FOOTNOTES:

"But, Gavríla Andréitch,"—remarked Stepán from below:—"he 's deaf, you know—he does n't hear."

All burst out laughing.

"What is to be done?"—retorted Gavríla from the top of the stairs.

"Why, he has a hole in his door,"—replied Stepán;—"so do you wiggle a stick around in it a bit."

Gavríla bent down.

"He has stuffed it up with some sort of coat, that hole."

"But do you poke the coat inward."

At this point another dull bark rang out.

"See there, see there, she 's giving herself away!"—some one remarked in the crowd, and again there was laughter.

Gavríla scratched behind his ear.

"No, brother,"—he went on at last;—"do thou poke the coat through thyself, if thou wishest."

"Why, certainly!"

And Stepán scrambled up, took a stick, thrust the coat inside, and began to wiggle the stick about in the opening, saying: "Come forth, come forth!" He was still wiggling the stick when the door of the little chamber flew suddenly and swiftly open—and the whole train of menialsrolled head over heels down the stairs, Gavríla in the lead. Uncle Tail shut the window.

"Come, come, come, come!"—shouted Gavríla from the courtyard;—"just look out, look out!"

Gerásim stood motionless on the threshold. The crowd assembled at the foot of the staircase. Gerásim stared at all these petty folk in their foreign kaftans from above, with his arms lightly set akimbo; in his scarlet peasant shirt he seemed like a giant in comparison with them. Gavríla advanced a pace.

"See here, brother,"—said he:—"I 'll take none of thy impudence."

And he began to explain to him by signs: "The mistress insists upon having thy dog: hand it over instantly, or 't will be the worse for thee."

Gerásim looked at him, pointed to the dog, made a sign with his hand at his own neck, as though he were drawing up a noose, and cast an inquiring glance at the major-domo.

"Yes, yes,"—replied the latter, nodding his head;—"yes, she insists."

Gerásim dropped his eyes, then suddenly shook himself, again pointed at Mumú, who all this time had been standing by his side, innocently wagging her tail and moving her ears to and fro with curiosity, repeated the sign of strangling over his own neck, and significantly smote himself on the breast, as though declaring that he would take it upon himself to annihilate Mumú.

"But thou wilt deceive,"—waved Gavríla to him in reply.

Gerásim looked at him, laughed disdainfully, smote himself again on the breast, and slammed the door.

All present exchanged glances in silence.

"Well, and what 's the meaning of this?"—began Gavríla.—"He has locked himself in."

"Let him alone, Gavríla Andréitch,"—said Stepán;—"he 'll do it, if he has promised. That 's the sort of fellow he is.... If he once promises a thing, it 's safe. He is n't like us folks in that respect. What is true is true. Yes."

"Yes,"—repeated all, and wagged their heads.—"That 's so. Yes."

Uncle Tail opened the window and said "Yes," also.

"Well, we shall see, I suppose,"—returned Gavríla;—"but the guard is not to be removed, notwithstanding. Hey, there, Eróshka!"—he added, addressing a poor man in a yellow nankeen kazák coat, who was reckoned as the gardener:—"what hast thou to do? Take a stick and sit here, and if anything happens, run for me on the instant."

Eróshka took a stick and sat down on the last step of the staircase. The crowd dispersed, with the exception of a few curious bodies and the small urchins, while Gavríla returned home, andthrough Liubóff Liubímovna gave orders that the mistress should be informed that everything had been done, and that he himself, in order to make quite sure, had sent the postilion for a policeman. The mistress tied a knot in her handkerchief, pouredeau de cologneon it, sniffed at it, wiped her temples, sipped her tea and, being still under the influence of the laurel drops, fell asleep again.

An hour after all this commotion, the door of the tiny den opened and Gerásim made his appearance. He wore a new holiday kaftan; he was leading Mumú by a string. Eróshka drew aside and let him pass. Gerásim directed his way toward the gate. All the small boys who were in the courtyard followed him with their eyes in silence. He did not even turn round; he did not put on his cap until he reached the street. Gavríla despatched after him that same Eróshka, in the capacity of observer. Eróshka, perceiving from afar that he had entered an eating-house in company with his dog, awaited his reappearance.

In the eating-house they knew Gerásim and understood his signs. He ordered cabbage-soup with meat, and seated himself, with his arms resting on the table. Mumú stood beside his chair, calmly gazing at him with her intelligent eyes. Her coat was fairly shining with gloss: it was evident that she had recently been brushed. They brought the cabbage-soup to Gerásim. He crumbled up bread in it, cut the meat up intosmall pieces, and set the plate on the floor. Mumú began to eat with her customary politeness, hardly touching her muzzle to the food; Gerásim stared long at her; two heavy tears rolled suddenly from his eyes; one fell on the dog's sloping forehead, the other into the soup. He covered his face with his hand. Mumú ate half a plateful and retired, licking her chops. Gerásim rose, paid for the soup, and set out, accompanied by the somewhat astounded glance of the waiter. Eróshka, on catching sight of Gerásim, sprang round the corner, and allowing him to pass, again set out on his track.

Gerásim walked on without haste, and did not release Mumú from the cord. On reaching the corner of the street he halted, as though in thought, and suddenly directed his course, with swift strides, straight toward the Crimean Ford. On the way he entered the yard of a house, to which a wing was being built, and brought thence two bricks under his arm. From the Crimean Ford he turned along the bank, advanced to a certain spot, where stood two boats with oars, tied to stakes (he had already noted them previously), and sprang into one of them, in company with Mumú. A lame little old man emerged from behind a hut placed in one corner of a vegetable-garden, and shouted at him. But Gerásim only nodded his head, and set to rowing so vigorously, although against the current, that in aninstant he had darted off to a distance of a hundred fathoms. The old man stood and stood, scratched his back, first with the left hand then with the right, and returned, limping, to his hut.

But Gerásim rowed on and on. And now he had left Moscow behind him. Now, already meadows, fields, groves stretched along the shores, and peasant cottages made their appearance. It smacked of the country. He flung aside the oars, bent his head down to Mumú, who was sitting in front of him on a dry thwart,—the bottom was inundated with water,—and remained motionless, with his mighty hands crossed on her back, while the boat drifted a little backward with the current toward the town. At last Gerásim straightened up hastily, with a sort of painful wrath on his face, wound the rope around the bricks he had taken, arranged a noose, put it on Mumú's neck, lifted her over the river, for the last time gazed at her.... She gazed back at him confidingly and without alarm, waving her little tail slightly. He turned away, shut his eyes, and opened his hands... Gerásim heard nothing, neither the swift whine of the falling Mumú, nor the loud splash of the water; for him the noisiest day was silent and speechless, as not even the quietest night is to us, and when he opened his eyes again, the little waves were hurrying down the river as before; as before they were plashingabout the sides of the boat, and only far astern toward the shore certain broad circles were spreading.

