be done," suggested the doctor.
Martianoff made a frightful grimace, and suddenly sneezed straight on
to the head of Petounnikoff. The latter yelled, doubled up his body,
and sprang on one side, nearly knocking the police officer off his
feet, and falling into his arms.
"There, you see now!" said the merchant, trembling and pointing at
Martianoff. "You see now what sort of people they are, don't you?"
Kouvalda was shaking with laughter, in which the doctor and the
magistrate joined; whilst round the door of the doss-house clustered
every moment more and more figures. Drowsy, dissipated faces, with red,
inflamed eyes, and dishevelled hair, stood unceremoniously surveying
the doctor, the magistrate, and the police officer.
"Where are you shoving to?" said a constable who had accompanied the
police officer, pulling at their rags, and pushing them away from the
door.
But he was one against many; and they, paying no heed to him,
continued to press forward in threatening silence, their breath
heavy with sour vodka. Kouvalda glanced first at them and then at
the officials, who began to show signs of uneasiness in the midst of
this overwhelmingly numerous society of undesirables, and sneeringly
remarked to the officials--
"Perhaps, gentlemen, you would like me to introduce you formally to my
lodgers and my friends. Say so if you wish it, for sooner or later, in
the exercise of your duties, you will have to make their acquaintance."
The doctor laughed with an embarrassed air; the magistrate closed his
lips firmly; and the police officer was the only one who showed himself
equal to the emergency; he shouted into the yard--
"Sideroff, blow your whistle, and when they come, tell them to bring a
cart."
"Well, I'm off," said Petounnikoff, appearing from some remote corner.
"You'll be kind enough, sirs, to clear out my little shed to-day.
I want to have it pulled down. I beg you to make the necessary
arrangements; if not, I shall have to apply to the authorities."
In the yard the policeman's whistle was sounding shrilly; and round the
doss-house door stood the compact crowd of its occupants, yawning and
scratching themselves.
"So you don't want to make their acquaintance; that's not quite
polite," said Aristide Kouvalda, laughing.
Petounnikoff drew his purse from his pocket, fumbled with it for a few
minutes, finally pulling out ten kopecks; he crossed himself and placed
them at the feet of the dead man.
"God rest his soul! Let this go towards burying the sinful ashes."
"How!" roared the captain. "You! you! giving towards the burial? Take
it back; take it back, I command you, you rogue! How dare you give your
dishonest gains towards the burial of an honest man! I'll smash every
bone in your body!"
"Sir!" exclaimed the alarmed shopkeeper, seizing the police officer
imploringly by the elbow.
The doctor and the magistrate hurried outside, while the police officer
shouted again loudly, "Sideroff! Come inside here!"
The outcasts formed a barrier round the door of the doss-house,
watching and listening to the scene with an intense interest which
lighted up their haggard faces.
Kouvalda, shaking his fist over Petounnikoff's head, roared wildly,
rolling his bloodshot eyes--
"Rogue and thief! take the coppers back! you vile creature; take them
back, I tell you, or I'll smash them into your eyes! Take them back!"
Petounnikoff stretched out one trembling hand towards his little
offering, whilst shielding himself with the other against Kouvalda's
threatening fist, and said--
"Bear witness, you, sir, the police officer, and you, my good people."
"We are not good people, you damned old shopkeeper!" was heard in the
creaking tones of "Scraps."
The police officer, distending his face like a bladder, was whistling
wildly, whilst defending Petounnikoff, who was writhing and twisting
about in front of him, as if wishing to get inside the officer for
protection.
"You vile thing! I'll make you kiss the feet of this dead body if you
don't mind! Come here with you!"
And seizing Petounnikoff by the collar, Kouvalda flung him out of the
door, as he would have done a kitten.
The outcasts moved on one side to make room for the merchant to fall;
and he pitched forward, frightened and yelling at their feet.
"They are killing me! Murder! They have killed me!"
Martianoff slowly lifted his foot, and took aim at the head of the
shopkeeper; "Scraps," with an expression of extreme delight, spat full
into the face of Petounnikoff. The merchant raised himself on to his
hands and knees, and half rolled, half dragged himself farther out into
the yard, followed by peals of laughter. At this moment two constables
arrived in the yard, and the police officer, pointing to Kouvalda,
exclaimed in a voice of triumph--
"Arrest him! Tie him up!"
"Yes, tie him up tightly, my dears!" implored Petounnikoff.
"I defy you to touch me! I'm not going to run away! I'll go wherever I
have to go," said Kouvalda, defending himself against the constables,
who approached him.
The outcasts dropped off one by one. The cart rolled into the yard. One
or two ragged strangers, who had been called in, were already dragging
the schoolmaster's body out of the doss-house.
"You shall catch it! just wait a bit!" said the police officer
threateningly to Kouvalda.
"Well, captain, how goes it now?" jeered Petounnikoff, maliciously
pleased and happy at the sight of his foe's hands being tied. "Well,
you are caught now; only wait, and you will get something warmer by and
by!"
