The humour of Russia

by Unknown

Picture II.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Karp Kàrpych Tolstogoràzdov, merchant; short, fat, grey haired.

Oulìta Nikìtishna, his wife; an elderly woman, without any noteworthy characteristics.

Serafìma Kàrpovna, Tolstogoràzdov’s daughter; widow; tall, slender, remarkably handsome; walk and gestures of boarding-school girl; often meditates; sighs and lifts her eyes to heaven when she speaks of love; also when she counts her money; and sometimes without any reason.

Matryòna, maid-servant; distant connection of the Tolstogoràzdov’s, a young girl; plump, exquisitely white skin, red cheeks, black eyes and brows. Costume: Pelisse, ornamental chemise, with muslin sleeves, and coins woven into plait of hair.

First Coachman, Tolstogoràzdov’s.

Second Coachman, Serafima’s.

Courtyard, gallery of house, right. Garden in background. Stables, &c., left. Two doors: one into cellar, one into hay-loft.

Scene I. In Courtyard.

(First Coachman sits on cellar steps. Enter Matryòna.)

First Coachman (sings, falsetto).

“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,

Gold had I to spare and give;—

Now my joys are vanished with my treasure,

As a wretched slave I live.”

Matryòna. The master and mistress have waked up; you might carry in the samovar, Ivànych.

First C. Oh! you’re a fine lady, I suppose. Why, you’ve got so fat that one can’t pinch you anywhere; just as if you’d been hammered on an anvil. (Sings.)

“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?

Who shall tell its bitterness?”

Matryòna. Talk about me being fat! Why, your own cheeks are blown out like wind-bags! Can’t you take in the samovar when I ask you?

First C. Come again to-morrow. (Sings.)

“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,

Gold had I to spare and give——”

Matryòna. Wait a bit! I’ll tell Oulìta Nikìtishna that you’re an idle fellow, and one never can get you to do anything.

First C. I’m the coachman; do you understand that? I have my own work to do. And what are you? A beggarly fine lady! If you go so fine, you’ll freeze your stockings. So you can just carry the samovar yourself.

Matryòna. Why, the thing weighs twelve stone, man; how can a girl carry it?

First C. All I have to say is—it’s not my business.

Matryòna. Then you’re a brazen, shameless fellow! A girl may break her back, for all you care!

(Lifts samovar with great difficulty, and carries it to gallery, turning her head away from the steam.)

First C. (calls after her). Don’t romp in your earrings, the gilding will come off!

MATRYÒNA: “THEN YOU’RE A BRAZEN, SHAMELESS FELLOW! A GIRL MAY BREAK HER BACK, FOR ALL YOU CARE.”

Matryòna (going up steps: looks back). Impertinence! (Puts samovar on table.)

First C. (sings).

“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?

Who shall tell its bitterness?”

(Enter on gallery Karp Kàrpych and Oulìta Nikìtishna. Coachman stops singing, and exit.)

Scene II. On Gallery.

(Karp Kàrpych and Oulìta Nikìtishna sit down at table.)

Oulìta (makes tea). Moiré antique is all the fashion now.

Karp. What do you mean by moiré antique?

Oulìta. It’s a kind of material.

Karp. Well, it’s all one to me.

Oulìta. Yes; I was only thinking.... Supposing Serafimochka were to marry, I really think I’d have a dress made of it.... All the ladies are wearing it.

Karp. And you call yourself a lady?

Oulìta. Well, what else am I?

Karp. You might have found out by now that I can’t bear to hear you call yourself a lady. I hate the word!

Oulìta. What’s the matter with the word? There’s nothing—(hesitates)—nothing to be ashamed of.

Karp. If I don’t like it, that’s enough, I suppose!

Oulìta. Well, Serafimochka’s a lady, anyway.

Karp. Of course she is! She’s had learning; and she was married to a gentleman. But what are you? You were always a goodwife like any other. And now, just because your husband’s got rich, you must be a lady! Climb on your own feet if you want to be so high!

Oulìta. No, no! But all the same ... you know——

Karp. If I tell you to hold your tongue, that’s enough. (Silence.)

Oulìta. When was that battle fought?

Karp. What battle?

Oulìta. Why, lately, you know. Don’t you remember?

Karp. And what about it?

Oulìta. Such a lot of common soldiers got made into officers.

Karp. Why not? They weren’t women. Everybody gets a fair reward for his services.

Oulìta. But, do you know, there’s a pedlar woman that comes here; and she says that, when her nephew passes his examination, she’ll be made a noble too.

Karp. When the sky rains potatoes!

Oulìta. But they say there are countries where they have women for soldiers.

Karp (laughs). Life Guards, no doubt! (Silence.)

Oulìta. They say it’s sinful to drink tea.

Karp. What do you mean by that?

Oulìta. Because it comes from a heathen country.

Karp. Heaps of things come from heathen countries.

Oulìta. No; it’s quite true; now, bread grows on Christian soil, and we eat it at the proper time; but when do we drink tea? People go to mass, and we sit drinking tea; now its vesper-time, and here we are drinking tea. So you see it’s a sin.

Karp. Well, then, drink it at the proper time.

Oulìta. Yes; but still——

Karp. Yes; but still, hold your tongue. You haven’t much of a headpiece, but you’re very fond of talking. Just hold your tongue! (Silence.)

Oulìta. How lucky our Serafimochka is! She married a gentleman, and that made her a lady; and now that she’s a widow, she’s still a lady. Supposing she should marry a prince now, perhaps she’ll be a princess.

Karp. Only through her husband.

Oulìta. Well, now, if she were to marry a prince, what should I be? Surely, something; she’s my child.

Karp. It’s enough to addle one’s head to talk half an hour with you! I wanted to think about business, and here you keep worrying me with your chattering and nonsense. Life isn’t long enough to hear all you women have got to say; I think the quickest way will be for you to hold your tongue! (Meditates. Silence. Enter Matryòna, hurriedly.)

Matryòna. Oulìta Nikìtishna! Little mother! Serafima Kàrpovna has come.

Oulìta. Goodness gracious! (Rises hastily, and exit with Matryòna.)

