A Goodly Life

My life has been a well-spent one; I got everything I went after. I even own real property⁠—my little old man right after the wedding signed the house over in my name; and I keep horses, and two cows, and we have a business all our own. Of course, not a regular shop, now, but just a little store, as they say⁠—but then, in our village, it will pass. I always was successful, but then I have a persistent character, at that.

As to all sorts of work, it was still my daddy that learned me. Though he was a widower, and took to drink, he wasn’t far behind me in being awful smart, businesslike, and heartless. When the serfs was freed, now, he up and says to me:

“Well, wench, I’m my own master now; let’s save up some money. As soon as we save it up, we’ll go to the city, buy a house all to our own selves; I’ll marry you off to a fine gentleman, and live like a king. As for our masters, it’s no use sticking here with them⁠—they ain’t worth it.”

Our masters, now⁠—although, to tell the truth, they were good and kind⁠—was the poorest of the poor; actual beggars, you might say. And so we went away from them to another settlement; as for the house, the cattle, and whatever household goods we had, we sold them. We moved right near to the city, and hired a cabbage patch from a lady by the name of Meshcherina. She had been a fräulein in the Tsar’s court; she was plain, freckled, and had grown gray as a maid⁠—nobody would take her to wife, so she lived in retirement. So, then, we hired the meadows from her, and settled down in our little hut, all peaceful and quiet. The weather’s chill; fall is coming on⁠—but little we care! We sit and wait for good profits and never feel trouble coming along. But the trouble was right there⁠—and what trouble, at that! Our venture was drawing near the winding up, when suddenly something terrible happens. We had had our tea in the morning⁠—it was a holiday⁠—so I stood, just so, near the hut, watching the folks coming from church over the meadow. As for my daddy, he had gone to see about the cabbages. It was a sort of a bright day, even though it was windy, and so I was gaping and didn’t notice that there was two men approaching me. One was the priest⁠—so tall, you know, in a gray cassock and carrying a stick; his face was dark, earthy; he’s got a mane like any fine horse, just simply spreading out in the wind. The other was just a common peasant⁠—his farm hand. They walked right up to the hut; I got confused, made him a bow, and says:

“How do you do, Father? Thanks for thinking of us and calling.”

But he, I see, is angry, sullen, doesn’t even look at me; he just stands and breaks up clods with his stock.

“And where,” says he, “is your father?”

“They’ve gone to the cabbage field,” says I. “If you like, now, I can call them. But there he’s coming, himself.”

“Well, you just tell him to take away whatever goods he’s got, together with this dinky little samovar, and get away from here. My watchman is coming here today.”

“What do you mean, a watchman? Why, we have already given the lady the money, ninety roubles it was. What do you mean, Father?” (Though I was young, I knew just what was what in such things.) “Are you joking, or something?” I says. “You ought to produce some proper paper,” I says.

“No talk out of you!” he yells. “The owner is going to live in the city; I’ve bought the meadows from her, and now the land is my own property!”

But he, himself, waves his arms about, knocks his stick against the ground⁠—like as not to hit you in the snout any minute.

Father sees these goings-on, and starts running toward us⁠—he was awful hotheaded. He runs up and asks:

“What’s all this noise about? What are you yelling at her for, Father, without knowing yourself what’s what? You oughtn’t to be shaking your stick, but ought to come right out and explain by what sort of right the cabbages have come to be yours? We are poor folks, now, we can go to court about it. You,” he says, “are a person in holy orders; you can’t hold no enmity against nobody; your kind can’t touch the holy sacrament if you do.”

Father, you understand, hadn’t said as much as one saucy word to him; but the other, though he was a pastor, was as wicked as the most ordinary drab muzhik; and so, when he heard that kind of talk, he just grew pale⁠—not a word could he say, but you could just see his legs quivering under his cassock. And then, don’t he let out a squeal, and don’t he go for father⁠—to hit him over the head, you understand! But father got from under it, grabbed the stick, tore it out of the priest’s hands, and then went smash! over his knee with it. The other tried to grapple with him, but father breaks it in halves, flings the pieces away as far as he can and calls out:

“Don’t come near me, for God’s sake, your reverence! You,” he calls out, “are black and like a beetle, but I am still more of a beetle than you be.”

And then he grabs him by the arms!

What with courts and law, father was sent to a convict colony for this here thing. I was left all alone in this world, and thinks I, what am I to do now? Plainly, you can’t get through the world on righteousness alone; plainly, you must needs keep your eyes open. I figured it out a whole year, living with my aunt; then I saw there was nowhere for me to go⁠—I had to marry fast as I could. My dad had a good friend in town, a harness maker⁠—well, him it was that courted me. You couldn’t say as how he made a striking bridegroom⁠—but still he was a good catch, at that. There was, to tell the truth, one man that I liked⁠—and liked right well; but then he was poor too, about as bad off as I was, also living with strangers, like me; but the other was his own master, after all. I didn’t have a copper of dowry, and here, I see, he is taking me without anything⁠—how could I let a chance like that pass by? I thought, and I thought, and went and married him⁠—although, of course, I knew that he was an elderly man, and a drunkard, and always excitable; a cutthroat, to put it plainer.⁠ ⁠… I married him and became, you understand, not an ordinary wench any more, but Nastasiya Semenovna Zhokhova, a citizen’s wife, living in a city.⁠ ⁠… Of course, it seemed flattering.

I suffered for nine years with this husband. That citizen business was just a name; we was so poor really that we was about as bad off as the muzhiks! And then there was scrapping and rows every blessed day. Well, the Lord took pity on me, and took him away. The children I had by him all used to die on me; there was only two boys left⁠—one was Vanniya, going on nine; the other was an infant in arms. He was an awful lively and healthy boy; about ten months he started in to walk, to talk; all of my children, now, used to begin walking and talking about the eleventh month. He got to drinking tea all by his own self⁠—used to sink his little face in the saucer so’s you couldn’t pull it away, nohow. But this boy died, too, when he weren’t a year yet. I come home one day from washing clothes in the river, and my sister-in-law⁠—we used to rent our rooms off her⁠—up and says:

“Your Kostiya was yelling and squirming all day today. I done all sorts of things to him already; I worked his arms and I patted him hard, and I gave him some sugar and water; but all he does is gag, and throw up the water through his nose. Either he’s gone and caught a cold, or else he’s ate something; for the children always put everything in their mouth⁠—how is a body to look after them?”

I was just scared stiff. I make a dash for the cradle and throw back the curtain, but he was already beginning to pass away then; couldn’t even as much as cry out. My sister ran to get a doctor’s assistant we knew; when he comes, he asks: “What did you feed him with?”

“He’s eaten some manna porridge, now, and that was all.”

“And wasn’t he playing with something?”

“That’s right, he was,” says my sister. “There was a copper ring from a horse-collar knocking about all the time⁠—well, he was playing with that.”