Eróshka, as soon as Gerásim vanished from his sight, returned home and reported what he had seen.

"Well, yes,"—remarked Stepán;—"he will drown her. You may be easy about that. If he has once promised a thing ...."

Throughout the day no one saw Gerásim. He did not dine at home. Evening came; all, except him, assembled for supper.

"What a queer fellow that Gerásim is!"—squealed a fat laundress. "The idea of making such a fuss over a dog!... Really!"

"But Gerásim has been here,"—suddenly exclaimed Stepán, as he scooped up his buckwheat groats with his spoon.

"What? When?"

"Why, a couple of hours ago. Certainly he has! I met him at the gate; he has gone away from here again; he went out of the courtyard. I wanted to ask him about his dog, but he evidently was out of sorts. Well, and he jostled me; it must have been done by accident, he only wanted to get me out of the way; as much as to say: 'Don't bother me!'—but he gave me such a dig in the spine, that óï, óï, óï!"—And Stepán shrugged his shoulders with an involuntary grimace, and rubbed the nape of his neck.—"Yes,"—he added;—"his hand is an apt one, there 's no denying that!"

All laughed at Stepán and, after supper, dispersed to their beds.

And in the meantime, on that same night, on the T*** highway, a giant was marching onward diligently and unremittingly, with a sack on his shoulders, and a long staff in his hands. It was Gerásim. He was hurrying on, without looking behind him, hurrying home, to his own house in the country, to his native place. After drowning poor Mumú, he had hastened to his little den, had briskly put together a few articles of clothing in an old horse-cloth, had tied it up with a knot, slung it across his shoulder, and taken himself off. He had noted well the road when he had been brought to Moscow; the village from which his mistress had taken him lay at most five-and-twenty versts from the highway. He walked along it with a certain invincible hardihood, with despairing, yet joyful firmness. He strode onward, his breast expanded broadly; his eyes were bent eagerly straight ahead. He hastened onward as though his aged mother were waiting for him in his native place, as though she had summoned him to her after long wanderings in foreign lands, among strange peoples... The summer night, which had only just descended, was warm and tranquil; on the one hand, in the direction where the sun had gone down, the rimof the sky was still white, with a crimson gleam from the last reflection of the vanished day,—on the other hand, the blue-grey gloom was rising. Night had come thence. Hundreds of quail were whistling all around, corn-crakes were vying with each other in their calls.... Gerásim could not hear them, he could not hear even the delicate nocturnal rustling of the trees past which he was bearing his mighty feet, but he discerned the familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was exhaled from the dark fields; he felt the breeze wafting to meet him,—the breeze from his native place,—beating on his face, playing with his hair and beard; he beheld in front of him the road homeward, gleaming white, straight as an arrow; he beheld in the sky innumerable stars, which illuminated his path, and like a lion he stepped out powerfully and alertly, so that when the rising sun lighted up with its moistly-crimson rays the gallant fellow who had just been driven to extremities, three-and-thirty versts already lay between him and Moscow....

At the end of two days he was at home in his own little cottage, to the great amazement of the soldier's wife who had removed thither. After praying before the holy pictures, he immediately betook himself to the overseer. The overseer was astounded at first; but the haying was only just beginning. Gerásim, being a capital workman, immediately had a scythe put into his hand—and he went off to mow as of yore, to mow in such fashion that the peasants simply sweated through and through as they watched his swings and strokes....

But in Moscow, on the day following Gerásim's flight, they discovered it. They went into his room, ransacked it, and told Gavríla. The latter came, made an inspection, shrugged his shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had either run away or drowned himself along with his stupid dog. The police were informed, and the matter was reported to the mistress. The mistress flew into a rage, fell to weeping, ordered him to be hunted up at any cost, asserted that she had never ordered the dog to be made away with, and, at last, so berated Gavríla, that the latter did nothing all day but shake his head and add: "Well!" until Uncle Tail brought him to his senses by saying to him: "We-ell!" At last news came from the village of Gerásim's arrival there. The mistress calmed down somewhat; at first she was minded to issue an order demanding his immediate return to Moscow, but afterward she announced that she wanted nothing to do with so ungrateful a man. Moreover, she died herself soon after, and her heirs had other things to think about besides Gerásim; and they dismissed the rest of their mother's serfs on quit-rent.

And Gerásim is living yet, poor, wretched fellow, in his lonely hut; he is healthy and powerful as of yore, and, as of yore, he does the work of four men, and, as of yore, he is staid and dignified. But the neighbours have noticed that ever since his return from Moscow he has entirely ceased to have anything to do with women, he does not even look at them, and he keeps not a single dog on his premises.—"However,"—say the peasants,—"'t is lucky for him that he needs no woman; and as for a dog—what should he do with a dog? you could n't drag a thief into his yard with a noose!" Such is the fame of the dumb man's heroic strength.

FOOTNOTES:[24]June 29 (O. S.)—July 13 (N. S.).—Translator.[25]Formerly all Moscow houses were obliged to get their water in barrels on wheels from the river or from public fountains. Birch-wood is still used for cooking and heating.—Translator.[26]A pud is about thirty-six pounds, English.—Translator.[27]A peculiarly shaped and delicious wheaten roll, which is made particularly well in Moscow.—Translator.[28]St. Petersburg.—Translator.[29]Mínin, the burgher of Nízhni Nóvgorod, and Prince Pozhársky, who led the Russians against the invading Poles in 1612, and expelled them from Russia. Their expulsion was followed by the election to the throne of the first Románoff Tzar, Mikhaíl Feódorovitch.—Translator.[30]These kisses are bestowed on the cheeks, alternately.—Translator.[31]Amy or Charity.—Translator.

[24]June 29 (O. S.)—July 13 (N. S.).—Translator.

[25]Formerly all Moscow houses were obliged to get their water in barrels on wheels from the river or from public fountains. Birch-wood is still used for cooking and heating.—Translator.

[26]A pud is about thirty-six pounds, English.—Translator.

[27]A peculiarly shaped and delicious wheaten roll, which is made particularly well in Moscow.—Translator.

[28]St. Petersburg.—Translator.

[29]Mínin, the burgher of Nízhni Nóvgorod, and Prince Pozhársky, who led the Russians against the invading Poles in 1612, and expelled them from Russia. Their expulsion was followed by the election to the throne of the first Románoff Tzar, Mikhaíl Feódorovitch.—Translator.

[30]These kisses are bestowed on the cheeks, alternately.—Translator.

[31]Amy or Charity.—Translator.