Karp. If one didn’t manage one’s women by fear, there’d be no doing anything with them at all. They’ve got their own business; and yet nothing will satisfy them but to interfere in other people’s. And to see the way a woman will get round her husband, to make him tell her all his affairs and secrets, and work on him with her beauty and her cunning ways, and make eyes at him; and it’s all nothing but ruin and destruction. And if you tell them your affairs, they interfere, and lead you astray, and make you do everything their way instead of your own. Many men have gone to ruin through women. Of course, a young, inexperienced man can be led away by their beauty; but when a man has reached years of discretion, and grown serious and wise, a woman’s beauty is nothing to him at all, it only disgusts him.

Scene III. In the Courtyard.

(Enter First and Second Coachman.)

Second C. Why, there’s no comparing it; you’re a thousand times better off. If you knew what my mistress is like! She’s more of a Jew than a lady; she measures the very oats out herself. (Exeunt into stable. Enter on gallery Oulìta, Serafìma, and Matryòna.)

Scene IV. On Gallery.

(Karp Kàrpych. Oulìta sits down at her place and pours out tea. Serafìma, in hat and cloak, with parasol and green gloves. Matryòna places on table a figured china cup which she has brought from the room, and stands a little way off.)

SERAFIMA: “GOOD EVENING, PAPA.”

Serafima. Good evening, papa. (Goes up to him. They kiss.)

Karp. Good evening. Sit down, my girl.

Serafima (sits down). And where’s my brother, Onesìme?

Karp. Where’s Onesìme? Off on the spree. He’s been playing the devil for five days.

Serafima. And Anna Vlàsyevna?

Karp. Well, you see, whatever we do, we can’t make Onesìme leave off drinking. So your mother has sent your sister round to the prisons to give out white bread; so perhaps God will forgive us.

Oulìta. Yes, yes; I sent her to take round white rolls to the prisoners.... You know they’ve most of them got into trouble for nothing....

Karp. Oho! For nothing? They’re to rob and murder to their heart’s content, and not get locked up for it!

Oulìta. Well, but the robbers and murderers are in the great prison; what do people get put into the jail for?

Karp. For debt.

Oulìta. It’s all very well to talk about debt; they say Kòn Kònych is in jail for interest.

Karp. For what—interest?

Oulìta. Yes, indeed; for interest. And it’s not right! What a man borrows, he should give back; but interest is a sin.

Karp. Going to begin your chattering again, now! (Oulìta pours out tea; Matryòna carries cup on tray to Serafìma; she takes it with her gloves on.)

Oulìta. Serafimoushka, you’d better take off your hat and cloak; and you might as well unlace your dress at the back; there are no strangers here. Matryòna will do it for you.

Serafima. Oh! mamma, how can you? I don’t feel the heat. I just came to you for a minute to ask your advice.

Karp (blowing on his saucer). What about?

Serafima. I want to marry.

Oulìta (clasping her hands). Good gracious!

Karp. Well, why not? Why shouldn’t she? You might do worse....

Oulìta (shaking her head, and folding both hands on her breast). My beauty!

Karp. Who is the man? I should like to hear that.

Serafima. He’s quite a young man, papa; he serves in the Law Court; and, I ought to tell you, he’s not well off. I wouldn’t marry a poor man, only that I am so very much in love with him. (Raises eyes to heaven; sighs, and meditates.)

Oulìta (clasping her hands). Dear heart!

Karp. And who is he?

Serafima. His name is Prèzhnev. He’s a noble, of good family; and may get a good situation. I’ve thought it over; you see, I have my own fortune. If I am careful with the money, there will be enough for me and a husband. I am willing to deny myself many things rather than live without him. (Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs.)

Karp. Perhaps there’s something remarkable about him?

Serafima. I haven’t heard of anything at all.

Karp. Well, Serafima, my girl, remember one thing: you’re a cut-off twig; I shan’t give you any more money; so mind you don’t run through what you’ve got.

Oulìta. The other one was old; but you say this one’s young, so very likely you may have children; you must keep the money for them.

Serafima. With my character, I can’t squander my money. (Gives cup to Matryòna.)

Karp. H’m!——You say he’s young; and you’re a widow, not a girl; I doubt you’ll feel a bit ashamed before your husband; he’ll just make a fool of you and get hold of your money.

Serafima (takes cup from Matryòna). Do you think that men love only for money? (Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs.)

Karp. Why, what did you suppose? Everybody knows that.

Serafima (suddenly waking out of meditation). I won’t give him any money.

Karp. That’s right; that’s capital; you do as I told you.

Serafima. Of course I will, papa. You needn’t think I’m going to be silly.

Karp. We’re going to have a wedding too, soon. Matryòna was found in the garden with one of the shopmen; so I’m going to marry them. (Matryòna hides her face in her sleeve.) I shall give him a thousand roubles, and have the wedding at my cost.

Oulìta. It’s all very well for you to get up weddings; you just want a chance to have a drunken spree.

Karp. Well, what now?

Oulìta. Nothing.

Karp (sternly). No; you say what you mean.

Oulìta. Nothing; really nothing.

Karp (very sternly). No; I will have you speak out; I want to hear.

Oulìta. There’s no use speaking when you never listen.

Karp. What should I listen for? It’s not worth while when you talk. Ah-h-h-, Oulìta Nikìtishna! (Threatens with his finger.) You were told to hold your tongue! I want the lass to feel what I’m doing for her; and here you come in with your chattering!... (Matryòna hides her face with the other sleeve.) She’s only my second cousin twice removed, and yet I give her a dowry. I’m the benefactor of all my kindred. There’s another little one; I shall take her in Matryòna’s place, and bring her up, and settle her in life. (Silence.)

Oulìta. Are you quite sure he will love you, my dear?

Serafima. Why not, mamma? There’s nothing objectionable in my character. The only thing is ... when I was at boarding-school they used to say that I had no comprehension of music whatsoever, and that I was dreamy, and given to meditating about nothing; and then, I’m very fond of sweets—perhaps he won’t notice that though. There is one thing more: I’m very bad at counting silver money——

Karp. Oh, that’s nothing! You’ll soon get into it.

Serafima. Perhaps he won’t like my being economical; but then, how could I manage otherwise? I only try to live within my income, and not run into my capital. What should I be without capital? I should have no value at all!

Karp. Of course not!

Serafima. And I know how to add up interest—on paper; I was taught that at boarding-school. I can’t do it without paper, though. (Meditates.)

Oulìta. What are you thinking about, child?... Why, what a silly I am! It’s not much wonder that you think, poor girl! Such a change in your life! And there’s no telling beforehand how it’ll turn out.