“Well,” says the doctor’s assistant, “he must have swallowed it, for sure. May your arms wither!” says he. “You’ve gone and done it now⁠—why, he’s going to die on your hands!”

Of course, it turned out just like he said. Not even two hours had gone when he passed away. We took on and we took on, but there was nothing as could be done about it; for it’s no use going against the will of God. So I buried him too; only Vanniya was left. Only he was left; but then, as they say, one is enough. A small creature, it’s true, and yet he’ll eat and drink as much as a grownup. So I started scrubbing floors at the home of Nikulin⁠—a colonel in the army, he was. Him and his wife was rather well off; they paid thirty roubles a month for the rooms they had. They lived in the upper floor; the kitchen was below. The woman they had to get up their meals was a no-account little old woman; she wasn’t responsible, and yet she was loose. Well, naturally, she got in the family way. Couldn’t bend down to scrub the floors, couldn’t pull a pot out the oven.⁠ ⁠… She went away when her time came, and I just grabbed her place: that’s how I had gotten around the masters! To tell the truth, I’ve been clever and cunning from a girl up; no matter what I took a hold of, I’d do it neat, accurate, better nor any waiter. Again, I knew how to please them: no matter what the masters would say, I’d just say “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, ma’am,” all the time, and “You are absolutely right.⁠ ⁠…” I used to get up when you could still see the moon. I’d mop up the floors, make the stove, polish up the samovar⁠—in the meanwhile the masters would wake up, but I had everything ready. And then, of course, I always kept myself clean, and was well-built⁠—I was spare, but still I was handsome. There was times when I’d even get to feeling sorry for myself: what were my beauty and my knowledge going to waste for, now, in such hard work?

Thinks I, I ought to take advantage of the opportunity. And the opportunity was, that the colonel was awful strong himself and couldn’t bear to look at me calmly. His wife, now, was a German⁠—fat, ailing, and some ten years older than he. He weren’t good-looking; heavy-bodied, short-legged, looking like a wild pig⁠—and she was still worse. Well, I see he’s started to pay court to me, to sit in my kitchen, to teach me smoking. Soon as his wife went out, he was right there on the spot. He’d chase his orderly into town, as though on some errand, and be sitting there. He bored me to death, but, of course, I pretended otherwise: I’d laugh, and I’d sit and swing my leg⁠—getting him heated up in all sorts of ways, that is.⁠ ⁠… What can you do when there’s poverty; and, as they say, this little was as good as a feast. Somehow one day, on the Tsar’s birthday, he comes down to the kitchen in his uniform frock, in epaulettes, belted with that white belt of his like with a hoop, with kid gloves in his hands. He’s buttoned his collar so tight that his neck is all swollen and he’s all blue in the face; he’s all perfumed⁠—his eyes shining, his moustache black and thick.⁠ ⁠… He comes down and says:

“I’m going to the cathedral with the missus right away; dust off my boots⁠—I’ve only gone through the yard and yet I managed to get all dusty.”

He put his foot in its patent-leather boot upon a bench⁠—just like a big iron pillar, his leg was; I bent down, wanting to wipe it off, but he grabs me by the neck, even tearing my kerchief off; then he grabbed me tight about the bosom and was already dragging me behind the stove. I try this way and that⁠—can’t get away from him nohow. And he is hot all over, just swelling up with blood⁠—trying to overpower me, that is; to get at my face and kiss me.

“What are you doing!” I says. “The mistress is coming⁠—go away, for the love of Christ!”

“If you will get to love me,” he says, “I won’t begrudge you anything!”

“Oh yes, now, we know all about those promises!”

“May I never leave this spot⁠—may I die without absolution!”

Well, of course, there was more of the same sort of thing. But, to tell the honest truth, what did I know at that time? I could have very easily been taken in by his words; but, glory be to God, things didn’t turn out his way. Somehow he caught hold of me another time, at an unlucky moment. I broke away, all mussed up, and got mortal angry⁠—and there was the mistress, now; she was coming down, dressed up, all yellow, fat, like a dead person, groaning, her dress rustling on the stairs. I break away, and stand there without my kerchief⁠—and there she is, heading straight for us. He goes past her and shows his heels, but I stand there like a fool, not knowing what to do. She stood opposite me, and she stood some more, holding the silk skirt of her dress⁠—I remember like it was today: she was going out visiting, and had on a brown silk dress, and white mittens without fingers, and she carried a parasol, and wore a hat like a basket. She stood for a while, let out a groan, and went out. To tell the truth, though, she never said a word to him or to me. But when the colonel went away to Kiev, she just took and drove me out.

So I got all my little belongings together and went back to my sister⁠—Vanniya was living at her house, you understand. I went away from this place, and again I figure: my brains are just going for nothing; I can’t save up anything, nor make a decent match and have a business of my own⁠—God has wronged me! I’ll get in harness once again, thinks I, turn about somehow, and I will get what I’m after, and will have a capital of my own, or die trying! So I thought it all out, apprenticed Vanniya to a tailor, and then got a place for myself as maid with Samokhvalov the merchant.⁠ ⁠… And that was the beginning of my rise.

They gave me a wage of two and a quarter. There was two servants⁠—me, and a girl by the name of Vera. One day I wait at table, and she washes the dishes; the next day I wash the dishes, and she waits at table. You couldn’t call it a large family: there was the master, Matvei Ivannich; the mistress, Liubov Ivanna; two grownup daughters; and two sons. The master himself was a serious-minded man, not much given to talking⁠—he was never even at home on weekdays, and whenever there was a holiday, he’d be sitting upstairs in his room, reading all sorts of newspapers and smoking a cigar. As for the mistress, she was a simple soul, kind, and, like myself, from the middle classes. They wasn’t long in marrying off their daughters, Anna and Klasha, and held two weddings in one year⁠—married them off to military men. Right there, to tell the truth, is where I begun to save up⁠—for the military men did give me a great deal in tips. If you just did anything, even a trifle⁠—like handing them the matches, say, or their overcoats and rubbers⁠—right off you’d have twenty kopecks, or thirty.⁠ ⁠… But then I used to go about awful neat, and I pleased the military. Vera, to tell the truth, was always putting on some airs, like some miss or something; she took short, mincing steps, was tender and awful easy hurt⁠—the minute anything would happen, she’d knit her downy eyebrows, her lips, like cherries, would start to quiver, and there was the tears in her eyelashes. True, she did have pretty eyelashes, great big ones, I never saw anybody else with anything like them. But then, I was wiser. I used to put on a smooth waist, cut on a bias, with openwork; I’d put a switch on my head with a black velvet bow, and I wore a starched white apron⁠—it would interest anybody just to look at me. Vera, she always used to lace herself tight in corsets; she’d lace herself so tight she couldn’t stand it, and at once her head would start aching till she’d throw up⁠—but I never even had no use for a corset, and was all right as I was.⁠ ⁠… And when the military men were gone, the sons started in tipping me.