On the great B*** highway, almost equidistant from the two county towns through which it passes, there was still standing, not long since, a spacious inn, very well known to drivers of tróïka-teams, to freight-sledge peasants, to merchants' clerks, to traders of the petty-burgher class, and, in general, to all the numerous and varied travellers, who at all seasons of the year roll along our roads. Everybody used to drop in at this inn; except only some landed proprietor's carriage, drawn by six home-bred horses, would glide solemnly past, which, however, did not prevent the coachman and the lackey on the foot-board from looking with particular feeling and attention at the porch but too familiar to them; or some very poor fellow, in a rickety cart, with fifteen kopéks in the purse stuffed into his bosom, on coming to the fine inn, would urge on his weak nag, hastening to his night's lodging in the suburb on the great highway, to the house of the peasant-host, where you will find nothing except hay and bread, but, on the other hand, will not be obliged to pay a kopék too much.

In addition to its advantageous situation, theinn of which we have just spoken possessed many attractions: capital water in two deep wells with creaking wheels and iron buckets on chains; a spacious stable-yard with plenty of board sheds on stout pillars; an abundant supply of good oats in the cellar; a warm house, with a huge Russian stove, into which, as upon the shoulders of an epic hero, long logs were thrust; two fairly-clean little chambers with reddish-lilac paper on the walls somewhat tattered at the bottom, with a painted wooden divan, chairs to match, and two pots of geranium in the windows, which, however, were never washed and were dim with the dust of many years. This inn offered other comforts:—the blacksmith's shop was near at hand, and the mill was situated almost alongside of it; in conclusion, good food was to be had in it, thanks to the fat and rosy-cheeked peasant-woman who was the cook, and who prepared the viands in a savoury manner and with plenty of fat, and was not stingy of her stores; the nearest dram-shop was only half a verst distant; the landlord kept snuff, which, although mixed with ashes, was extremely heady, and tickled the nose agreeably: in a word, there were many reasons why guests of every sort were not lacking in that inn. Travellers had taken a fancy to it—that is the principal thing; without that, as is well known, no business will thrive; and it was liked most of all because, as people said in the countryside, the landlord himself was very lucky and succeeded in all his enterprises, although he little deserved his luck, and it was evident that if a man is destined to be lucky he will be.

This landlord was a petty burgher, Naúm Ivánoff by name. He was of medium stature, thick-set, stooping and broad-shouldered; he had a large, round head, hair which was wavy and already grizzled, although in appearance he was not over forty years of age; a plump and rosy face, a low, but white and smooth brow, and small, bright blue eyes, with which he gazed forth very strangely—askance, and, at the same time, insolently, which is a combination rarely encountered. He always held his head in a drooping position, and turned it with difficulty, perhaps because his neck was very short; he walked briskly and did not swing his arms, but opened his clenched fists as he walked. When he smiled,—and he smiled frequently, but without laughter, as though to himself,—his large lips moved apart in an unpleasant way, and displayed a row of compact and dazzling teeth. He spoke abruptly, and with a certain surly sound in his voice. He shaved off his beard, but did not adopt the foreign dress. His garments consisted of a long, extremely-threadbare kaftan, ample bag-trousers, and shoes worn on the bare feet. He often absented himself from home on business,—and he had a great deal of business: he was a jobber ofhorses, he hired land, he raised vegetables for the market, he purchased gardens, and in general occupied himself with various commercial speculations,—but his absences never lasted long; like the hawk, to whom in particular, especially as to the expression of his eyes, he bore a strong resemblance, he kept returning to his nest. He understood how to keep that nest in order; he kept track of everything, he heard everything, and gave orders about everything; he dealt out, he served out, and calculated everything himself, and while he did not reduce his price a kopék to any one, yet he did not overcharge.

The lodgers did not enter into conversation with him, and he himself was not fond of wasting words without cause. "I need your money, and you need my victuals," he was wont to explain, as though he were tearing off each separate word: "you and I have n't got to stand godparents to a child and become cronies; the traveller has eaten, I have fed him his fill, let him not outstay his welcome. And if he is sleepy, then let him sleep, not chatter." He kept sturdy and healthy, but tame and submissive labourers; they were extremely afraid of him. He never took a drop of intoxicating liquor into his mouth, but he gave each of them ten kopéks for vodka on festival days; on other days they did not dare to drink. People like Naúm speedily grow rich;.... but Naúm Ivánoff had not reached the brilliant condition in which he found himself—and he was reckoned to be worth forty or fifty thousand rubles—by straightforward ways....

Twenty years previous to the date at which we have set the beginning of our story, an inn existed on that same site upon the highway. Truth to tell, it had not that dark-red plank roof which imparted to Naúm Ivánoff's house the aspect of a nobleman's manor-house; and it was poorer in its construction, and the sheds in the stable-yard were thatched, and the walls were made of wattled boughs instead of boards; neither was it distinguished by a triangular Greek pediment on turned columns; but it was a very decent sort of inn, nevertheless,—spacious, solid, and warm,—and travellers gladly frequented it. Its landlord at that time was not Naúm Ivánoff, but a certain Akím Semyónoff, the serf of a neighbouring landed proprietress, Lizavéta Prókhorovna Kuntze—the widow of a staff-officer. This Akím was an intelligent peasant, with good business capacity, who, having started with two wretched little nags as a carrier, in his youth, returned a year later with three good horses, and from that time forth spent the greater part of his life in roaming along the highways, visited Kazán and Odessa, Orenbúrg and Warsaw, and went abroad to "Lipetzk,"[32]and travelled toward the last with two tróïkas of huge and powerful stallions harnessed to two enormous carts. Whether it was that he became bored by this homeless, roving life, or whether he was seized with the desire to set up a family (in one of his absences his wife had died; the children which he had had died also), at all events he decided, at last, to abandon his former avocation and set up an inn.

With the permission of his mistress, he established himself on the highway, purchased in her name half adesyatína[33]of land, and erected thereon an inn. The venture proved a success. He had more than enough money for the installation; the experience which he had acquired in his prolonged wanderings to all parts of Russia was of the greatest advantage to him: he knew how to please travellers, especially men of his own former calling,—three-horse-team carriers,—with many of whom he was personally acquainted, and whose patronage is particularly valued by the tavern-keepers: so much do these people eat and consume for themselves and their robust horses. Akím's inn became known for hundreds of versts round about.... People were even fonder of patronising him than they were of patronising Naúm, who afterward succeeded him, although Akím was far from being comparable to Naúm in his knowledge of the landlord's business.

Akím had everything established on the old-fashioned footing,—warm but not quite clean; and it sometimes happened that his oats turned out to be light, or damp, and the food also was prepared in rather indifferent fashion; such victuals were sometimes served on his table as had been better left in the oven for good, and that not because he was stingy with material, but just because it happened so—his wife had not looked after things. On the other hand, he was ready to deduct from the price, and he would even not refuse to give credit. In a word, he was a good man and an amiable landlord. He was liberal also with his conversation and standing treat; over the samovár he would sometimes get to babbling so that you would prick up your ears, especially when he began to talk about Peter,[34]about the Tcherkessian steppes, or about foreign parts; well, and as a matter of course, he was fond of drinking with a nice man, only not to excess, and more for the sake of sociability—so travellers said of him.