Serafima. No, mamma, it’s not that. I’ve just been buying some ribbon—seven ells at eighty kopecks, paper money; and I was just thinking how much that would be in silver money, and how much change I ought to have from three roubles. (Takes out purse and looks into it.)

Karp. Rouble sixty kopecks—one rouble forty change.

Serafima. Are you sure, papa?

Karp. Why, bless the girl, what else could it be?

Serafima (puts back purse). All right.

Oulìta. Are you sure he doesn’t drink?

Karp. There you are again! Everybody drinks nowadays.

Oulìta. I mean, you’d better ask what he’s like when he’s drunk.

Karp. Ah! that’s another matter!

Oulìta. Because, you know, some people are so quiet in drink that it really doesn’t matter. It’s just as if they weren’t drunk.

Serafima. All right, mamma; I’ll ask. I must go now.

Oulìta. Oh, no! You mus’n’t, indeed; stop a bit. You’re so fond of sweet things.... We’ve got some splendid fruit. Run and fetch it, Matryòna; it’s on my bedroom window-sill. (Matryòna goes out, comes back with fruit, offers it to Serafìma, and then places it on table.) Take some, dear child; take some. Won’t you have some liqueur?

Serafima. Really, mamma!

Oulìta. Have a glass of beer, darling.

Serafima. You know I never drink it.

Oulìta. Well then, mead?

Serafima. I can’t, really.

Oulìta. Jam, then?

Serafima. I’ll have some jam.

Oulìta (taking keys out of pocket). Go to the store-room, Matryòna, and bring me two kinds.

Serafima. And tell my coachman to bring the carriage round.

(Matryòna crosses stage, and exit.)

Oulìta. Have some more fruit, Serafimoushka. (Serafìma takes some.) Won’t you have any, Karp Kàrpych?

Karp. What next? As if I were going to eat all sorts of rubbish now! Put some aside for me, and have the rest cleared away. I’ll eat an orange with my brandy. (Oulìta eats fruit. Silence.)

Scene V. In the Courtyard.

Matryòna (crosses stage with two plates, goes up to stable-door, and pushes it with her foot). Here, you ragamuffins! (Enter Coachmen from stable.) Bring the horses round; Madame wants to go.

Second C. You see, at that time, my master was angry with me about something, and wanted to sell me for a soldier.

First C. Bless my soul!

Second C. So you see, my dear fellow, I’d got my head just full of the war, and never talked about anything but war with every man I met. And I got so worked up in my feelings like, that I was ready to go at the Circassians themselves.

First C. I’ve got a neighbour here, a friend of mine; he’s an officer’s servant, and he was with his master in the Hungarian campaign; and you should just hear what he can tell about the Austrians!

Second C. What about them?

First C. Why, my good fellow, they told him beforehand, with the Frenchmen standing by—there were Frenchmen, you know—“Do you think you can stand against me? If I choose, I’ll tear you in pieces.”

Second C. And they can do it too!

First C. Ah! that they can!

Second C. Because they’re so strong, you see!

First C. Nothing can stand against them. It’s like when they had the militia ... eleven vershkòv high, and could lift fifteen poods. And there they’d advance on you! Then, bang, bang, bang goes the big drum, and they all shout, Forwards! March! Treason! And there they come on and on, and what can you do?

Second C. In course they must get the better of them; that’s plain.

First C. You see, the one that wins, that’ll be which ever is strongest.

Matryòna. I’m perfectly tired of hearing you. You’re fine soldiers ... do your fighting sitting by the oven. War can’t be such a very dreadful thing after all.

First C. (glances sideways at Matryòna with absolute contempt): Brazen hussy!

Matryòna. Madame’s waiting; do you hear?

Second C. (hangs whip on right arm, and gives left hand to First C.). Good-bye!

First C. Good-bye, my lad! (Exit behind house. Matryòna goes on to gallery.)

Scene VI. On the Gallery.

Oulìta. Serafimoushka! I’d almost forgotten! There’s one more thing you must certainly do; now mind you don’t forget. When you’ve found out all about your lover, and are sure he’s not a spendthrift, or a drunkard, or a gambler, go to the wise woman, Paràsha. You must go in quietly, and ask: “Will God’s servant, Serafima, be happy with God’s servant”——what’s his name?

Serafima. Paul.

Oulìta. “With God’s servant, Paul?” And whatever she tells you, do accordingly.

Karp. Don’t you do anything of the kind.

Oulìta. Look here, Karp Kàrpych, I always obey you in everything; but this is not your business; it’s woman’s business! Don’t listen to him, Serafimoushka; do as I tell you. I’m your mother; I shan’t advise you wrong.

Serafima. Very well. (Rises.) Good-bye, mamma; good-bye, papa. (Kisses them.)

Karp. And listen here! You tell your lover that, if he behaves to me respectfully and properly, I’ll give him a good fur cloak; and if he doesn’t, I’ll take it away again. (Exeunt.)

Picture III.[^[14]]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Paul.

Serafìma, his wife.

Madame Prèzhnev.

A Person Unknown, a friend of Paul, middle-aged, with Greek profile and gloomy expression of face.

A Maid-servant.

A Footman.

(A richly-furnished study. Paul sits at the table writing. Enter Footman.)

Foot. Pàvel Petròvich, the tailor and carriage-builder are waiting.

Paul (turning round). Send them off!

Foot. They won’t go, sir.

Paul. Then tell them to come next week.

Foot. I told them; but they won’t go.

Paul. You surely don’t expect me to come out and speak to them myself? Tell them anything you like. You see I’m busy. You’re always disturbing me; be off with you!

Foot. There’s a gentleman that asks to see you too, sir.

Paul. Turn him out too.

(The person unknown comes in at the door. The Footman sees him, and exit.)

Unknown. Turn Nature out at the door, she’ll come in at the window.

Paul (rises). Oh! my dear fellow! I didn’t know it was you; I really beg your pardon.

Unknown. No; you didn’t know. (Inspects Paul from head to foot; then begins examining the room.)

Paul. Indeed I didn’t know. You don’t suppose I should have refused to see you?

Unknown (sits down). There, that’ll do, that’ll do.

Paul. Won’t you have a cigar?

Unknown (smiling ironically). A cigar? And when am I to have the money?

Paul. Very soon now.

Unknown. Which do you mean by that—now? or very soon?

Paul. Soon; quite soon.

Unknown. You’ll pay it soon? (Looks intently at Paul.) And supposing I don’t believe you?