The elder had already reached twenty when I took the place, and the younger was going on fourteen. This boy had to sit all the while, poor fellow. He had broken all his legs and arms⁠—I seen that business many a time. When he’d break something, the doctor would come to him right away, bandage it up with cotton, lint, and all that sort of thing; then he’d pour something over it like lime; this same lime would dry up together with the lint, would become like a splint; and when the hurt part was healed up, the doctor would just cut all that stuff, taking it all off⁠—and the arm, when you’d look at it, was all grown together. He couldn’t walk by himself, but crawled around on his bottom. He used to simply dash upon sofas, and over thresholds, and up the stairs. He even used to crawl across the whole yard into the garden. He had a great big head, clumsy looking, like his father’s; his temples coarse, red-haired, like a dog’s wool; he had a broad, old-looking face. That was because he used to eat an awful lot⁠—he’d eat sausage, and chocolate bonbons, and pretzels, and pastry made out of layers of dough⁠—whatsoever his heart might desire. But his little legs, his little arms, was like a sheep’s, and all broken, all in scars. They used to keep him just so for a long time, making long shirts for him of different colours; sometimes blue, sometimes pink. They had a lady teacher from a parochial school coming over to our house to teach him. He was a great hand for learning, and had a good head on his shoulders! And the way he’d play on an accordion⁠—you couldn’t find even a whole person to play like that! He’d play, and sing in time with the music. He had a strong, piercing voice. He used to go way, way up when he’d sing: “I’m a monk, and handsome too!” He used to sing that song often.

The elder son was in good health, but also a sort of innocent, not fit for any business. They gave him away for instruction into all sorts of schools⁠—and he was chased out of all of them; they couldn’t learn him anything. Come night⁠—he’d get full some place or other, and be gone until dawn. Still, he really was afraid of his mother, and would not come in through the front door for anything. I’d get through with my work in the evening, and wait until the master and mistress would be asleep; then I’d steal through the rooms, open the window in his little den, and then go back to my place again. He’d take his boots off in the street, crawl through the window in only his stocking-feet, and never a squeak or a creak out of him. The next day he’d get up like he’d never been any place, and in some spot where we couldn’t be seen he’d shove what was coming to me into my hand. It wasn’t none of my worry, and I’d take it right gladly! If he was to break his neck, that would be his lookout.⁠ ⁠… And then I started in having an income from the younger, from Nicanor Matveich.

I was after what I wanted day and night, you might say. Once I took into my head that one idea, to absolutely provide for myself and to marry a decent party, I had taken a fresh hold on life. I used to save every little copper, now; money, you know, has little wings, once you let it out of your hands!

I got rid of this here Vera⁠—but she, to tell the truth, was there really without need; I just put it that way to the master and mistress: “I can get along all by my own self,” I says; “you just add any trifle you like to my wage, and you’ll do better nor now.” So, then, I was left alone and managing everything myself. I wouldn’t even take the wages in my hands⁠—soon as twenty or twenty-five roubles would gather, I’d beg the mistress to go to the bank and put it away in my name. Clothes, and shoes, and everything else went with the place⁠—what was I to spend money for? The only expenses I had was to put up a little stone at my husband’s grave⁠—I paid two roubles seventy, so’s people wouldn’t talk. And right here, the Lord forgive us⁠—such was my luck and his misfortune⁠—this poor wretch had to go and fall in love with me.⁠ ⁠…

Of course, now I often think: maybe it was on account of him that God punished me through my son. Sometimes I can’t get it out of my head⁠—I’ll tell you right away what he went and done to himself. And besides, just consider that it really was very hard⁠—I used to look at this big-headed fellow, and what a vexation would take hold on me! “May this and that befall you,” I’d think, “you was born, with a silver spoon in your mouth! Even though you be a cripple, yet how rich you live.⁠ ⁠… Whereas mine is all sound, and yet he don’t eat or drink as much on a holiday as you do on a weekday, just so.” Then I started in to notice⁠—it looked like he’d fallen in love with me; well, now, he just wouldn’t take his eyes off my face. By that time he was already sixteen, and had taken to wearing wide trousers, and to belting his blouse; a red-haired moustache started cropping out. But he was homely, tow-haired, green-eyed⁠—God deliver me! His face was broad, but he himself was as thin as a bone. At first, evidently, he got it into his head that he could be pleasing⁠—he began to dress up, to buy polly-seeds, and used to play on his accordion so fine that you could listen to him for hours. He played well, to tell the truth. When he seen that his affair weren’t coming along, he grew quiet and thoughtful-like. Once I was standing in the balcony, and I see him crawling through the yard with a new German accordion. He had shaved and combed himself once more; had put on a three-buttoned blouse with a high collar, fastening at the side; his head was thrown back⁠—looking for me, that is. He looked and he looked; his eyes became longing-like and dim, and then he began a polka:

“Let us go, let us go,
I would dance a polka through;
Dancing makes one braver; so
I can speak my love for you.⁠ ⁠…”

But, like as if I hadn’t noticed him, I took and threw down a slop-bowl, with water! I threw it down, and then was scared myself. But he crawls, he struggles up the stairs, drying himself with one hand and dragging the accordion by the other. His eyes were lowered, and he was all white, and he spoke meek-like, all acquiver:

“May your hands wither. What you’ve done is a sin, Nastiya.”

And that was all.⁠ ⁠… True, he was a peaceful one.

He was losing flesh at that time, not by the day but by the hour; and the doctor had already said that he wasn’t long for this world, that he was bound to die from a consumption. It made me shudder even as much as to touch him. But then a poor person ain’t got no call to be particular⁠—money can do anything, and so he started in to bribe me. Just as soon as everybody used to fall asleep, right off he’d call me to him⁠—either into the garden or into his room. (He lived apart from everybody, living downstairs; his room was large, warm, and yet bleak; all the windows looked out into the yard, the ceiling was low, the wall paper was old and brown.)

“You just sit with me a while,” he says, “and I’ll give you some money for that. I don’t want anything from you⁠—I have simply fallen in love with you, and want to be with you; these walls have near drove me crazy.”

Well, I’d take the money and sit for a while, and I got together about half a hundred in that way. And then I had about four hundred of wages and interest laid by. So, thinks I to myself, it’s about time now for me to be crawling out of the harness, bit by bit. But, to tell the honest truth, it was a pity to do so⁠—I wanted to bide my time for another year or so, to save up a little more. But the main thing was⁠—he had let it slip once when he was talking with me⁠—he had a little toy saving bank that he was keeping most secret⁠—he had gotten over two hundred roubles in trifling sums from his mother. Naturally, with him lying sick, always abed, and all alone, his mother would thrust the money upon him to cheer him up. But no matter how I tried not to, I still would think once in a while: “The Lord forgive my transgression, but it would be best if he gave that money to me! It’s of no use to him, anyway; he’s like to die at any moment; whereas I’d be well-fixed for all time with it.” I just waited to see how this business might be worked, as cleverly as possible. I became more kind to him, of course; began to sit with him more often. I used to come into his room, and then look over my shoulder on purpose, as though I had come in by stealth. I’d close the door and begin speaking in a low whisper:

“There now,” I’d say, “I’ve got away; let’s sit together like a lovin’ couple.”

