VI

_An Uneasy Night_

Auntie had a doggy dream that a porter ran after her with a broom,

and she woke up in a fright.

It was quite dark and very stuffy in the room. The fleas were biting.

Auntie had never been afraid of darkness before, but now, for some

reason, she felt frightened and inclined to bark.

Her master heaved a loud sigh in the next room, then soon afterwards

the sow grunted in her sty, and then all was still again. When one

thinks about eating one's heart grows lighter, and Auntie began

thinking how that day she had stolen the leg of a chicken from

Fyodor Timofeyitch, and had hidden it in the drawing-room, between

the cupboard and the wall, where there were a great many spiders'

webs and a great deal of dust. Would it not be as well to go now

and look whether the chicken leg were still there or not? It was

very possible that her master had found it and eaten it. But she

must not go out of the room before morning, that was the rule.

Auntie shut her eyes to go to sleep as quickly as possible, for she

knew by experience that the sooner you go to sleep the sooner the

morning comes. But all at once there was a strange scream not far

from her which made her start and jump up on all four legs. It was

Ivan Ivanitch, and his cry was not babbling and persuasive as usual,

but a wild, shrill, unnatural scream like the squeak of a door

opening. Unable to distinguish anything in the darkness, and not

understanding what was wrong, Auntie felt still more frightened and

growled: "R-r-r-r. . . ."

Some time passed, as long as it takes to eat a good bone; the scream

was not repeated. Little by little Auntie's uneasiness passed off

and she began to doze. She dreamed of two big black dogs with tufts

of last year's coat left on their haunches and sides; they were

eating out of a big basin some swill, from which there came a white

steam and a most appetising smell; from time to time they looked

round at Auntie, showed their teeth and growled: "We are not going

to give you any!" But a peasant in a fur-coat ran out of the house

and drove them away with a whip; then Auntie went up to the basin

and began eating, but as soon as the peasant went out of the gate,

the two black dogs rushed at her growling, and all at once there

was again a shrill scream.

"K-gee! K-gee-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch.

Auntie woke, jumped up and, without leaving her mattress, went off

into a yelping bark. It seemed to her that it was not Ivan Ivanitch

that was screaming but someone else, and for some reason the sow

again grunted in her sty.

Then there was the sound of shuffling slippers, and the master came

into the room in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. The

flickering light danced over the dirty wall-paper and the ceiling,

and chased away the darkness. Auntie saw that there was no stranger

in the room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting on the floor and was not

asleep. His wings were spread out and his beak was open, and

altogether he looked as though he were very tired and thirsty. Old

Fyodor Timofeyitch was not asleep either. He, too, must have been

awakened by the scream.

"Ivan Ivanitch, what's the matter with you?" the master asked the

gander. "Why are you screaming? Are you ill?"

The gander did not answer. The master touched him on the neck,

stroked his back, and said: "You are a queer chap. You don't sleep

yourself, and you don't let other people. . . ."

When the master went out, carrying the candle with him, there was

darkness again. Auntie felt frightened. The gander did not scream,

but again she fancied that there was some stranger in the room.

What was most dreadful was that this stranger could not be bitten,

as he was unseen and had no shape. And for some reason she thought

that something very bad would certainly happen that night. Fyodor

Timofeyitch was uneasy too.

Auntie could hear him shifting on his mattress, yawning and shaking

his head.

Somewhere in the street there was a knocking at a gate and the sow

grunted in her sty. Auntie began to whine, stretched out her

front-paws and laid her head down upon them. She fancied that in

the knocking at the gate, in the grunting of the sow, who was for

some reason awake, in the darkness and the stillness, there was

something as miserable and dreadful as in Ivan Ivanitch's scream.

Everything was in agitation and anxiety, but why? Who was the

stranger who could not be seen? Then two dim flashes of green gleamed

for a minute near Auntie. It was Fyodor Timofeyitch, for the first

time of their whole acquaintance coming up to her. What did he want?

Auntie licked his paw, and not asking why he had come, howled softly

and on various notes.

"K-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch, "K-g-ee!"

The door opened again and the master came in with a candle.

The gander was sitting in the same attitude as before, with his

beak open, and his wings spread out, his eyes were closed.

"Ivan Ivanitch!" his master called him.

The gander did not stir. His master sat down before him on the

floor, looked at him in silence for a minute, and said:

"Ivan Ivanitch, what is it? Are you dying? Oh, I remember now, I

remember!" he cried out, and clutched at his head. "I know why it

is! It's because the horse stepped on you to-day! My God! My God!"

Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but she saw

from his face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful. She

stretched out her head towards the dark window, where it seemed to

her some stranger was looking in, and howled.

"He is dying, Auntie!" said her master, and wrung his hands. "Yes,

yes, he is dying! Death has come into your room. What are we to

do?"

Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing and

shaking his head. Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, and

followed her master into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and

repeated several times: "My God, what's to be done?"

Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why she

was wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand,

watched every movement he made. Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely left

his little mattress, came into the master's bedroom too, and began

rubbing himself against his feet. He shook his head as though he

wanted to shake painful thoughts out of it, and kept peeping

suspiciously under the bed.

The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-stand

into it, and went to the gander again.

"Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!" he said tenderly, setting the saucer before

him; "drink, darling."

But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes. His master

bent his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water,

but the gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever,

and his head remained lying in the saucer.

"No, there's nothing to be done now," sighed his master. "It's all

over. Ivan Ivanitch is gone!"

And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when it

rains, trickled down his cheeks. Not understanding what was the

matter, Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and looked

with horror at the gander.

"Poor Ivan Ivanitch!" said the master, sighing mournfully. "And I

was dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, and

would walk with you on the green grass. Dear creature, my good

comrade, you are no more! How shall I do without you now?"

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, that

is, that she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes,

stretch out her paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look at

her with horror. Apparently the same reflections were passing through

the brain of Fyodor Timofeyitch. Never before had the old cat been

so morose and gloomy.

It began to get light, and the unseen stranger who had so frightened

Auntie was no longer in the room. When it was quite daylight, the

porter came in, took the gander, and carried him away. And soon

afterwards the old woman came in and took away the trough.

Auntie went into the drawing-room and looked behind the cupboard:

her master had not eaten the chicken bone, it was lying in its place

among the dust and spiders' webs. But Auntie felt sad and dreary

and wanted to cry. She did not even sniff at the bone, but went

under the sofa, sat down there, and began softly whining in a thin

voice.