Paul. How can you help believing, when the document is in your hands?

Unknown. That’s just it! The date in the document is up; and all this is not yours, but your wife’s.

Paul. That’s all the same.

Unknown. No; not all the same.

Paul. Well, then, what do you want?

Unknown. I’ll tell you. Either you give me all the money to-morrow, or else we’ll re-write the document.

Paul. Certainly. We’ll re-write it now if you like.

Unknown. No; we’ll re-write it to-morrow; only then your wife must sign her name as security.

Paul. What for?

Unknown. Oh! well, the broker will know what for; otherwise I shall simply go to law. (Rises.)

Paul. All right; all right.

Unknown. Mind, then, to-morrow. (Goes to door.) You’re not thinking of getting out of it anyway, are you? You can’t do that with me. (Exit.)

Paul. This sort of thing is really quite annoying! Here I am, as rich as you please, and yet I can’t get any money. I shall have to ask my wife for it; it’s all the same now whether the money is hers or mine; we have everything in common. It’s even better that it should be in my hands. And what is the use of my putting it off so long? I only get more and more entangled.

(Enter Serafìma. Paul writes.)

Serafima. Leave off, Paul! Don’t write! (Embraces him. He leaves off writing.) I am so happy! so happy! What have I done to deserve such happiness! (Meditates.) I have abundance of everything; I have such a dear husband! (Kisses him.) So handsome! so clever! only one thing distresses me: you are out so much. Now that we are married, you ought to be always with me; I believe I should love you still more then.

Paul. It’s impossible, my love; I have the office.

Serafima. Are you going to-day?

Paul. Yes; it’s time for me to start now.

Serafima. Take me with you.

Paul. Where? To the Senate House?

Serafima. Yes; why not?

Paul. What things you say! How could I?

Serafima. It’s always, “I can’t” with you! You simply don’t love me; that’s why you don’t want to take me. If you loved me, you’d take me! You’d say to every one, “This is my wife.” You’ll never have cause to be ashamed of me; I was educated at a boarding-school.

Paul. If you don’t believe me, ask any one you like whether men take their wives to Government offices.

Serafima. They don’t take us because they don’t love us; they would take us if they did. If you men loved us as we love you, you’d fulfil every whim we have. We’re ready to do everything in the world for you; and you don’t care to do the merest trifle for us.

Paul. I, too, am willing to do anything you ask; only this is impossible.

Serafima. Well then, at least do me one kindness: don’t go to-day; stop with me.

Paul (shrugs his shoulders). All right, if you like!

Serafima. No! Do you really mean you won’t go?

Paul. I won’t go, if you wish me not to.

Serafima. Dear Paul! How good you are! How you spoil me! What is there in the world I wouldn’t do for you! Now tell me—tell me what you would like! you must tell me! (Caresses him.) Ask me for anything you like—anything—anything in the world! Come now, tell me what you would like; I’ll drive straight into town and buy it for you.

(Enter Maid-servant.)

Maid. If you please, ma’am, the dressmaker has come.

Serafima. Paul, dear Paul! I will come back in a minute. (Exit.)

Paul. What extraordinary fancies she has sometimes! I really can’t make out whether it’s from stupidity or from love for me. For that matter, it’s a very good thing that she’s so much in love with me. The idea of her asking me what I want! What I want? Why, money, of course. It seems it’s quite a true saying that women’s hearts are much tenderer than ours. I confess I used not to believe that; but now I see that, once love has taken a firm hold upon them, you can get anything you like out of them.... And then, she’s so pretty! Even if you look at it from quite another point of view—it’s delightful, there certainly is nothing else to be said about it.... I’d better ask her for a big sum at once; I must take advantage of her momentary exaltation. (Re-enter Serafìma.) Ah! Serafima! I wanted to speak to you.

Serafima. And I wanted to speak to you, Paul.

Paul. Very well; what is it?

Serafima. No, you speak first.

Paul. No, you, Serafima.

Serafima. No, you.

Paul. I give the precedence to you, as a lady, Serafima.

Serafima. This is what I wanted to say, my Paul: you change your shirt every day; that is rather extravagant.

Paul. Are you gone off your head! You can’t call that an extravagance, in our position! No; I wanted to talk to you about something altogether different.

Serafima. All the same, my dear (kisses him), we must think about economy; there’s nothing unreasonable in that.

Paul. Forgive me, Serafima! I understand you, my love; indeed it is a good thing that you are economical in trifles. Trifles are an important matter in life. I am glad that I have found in you such a housewife. But I want to speak to you about more serious business.

Serafima. About what, Paul? No, no, stop! Why should we talk about business? We haven’t done talking about love, yet. We have nothing to do, now, as you didn’t go to the office. Why should we talk about business? Let us talk about love! (Sighs, and raises eyes to heaven.)

Paul. We can talk about love afterwards, whenever you like; but I must speak about business now.

Serafima. Ah! Paul! you have stayed at home with me. Indeed I don’t want to think of anything else now!

Paul. No, Serafima; I really must have a serious talk with you.

Serafima (a little offended). Well, what is it you want?

Paul. How do you wish to employ your capital?

Serafima. What a question! I don’t want to employ it anyhow. It can stop in the Council,[^[15]] and we’ll live on the interest.

Paul. But the interest is very little, my love; we had better put the capital into circulation.

Serafima. Into what circulation?

Paul. We might buy an estate, for instance.

Serafima. No, no, no! Not for the world! What estate?

Paul. Why, a village in some good fertile province—Orèl, or somewhere there.

Serafima. Not for anything on earth! The peasants won’t pay; the village may burn down; or the crops will fail five years running; what should we do then?

Paul. Crops don’t fail five years running.

Serafima. But they may do; you’re not a prophet, you know.

Paul. Well then, let’s buy a house and put in tenants.

Serafima. But the tenants won’t pay.

Paul. How do you mean, they won’t pay? One can prosecute if they don’t.

Serafima. And if the house burns down?

Paul. We must insure it.

Serafima. Then invaders will come and destroy everything! No, no, not for the world!

Paul. Well, well, we won’t talk any more about it.

Serafima. Think of it yourself; you’re a young man still; we may have children.

Paul. Of course we shall have children; but what of that? The more money we get, the more there will be for the children.

Serafima. No, no; I don’t want even to hear about it, or I shall only get miserable; you musn’t put me out. What’s the use of circulation? We can live as we are; we have enough of everything. (Meditates.) You are free to-day; you haven’t gone to the office.... (Embraces him.)