Making believe, that is, like I had a meeting arranged with him, but that I was losing my courage, and yet at the same time was glad that I had got through with my work and could now be with him. Then I began to put on a weary air, to pretend I was in deep thought. And he was always trying to get the reason out of me:

“Nast, why have you grown so sad?”

“Oh, just so! I’ve got more than my share of trouble!”

And then I’d top that with a sigh, become quiet, and lean my cheek on my hand.

“But just what,” he’d say, “is the matter?”

“Well,” I says, “poor folks got a lot of things the matter with them, but who ever worries about them? I wouldn’t even want to bore you with them.”

Well, he guessed what was what pretty soon. He was clever, like I said⁠—he’d be a match even for a healthy person. One day I came into his room⁠—it was, as I remember even now, in mid-Lent; the weather was sort of gloomy, wet, with a fog outside; everybody in the house was sleeping after dinner. I come into his room with some needlework in my hands⁠—I was sewing something or other for myself; I sat down near his bed and was just wanting to heave a sigh, and again make believe I was aweary, and then start leading him on to my idea easy-like, when he starts in talking about it himself. I can see him right now, lying in his pink blouse⁠—brand new, never yet washed; in blue wide trousers; in new small boots with patent-leather tops; his legs laid one acrost the other, and him looking out of the corner of his eye. His sleeves was wide, the trousers wider still, and his little legs and arms like matchsticks; his head was heavy, big, and he were all little himself⁠—it even made a body unwell to see him. To look at him, he seemed a boy, yet his face was that of an old man, although it was somehow youngish at the same time⁠—that was on account of him being clean-shaved⁠—and he had a thick moustache. (Come to think of it, he shaved himself every day, that’s how fast his beard would grow; his hands looked like they was covered with tow, and the hair upon them was all red, too.) Well, as I was saying, he’s lying there, his hair parted on one side, his face turned toward the wall; he was picking at the wallpaper, and all of a sudden he says:

“Nast!”

I even shuddered all over.

“What is it, Nicanor Matveich?”

And meanwhile my own heart rolled up to my mouth.

“Do you know where my toy bank is lying?”

“No,” I says, “how should I know that, Nicanor Matveich? I never had no evil designs in my mind upon you.”

“Get up; draw out the bottom drawer in the wardrobe; take out the old accordion⁠—that’s where the toy bank is. Let me have it here.”

“But what do you want it for?”

“Just so⁠—I want to count the money.”

I got at the drawer, opened the cover of the accordion⁠—and there, stuffed into the bellows, was a tin elephant⁠—feeling pretty heavy. I take it out and hand it to him. He takes it, rattles it, lays it by him⁠—just like a baby, he was, honest to God⁠—and goes off into thought about something. He keeps silent, and he keeps silent; then he smiles, and says:

“Today, Nast, I had a fine dream. I even woke up before daybreak on account of it, and it has made me feel very good all day, up to dinner. Just look⁠—I have even shaved myself, and have got all dressed up for you.”

“But then, Nicanor Matveich, you always go about neat-dressed, anyway.”

And I don’t understand myself what I’m saying, I’m that excited.

“Well,” says he, “I guess I will be able to go about in the other world. You can’t even imagine what a good-looking fellow I’m going to be in the other world!”

I even got to feeling sorry for him.

“It’s a sin to make fun of such things, Nicanor Matveich, and I can’t even understand why you say such things. Perhaps,” I says, “God will send you health yet. You’d do better to tell me what your dream was.”

He started in beating about the bush again; started in to smile wryly⁠—“What good am I alive!” he says. Then he began, without rhyme or reason, to talk about a cow we had:

“For God’s sake,” says he, “tell mother to sell it; I can’t stand it no more, that’s how tired I am of it; I lie here in bed and look at the little barn where she’s kept, and she always looks back at me through the bars,”⁠—and all the while he’s rattling the money, and keeps from looking me in the eyes. And I listen, and also can’t understand half of what he’s saying⁠—just like two persons out of their minds, we was, saying anything that came into our heads. Finally I couldn’t stand it no more; for, thinks I, everybody will wake up at any second, and they’ll be calling for a samovar, and then the whole business falls through! And so I interrupt him as soon as I can, going in for cunning:

“But no,” I says, “you’d better tell me what dream you saw.⁠ ⁠… Was it anything about us two?”

Of course, I wanted to say something that would please him, and I struck it so right that he even changed colour entirely, and cast his eyes down. All of a sudden he takes the toy bank, gets a little key out of his trousers’ pocket, and wants to open it⁠—and can’t, nohow; just, can’t get at the keyhole, his hands are trembling so. At last he does manage to open it and pours out all it held onto his belly⁠—I remember it all like it was now: there was two paper bills and eight gold pieces; he scoops it all into his hand, and suddenly says in a whisper:

“Could you kiss me just once?”

My hands and feet just got numb from fright. But he’s carrying on like he was going out of his mind, whispering, stretching upward to me:

“Nastechka, just once! God is my witness I will never say another word, never ask again!”

I looked over my shoulder⁠—well, thinks I, I might just as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb⁠—and I kissed him. So he was all just gasping; he grabbed me around the neck, caught my lips, and I guess he didn’t let me go for a whole minute. Then he shoves all the money into my hand⁠—and turns his face to the wall.

“Go,” he says.

I ran out and went straight into my room. I put the money away under lock and key, grabbed hold of a lemon, and started in to rub my lips. I rubbed them so hard that they simply turned all white. I was awful afraid, to tell the truth, that I might get a consumption from him.⁠ ⁠…

Well and good⁠—this business, then, turned out all right, glory be to God; so I begin to lay my plans for the next move, of more importance⁠—the one which I had the most struggles about. I felt that there was trouble brewing; I was afraid he wouldn’t let me leave my place. “He’ll start in,” thinks I, “to pester me with his love, will want to become my husband on account of this money.” But no; nothing happens, I see. He don’t try to annoy me; he treats me rightly, the same like before, as though nothing had taken place between us⁠—even more modestly, it looks like⁠—and he don’t call me into his room: that meant he was keeping his word. Then I bring the talk around to my going away, putting it up to my master and mistress: it’s time for me to see about my son a little, now; to be free for a little while. They won’t even hear of it. And as for him, you can understand how he felt, without my saying a word about it. I hinted about my going away to him at one time⁠—so he just got all white. He turns his face to the wall, and says with a sort of a bitter little smile:

“You have no right to do it,” he says. “You have led me on, have got me used to you. You must wait⁠—I will die soon. But if you go away now, I will strangle myself.”

