They rambled about the stable with a lantern, illuminating the
coagulated manure, the straw scattered all about, the mangers, the
posts; casting immense shadows, waking up the fowls on the roosts
under the sloping roofs. The chickens flew down, tumbled down, and,
with heads ducked forward, fell asleep as they ran, fleeing as chance
directed. The large purplish eyes of the horses, which turned their
heads toward the light, gleamed and looked strange and splendid. A
mist rose from their breath, as if all of them were smoking. And when
Tikhon Ilitch lowered the lantern and glanced upward, he beheld with
joy, above the square farmyard in the deep, pure sky, the brilliant
vari-coloured stars. The north wind could be heard crackling drily over
the roofs and whistling through the crevices with a frosty chill. Thank
the Lord, winter was come!
Having completed his task and ordered the samovar, Tikhon Ilitch went
with his lantern into the cold shop, reeking with smells, and picked
out the best pickled herring he could find. That was all right, not a
bad idea: to cheer oneself up a bit before tea! And at tea he ate it,
drank several small glasses of bitter-sweet, yellowish-red liqueur made
of mountain-ash berries, poured himself out a brimming cup of tea,
and drew towards him his large old counting-frame. But, after some
reflection, he hunted out Deniska’s letter and set himself to the task
of deciphering its scrawl.
“Denya reseved 40 rubles in munny, and than kolected his thinges....”
(“Forty!” said Tikhon Ilitch to himself. “Akh, the poor beggar!”)
“Denya wint to Tula station and hee wos enstantly robbt they tuk
Evrything to the last kopak hee had nowere to gow and sadness Sezed
heem....”
This absurd scrawl was difficult and tiresome to decipher, but the
evening was long, and he had nothing else to do. The samovar purred
busily, the lamp shone with a quiet light--and there was sadness in
the tranquillity and repose of the evening. The watchman’s mallet was
working away as he made his rounds noisily, beating out a dance-tune
upon the frosty air.
“Aftr thot I hainkrd to goa hoam thoa fader wo vairy brutl....”
“Well, and there’s a fool for you, Lord forgive me!” thought Tikhon
Ilitch. “The Grey Man brutal, forsooth!”
“I wint Into the tik foarest to peck out the talest fur-tre and taik
a cord frum a shuger-loof and fixe myselff in iternl laife in my nu
briches but witaut boots....”
(“Without his boots, he means, I suppose?” said Tikhon Ilitch, holding
the paper at a distance from his tired eyes. “Yes, that’s right; that’s
what he means.”)
“Eftrwords come strung wind blu clauds and thunr-strum and a kwik bige
litul rayne poared the son kam frum behain foarest the coard bend
bend and asuden brooke and Denya fall on the grond the ents krall and
bigin to bite and wurk on hem and thair crold alzo a snaek and a green
krawfish....”
Tossing the letter into the slop-bowl, Tikhon Ilitch sipped his tea,
planted his elbows on the table, and stared at the lamp. What a queer
nation! A soul of many hues! Now a man is just a plain dog, then again
he is melancholy, pities himself, turns soft, weeps over himself--after
the fashion of Deniska, or of himself, Tikhon Ilitch. The window-panes
were perspiring vigorously and clearly, as they do in winter; the
watchman’s mallet said something melodiously coherent. Ekh, if he only
had children! If--well, if he only had a nice mistress instead of that
bloated old woman, who made his flesh crawl merely by what she said; by
her words about the Princess, and about some pious nun or other named
Polikarpia, who was called in the town “Polukarpia.”[12] But it was
too late, too late.
Unfastening the embroidered collar of his shirt, Tikhon Ilitch, with a
bitter smile, felt of his throat behind the ears. Those hollows were
the first sign of old age; his head was assuming the shape of a horse’s
head! But otherwise things were not so bad. He bent his head, thrust
his fingers into his beard. And his beard was grey, dry, dishevelled.
Yes, enough--enough, Tikhon Ilitch!
He drank, grew intoxicated, set his jaws more and more tightly, stared
more intently than ever at the wick of the lamp, burning with an even
flame. Think of it! You couldn’t go to see your own brother--the pigs
prevented, like the swine they were! And if they would let him, there
would still be small cause for joy. Kuzma would read him a lecture, the
Bride would stand with lips pressed tight and drooping eyelashes. Why,
those lowered eyelids alone were enough to make a man take to his heels!
His heart sank within him, ached; a pleasing mist clouded his brain.
Where had he heard that song?--
“My tiresome evening’s come;
I know not what to do.
My friend belov’d is come,
He fondles me, loves me true.”
Ah, yes, it was in Lebedyan, at the posting station. The young girls,
lace-makers, were sitting on a winter evening and singing. There they
sat, weaving their lace and never raising their eyelashes; they sang in
deep, ringing voices:
“He kisses me, embraces me,
Then takes his leave of me....”
His brain was clouded. Now it seemed as if everything lay ahead of
him--joy, liberty, freedom from care--then his heart began to ache
painfully, hopelessly. Now he said: “If I only had a bit of money in
my pocket, I could buy anything--even an aunt--at the market!” Again
he cast a vicious glance at the lamp, and muttered, alluding to his
brother: “Teacher! Preacher! Pitiful Philaret![13] Ragged devil!”
He drank the rest of the mountain-ash-berry cordial and smoked until
the room grew dark. With uncertain steps he went out, across the
shaking uneven floor, clad only in his roundabout, into the dark
ante-room. He was sensible of the piercing coldness of the air, the
smell of straw, the odour of dogs, and he perceived two greenish lights
blinking on the threshold. “Buyan!” he shouted. And he kicked Buyan
over the head with all his might.
Then he listened to the watchman’s mallet, keeping time to it with his
feet. He spat on the steps of the porch, mentally accompanying the
action with:
“Come straight to me,
Look straight at me.”
And as he set off in the direction of the highway he shouted: “Blow on a
squirrel’s tail--it will be all the more downy for it!”
A death-like silence lay over the earth, which showed softly black in
the starlight. The highway shone faintly white as it faded out in the
gloom. Far away, as if emanating from beneath the surface of the earth,
a rumbling sound became audible and grew louder from moment to moment.
And suddenly the orchestra came to the surface with its droning: in the
distance, cutting across the highway, its chain of windows lighted by
electricity, gleaming whitely, trailing smoke-wreaths as a flying witch
trails her tresses, redly illuminated from below, the express train
dashed past.
“It’s passing Durnovka!” said Tikhon Ilitch, with a hiccough. “Passing
the Grey Man! Akh, the robbers, curse them--”
The drowsy cook entered the living-room, which was dimly lighted by
the burned-out lamp and stank of tobacco. She was bringing in a greasy
little kettle of sour cabbage soup, which she held in rags black with
dirt and soot. Tikhon Ilitch cast a sidelong glance at her and said:
“Get out of here, this very minute.”
The cook wheeled round, pushed open the door with her foot, and
disappeared. Then he picked up Gatzuk’s calendar, dipped a rusty pen
into the rusty ink, and began, with set teeth and leaden eyes staring
fixedly, to write endlessly on the calendar, up and down and across:
“Gatzuk, Gatzuk, Gatzuk, Gatzuk ...”