Paul (detaching himself from her arms). No, Serafima; as you like, but I must have a talk with you.

Serafima (seriously). What now?

Paul. This, my dear: if you really love me, give me five thousand silver roubles. I need the money pressingly for a certain business. It is a very profitable business, Serafima; I won’t tell you what it is now; but we may get the amount doubled, or perhaps even more. Indeed, I am almost sure that it will be more.

SERAFIMA: “FIVE—THOUSAND—SILVER—ROUBLES! HOW MUCH WILL THAT BE IN PAPER MONEY?”
PAUL: “HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”

Serafima. Five—thousand—silver—roubles! How much will that be in paper money?

Paul. How should I know?

Serafima. Stop; I’ll calculate it. (Takes paper and pencil out of pocket and calculates.) Ah! ah! (Rushes away.)

Paul. What can be the matter now? What’s frightened her? I can’t make it out! Does she suppose I’m going to spend all my life in making love? That’s a good idea! Is she miserly? or what is it? I must find out which she loves best—me or money. If she loves me best, the matter can be set right. But if she loves the money best, I’ve run my neck into a halter.

(Enter Madame Prèzhnev.)

Madame P. Bonjour, Paul!

Paul. Bonjour, Maman!

Madame P. (sits down). I’ve just been into your wife’s room. What is the matter with her? She’s crying, and getting ready to go out.

Paul. We’ve had a little scene.

Madame P. Oh, Paul! already? So soon after the wedding! Did you do anything to hurt her feelings? Woman is such a frail and tender creature.

Paul. Why the devil should I hurt her feelings? I only asked her for money.

Madame P. Were you gentle enough with her?

Paul. Why, dear me, I’ve been spooning with her a whole month, like a turtle-dove. (Bursts out laughing.) I never once asked her for money till just now. First of all, she got as sentimental as you please: “Ask anything you like; I’ll do anything in the world for you; I’ll go straight to town and buy whatever you want.” What should she buy me?—a china poodle? or a hussar in sugar? Well, directly I asked her for five thousand, she just screamed and ran away ... and now she’s in tears! The deuce knows what to make of it!

Madame P. She has no heart, my dear. Women are ready to give up everything on earth for the man they love. No, my Paul, she is no woman.

Paul. Oh, she’s a woman all right enough; only she won’t give the money.

Madame P. Oh, Paul! I am convinced that she will appreciate you in time, and will come to love you so much, so much (with enthusiasm) that she will entirely give into your keeping both herself and—and all her possessions.

Paul. Yes; but she hasn’t done it yet; and I can’t wait.

Madame P. Wait a little, Paul! Think what bliss awaits you in the future. (Enter Maid-servant and gives Paul letter and pocket-book.)

Paul. What is that?

Maid. Madame has gone away in the carriage, and told me to give you these. (Exit.)

Paul. A pocket-book! That’s good! (Puts it in pocket.)

Madame P. I told you so!

Paul. Now let’s read the letter. (Reads.) “Dear Paul—Much as I love you, we must separate. My heart will bleed all my life; and I shall weep for you day and night. I wish to go and live with my papa, like a prisoner, and bewail my fate; and I shall sell this house. You will never see me any more. I love you with all my soul; but you showed me to-day that you love me for my money’s sake. In our merchant class, it is not the custom to give away one’s money. Of what significance shall I be, if I have no money? I shall be of no importance at all! If I have no money, and I love a man, he will not love me. But if I have money, and I love any one, he will love me, and we shall be happy. I made a pocket-book for your birthday, and embroidered it myself, and as I hoped that a present from me would be a great pleasure to you, I send it to you now. Don’t ever come to my papa’s house; he is very passionate, and will be very angry with you when he knows all about it; and I cannot conceal anything. Farewell, Paul! When you are in need of money I shall always be glad to give you help without letting my relatives know; but only small sums—a hundred roubles, not more. Be happy. I shall pass all my life in tears. Yours for ever, Serafìma.” What in the world is this? It’s so extraordinary that I can’t even believe it. I expect she’s joking, or wants to frighten me. Let’s see, though, what there is in this pocket-book. I daresay there’s something in it. (Takes out pocket-book.)

Madame P. I am almost sure of it, Paul. No doubt she wanted to give you a surprise.

Paul. It’s a charming little pocket-book. (Opens and examines it.) Empty!

Madame P. Look; perhaps there’s a secret compartment.

Paul. Here’s the secret compartment, but there’s nothing in it either. (Enter Footman.) What do you want?

Foot. Sir, sir, I never heard of such a thing! They’ve taken away the fur cloak!

Paul. What fur cloak?

Foot. Yours, sir! Madame told us to put it in the carriage with her, and took it away. Anyoùtka and I held out as long as we could; but what could we do? I really don’t know what to think of it!

Paul. Mamma, that’s more than a joke.

Foot. It’s a disgrace, sir! I’ve been in service for many years (clasps his hands), but I never saw such a thing, never! Paul Petròvich! Think of it!

Paul. There, get along with you!

Foot. And to have to say such a thing to people! It’s enough to make one die for shame. I never heard of such a thing, never! (Exit.)

Paul. (Sits down and looks fixedly at his mother). Maman!

Madame P. Women have no hearts nowadays, no hearts at all.

Paul. Permit me, Maman, to thank you, now, for two things: firstly, for squandering my fortune; and, secondly, for bringing me up in such a way that I am fit for nothing. I only know how to spend money. And where is the money to spend? Where? (Passionately.) Where is the money? Give it to me! You liked to see me, at eight years old, in a velvet tunic, dancing better than all the other children in Moscow, and knowing how to make love to the little girls. You liked to see me at sixteen, looking so well on horseback! You looked on proudly when I used to gallop about our ancestral fields with my tutor, your favourite! You enjoyed all that. After such an education, one must have money, if one would play a leading part in our society. Why did you squander everything? Where are our estates gone? Where are our peasants gone? What is to become of us now? Now, perhaps, you will have the pleasure of seeing me dismissed from the service, a vagrant, a card-sharper, and maybe even worse! What am I to do? I can’t marry again, with a wife living! (Covers his face with his hands.)

Curtain Falls.

A MADMAN’S DIARY.

October 3rd.