A fine modest fellow he turned out to be, didn’t he? “Ah,” thinks I, “damn your shameless eyes! Here I have forced myself to do like you wanted, but you take to threatening me! Oh, no, you haven’t come across one of that sort in me!” And I started looking for an excuse harder than ever. About that time, most luckily, the mistress gave birth to another girl, and a wet-nurse was hired for her; so I picked on that, saying that I couldn’t get along with her. She was, to tell the truth, a wicked, daft old woman; even the mistress herself was afraid of her. And she used to drink, on top of that⁠—there was always a demijohn on duty under her bed⁠—and she couldn’t bear anybody to be near her. So she began saying things about me, making trouble in all sorts of ways. Either I hadn’t pressed the linen right, or else I didn’t know how to wait at table at all.⁠ ⁠… But, if you was just to say one word to her, she’d get all in a trembling passion and run off to complain. She’d sob out loud, and, of course, not so much because she had been offended, but just dissembling. The further it went, the worse it got, so I up and says to the master and mistress:

“So-and-so,” I says, “let me go; I can’t bear to live on account of that old woman; I will lay hands on myself.”

And in the meanwhile, I already had my eye on a house on Glukhaya Ulitza.1 Well, hearing me speak like that, the mistress didn’t even try to hold me any longer. True, when she was saying goodbye to me, she wanted me to come and live with them again, awful hard; or just to come on some holidays, or on birthdays:

“You must,” she says, “always come to put things in order, to get everything ready. It’s only when you’re around,” she says, “that I feel easy. I have grown used to you, like you was one of the family.”

She saw me off with all honours⁠—which meant that she no longer held any grudge against me; she baked a great big white loaf, putting in a whole saltcellar full of sugar. I thank her in all sorts of ways, but, of course, she wasn’t anything much in my life⁠—so I thinks one thing, and I says another. I promised her all she wanted and more, scraping and bowing low before her⁠—and went my ways. And at once, with the Lord’s blessing, I got busy. I bought the house I had in mind, and opened a dram shop. The trade started off awful good⁠—in the evening, when I’d come to counting what I’d taken in during the day, there would be thirty, or forty, or sometimes all of forty-five roubles in the till⁠—and so I got the idea of opening up a store as well, so as, you understand, to get them coming and going. My husband’s sister had long since married a watchman in the Red Cross; he was calling me gossip all the time, and was friendly with me⁠—so I went to him, got a trifling loan for all sorts of fixtures, permits, and started in doing business. And right then Vanniya had finished his apprenticeship. I took counsel with folks that knew a thing or two as to where I could place him, now.

“Why,” says they, “where else would you place him, when there’s no end of work in your own house?”

And they were right, at that. So I put Vanniya into the store, and stay in the dram shop myself. And then we were off! And, of course, I had even forgot to think of all this past nonsense⁠—although, to tell the honest truth, the poor cripple had just taken to his bed, at the time I was going away. Never a word out of him to anybody, but just lies down, just like he were dead, forgetting his accordion even. Suddenly, lo, and behold ye, Polkanikha comes into my yard⁠—this same wet-nurse. (The little boys had nicknamed her Polkanikha.)2 She comes, and she says:

“A certain man has told me to give you his regards; says you should come and pay him a visit, without fail.”

I went all hot and cold from vexation and shame! “What a darling, to be sure!” thinks I to myself. “What an idea he has gotten into his head! What a mate he has found for himself!” I couldn’t hold in and I says:

“I got no use for his regards; he ought to keep in mind the state he’s in, and you, you old devil, ought to be ashamed to try and be a go-between. Do you hear me, or don’t you?”

She just stopped short. She stands, all stooping, her swollen eyes glowing at me from under her brows, and just shaking her cabbage head; she’d grown daft, either from the heat or from vodka.

“Oh, you heartless creature!” says she. “He was even crying about you,” she says. “All last evening he lay with his face to the wall, and sobbing out loud.”

“Well,” says I, “am I to start weeping bucketfuls? And wasn’t he ashamed, the redhead, to be bawling before folks? Why, what a baby! Or was he weaned from the breast, or something?”

And so I put the old woman out as empty-handed as she had come, and didn’t go myself. And right soon after that he took and really did strangle himself. Right then, of course, I felt great regret because I hadn’t gone; but at that time I had other things to think about, besides him. I had one disgrace coming on top of another, right in my own house.

I had rented out two rooms in the house; one was taken by the policeman on our post⁠—a fine, serious-minded, respectable man, Chaikin by name; a young lady prostitute came into the other. Flaxen-fair she was, kind of young, and not at all bad to look at⁠—rather good-looking. She was called Phenia. Kholin the contractor used to come to see her⁠—he was keeping her; well, I relied on that, and let her take the room. But right here some disagreement took place between them, and so he left her. What was to be done? She had nothing to pay with, but I couldn’t chase her out⁠—she had run up a debt of eight roubles.

“Miss,” says I, “you must earn off anybody; I don’t keep no open house for strangers.”

“I will try,” she says.

“But then, somehow a body can’t see you trying. Instead of trying, you always stick at home evening after evening. It’s no use,” I says, “to be placing your hopes on Chaikin.”

“I will try. It makes me conscience-struck, just to hear you.”

“A-ah!” I says, “what a conscience you must have, to be sure!”

She’ll try and she’ll try⁠—but there was no trying of any sort, if the truth be told. She did try to get around Chaikin but he wouldn’t even as much as look at her. Then I see that she’s going after my boy. No matter when I look, he’s always hanging around her. All of a sudden, he gets a notion of getting a new jacket.

“Oh, no,” I says, “you’ll wait a while! As it is, I’m dressing you like any fine young gentleman; now it’s boots, now it’s a cap. I, now, used to deny myself everything, used to figure every copper as a gold piece, yet I’d supply you with everything.”

“I’m not a bad-looker,” says he.

“You daft loon,” says I, “what am I to do, sell the house, or something, on account of your good looks?”

I notice that my business is getting poorer. I started having shortages, losses. I’d sit down to drink my tea⁠—and even that had lost its taste for me. I started in to watch. I’d be sitting in the dram shop, and yet be listening all the time⁠—I’d put my ear to the partition, without stirring, and listen. I’d hear them rumbling one day, I’d hear them rumbling the next.⁠ ⁠… I begun scolding him about it.

“And what business is that of yours?” he says. “Maybe I want to marry her.”

“So that’s how⁠—it’s none of your own mother’s business! I see your intention long since,” I says, “only this is never going to be in this eternity.”

“She’s mad in love with me; you can’t understand her; she is tender and shy.”

“A fine love you can expect,” I says, “from a deboshed slut like that! She’s making fun of you, you fool,” I says. “She’s got the bad disease,” I says, “all her legs is covered with sores.”