But Kouvalda was silent; he stood between the two constables, terrible
and erect, and was watching the schoolmaster's body being hoisted into
the cart. The man who was holding the corpse under the arms, being
too short for the job, could not get the schoolmaster's head into the
cart at the same moment as his legs were thrown in. Thus, for a second
it appeared as if the schoolmaster were trying to throw himself head
foremost out of the cart, and hide himself in the ground, away from all
these cruel and stupid people, who had never given him any rest.
"Take him away!" ordered the police officer, pointing to the captain.
Kouvalda, without a word of protest, walked silent and scowling from
the yard, and, passing by the schoolmaster, bent his head towards the
body, without looking at it. Martianoff followed him, his face set like
a stone.
Petounnikoff's yard emptied rapidly.
"Gee-up!" cried the driver, shaking the reins on the horse's back.
The cart moved off, jolting along the uneven surface of the yard.
The schoolmaster's body, covered with some scanty rags, and lying
face upwards, shook and tumbled about with the jolting of the cart He
seemed to be quietly and peacefully smiling, as if pleased with the
thought that he was leaving the doss-house, never to return--never any
more. Petounnikoff, following the cart with his eyes, crossed himself
devoutly, and then began carefully dusting his clothes with his cap to
get rid of the rubbish that had stuck to them. Gradually, as the dust
disappeared from his coat, a serene expression of contentment and of
self-reliance spread over his face. Looking up the hill, as he stood in
the yard, he could see Captain Aristide Fomitch Kouvalda, with hands
tied behind his back, tall and grey, wearing a cap with an old red
band like a streak of blood round it, being led away towards the town.
Petounnikoff smiled with a smile of triumph, and turned towards the
doss-house, but suddenly stopped, shuddering. In the doorway facing him
stood a terrible old man, horrible to look at in the rags which covered
his long body, with a stick in his hand, and a large sack on his back,
stooping under the weight of his burden, and bending his head forward
on his chest as if he were about to rush forward at the merchant.
"What do you want?" cried Petounnikoff. "Who are you?"
"A man," hissed a muffled, hoarse voice.
This hoarse, hissing sound pleased Petounnikoff, and reassured him.
"A man!" he exclaimed. "Was there ever a man who looked like you?"
And moving on one side, he made way for the old man, who walked
straight towards him, muttering gloomily--
"There are men of all sorts. That's just as God wills. Some are worse
than I am, that's all--much worse than I am."
The threatening sky looked down quietly at the dirty yard, and the trim
little old man with the sharp grey beard, who walked about measuring
and calculating with his cunning eyes. On the roof of the old house sat
a crow triumphantly croaking, and swaying backwards and forwards with
outstretched neck.
The grey lowering clouds, with which the whole sky was covered, seemed
fraught with suspense and inexorable design, as if ready to burst and
pour forth torrents of water, to wash away all that soiled this sad,
miserable, tortured earth.
WAITING FOR THE FERRY
As my hooded sleigh jolted across the confines of the wood, and we came
out on to the open road, a broad, dull-hued horizon lay stretched out
before us. Isaiah stood up on the coach-box, and, stretching forward
his neck, exclaimed--
"Devil take it all! it seems to have started already!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes; it looks as if it were moving."
"Drive on, then, as fast as you can, you scoundrel!"
The sturdy little pony, with ears like a donkey and coat like a poodle
dog, jumped forward at the crack of the whip; then stopped short
suddenly, stamping its feet and shaking its head with a sort of injured
look.
"Come! I'll teach you to play tricks!" shouted Isaiah, pulling at the
reins.
The clerk, Isaiah Miakunikoff, was a frightfully ugly man of about
forty years of age. On his left cheek and under his jaw grew a sandy
beard; while on his right cheek there was an immense swelling which
closed up one eye and hung down to his shoulder in a kind of wrinkly
bag. Isaiah was a desperate drunkard, and something of a philosopher
and a satirist. He was taking me to see his brother, who had been a
fellow-teacher with me in a village school, but who now lay dying
of consumption. After five hours' travelling, we had scarcely done
twenty versts, partly because the road was bad, and partly because
our fantastic steed was a cross-grained brute. Isaiah called it every
name he could lay his tongue to--"a clumsy brute," "a mortar," "a
mill-stone," etc.--each of which epithets seemed to express equally
well one or other of the inward or outward characteristics of the
animal. In the same way one comes across at times human beings with
similar complex characters, so that whatever name one applies to them
seems a fitting one. Only the one word "man" seems inapplicable to them.
Above us hung a heavy, grey, clouded sky. Around us stretched enormous
snow-covered fields, dotted with black spaces, showing where the snow
was thawing. In front of us, and three versts ahead, rose the blue
hills of the mountain range through which flowed the Volga. The distant
hills looked low under the leaden, lowering sky, which seemed to crush
and weigh them down. The river itself was hidden from our sight by a
hedge of thick tangled bushes. A south wind was blowing, covering the
surfaces of the little pools with quivering ripples; the air seemed
full of a dull, heavy moisture; the water splashed under the horse's
feet. A spirit of sadness seemed diffused over everything visible,
as if Nature were wearied with waiting for the bright sun of spring,
and as if she were dissatisfied with the long absence of the warm
sun-rays, without which she was melancholy and depressed.