An extraordinary circumstance happened to-day. I got up rather late, and when Mavra brought me my boots I asked her what time it was. Hearing that it was long past ten I dressed hurriedly. I confess I did not want to go to the Department at all, knowing beforehand what black looks I should get from the chief of our division. For some time he’s taken to saying to me, “What ever sort of rot have you always got in your head now, man? Sometimes you tear about like a possessed creature; sometimes you muddle the papers so that the very devil couldn’t make them out; you write the titles without capital letters, and leave out all the dates and numbers!” Hang the fellow! He’s envious, of course, because I sit in the director’s study and mend his excellency’s pens. In short, I shouldn’t have gone to the Department at all if I hadn’t hoped to meet the treasurer, and, perhaps, get the confounded Jew to give me, anyway, a little of my salary in advance. I never came across such a creature! For him to ever advance one the money a single month—why, doomsday will come before that happens! You can beg him, entreat him—however hard up you are the old grey devil won’t give it you. And yet at home his own cook boxes his ears. She does—everybody knows that. I can’t understand what advantage it is to serve in the Department. There are no resources whatsoever. Now, in the Provincial Administration, or in the Common Courts, or Court of Exchequer—that’s quite another thing; there sometimes you’ll see a fellow squeezed up in the corner writing away, in a shabby old coat, and such a fright to look at, and yet see what a nice little villa he rents! You can’t offer him a gilded china cup, for instance; he’ll say, “That’s a doctor’s present.” No, you must give him a pair of carriage horses, or a fine sledge, or beaver fur worth three hundred roubles. He’ll look as meek as meek can be, and talk so sweetly—“May I trouble you to lend me your penknife?” and then he’ll fleece you—till he leaves nothing but the shirt on your back. It’s true, though, our service is more genteel—everything’s so clean, the tables are of red wood, and all the directors say “you.” Indeed, but that it’s a genteel service, I’d have left the Department long ago.

“I LOOKED ROUND AND SAW TWO LADIES UNDER AN UMBRELLA, AN OLD LADY AND A YOUNG ONE.”

I put on my old cloak and took my umbrella because it was pouring with rain. There was no one in the streets; I saw nothing but a few women with shawls over their heads and some Russian shopkeepers with umbrellas. There was no one of the upper classes about except an official like myself. I saw him at a crossing, and said to myself, “Aha! No, my friend, you’re not going to the Department; you’re running after the woman in front of you and looking at her ankles.” What a set of brutes our officials are! They’re just as bad as any officer; can’t see a woman’s hat at all without going for it. Just as I was thinking that, I saw a carriage driving up to a shop I was passing. I knew it at once; it was our director’s carriage. “But he wouldn’t be going shopping,” I thought; “it must be his daughter.” I stopped, and leaned against the wall; a footman opened the carriage door, and she sprang out like a bird. How she glanced round with those eyes and brows of hers! Heaven defend me! I am done for! And why ever should she drive out in this pouring rain? And then people say that women are not devoted to chiffons! She did not recognise me, and indeed I purposely muffled myself up, because my cloak was very muddy and old-fashioned too. Now they are worn with deep capes, and mine had little capes one above the other; and the cloth wasn’t good either. Her lap-dog didn’t get in before the shop-door was shut, and was left out in the street. I know that dog; it is called Medji. The next minute I suddenly heard a little voice, “Good-morning, Medji.” Why! what the deuce! Who said that? I looked round and saw two ladies under an umbrella, an old lady and a young one; but they went past; and suddenly I heard again, “Oh, for shame, Medji!” What the devil! There were Medji and the ladies’ lap-dog smelling each other. “I say,” thought I to myself, “I must be drunk!” And yet it is a rare thing with me to be drunk. “No, Fidèle, you are quite mistaken” (I actually saw Medji saying that). “I have been—bow-wow-wow—I have been—bow-wow-wow—very ill.” Well, there now! I really was very much surprised to hear the lap-dog talking in human speech. But afterwards, when I thought it over, it didn’t astonish me. Indeed, there have been many such cases in the world. It is said that there appeared in England a fish that said two words in such a strange language that the learned men have been three years trying to make out what it said, and can’t understand it yet. And I remember reading in the newspapers about two cows that went into a shop and asked for a pound of tea. But I was very much more astonished when Medji said, “I wrote to you, Fidèle; Polkàn can’t have brought the letter.” Well! may I lose my salary if ever I heard in my life that dogs could write! It quite amazed me. Lately, indeed, I have begun to see and hear sometimes things that nobody ever saw or heard before. “I’ll follow that lap-dog,” thought I, “and find out what it is and what it thinks.” So I shut up my umbrella and followed the two ladies. They went along Goròkhovaya Street, turned into Myeshchànskaya, then into a carpenter’s shop, and at last up to the Kokoushkin Bridge, and there they stopped before a big house. “I know that house,” said I to myself; “that’s Tvyerkov’s house.” What a monster! Just to think of the numbers of people that live there—such a lot of strangers, servant maids, and as for my fellow officials, they are packed together like dogs! I have a friend living there who plays the trumpet very well. The ladies went up to the fifth story. “All right,” thought I, “I won’t go in now, but I will mark the place, and take advantage of the first opportunity.”

October 4th.

To-day is Wednesday, so I have been on duty in the director’s study. I purposely went early, sat down and mended all the pens. Our director must be a very clever man—all his study is fitted up with bookshelves. I read the titles of several books, but they were all so learned, so fearfully learned, that they are no use for a poor fellow like me; they are all either in French or in German. And just to look at his face! See the importance beaming in his eyes! I have never even heard of his saying an unnecessary word. Only, you know, when you hand him a paper he will ask, “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your excellency.” Yes; we are not up to his level; he’s a statesman. Nevertheless, I have remarked that he is peculiarly fond of me. Now if only his daughter.... Confound it all! Never mind; never mind; hush! I began to read The Little Bee. What a stupid nation the French are! On my honour, I’d take them and flog them all round. Well, I was reading a charming account of a ball, written by a country squire from Koursk. The Koursk squires write very well. After that I observed that it was half-past twelve, and that the director hadn’t come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one there happened an occurrence that no pen can describe. The door opened, and, thinking it was the director, I jumped up with my papers; but it was—She; She herself! Holy saints! how she was dressed! All in white, like a swan, and so gorgeously! And how she looked! like the sunlight, I swear. She bowed to me and said, “Has papa been here?” Aï, aï, aï, what a voice! A perfect canary bird! “Your excellency,” I would have said, “have mercy on me. But, if I must die, let me die by your august hand.” But, the devil take it, all that would come on to my tongue was, “No, madam.” She looked at me; she looked at the books; she dropped her handkerchief. I rushed for it, slipped on the confounded polished floor, and nearly broke my nose. Still I managed to get the handkerchief. Heavens and earth! What a handkerchief! So fine; pure cambric; amber-scented; exhaling the aroma of high rank. She thanked me, laughed just a little, so that her sweet lips hardly moved, and went away. I waited another hour, and then a lackey came in and said, “You can go home, Aksèntyi Ivànovich. My master has gone out.” I cannot endure the footman class; they always lounge about in the ante-room, and don’t so much as take the trouble to nod to you. Indeed, that’s not all; once, one of these brutes had the insolence to offer me some tobacco without getting up. Why, can’t you understand, you stupid flunkey, that I am an official, that I am of noble birth! Nevertheless I took my hat, put on my cloak myself (these gentry never think of helping one), and went out. At home I spent most of the day lying on my bed. Then I copied out some charming verses:—