He seemed turned to stone for a while; his eyes was all puckered up, like he was looking at the bridge of his nose, and he kept silent. “Well,” thinks I, “glory be to the Lord, I got him in the right spot.” But still, I was frightened to death: it was plain to be seen, you understand, that the poor fellow had fallen hard. “So that means,” thinks I, “that I must finish her off as fast as I can.” I take counsel with my gossip, and with Chaikin. “Tell me, now, what am I to do with them?” “Why,” they say, “catch them on the spot, of course, and throw them out⁠—and there’s the long and the short of it.” And here is what they thought up. I made believe I was going out calling. I went away, walked for some time through the streets, and about six o’clock⁠—when Chaikin was relieved, that is⁠—I set out for home, soft and easy. I run up and push the door⁠—just as I thought, it was locked. I knock⁠—no answer. And Chaikin was already standing around the corner. Then I started knocking on the windows, until the panes jarred. Suddenly the latch clicks⁠—and Vanniya comes out. He’s as white as chalk. I hit him on the shoulder with all my might⁠—and go straight into the room. And there it was just like a feast had been laid out⁠—empty beer bottles; weak table wine; sardines; a large herring, all cleaned, as rosy as amber⁠—everything from the store. Phenka was sitting on a chair, with a blue ribbon in her braid. Soon as she saw me, she jumped up, staring at me with all her eyes; she was all white, and her very lips had turned blue from fear⁠—she thought I’d go for her, to beat her. But I just says, natural-like⁠—although I could scarcely breath; I was throwing my shawl open, and then muffling myself up again, by turns:

“What have you got here?” I says; “is it a bethrothal, or something? Or is it somebody’s birthday? Well, why don’t you welcome a body, why don’t you treat me to something?”

They don’t say a word.

“Well,” I says, “why don’t you say something? Why don’t you speak, little son? Is that the kind of a host you are, my pet? So that’s where my hard-earned money flies away, I see!”

He even got his dander up:

“I am of full age myself!”

“So-o,” I says, “and what about me? That means that I’m to rent a hutch or something from your grace and this here little bitch? To get out of my own house? Is that it, eh, So I’ve warmed a viper in my bosom, have I?”

And then he starts yelling at me!

“You have no right to insult her! You have been young yourself at one time⁠—you ought to understand what love is!”

And Chaikin, the minute he heard that uproar, was right there: he jumped in without a word, grabbed Vannka by the shoulders, and straight into a lumber room with him, under lock and key. (An awful strong man, he was⁠—like a bandit or something!) He turns the key on him, and says to Phenka:

“You are listed as a miss, but I can make a wolf out of you!”

(Meaning he’d make a note on her passport that would make her hounded like a wolf.)

“Do you want me to do that,” he says, “or don’t you? Vacate this room for us this very day, so’s there won’t be even a whiff of you left!”

She went into tears. But I added something on top of that.

“Let her first get the money what’s coming to me!” I says. “Or else I won’t even let her take away the least little lousy trunk of hers. Let her get my money ready, or I’ll let the whole town know about her!”

Well, so we packed her off that same evening. When I was chasing her out, she took on something awful. She cried and she couldn’t catch her breath for sobbing; she even tore her hair. Of course, her fix wasn’t any too sweet. Where was she to go? All her goods, all her booty, was her own person. But nevertheless she went off. Vanniya, too, quieted down for a while. He was let out from under lock and key in the morning⁠—and never a peep out of him; he was very much scared, and you could see by his face that he was conscience-stricken. He settled down to work. And so I even rejoiced and was set at rest⁠—but not for long. Again there were leaks from the till; and this here streetwalker started sending a boy into the shop, and my son, now, would supply her with all sorts of delicacies! Now he’d give her all the sugar she wanted, now tea, now tobacco.⁠ ⁠… Or a handkerchief, or soap, again and again⁠—whatever came to his hand.⁠ ⁠… How was a body to watch him all the time? And then he started in to drink, harder and harder. At last he neglected the store entirely: he didn’t even live at home, come to think of it⁠—he’d just come in and eat, and then he’d be off again without as much as a by-your-leave. Every day he’d go off to see her; he’d put a bottle under his coat, and away with him; and this same vodka, now, was already dear then. I run around like a chicken without its head⁠—from the dram-shop to the store, from the store to the dram-shop; and by that time I was afraid to tell him as much as a word⁠—he had become a downright tramp! He always was a good-looker⁠—he took after me entirely; his face was very fair and soft⁠—just like a young lady, he was; he had clear, intelligent eyes; was well-built, broad-shouldered, with chestnut curly hair.⁠ ⁠… But now his mug was all bloated; his hair got shaggy and came down over his collar; his eyes got bleary, and he got all tattered and had begun to stoop. He always kept silent now, looking at the bridge of his nose all the time⁠—in deep thought, like.

“Don’t you bother me now,” he’d say, “I’m liable to do something that will lead to prison.”

And when he’d get tipsy, he’d start slobbering, laughing over nothing at all; he’d be playing “Time Fled Beyond Recall” on his accordion, and his eyes would fill with tears. Well, I see my affairs are in a bad way⁠—time for me to get married, soon as I can. And right then they was trying to make a match betwixt me and a certain widower⁠—he had a store, too, and lived in a suburb. An elderly man, he was, but in good standing, with means. Just the very thing, you understand, that I was striving for. I find out as quickly as I can from trustworthy folks all about his life, down to the last stitch; I see there’s nothing out of the way whatsoever. I got to decide about getting up an acquaintance as quick as possible⁠—the matchmaker had only shown us to each other in church before that; I got to bring it about, you understand, so’s we can visit each other⁠—sort of make an inspection, as it were. He comes to me first, and gives his credentials: “Lagutin, Nikolai Ivannich⁠—storekeeper.” “Very pleased to meet you,” I says. I see he’s altogether a fine man⁠—not any too tall, of course, and all gray; but so agreeable, quiet, neat, diplomatic⁠—you could see he was a thrifty sort; he had never run up a copper of debt to anybody in all his life, he says. Then me and the matchmaker went to see him, like it was on business. We get there. I see he’s got a wine-cellar⁠—Rhine wines, mostly; and a store stocked with everything that goes with wines: cured lard, now, and ham, and sardines, and herrings. The house wasn’t large, but neat as a pin. There was flowers and little curtains on the windows, the floor was swept clean⁠—even though he were a bachelor. In the yard everything was in order, too. There was three cows and two horses. One was a three-year-old broodmare⁠—he’d been offered five hundred for it already, he said, but he’d turned the offer down. Well, I just went into raptures watching that horse⁠—that’s how handsome it was! But he only smiles quiet-like, walks with little steps before us, crackling his fingers, and telling us everything, like he was reading off some price-list: here’s this and this, and there’s that and that.⁠ ⁠… So, thinks I, it’s no use trying to be too smart here; the business ought to be brought to an end quick.⁠ ⁠…