Merchants bore great good-will toward him, as, in general, did all those people who call themselves old-fashioned—those people who do not set out on a journey without having girded themselves and who do not enter a room without crossing themselves,[35]and who will not enter into conversation with a man without having preliminarily bidden him "good morning." Akím's mere personal appearance disposed one in his favour; he was tall, rather gaunt, but very well built, even in his mature years; he had a long, comely and regular face, a high, open brow, a thin, straight nose, and small lips. The glance of his prominent brown eyes fairly beamed with gentle cordiality, his thin, soft hair curled in rings about his neck: very little of it remained on the crown of his head. The sound of Akím's voice was very agreeable, although weak; in his youth he had been a capital singer, but his long journeys in the open air, in winter, had impaired his lungs. On the other hand, he spoke very fluently and sweetly. When he laughed, ray-like wrinkles, very pleasant to behold, spread themselves out around his eyes;—such wrinkles are to be seen only in kind people. Akím's movements were generally slow and not devoid of a certain self-confidence and sedate courtesy, as was befitting a man of experience who had seen much in his day.

In fact, Akím would have been all right,—or, as they called him even in the manor-house, whither he was wont to go frequently, as well as unfailingly on Sundays after the morning service in church, Akím Semyónovitch,[36]—would have been all right in every respect had he not had one failing, which has ruined many men on this earth,and in the end ruined him also—a weakness for the female sex. Akím's amorousness went to extremes: his heart was utterly unable to resist a feminine glance; he melted in it, as the first autumnal snow melts in the sun .... and he had to pay dearly for his superfluous sensibility.

In the course of the first year after he had settled down upon the highway, Akím was so occupied with the building of his inn, with the installation of his establishment, and with all the worries which are inseparable from all new households, that he positively had not time to think of women, and if any sinful thoughts did enter his head, he promptly expelled them by the perusal of divers holy books, for which he cherished a great respect (he had taught himself to read and write during his first trip as carrier), by chanting the Psalms in an undertone, or by some other pious occupation. Moreover, he was already in his forty-sixth year,—and at that age all passions sensibly calm down and grow cool; and the time for marrying was past. Akím himself had begun to think that that folly, as he expressed it, had broken loose from him ... but evidently no man can escape his fate.

Akím's former owner, Lizavéta Prókhorovna Kuntze, who had been left a widow by her husband, a staff-officer of German extraction, was herself a native of the town of Mittau, where she had passed the early days of her childhood, andwhere she still had a very numerous and needy family, concerning whom, however, she troubled herself very little, especially since one of her brothers, an officer in an army infantry regiment, had unexpectedly presented himself at her house and on the following day had raised such an uproar that he had all but thrashed the mistress of the house herself, and had addressed her, into the bargain, as "du Lumpenmamsell!" while on the preceding evening he had himself called her in broken Russian: "sister and benefactress." Lizavéta Prókhorovna hardly ever left the nice little estate acquired by the efforts of her spouse, who had been an architect;[37]she herself managed it, and managed it far from badly. Lizavéta Prókhorovna did not let slip the smallest source of profit; she derived advantage to herself from everything; and in this point, as well as in that of remarkable cleverness in making one kopék serve instead of two, her German nationality betrayed itself; in everything else she had become extremely Russified. She had a considerable number of domestic serfs; in particular, she kept a great many maids, who, however, did not eat the bread of idleness: from morning until night their backs were bowed over work.[38]She was fond ofdriving out in her carriage with liveried lackeys on the foot-board; she was fond of having people retail gossip to her and play the sycophant; and she herself was a first-rate gossip; she was fond of loading a man down with her favours, and suddenly stunning him with disgrace—in a word, Lizavéta Prókhorovna conducted herself exactly like a nobly-born dame.—She favoured Akím,—he paid her a good round quit-rent with punctuality,—she chatted graciously with him, and even, in jest, invited him to be her guest ... but it was precisely in the manor-house that calamity awaited Akím.

Among the number of Lizavéta Prókhorovna's maids, there was one young girl of twenty, an orphan, Dunyásha by name. She was not ill-favoured, was well formed and clever; her features, although not regular, were calculated to please; her fresh complexion, her thick, fair hair, her red lips, and a certain dashing, half-sneering, half-challenging expression of face, were all quite charming in their way. Moreover, in spite of her orphaned state, she bore herself staidly, almost haughtily; she was descended from an ancient line of house-serfs; her late father, Aréfy, had been major-domo for thirty years, and her grandfather, Stepán, had served as valet to a gentleman long since deceased, a sergeant of the Guards and a prince. She dressed neatly, and was proud of her hands, which really were extremely handsome. Dunyásha showed great disdain for all her admirers, listened to their sweet sayings with a conceited smile, and if she answered them, it was chiefly by exclamation only, in the nature of: "Yes! certainly! catch me doing that! the idea!"... These exclamations scarcely ever left her tongue. Dunyásha had spent about three years in Moscow, under instruction, where she had acquired those peculiar grimaces and manners which characterise chambermaids who have sojourned in the capitals. People spoke of her as a conceited girl (a great encomium in the mouths of domestics) who, although she had seen much of life, had not lowered her dignity. She sewed far from badly, moreover; but, nevertheless, Lizavéta Prókhorovna had no particular liking for her, thanks to the head maid, Kiríllovna, a woman no longer young, sly, and fond of intrigue. Kiríllovna profited by her great influence over her mistress, and contrived very artfully to keep rivals out of the way.

And it was with this Dunyásha that Akím fell in love! And in a way such as he had never loved before. He beheld her for the first time in church; she had only just returned from Moscow;.... then he met her several times in the manor-house; at last he spent a whole evening with her at the overseer's, whither he had been invited to tea, along with other honourable personages. The house-serfs did not look downon him, although he did not belong to their social class, and wore a beard;[39]but he was a cultured man, could read and write, and—chief thing of all—he had money; moreover, he did not dress in peasant fashion, but wore a long kaftan of black cloth, boots of dressed calf-leather, and a small kerchief round his neck. To tell the truth, some of the house-serfs did make remarks among themselves to the effect, "'t is plain, nevertheless, that he is not one of us," but to his face they almost flattered him. That evening at the overseer's, Dunyásha completed the conquest of Akím's amorous heart, although she positively did not reply by a single word to all his ingratiating speeches, and only now and then cast a side-long glance at him, as though astonished at seeing that peasant there. All this only inflamed Akím the more. He went off home, thought, and thought, and made up his mind to obtain her hand.... So thoroughly had she "bewitched" him. But how shall we describe Dunyásha's wrath and indignation when, five days later, Kiríllovna, affectionately calling her into her room, announced to her that Akím (and evidently he had understood how to set about the business),—that that beard-wearer and peasant Akím, to sit beside whom she had regarded as an insult,—was courting her!