“An hour I had not seen my dearest,

That hour was as a year to me;

Oh life, how hateful thou appearest!

Oh let me die and cease to be!”

‘SHE DROPPED HER HANDKERCHIEF. I RUSHED FOR IT, AND SLIPPED ON THE CONFOUNDED FLOOR.’

They must have been written by Poushkin. In the evening I muffled myself in my cloak, went to her excellency’s doorstep, and waited long on the chance of seeing her for a moment coming out and getting into her carriage; but she did not come.

November 6th.

I have infuriated the chief of the section. When I came to the Department he called me into his room, and began talking after this fashion, “Now just tell me, my man, what you’re after.” “How? What? I’m not after anything,” said I. “Now, think it over and be reasonable! Why, you’re past forty; you ought to have come to years of discretion. What have you got into your head? Do you imagine I don’t know all you’re up to? Why, you are dangling about after the director’s daughter! Now just look at yourself, and think a minute what you are like. You know you’re a complete nonentity. You know you haven’t got a farthing in the world. Look at your face in the looking-glass—how can you think of such a thing?” The devil take it! Just because he has a face something like an apothecary’s drug-bottle and one little wisp of hair on his head twisted up into a barber’s cock’s-comb, and holds up his head and smears it with a bandoline stick, he thinks he must be over everybody. But I understand, I understand perfectly well why he’s so angry—he’s envious; very likely he has noticed the signs of special favour shown to me. But what do I care for him? How very important—a D.C.L.! He’s got a gold watch-chain and pays thirty roubles for his boots—and the devil take him! Does he imagine that I am one of the common people; that I’m the son of a tailor or a corporal? I am a noble! I, too, may rise in the service; I am only forty-two—just the proper age to begin one’s career. Wait a bit, my friend! Perhaps we shall be a colonel some day, or higher up than that even, by God’s grace; and we’ll have a better reputation than yours is. I should like to know what put it into your head that no one can be a decent fellow except yourself. Give me a fashionably cut dress-coat and a fine necktie like yours, and you won’t be fit to hold a candle to me. I have no fortune, that’s the trouble.

November 8th.

I went to the theatre. They played the Russian fool, Filàtka, and I laughed heartily. Then there was some sort of vaudeville with very funny verses about lawyers, especially about a certain collegiate registrar. They were written in so free a style that I wondered at the censorship passing them; and about shopkeepers it was said, right out, that they cheat the public, and that their sons are dissipated and always trying to get into the nobility. There was a very comic verse about journalists—that they are always finding fault, and so the author begs the public to take his part. Very amusing things are written nowadays. I love the theatre; whenever I have a few pence in my pocket I can’t resist going. Now, a good many of our officials are regular pigs; they care no more about the theatre than if they were peasants. Of course, if you give them a ticket free, they’ll go. One actress sang very well. I thought of Her.... Oh! hang it all!... Never mind.... Hush!

November 9th.

At eight o’clock I went to the Department. The chief of the section pretended not to notice my entrance at all. For my part, I behaved as if nothing had happened between us. I looked over a lot of papers, examined them; and went away at four o’clock. I passed the director’s house, but there was no one to be seen. After dinner, I lay on my bed most of the time.

November 11th.

To-day I sat in our director’s study and mended twenty-three pens for him, and four pens for Her—aï, aï—for Her Excellency. He likes there to be plenty of pens. What a head he must have! He never speaks; but I suppose he is always thinking over things. I should like to know what he thinks about most, what is going on in that head. I should like to see more closely the life of these grand people; all their little conventionalisms and court tricks: how they live and what they do in their sphere,—that is what I should like to know. I have often thought of getting into conversation with his Excellency; but my confounded tongue won’t do as I want; all I can say is that the weather’s cold or warm—not another thing. I should like to have a look at that drawing-room that one sometimes sees the door of open; and at the room beyond the drawing-room. How richly it is all furnished. What mirrors, what porcelain! I should like to see the part of the house where Her Excellency lives! Oh! I know where I should like to go! Into her boudoir, where stand all the little toilet-trays and boxes, and flowers that one dare not even breathe upon; and where her dress lies flung down, more like air than a dress. I should like to peep into her bedroom.... There must be wonders! There indeed must be Paradise! Only to see the footstool that she steps on when she gets out of bed, when she draws the little stocking on to that snowy foot ... aï! aï! aï! Never mind; never mind.... Hush!

To-day, however, a kind of light broke in upon me; I remembered the conversation between the two lap-dogs that I heard on the Nevsky Prospect. “All right,” thought I to myself, “now I’ll know everything. I must intercept the letters of those horrid little dogs. Then, of course, I shall find out something.” Indeed, I once called Medji to me, and said: “Now look here, Medji, we’re quite alone; and, if you like, I’ll lock the door, so that no one shall see. Tell me everything you know about your mistress—what she is like, and all about her. I swear to you that I will not repeat it to any one.” But the cunning little dog put its tail between its legs, screwed itself all up, and went quietly out of the room as if it hadn’t heard anything. I have suspected for a long time that dogs are far cleverer than people; indeed, I felt sure that they can speak, but for some sort of obstinacy. They are wonderfully politic; they notice everything a man does. No; whatever happens, I will go to-morrow to Tvyerkov’s house, interrogate Fidèle, and, if possible, seize upon all Medji’s letters to her.

November 12th.

