KONOVÁLOFF

As I carelessly ran my eye over the newspaper, it fell upon the name of

Konováloff, and as it arrested my attention, I read the following:

"Last night, Alexánder Ivánovitch Konováloff, petty burgher of the town

of Muróm, aged forty, hanged himself to the ventilator of the stove

in the general ward of the local prison. The suicide was arrested in

Pskóff, for vagrancy, and was forwarded by stages, under police escort,

to his native place. The prison authorities state that he was always

a quiet, reticent, thoughtful man. The prison doctor decided that

melancholia must be regarded as the cause which incited Konováloff to

suicide." I read this brief announcement in brevier type--it is the

custom to print notes about the destruction of insignificant people

in small type--I read it through, and reflected that I might be able

to throw a somewhat clearer light upon the cause which had led that

meditative man to go out of life, because I had known him, and, at one

time, had lived with him. Indeed, I had not even the right to remain

silent concerning him:--he was a splendid young fellow, and such as he

are not often met with on life's highway. I was eighteen years old when

I first met Konováloff. At that time, I was working in a bakery, as

assistant baker. The baker was a soldier from "the musical division,"

a terrible vódka-drinker, who frequently spoiled the dough, and when

he was drunk, was fond of playing tunes on his lips, and strumming out

various pieces with his fingers on anything that came handy. When the

proprietor of the bakery reprimanded him for having spoiled his wares,

or for being behindhand with them in the morning, he flew into a rage,

and cursed the proprietor, cursed him mercilessly, always calling his

attention, at the same time, to his musical talent.

"The dough has stood too long!"--he shouted, bristling up his long red

mustache, and making a noise with his thick lips, which were always

moist, for some reason or other.--"The crust is burned! The bread is

raw! Akh, the devil take you, you cock-eyed spectre! Was I born into

the world to do this work? Curse you and your work--I'm a musician!

Do you understand? If the viola-player got drunk, I used to play the

viola: if the hautboy man was under arrest, I blew the hautboy; if the

cornet-à-piston has fallen ill, who can take his place? Sutchkóff, I!

Glad to do my best, your Well-Born![1] Tim-tar-ram-ta-ddi! But you're a

p-peasant, _katzáp!_[2] Pay me my wages and discharge me!"

[1] The regulation reply of the soldier to an officer's greeting or

request--Translator.

[2] A nickname used by Little Russians for Great Russians--meaning,

in general "a soldier";--as the Great Russians call Little Russian

_Khokhól_ or "top-knot"--Translator.

And the proprietor, a corpulent, bloated man, with small squinting eyes

which were buried in fat, and a feminine face, stamped about the floor

with his short, fat legs, his huge body swaying heavily the while, and

roared, in a squealing voice:

"Ruiner! Destroyer! Christ-seller of a Judas! Oh Lord, why hast Thou

chastised me with such a man!" Spreading his short fingers wide apart,

he raised his hands to heaven, and all of a sudden roared loudly, in

an ear-splitting voice:--

"And what if I hand you over to the police for your mutiny?"

"Hand the servitor of the Tzar and the Fatherland over to the police?"

bellowed the soldier, and started to administer a drubbing to the

proprietor. The latter beat a retreat, spitting to one side in disgust,

snorting wrathfully and cursing. This was all that he could do--it was

summer, a season when it is extremely difficult to find a good baker in

the Vólga river-town.

Such scenes were of almost every day occurrence. The soldier drank,

spoiled the dough and played various marches and waltzes or "numbers,"

as he expressed it; the proprietor gnashed his teeth, and the result

of it all was, that I was obliged to work for two, which was not very

logical, and was very fatiguing.

And I was highly delighted when, one day, the following scene took

place between the proprietor and the soldier. "Well, soldier," said

the proprietor, making his appearance in the bakery with a beaming and

satisfied countenance, and his little eyes sparkled with a malicious

smile,--"well, soldier, puff out your lips, and play the campaign

march!"

"What's that for?!" gloomily said the soldier, who was lying on the tub

with the dough, and, as usual, was half drunk.

"Prepare to march, corporal!" said the proprietor exultantly.

"Whither?" inquired the soldier, lowering his legs off the tub, and

feeling that something was wrong.

"Wherever you like--to a Turkish woman or an English woman, as you

please."

"How am I to understand that?" shouted the soldier vehemently.

"You are to understand that I won't keep you another hour. Go upstairs,

get your wages, and take yourself off--march!"

The soldier had become accustomed to feel his strength, and the

helpless position of his master, and the latter's announcement somewhat

sobered him: he could not help understanding how difficult it would be

for him, with his knowledge of the trade, to find another place.

"Come now, you're lying!..." he said with alarm, rising to his feet.