At first Dunyásha flushed hot all over, then sheemitted a forced laugh, then fell to weeping; but Kiríllovna conducted the attack so artfully, so clearly made her feel her position in the house, so cleverly hinted at Akím's decent appearance, wealth, and blind devotion, and, in conclusion, so significantly alluded to the mistress's own wishes, that Dunyásha left the room with hesitation depicted on her face, and encountering Akím, merely gazed intently into his eyes, but did not turn away. The fabulously lavish gifts of this enamoured man dispelled her last doubts.... Lizavéta Prókhorovna, to whom Akím, in his joy, had presented a hundred peaches on a large silver salver, gave her consent to his marriage with Dunyásha, and the wedding took place. Akím spared no expense—and the bride, who on the eve of the wedding had sat in the maids' room like one on the verge of expiring, and had done nothing but cry on the very morning of the wedding, while Kiríllovna was dressing her for the ceremony, was speedily comforted.... Her mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in church—and that very same day Akím gave her another of the same sort, only almost better.

So then Akím married, and transported his young wife to his inn.... They began to live. Dunyásha proved to be a bad housekeeper, a poor helpmeet for her husband. She never looked after anything, she grieved, was bored, unless some passing officer was attentive to her and paidcourt to her, as he sat behind the capacious samovár; she frequently absented herself, sometimes going to the town to shop, sometimes to the mistress's manor-house, which lay four versts distant from the inn. In the manor-house she refreshed herself; there people of her own sort surrounded her; the maids envied her smart attire; Kiríllovna treated her to tea; Lizavéta Prókhorovna herself chatted with her.... But even these visits did not pass off without bitter emotions for Dunyásha.... For instance, being a house-serf, she was not allowed to wear a bonnet, and was obliged to muffle her head up in a kerchief .... "like a merchant's wife," as the crafty Kiríllovna said to her.... "Like the wife of a petty burgher," thought Dunyásha to herself.

More than once there recurred to Akím's mind the words of his only relative, an aged uncle, an inveterate peasant, a man without family or land: "Well, brother, Akímushka," he had said to him, when he met him in the street, "I have heard that thou 'rt a-courting...."

"Well, yes, I am; what of it?"

"Ekh, Akím, Akím! Thou 'rt no mate for us peasants now, there 's no denying it; neither is she a mate for thee."

"But why is n't she a mate for me?"

"Why, for this reason, at least,"—returned the other, pointing to Akím's beard, which he, toplease his bride, had begun to clip close—he would not consent to shave it off entirely.... Akím dropped his eyes; and the old man turned away, wrapped about him the skirts of his sheepskin coat, which was ragged on the shoulders, and went his way, shaking his head.

Yes, more than once did Akím grow pensive, grunt and sigh.... But his love for his pretty wife did not diminish; he was proud of her, especially when he compared her, not only with the other peasant women, or with his former wife, whom he had married at the age of sixteen, but with the other maids of the house-serf class: as much as to say: "Just see what sort of a bird we 've captured!".... Her slightest caress afforded him great pleasure... "Perhaps," he thought to himself, "she 'll get used to me, she 'll grow accustomed to her new life..." Moreover, she conducted herself very well, and no one could say an evil word concerning her.

Several years passed in this manner. Dunyásha really did end by becoming used to her existence. The older Akím grew, the more attached he became to her, and the more he trusted her; her friends, who had married men not of the peasant class, suffered dire need, or were in distress, or had fallen into evil hands.... But Akím continued to wax richer and richer. He succeeded in everything—he was lucky; only one thing grieved him: God had not given him any children. Dunyásha was already in her twenty-fifth year; every one had come to call her Avdótya Aréfyevna.[40]Nevertheless, she had not become a good housewife.—But she had come to love her home, she attended to the stores of provisions, she looked after the servant-maids.... Truth to tell, she did all this in an indifferent way, and did not exercise the proper oversight as to cleanliness and order; but, on the other hand, in the principal room of the inn, alongside the portrait of Akím, hung her portrait, painted in oils and ordered by her from a home-bred artist, the son of the parish deacon.—She was represented in a white gown and a yellow shawl, with six rows of large pearls on her neck, long earrings in her ears, and rings on every finger... It was possible to recognise her,—although the painter had depicted her as extremely corpulent and rosy-cheeked, and had painted her eyes black instead of grey, and even a trifle squinting... He had not succeeded at all with Akím: the latter had, somehow, turned out very dark—à la Rembrandt,—so that a traveller would sometimes step up and stare at it, and merely bellow a bit.

Avdótya had begun to dress with a good deal of carelessness; she would throw a large kerchief over her shoulders, and the gown under it wouldfit anyhow; indolence had taken possession of her, that sighing, languid, sleepy indolence to which Russians are but too greatly inclined, especially when their existence is assured.....

Nevertheless, the affairs of Akím and his wife throve very well; they lived in concord, and bore the reputation of being an exemplary married pair. But, like the squirrel which is cleaning its nose at the very moment when the arrow is aimed at it, a man has no foreboding of his own disaster—and suddenly down he crashes, as though on the ice....

One autumn evening a merchant with dry-goods stopped at Akím's inn. He was making his way, by devious roads, with two loaded kibítkas, from Moscow to Khárkoff; he was one of those peddlers whom the wives and daughters of landed proprietors sometimes await with so much impatience. With this peddler, already an elderly man, were travelling two comrades, or, to put it more accurately, two workmen—one pale, thin, hump-backed, the other a stately, handsome young fellow of twenty. They ordered supper, then sat down to drink tea; the peddler invited the landlord and landlady to drink a cup with him—and they did not refuse. A conversation was speedily under way between the two old men (Akím had seen his fifty-sixth birthday); the peddler was making inquiries concerning the neighbouring landed proprietors,—and no one could impart to him all necessary details about them better than could Akím. The hump-backed labourer kept continually going out to look at the carts, and at last took himself off to sleep; Avdótya was left to chat with the other labourer.... She sat beside him and talked little, and chiefly listened to what he narrated to her; but evidently his remarks pleased her; her face grew animated, a flush played over her cheeks, and she laughed quite often and readily. The young labourer sat almost motionless, with his curly head bent toward the table; he spoke softly without raising his voice, and without haste; on the other hand his eyes, not large, but audaciously bright and blue, fairly bored into Avdótya; at first she turned away from them, then she began to gaze into his face. The young fellow's face was as fresh and smooth as a Crimean apple; he smiled frequently and drummed his white fingers on his white chin, already covered with sparse, dark down. He expressed himself after the merchant fashion, but with great ease, and with a certain careless self-confidence—and kept staring at her all the while with the same insistent and insolent look.... Suddenly he moved a little closer to her, and without changing the expression of his face in the least, he said to her: "Avdótya Aréfyevna, there 's nobody in the world nicer than you; I 'm ready to die for you, I do believe."