Of course, it’s only now that I’m telling all these things so briefly; but only my poor head knows what feelings I went through at that time! I couldn’t feel my legs under me for joy⁠—I’d gotten what I was after, you see, I had found the party I was looking for! But I kept silent, I was afraid and shivering all over⁠—supposing all my hopes was to be dashed down? And that’s almost what did happen; all my trouble almost went for nothing⁠—and I can’t tell calmly the reason why, even now;⁠—it was on account of this here poor cripple, and on account of my darling little son! We was managing this business so quietly, so genteel, that we thought never a soul would know. But no, I hear that the entire suburb already knows about my intentions and Nikolai Ivannich’s; the rumour, of course, reached the Samokhvalovs as well⁠—never fear, it was nobody else but Polkanikha that whispered it to them. And he, the poor cripple, now, took and hung himself, like I’m telling you! “There now, you⁠—I threatened and you didn’t believe me, so now, I’ll do it just to spite you!” He hammered a nail into the wall above his head, fixed a cord from a sugar-loaf to it, drew it around his throat, and crawled off the bed. It wasn’t no great trick; didn’t take much brains! One day at twilight I was standing in the store, putting some things to rights⁠—when suddenly someone thunders again and again against a shutter in the house. My heart just went down into my shoes. I jump out on the threshold⁠—it’s Polkanikha.

“What do you want?”

“Nicanor Matveich has passed away!”

She barked it out, turned on her heel, and went for home. But I, in the first excitement, didn’t take anything into account⁠—it was just like I had been scalded with steam from fright.⁠ ⁠… I threw a shawl over my shoulders, and started after her. She runs, with her skirt caught up in front, stumbling, stooping⁠—and I keep on running too.⁠ ⁠… It was just a disgrace before the whole town! I run, and can’t understand a thing. I had only one thought⁠—I’m ruined forever! Just think of what he’d gone and done⁠—may God not bear it against him! Just think what little conscience some people have! I run up to the house⁠—and there are as many people there as at a fire. The front entrance is ajar; whoever wants to pushes his way in⁠—everybody is curious, naturally. In my lightheadedness I tried to get in there too. But, glory be, something seemed to hit me over the head; I came to my senses and backed out. Maybe that was what saved me⁠—else I would have known what crow tastes like. If anyone⁠—why, even this Polkanikha, say⁠—had remembered me!⁠ ⁠… “Here, now, your honour, is the one we think is to blame, who is the reason of it all; just you question her,”⁠—and all would have been over with me. Try and wriggle out of it then. A person may not have a blessed thing to do with it, but they grab you and put you away.⁠ ⁠… It wouldn’t be the first time a thing like that has happened.

Well, soon as they buried him, my heart eased up a little. I’m getting ready for the wedding, hurrying to wind up my business, to sell what I could without loss⁠—when again there’s grief and woe. I was knocked off my feet as it was, what with one worry and another, and was all roasted from the heat⁠—the heat that year was simply unbearable, with dust, with a hot wind, especially in our neighbourhood, in Glukhaya Ulitza, standing halfway up on a hill⁠—when suddenly there was another bit of news: Nikolai Ivannich had taken offense. He sends over this same matchmaker, now, that had brought us together⁠—a terrible slut, she was, and kept both her eyes peeled; never fear, it was she herself that put him, Nikolai Ivannich, up to it. Nikolai Ivannich lets me know through her as how he’s putting off the wedding until the first of September⁠—he’s got a lot of affairs to attend to, now⁠—and lets me know about my son, about Vanniya: to figure out what was best to be done with him; that he was to be placed anywhere at all⁠—“Because, now,” he says, “I won’t take him into my house, for no amount. Even though he be your own son,” he says, “he’s bound to clear ruin us, and he’ll be upsetting me.” (And really, just think of his position! Since he’s never known any turmoil, had never raised any rows, of course he was afraid of any excitement: whenever he’d get excited, everything in his head would get muddled⁠—he wouldn’t be able to say a word.) “Let her get rid of him,” he says. And where was I to place him, how was I to get rid of him? The young fellow had gotten out of hand entirely; with strangers he’d break his neck altogether. But there was no way of getting away from his riddance. As it was, I was all through with him ever since he’d come to know Phenka: she had just bewitched him, the bitch! He’d sleep all day and drink all night⁠—turning night into day.⁠ ⁠… I couldn’t even begin to tell the trouble I went through with him that summer! He got me so that I began to melt away like a candle; I couldn’t hold a spoon, my hands shook so. Soon as it got dark I’d sit down on the bench before the house and wait until he’d come in off the street⁠—I was afeared the boys in the city might do him up.⁠ ⁠…

Well, having gotten such a decision from Nikolai Ivannich, I call my son to me: “So-and-so, my little son,” I says, “I’ve borne with you long enough, but you’ve turned out a weakling and have gone astray; you have disgraced me all over this neighbourhood. You’ve got used to having everything soft and nice, now, until at last you’ve become a tramp, a drunkard. You haven’t got a gift like I have⁠—no matter how many times I fell, I always got up again; but you can’t save up anything for yourself. Here am I⁠—I’ve come to be respected, and I own real estate, and I drink and eat no worse nor other folk; I don’t deny my heart nothing⁠—and all along of being governed by common sense, always and above all things. But you, I see, want to stay a flutter-fly, like you’d always been. It’s time you was getting off my neck.⁠ ⁠…”

He sits there and never a word out of him⁠—just picks the oilcloth on the table. I had just called him out to dinner, for he’d been sleeping all along, and his mug was all puffed up.

“Well, why don’t you say something?” I asks. “Don’t you be tearing that oilcloth⁠—get one of your own first; just you answer me.”

Again he don’t say a word; he bends his head and his lips quiver.

“You’re going to marry?” he says.

“Well,” I says, “it ain’t known yet whether I am or whether I ain’t; but, if I do marry, it will be a decent man, that ain’t a-going to let you into his house. I ain’t your Phenka, brother; I ain’t no streetwalker or something.” When all on a sudden he jumps up from his place and gets all in a passion:

“Why,” he says, “you ain’t worth one of her fingernails!”

How was that? Good, eh? He jumped up, yelling till it didn’t sound like his own voice, slammed the door like thunder⁠—and off with him. But I, even though I was no great hand at crying, just went off into tears. I cry one day, I cry another⁠—I had only to think of the words he could find the heart to say to me, and off I’d go. I cry, but I keep one thing in mind⁠—I would never forgive him such an insult till the end of time, and I would drive him off entirely.⁠ ⁠… But all this time he don’t come home. I hear he’s carrying on a feast at her house, dancing and prancing, drinking through the money he had stolen, and threatening me: “Never mind,” he says, “I’ll settle her; I’ll lay in wait till she’ll be going somewhere in the evening; and I’ll kill her with a stone.” He sends to the store to buy things⁠—to make fun of me, of course; now for ginger cookies, now for herrings. I just quiver all over from vexation, but I hold myself in and give what’s wanted. One day I’m sitting in the store, when suddenly he comes in himself, drunk as a lord. He brings in some herrings⁠—a little wench had bought four of them that morning for his money, of course⁠—and slap with them down on the counter!