"Get out with you,--get out...."

"Get out?"

"Clear out!"

"That means, I have worked myself out," and the soldier shook his head

sadly.... "You have sucked the blood out of me, sucked me dry, and now

you turn me out. That's clever! That's good! Akh, you ... spider!"

"I'm a spider, am I?" boiled up the proprietor.

"Yes, you are! A blood-sucking spider--that's what you are!" said the

soldier with conviction, and walked, reeling, toward the door.

The proprietor looked after him with a spiteful laugh, and his little

eyes glittered joyfully.

"Go along with you, now, and get a place with somebody! Ye-es! I've

given you such a character everywhere, my dear little dove, that

you may beg as you will--no one will take you! They won't hire you

anywhere.... I've settled your hash for you, you rotten-headed;,

stupid, infernal creature!"

"Have you already hired a new baker?" I inquired.

"A new one? No, he isn't new--he's the old one. He was my friend.

Ah, what a baker! Regular gold! But he's a drunkard also, eh, what a

drunkard! Only, he has long fits of hard drinking.... Now he'll come,

and set to work, and for three or four months he'll strain every sinew

and toil away like a bear! He'll know no sleep, no rest, and won't

stick at the wages, no matter what you give him. He'll work and sing!

He sings so, my dear fellow, that it's even impossible to listen to

him--your heart grows heavy with it. He sings, and sings--and then he

takes to drink again!"

The proprietor sighed, and waved his hand with a hopeless gesture.

"And when he starts in to drink--there's no stopping him. He drinks

until he falls ill, or has drunk himself stark naked.... Then he feels

ashamed of himself, probably, for he vanishes somewhere, like an

unclean spirit at the smell of incense.... And here he is.... Have you

really come, Lesá?"

"Yes," replied a deep, chest voice from the threshold. There, with

his shoulder propped against the jamb of the door, stood a tall,

broad-shouldered peasant, about thirty years of age. In costume, he was

a typical tramp; in face and figure, a genuine Slav--a rare specimen of

the race. He wore a red cotton shirt, incredibly dirty and tattered,

full trousers of coarse, home-made linen, and on one of his feet were

the remains of a rubber boot, while on the other was an old leather

boot-leg. His light, reddish-brown hair was tangled all over his head,

and small chips, straws and bits of paper stuck in the snarls: all

these things also adorned his luxuriant, light-reddish beard, which

covered his chest like a fan. His long, pallid, weary face was lighted

up by large, pensive blue eyes, which gazed at me with a caressing

smile. And his lips which were handsome, although a trifle pale, also

smiled beneath his reddish mustache. This smile seemed to say:

"This is the sort of fellow I am.... Don't condemn me...."

"Come in, Sashók, here's your helper," said the proprietor, rubbing his

hands, and affectionately eyeing over the mighty form of the new baker.

The latter stepped forward silently, and offered me his long hand, with

the powerful wrist of a legendary hero; we exchanged greetings; he

seated himself on the bench, stretched his legs out in front of him,

stared at them, and said to the proprietor:

"Buy me two changes of shirts, Nikola Nikítitch, and boot-slippers.[3]

And some linen for a cap."

[3] Shoes--or slippers--made from boots by cutting off the

legs.--Translator.

"You shall have them all, never fear! I have caps on hand; you shall

have shirts and trousers by this evening. Come now, set to work in the

meantime; I know you, I know what sort of a fellow you are. I don't

mean to insult you--no one can insult Konováloff ... because he never

insults anyone. Is the boss a wild beast? I have worked myself, and I

know how a radish makes the tears flow.... Well, stay here, my lads,

and I'll take myself off...."

We were left alone.

Konováloff sat on the bench and gazed about him with a smile, but

without saying a word. The bakery was located in a cellar, with a

vaulted ceiling, and its three windows were below the level of the

earth. There was not much light, and there was very little air, but,

on the other hand, there was a great deal of dampness, dirt and flour

dust. Along the walls stood long bins: one had dough on it, on another

the dough had just been mixed with yeast, the third was empty. Upon

each bin fell a dull streak of light from one of the windows. The huge

oven took up nearly one third of the bakery; beside it, on the filthy

floor, lay sacks of flour. In the oven long logs of wood were blazing

hotly, and their flame, reflected on the gray wall of the bakery,

surged and quivered, as though it were narrating some story without

sounds. The odor of fermenting dough and of humidity filled the rank

air.

The vaulted, soot-begrimed ceiling oppressed one with its weight, and

the combination of daylight and of the fire in the oven formed a sort

of vague illumination which was very trying to the eyes. Through the

windows, a dull roar poured in, and dust blew in from the street.

Konováloff surveyed everything, sighed, and turning half-way round to

me, inquired in a bored tone:

"Have you been working here long?"