Avdótya laughed loudly.

"What 's the matter with thee?"—Akím asked her.

"Why, this man here is telling such absurd things,"—she said, but without any special confusion.

The old peddler grinned.

"He, he, yes, ma'am; that Naúm of mine is such a joker, sir. But you must n't listen to him, ma'am."

"Yes, certainly! as if I would listen to him,"—she replied, and shook her head.

"He, he, of course, ma'am,"—remarked the old man.—"Well, but,"—he added in a drawl,—"good-bye, I 'm much obliged, ma'am, but now 't is time to go to roost, ma'am...." And he rose to his feet.

"And we are much obliged, sir, too, sir,"—said Akím also,—"for the entertainment, that is to say; but now we wish you good night, sir. Rise, Avdótyushka."

Avdótya rose, as though reluctantly, and after her Naúm rose also .... and all dispersed.

The landlord and landlady betook themselves to the small, closet-like room which served them as a bedroom. Akím set to snoring instantly. Avdótya could not get to sleep for a long time.... At first she lay still, with her face turned to the wall, then she began to toss about on the hot feather-bed, now throwing off, now drawingup the coverlet .... then she fell into a light doze. All of a sudden, a man's loud voice resounded in the yard; it was singing some slow but not mournful song, the words of which could not be distinguished. Avdótya opened her eyes, raised herself on her elbow, and began to listen.... The song still went on.... It poured forth sonorously on the autumnal air.

Akím raised his head.

"Who 's that singing?"—he inquired.

"I don't know,"—she replied.

"He sings well,"—he added, after a brief pause.—"Well. What a strong voice. I used to sing in my day,"—he continued,—"and I sang well, but my voice is ruined. But that 's a fine singer. It must be that young fellow singing. Naúm is his name, I think."—And he turned over on his other side—drew a deep breath, and fell asleep again.

The voice did not cease for a long time thereafter.... Avdótya continued to listen and listen; at last it suddenly broke off short, as it were, then uttered one more wild shout, and slowly died away. Avdótya crossed herself, and laid her head on the pillow.... Half an hour elapsed.... She raised herself and began softly to get out of bed....

"Whither art thou going, wife?"—Akím asked her through his sleep.

She stopped short.

"To adjust the shrine-lamp,"[41]—she answered; "somehow or other I can't sleep."

"Thou hadst better say thy prayers,"—stammered Akím as he fell asleep.

Avdótya went to the shrine-lamp, began to adjust it, and incautiously extinguished it; she returned and lay down in bed. Silence reigned.

Early on the following morning the merchant set out on his way with his companions. Avdótya was sleeping. Akím escorted them for about half a verst; he was obliged to go to the mill. On returning home he found his wife already dressed, and no longer alone; with her was the young fellow of the previous evening, Naúm. They were standing by the table, near the window, and talking together. On catching sight of Akím, Avdótya silently left the room, but Naúm said that he had returned for his master's mittens, which the latter had forgotten on the bench, and he also left the room.

We shall now inform our readers of that which they, no doubt, have already divined without our aid: Avdótya had fallen passionately in love with Naúm. How this could come to pass so quickly, it is difficult to explain; it is all the more difficult, in that, up to that time, she had behaved in an irreproachable manner, notwithstanding numerous opportunities and temptations to betray hermarital vows. Later on, when her relations with Naúm became public, many persons in the countryside declared that on that very first evening he had put some magic herb into her tea (people with us still believe firmly in the efficacy of this method), and that this was very readily to be discerned in Avdótya, who, they said, very soon thereafter began to grow thin and bored.

However that may be, at all events Naúm began to be frequently seen at Akím's inn. First, he journeyed past with that same merchant, but three months later he made his appearance alone, with his own wares; then a rumour became current that he had taken up his residence in one of the near-by towns of the county, and from that time forth not a week passed that his stout, painted cart, drawn by a pair of plump horses which he drove himself, did not make its appearance on the highway.

There was no great friendship between him and Akím, but no hostility between them was apparent; Akím paid no great attention to him, and knew nothing about him, except that he was an intelligent young fellow, who had started out boldly. He did not suspect Avdótya's real feelings, and continued to trust her as before.

Thus passed two years more.

Then, one summer day, before dinner, about one o'clock, Lizavéta Prókhorovna, who precisely during the course of those two years had somehow suddenly grown wrinkled and sallow, despite all sorts of massage, rouge, and powder,—Lizavéta Prókhorovna, with her lap-dog and her folding parasol, strolled forth for a walk in her neat little German park. Lightly rustling her starched gown, she was walking with mincing steps along the sanded path, between two rows of dahlias drawn up in military array, when suddenly she was overtaken by our old acquaintance, Kiríllovna, who respectfully announced that a certain merchant from B*** desired to see her on a very important matter. Kiríllovna, as of yore, enjoyed the mistress's favour (in reality,shemanaged the estate of Madame Kuntze), and some time previously had received permission to wear a white mob-cap, which imparted still more harshness to the thin features of her swarthy face.

"A merchant?"—inquired the lady. "What does he want?"

"I don't know, ma'am, what he wants,"—replied Kiríllovna in a wheedling voice;—"but, apparently, he wishes to purchase something from you, ma'am."

Lizavéta Prókhorovna returned to the drawing-room, seated herself in her customary place, an arm-chair with a canopy, over which ivy meandered prettily, and ordered the merchant from B*** to be summoned.

Naúm entered, made his bow, and halted at the door.

"I have heard that you wish to buy something from me,"—began Lizavéta Prókhorovna, and thought to herself the while:—"What a handsome man this merchant is!"

"Exactly so, ma'am."

"And precisely what is it?"

"Will you not deign to sell your inn?"

"What inn?"

"Why, the one which stands on the highway, not far from here."

"But that inn does not belong to me. That is Akím's inn."

"Why is n't it yours? It stands on your land, ma'am."

"Assuming that the land is mine .... bought in my name; still the inn is his."

"Just so, ma'am. So then, won't you sell it to us, ma'am?"

"I am to sell it?"

"Just so, ma'am. And we would pay a good price for it."

Lizavéta Prókhorovna maintained silence for a while.

"Really, this is strange,"—she began again; "what are you saying? But how much would you give?"—she added.—"That is to say, I am not asking for myself, but for Akím."

"Why, with all the buildings and, ma'am, dependencies, ma'am ... well ... and, of course, with the land attached to the inn, we would give two thousand rubles, ma'am."

"Two thousand rubles! That 's very little,"—replied Lizavéta Prókhorovna.

"That 's the proper price, ma'am."

"But, have you talked it over with Akím?"

"Why should we talk with him, ma'am? The inn is yours, so we have thought best to discuss it with you, ma'am."

"But I have already told you .... really, this is astonishing! How is it that you do not understand me?"