“How dare you,” he yells, “send such abominable stuff to your customers? They smell; they’re only fit for dogs to eat!”

He’s yelling, with his nostrils all puffed out⁠—looking for an excuse.

“Don’t you be raising no rumpus here,” I says, “and don’t be yelling; I don’t make the herrings myself, but buy them by the barrel. If you don’t like them, don’t guzzle them⁠—here’s your money back.”

“But what if I had ate them and died?”

“Again,” I says, “you’re swine, and ain’t got no call to be yelling at me⁠—who are you to be giving me orders? Guess you ain’t such a much. You ought to speak decent-like, and not be crowding in with a row into somebody else’s establishment.”

But all on a sudden he grabbed hold of a steelyard off a bin and sort of hisses out:

“I’ll swat you over the head,” he says, “so’s you’ll stretch right out!”

And then he ran out of the shop with all his might. But I, the way I had sat down on the floor, that’s the way I stayed⁠—I just couldn’t get up.⁠ ⁠…

Then, I hear that they done for him⁠—the Lord had punished him on account of his mother! He was barely alive when they brought him in a cab⁠—unconscious drunk, his head bobbing, his hair caked with blood and covered with dust; his boots and watch had been stolen, his new jacket was all in tatters⁠—there wasn’t as much as a square inch of whole cloth left anywhere.⁠ ⁠… I figured and I figured⁠—take him in I did, and I even paid the cabby; but that very same day I sends my compliments to Nikolai Ivannich, and say that he be told for sure that he shouldn’t be worried any more over anything; that I had decided about my son, now⁠—I would drive him out without any pity right off when he would wake up. He also sends back his compliments and bids them say: “Very wisely and well done, accept my thanks and sympathy⁠ ⁠…” and two weeks later he set the date for the wedding. Yes.⁠ ⁠…

Well, that’s enough; that’s where my story ends. Guess there’s nothing more, to tell about. I’ve gotten along so well with my husband all my days, that it’s just like a rarity nowadays. As I’m saying, what I went through whilst I was struggling to get into this heaven can’t be told in words! But, truth to tell, the Lord hath rewarded me⁠—it is now the twenty-first year that I’m living with my little old man, fenced about as with a stone wall, and I know for sure that he wouldn’t let nothing or nobody hurt me; it’s only to look at him that he’s so quiet! But, of course, no matter how I try, the heart will start yearning once in a while! Especially before Easter, in Lent, for some reason or other. I think I could die now⁠—it’s fine, peaceful; they’ll be after reading litanies in all the churches.⁠ ⁠… True, I’ve had enough of toiling and moiling in my time⁠—oh, but Nastasiya Semenovna was the persistent one! Ought I, with my mind, to be sitting on the outskirts of a town? My husband calls me Skobele,3 as it is.⁠ ⁠… Again, once in a while I get to longing for Vanniya. Never a bit of news about him in twenty years. Maybe he’s died long since, but I don’t know about it. I even felt sorry for him that time they brought him in. We dragged him in, and got him up into bed⁠—he slept like he was dead the livelong day. I’d climb up, and listen to his breathing⁠—to see if he was alive, now.⁠ ⁠… And in the room there was a sour stench of some sort; he’s lying in bed, all tattered, chewed-up, snoring and gagging.⁠ ⁠… It was a shame and a pity to look at him, and yet it was my own flesh and blood! I’d look and I’d look, and I’d listen⁠—and then walk out. And what an anguish seized hold on me! I forced myself to sup, cleared away the table, put out the light.⁠ ⁠… Can’t sleep, and that’s all there is to it⁠—I just lie there and shiver.⁠ ⁠… And it was one moonlit night. Then I hear he’s waked up. He’s coughing all the time, all the time going out into the yard, banging the door.

“What you walking about for?” I ask.

“My stomach aches,” he says.

I can hear by his voice that he’s upset and grieving.

“Drink some of that mugwort and vodka that you’ll find in a bottle standing in the image shrine.”

I lay a little longer⁠—I may have dozed off a little⁠—when I felt through my slumber, that someone is stealing up over the flooring. I jumped up⁠—it was he.

“Mother, dear,” he says, “don’t be afraid of me, for the love of Christ!”

And then he went off into a flood of tears! He sat down on the bed, catching my hands, kissing them, raining tears on them⁠—and just unable to catch his breath⁠—that’s how he was crying and sobbing. I couldn’t bear it⁠—and went off on my own! It was a pity, of course, but there was no help for it⁠—all my future lot turned upon him. But then, I saw he understood all this very well himself.

“I can forgive you,” I says, “but you see yourself, now, that there’s nothing to be done about it. So you just go away as far as possible, so’s I shouldn’t even hear about you!”

“Mother, dear,” he says, “why have you ruined me, just like you ruined that poor cripple Nicanor Matveich?”

Well, I see the man ain’t in his right senses yet, so I didn’t even start to argue with him. He cried and he cried, then he got up and went away. And in the morning, I look into the room where he’d slept, but he was already gone for a long while. That meant he had gone as early as possible for shame⁠—and then he just disappeared, like a stone in the water. There was a rumour, now, that he had lived for a while in a monastery at Zadorsk; that he had then travelled to Tsaritsin⁠—and there, never fear, he must have broken his neck.⁠ ⁠… But what’s the use of talking about it⁠—it only troubles the heart! No matter how much you cook water, it will still be water.⁠ ⁠…

But as to what he’d said about Nicanor Matveich⁠—why, I think it’s even silly. It wasn’t like I had been greedy after a great sum, or had pulled it out of his pocket. He knew his unfortunate condition himself, and was often taken with spells of sadness. He used to say to me at times:

“Nastiya, fate has made me a cripple, and my nature is an insane one: either I’m gay somehow, like just before some misfortune⁠—or else I have such a melancholy spell, especially in summer, during the heat, with all this dust, that I could just lay hands on myself! I’ll die; they’ll bury me in the Chernoslobodskaya cemetery⁠—and this dust will swirl for all eternity on to my grave, from beyond the enclosing wall!”

“But, now, Nicanor Matveich, why take on so about that? We don’t feel such things when we’re dead.”

“Why,” he says, “what of it that we won’t feel them⁠—the trouble is that one thinks about them while one is still alive.⁠ ⁠…”

And, to tell the truth, it was awful wearisome in the house, in the Samokhvalovs’, when everybody would fall asleep after dinner, and the wind would be swirling this dust along! And he had laid hands on himself just at the time of the greatest heat, at the dullest time. Our whole town, to tell the truth, is wearisome. I was in Tula the other day, now⁠—why, you can’t even compare them!