I told him. Then we fell silent again, and inspected each other with

furtive, sidelong glances.

"What a jail!" he sighed.... "Shan't we go out into the street, and sit

at the gate?"

We went out to the gate, and sat down on the bench.

"We can breathe here, at least. I can't get used to this pit all at

once ... no I can't. Judge for yourself--I've just come from the

sea.... I've been working at the fishing stations on the Caspian. And,

all of a sudden, from that airy space--bang! into a hole!"

He looked at me with a melancholy smile, and ceased speaking, staring

intently at the people who passed by in carriages and on foot. In his

clear blue eyes shone much melancholy over something or other....

Twilight descended; it was stifling, noisy, dusty in the street, and

the houses cast shadows across the road. Konováloff sat with his

back resting against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and

his fingers straying through the silky strands of his beard. I gazed

askance at his pallid, oval face, and thought: What sort of a man is

this? But I could not make up my mind to enter into conversation with

him, because he was my master, and also because he inspired me with a

strange sort of respect for him.

His brow was furrowed with three slender wrinkles, but sometimes they

were smoothed out, and disappeared, and I very much wished to know what

the man was thinking about.

"Come along: it must be time to set the third batch of dough to rise.

You mix the second, and, in the meantime, I'll set it, and then we'll

knead out the loaves."

When he and I had "weighed out" and placed in the pans one mountain

of dough, mixed another, and set the leavened dough for a third--we

sat down to drink tea, and then Konováloff, putting his hand into the

breast of his shirt, asked me:

"Do you know how to read? Here then, read this,"--and he thrust into

my hand a small smeared and crumpled sheet of paper.

"Dear Sásha,"[4] I read. "I salute and kiss you from afar. Things are

going badly with me, and life is tiresome, I can hardly wait for the

day when I shall elope with you, or shall live in your company; this

accursed life has bored me to the last degree, although, at first, I

liked it. You will understand that well, and I, also, had begun to

understand it, when I became acquainted with you. Please write to me as

soon as you can; I want very much to receive a little note from you.

And meanwhile, farewell until we meet again, but not good-bye, you

dear bearded friend of my soul. I will not write you any reproaches,

although I'm angry with you, because you are a pig--you went away

without taking leave of me. Nevertheless, you have never been anything

but good to me: you were the first of that sort, and I shall never

forget it. Can't you make an effort, Sásha, to have me excluded? The

girls told you that I would run away from you, if I were excluded; but

that is all nonsense, and a downright lie: If you would only take pity

on me, I would be like a dog to you, after my exclusion. It would be

so easy for you to do that, you know, but it's very difficult for me.

When you were with me, I wept because I was forced to live like that,

although I did not tell you so. Until we meet again. Your Kapitólina."

[4] Lesá and Sashók, as well as Sásha and Sáshka are diminutives of

Alexander.--Translator.

Konováloff took the letter from me, and began thoughtfully to turn it

about between the fingers of one hand, while he twisted his beard with

the other.

"And do you know how to write?"

"Yes."

"And have you ink?"

"Yes."

"Write a letter to her, for Christ's sake, won't you? She must consider

me a rascal, she must be thinking that I have forgotten her.... Write!"

"Very well. This very minute, if you like.... Who is she?"

"A woman of the town...? You can see for your-self--she writes about

her exclusion. That means, that I am to promise the police that I will

marry her, and then they will give her back her passport, and will take

her little book away from her, and from that time forth, she will be

free! Do you catch on?"

Half an hour later a touching epistle to her was ready.

"Come now, read it, and let's see how it has turned out?" begged

Konováloff impatiently.

This is the way it had turned out:

"Kápa! You must not think that I am a scoundrel, and that I have

forgotten you. No, I have not forgotten you, but I have simply been

on a spree, and have drunk up all my money. Now I have hired out in

a place again, and to-morrow I shall get the boss to advance me some

money, and I will send it to Philip, and he will have you excluded.

There will be money enough for your journey. And meanwhile--farewell

until we meet. Your Alexánder."

"Hm...." said Konováloff, scratching his head,--"you ain't much of a

writer. You haven't put any compassion into your letter, nor any tears.

And then, again--I asked you to curse me with all sorts of words, and

you haven't written a bit of that..

"But why should I?"

"So that she may see that I feel ashamed in her presence, that I

understand that I am to blame toward her. And what have you done!

You've written it just exactly as though you were scattering peas! Now,

you mix in some tears!"

I was compelled to mix some tears into the letter, which I managed

to do successfully. Konováloff was satisfied, and laying his hand

on my shoulder, he said cordially:

"There, that's stunning! Thanks! Evidently, you're a good lad ... which

means, that you and I are going to get along well together."