"Why don't we understand, ma'am? We do."

Lizavéta Prókhorovna looked at Naúm, Naúm looked at Lizavéta Prókhorovna.

"How is it to be, then, ma'am?"—he began:—"what proposal have you to make on your side, that is to say, ma'am?"

"On my side ...." Lizavéta Prókhorovna fidgeted about in her easy-chair.—"In the first place, I tell you that two thousand is not enough, and in the second place ...."

"We 'll add a hundred, if you like."

Lizavéta Prókhorovna rose.

"I see that you are talking at cross-purposes, and I have already told you that I cannot and will not sell that inn. I cannot .... that is to say, I will not."

Naúm smiled and made no reply for a while.

"Well, as you like, ma'am ...." he remarked, with a slight shrug of the shoulders;—"I willbid you good-day, ma'am."—And he made his bow, and grasped the door-handle.

Lizavéta Prókhorovna turned toward him.

"However,...." she said, with barely perceptible hesitation,—"you need not go just yet."—She rang the bell; Kiríllovna made her appearance from the boudoir.

"Kiríllovna, order the servants to give the merchant tea.—I will see you later on,"—she added, with a slight inclination of her head.

Naúm bowed again, and left the room in company with Kiríllovna.

Lizavéta Prókhorovna paced up and down the room a couple of times, then rang the bell again. This time a page entered. She ordered him to summon Kiríllovna. In a few moments Kiríllovna entered, with barely a squeak of her new goat's-leather shoes.

"Didst thou hear,"—began Lizavéta Prókhorovna, with a constrained smile,—"what that merchant is proposing to me? Such a queer man, really!"

"No, ma'am, I did n't hear.... What is it, ma'am?"—And Kiríllovna slightly narrowed her little, black, Kalmýk eyes.

"He wants to buy Akím's inn from me."

"And what of that, ma'am?"

"Why, seest thou .... But how about Akím? I have given it to Akím."

"And, good gracious, my lady, what is it youare pleased to say? Is n't that inn yours? Are n't we your property, pray? And everything we have,—is n't that also the property of the mistress?"

"Mercy me, what 's that thou 'rt saying, Kiríllovna?"—Lizavéta Prókhorovna got out her batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose.—"Akím bought that inn out of his own money."

"Out of his own money? And where did he get that money?—Was n't it through your kindness? And, then, see how long he has enjoyed the use of the land.... Surely, all this is through your kindness. And do you think, madam, that even so he will not have more money left? Why, he 's richer than you are, as God is my witness, ma'am!"

"All that is so, of course, but, nevertheless, I cannot.... How am I to sell that inn?"

"But why not sell it, ma'am?"—went on Kiríllovna.—"Luckily, a purchaser has turned up. Permit me to inquire, ma'am, how much does he offer you?"

"Over two thousand rubles,"—said Lizavéta Prókhorovna, softly.

"He 'll give more, madam, if he offers two thousand at the first word. And you can settle with Akím afterward; you can reduce his quit-rent, I suppose.—He will still be grateful."

"Of course, his quit-rent must be reduced. But no, Kiríllovna; how can I sell?..." AndLizavéta Prókhorovna paced up and down the room.... "No, it is impossible; it is n't right;.... no; please say no more to me about it ... or I shall get angry...."

But in spite of the prohibition of the excited Lizavéta Prókhorovna, Kiríllovna continued to talk, and half an hour later she returned to Naúm, whom she had left in the butler's pantry with the samovár.

"What have you to tell me, my most respected?"—said Naúm, foppishly turning his empty cup upside down on his saucer.

"This is what I have to tell you,"—returned Kiríllovna:—"that you are to go to the mistress; she bids you come."

"I obey, ma'am,"—replied Naúm, rising, and followed Kiríllovna to the drawing-room.

The door closed behind them.... When, at last, that door opened again and Naúm backed out of it bowing, the matter was already settled; Akím's inn belonged to him; he had acquired it for two thousand eight hundred rubles in bank-bills.[42]They had decided to complete the deed of sale as promptly as possible, and not to announce the sale until that was accomplished; Lizavéta Prókhorovna had received one hundred rubles as deposit, and two hundred rubles went to Kiríllovna as commission.

"I have got it at a bargain,"—thought Naúm, as he climbed into his cart; "I 'm glad it turned out well."

At that very time, when the bargain which we have described was being effected at the manor-house, Akím was sitting alone on the wall-bench under the window, in his own room, and stroking his beard with an air of displeasure.... We have stated above that he did not suspect his wife's fondness for Naúm, although kind persons had, more than once, hinted to him that it was high time for him to listen to reason; of course, he himself was sometimes able to observe that his housewife, for some time past, had become more restive; but then, all the world knows that the female sex is vain and capricious. Even when it really seemed to him that something was wrong, he merely waved it from him; he did not wish, as the saying is, to raise a row; his good-nature had not diminished with the years, and, moreover, indolence was making itself felt. But on that day he was very much out of sorts; on the previous evening he had unexpectedly overheard on the street a conversation between his maid-servant and another woman, one of his neighbours....

The woman had asked his maid-servant why she had not run in to see her on the evening of the holiday. "I was expecting thee," she said.

"Why, I would have come,"—replied the maid-servant,—"but, shameful to say, I caughtthe mistress at her capers .... bad luck to her!"

"Thou didst catch her ...." repeated the peasant-wife in a peculiarly-drawling tone, propping her cheek on her hand.—"And where didst thou catch her, my mother?"

"Why, behind the hemp-patches—the priest's hemp-patches. The mistress, seest thou, had gone out to the hemp-patches to meet that fellow of hers, that Naúm, and I could n't see in the dark, whether because of the moonlight, or what not, the Lord knows, and so I ran right against them."

"Thou didst run against them,"—repeated the peasant-wife again.—"Well, and what was she doing, my mother? Was she standing with him?"

"She was standing, right enough. He was standing and she was standing. She caught sight of me, and says she: 'Whither art thou running to? Take thyself off home.' So I went."

"Thou wentest."—The peasant-wife was silent for a space.—"Well, good-bye, Fetíniushka,"—she said, and went her way.

This conversation had produced an unpleasant effect on Akím. His love for Avdótya had already grown cold, but, nevertheless, the maid-servant's words displeased him. And she had told the truth: as a matter of fact, Avdótya had gone out that evening to meet Naúm, who had waited for her in the dense shadow which fellupon the road from the tall and motionless hemp-patch. The dew had drenched its every stalk from top to bottom; the scent, powerful to the point of oppressiveness, lay all around. The moon had only just risen, huge and crimson, in the dim and the blackish mist. Naúm had heard Avdótya's hasty footsteps from afar, and had advanced to meet her. She reached him all pale with running; the moon shone directly in her face.

"Well, how now; hast thou brought it?"—he asked her.

"Yes, I have,"—she replied in an irresolute tone:—"but, Naúm Ivánovitch, what ...."

"Give it here, if thou hast brought it,"—he interrupted her, stretching out his hand.

She drew from beneath her kerchief on her neck some sort of packet. Naúm instantly grasped it and thrust it into his breast.

"Naúm Ivánitch,"—enunciated Avdótya, slowly, and without taking her eyes from him.... "Okh, Naúm Ivánitch, I am ruining my soul for thee...."

At that moment the maid-servant had come upon them.

So, then, Akím was sitting on the wall-bench and stroking his beard with his dissatisfaction. Avdótya kept entering the house and leaving it. He merely followed her with his eyes. At last she entered yet again, and taking a warm wadded jacket from the little room, she was already crossing the threshold; but he could endure it no longer, and began to talk, as though to himself:

"I wonder,"—he began,—"what makes these women-folks always so fidgety? That they should sit still in one spot is something that can't be demanded of them. That 's no affair of theirs. But what they do love is to be running off somewhere or other, morning or evening.—Yes."

Avdótya heard her husband's speech out to the end without changing her attitude; only, at the word "evening," she moved her head a mere trifle, and seemed to become thoughtful.

"Well, Semyónitch,"—she said at last, with irritation,—"'t is well known that when thou beginnest to talk, why...."

She waved her hand and departed, slamming the door behind her. Avdótya did not, in fact, hold Akím's eloquence in high esteem, and it sometimes happened, when he undertook of an evening to argue with the travellers, or began to tell stories, she would yawn quietly or walk out of the room. Akím stared at the closed door.... "When thou beginnest to talk," he repeated in an undertone .... "that 's exactly it, that I have talked very little with thee.... And who art thou? My equal, and, moreover ...." And he rose, meditated, and dealt himself a blow on the nape of his neck with his clenched fist....

A few days passed after this day in a decidedly queer manner. Akím kept on staring athis wife, as though he were preparing to say something to her; and she, on her side, darted suspicious glances at him; moreover, both of them maintained a constrained silence; this silence, however, was generally broken by some snappish remark from Akím about some neglect in the housekeeping, or on the subject of women in general; Avdótya, for the most part, did not answer him with a single word. But, despite all Akím's good-natured weakness, matters would infallibly have come to a decisive explanation between him and Avdótya had it not been for the fact that, at last, an incident occurred, after which all explanations would have been superfluous.

Namely, one morning, Akím and his wife were just preparing to take a light meal after the noon hour (there was not a single traveller in the inn, after the summer labours), when suddenly a small cart rumbled energetically along the road, and drew up at the porch. Akím glanced through the small window, frowned, and dropped his eyes; from the cart, without haste, Naúm alighted. Avdótya did not see him, but when his voice resounded in the anteroom, the spoon trembled weakly in her hand. He ordered the hired man to put his horse in the yard. At last the door flew wide open, and he entered the room.

"Morning,"—he said, and doffed his cap.

"Morning,"—repeated Akím through his teeth.—"Whence has God brought thee?"

"From the neighbourhood,"—returned the other, seating himself on the wall-bench.—"I come from the lady-mistress."

"From the mistress,"—said Akím, still not rising from his seat.—"On business, pray?"

"Yes, on business. Avdótya Aréfyevna, our respects to you."

"Good morning, Naúm,"—she replied.

All remained silent for a space.

"What have you there—some sort of porridge, I suppose?"—began Naúm....

"Yes, porridge,"—retorted Akím, and suddenly paled:—"but it is n't for thee."

Naúm darted a glance of astonishment at Akím.

"Why is n't it for me?"

"Why, just because it is n't for thee."—Akím's eyes began to flash, and he smote the table with his fist.—"There is nothing in my house for thee, dost hear me?"

"What ails thee, Semyónitch, what ails thee? What 's the matter with thee?"

"There 's nothing the matter with me, but I 'm tired ofthee, Naúm Ivánitch, that 's what."—The old man rose to his feet, trembling all over.—"Thou hast taken to haunting my house altogether too much, that 's what."

Naúm also rose to his feet.

"Thou hast gone crazy, brother, I do believe,"—he said with a smile.—"Avdótya Aréfyevna, what 's the matter with him?"...

"I tell thee,"—yelled Akím, in a quivering voice,—"get out. Dost hear me?.... What hast thou to do with Avdótya Aréfyevna?.... Begone, I tell thee! Dost hear me?"

"What 's that thou art saying to me?"—inquired Naúm, significantly.

"Take thyself away from here; that 's what I 'm saying to thee. There is God, and there is the threshold .... dost understand? or 't will be the worse for thee!"

Naúm strode forward.

"Good heavens, don't fight, my dear little doves,"—stammered Avdótya, who until then had remained sitting motionless at the table....

Naúm cast a glance at her.

"Don't worry, Avdótya Aréfyevna, why should we fight! Ek-sta, brother,"—he continued, addressing Akím:—"thou hast deafened me with thy yells. Really. What an insolent fellow thou art! Did any one ever hear of such a thing as expelling a man from another man's house,"—added Naúm, with deliberate enunciation:—"and the master of the house, into the bargain?"

"What dost thou mean by another man's house?"—muttered Akím.—"What master of the house?"

"Why, me, for example."

And Naúm screwed up his eyes, and displayed his white teeth in a grin.

"Thee, forsooth? Ain't I the master of the house?"

"What a stupid fellow thou art, my good fellow.—I am the master of the house, I tell thee."

Akím opened his eyes to their widest.

"What nonsense is that thou art prating, as though thou hadst eaten mad-wort?"—he said at last.—"How the devil dost thou come to be the master?"

"Well, what 's the use of talking to thee,"—shouted Naúm, impatiently.—"Dost see this document,"—he added, jerking out of his pocket a sheet of stamped paper folded in four:—"dost see it? This is a deed of sale, understand, a deed of sale for thy land, and for the inn; I have bought them from the landed proprietress, Lizavéta Prókhorovna. We signed the deed of sale yesterday, in B***—consequently, I am the master here, not thou. Gather up thy duds this very day,"—he added, putting the paper back in his pocket;—"and let there be not a sign of thee here by to-morrow; hearest thou?"

Akím stood as though he had been struck by lightning.

"Brigand!"—he moaned at last;—"the brigand... Hey, Fédka, Mítka, wife, wife, seize him, seize him—hold him!"

He had completely lost his wits.

"Look out, look out,"—ejaculated Naúm,menacingly:—"look out, old man, don't play the fool...."

"But beat him, beat him, wife!"—Akím kept repeating in a tearful voice, vainly and impotently trying to leave his place.—"The soul-ruiner, the brigand... She was n't enough for thee ... thou wantest to take my house away from me also, and everything.... But no, stay .... that cannot be.... I will go myself. I will tell her myself ... how .... but why sell?... Stop .... stop...."

Back to Index Next