At two o’clock in the afternoon I started to find Fidèle and interrogate her. I can’t endure cabbage; and all the little provision shops in Myeshchànskaya Street simply reek of it; and then there’s such a stench from the yard of every house, that I simply held my nose and ran along as fast as ever I could. And then those confounded artizans send out such a lot of soot and smoke from their workshops, that really there’s no walking in the street. When I got up to the sixth floor and rang the bell, there came out a girl, not bad-looking, with little freckles. I recognised her; it was the same girl who had walked with the old lady. She grew a bit red, and it flashed upon me at once, “You want a lover, my dear.” “What can I do for you?” “I must have an interview with your lap-dog.” The girl was stupid; I saw at once she was stupid. At that moment the dog ran out, barking. I wanted to catch her, but the nasty little thing nearly snapped my nose off. However, I saw her basket in the corner. Ah! that was what I wanted. I went up to it, turned over the straw, and, to my immense delight, pulled out a little packet of tiny papers. Seeing that, the horrid little dog first bit me in the calf of the leg; and then, realising that I had got the papers, began to whine and fawn on me; but I said, “No, my dear! Good-bye!” and rushed away. I think the girl took me for a maniac, for she was terribly frightened. When I got home I wanted to set to work at once and read the letters, because my sight is not very good by candle-light. But of course Mavra had taken it into her head to wash the floor; these idiotic Finns are always cleaning at the wrong time. So I went for a walk to think over the occurrence. Now at last I shall find out all their affairs, all their thoughts, all the wires they are pulled by; these letters will disclose everything to me. Dogs are a clever race, they understand all the political relations; and so, no doubt, everything will be here—this man’s portrait and all his affairs. And no doubt there will be something about Her, who.... Never mind; silence! In the evening, I came home. I spent the time lying on my bed.

November 13th.

Now let us see! The letter is fairly legible; but, somehow or other, there is something a little bit doggish about the handwriting. Let’s see:—

My dear Fidèle,—I still have not been able to accustom myself to your vulgar name. Why couldn’t they find a better name for you? Fidèle, Rosa, what bad taste! However, this is off the point. I am very glad that we have agreed to correspond.

The letter is quite correctly written; there are no mistakes in the stopping, or even in the use of the letter yat’. Why, the chief of the section can’t write as well as that, although he talks about having been educated in the University. Let’s see further on:—

It appears to me that to share our thoughts, feelings, and impressions with another is one of the greatest blessings in the world.

H’m.... That idea is cribbed from some work translated from the German; I can’t remember the title.

I say this from experience, although I have seen little of the world beyond the gates of our house. My life passes peacefully and joyously. My mistress, whom papa calls Sophie, loves me passionately.

Aï! Aï! Never mind, never mind; silence!

Papa, too, often caresses me. I drink my tea and coffee with cream. Ah! ma chère, I must tell you that I cannot understand what pleasure there can be in the big gnawed bones that our Polkàn devours in the kitchen. Bones are only good if they are from game, and if no one has sucked the marrow out of them. It is a very good idea to mix several kinds of sauce together, only there must be no capers or herbs; but I know nothing worse than the custom of rolling bread into little balls and giving it to dogs. Some gentleman, sitting at the table, who has been holding all sorts of nasty things in his hands, will begin rolling a bit of bread with his fingers, and then call you and put it in your mouth. It’s impolite to refuse, so you eat it, with disgust, of course, but you eat it.

What the deuce is all this rubbish? As if they couldn’t find anything better to write about. Let’s look at the next page, perhaps it will be more sensible.

I shall have the greatest pleasure in informing you of all that happens in our house. I have already spoken to you about the principal gentleman whom Sophie calls papa. He is a very strange man.

Ah, now, at last! Yes, I knew it. They look at all things from a politic point of view. Let us see what there is about papa:—

... Strange man. He hardly ever speaks. But a week ago he kept on constantly saying to himself, “Shall I get it or not?” Once he asked me, “What do you think, Medji? Shall I get it or not?” I didn’t understand anything about it, so I smelled at his boot and went away. Then, ma chère, a week afterwards papa was in the greatest state of delight. The whole morning long gentlemen in uniform came to him and congratulated him on something or other. At table he was merrier than I have ever seen him before.

Ah! so he’s ambitious; I must take note of that.

Good-bye, ma chère! I run ... &c. To-morrow I will finish the letter.

Well, good-morning, I am with you again. To-day my mistress, Sophie.——

Ah! now we shall see—something about Sophie. Oh! confound it!... Never mind! never mind! Let’s go on:

My mistress, Sophie, was in a great muddle. She was getting ready for a ball, and I was very glad she would be out, so that I could write to you. My Sophie is perfectly devoted to balls, although she nearly always gets cross when she’s dressing for them. I cannot conceive, ma chère, what can be the pleasure of going to balls. Sophie comes home from them at six o’clock in the morning, and nearly always looks so pale and thin that I can see at once they haven’t given the poor girl anything to eat there. I confess that I couldn’t live like that. If I didn’t get my woodcock with sauce, or the wing of a roast chicken, I—really I don’t know what I should do. I like pudding with sauce, too, but carrots or turnips or artichokes are no good at all.

What an extraordinarily uneven style! One can see at once it wasn’t written by a human being; it begins all right and properly, and ends in this doggish fashion. Let’s see another letter. This seems rather a long one. H’m, and it isn’t dated.

Oh, my dearest, how I feel the approach of spring! My heart beats as if yearning for something. There is a constant singing in my ears, so that I often raise one foot and stand for several moments listening at the doors. I will confide to you that I have many suitors. Oh! if you knew how hideous some of them are! Sometimes there’s a great, coarse, mongrel watch-dog, fearfully stupid—you can see it written on his face—who struts along the street and imagines that he’s a very important personage and that everybody is looking at him. Not a bit of it! I take no more notice than if I didn’t see him at all. Then there’s such a frightful mastiff that stops before my window. If he were to stand on his hind paws (which the vulgar creature probably doesn’t know how to do) he’d be a whole head taller than my Sophie’s papa, who is rather a tall man, and stout too. This blockhead appears to be frightfully impertinent. I growled at him, but he took no notice at all; he didn’t even frown. He lolled out his tongue, hung down his monstrous ears, and stared in at the window—like a common peasant! But do you imagine, ma chère, that my heart is cold to all entreaties? Ah! no.... If you could see one young beau who jumps across the fence from next door! His name is Trèzor.... Oh, my dearest! what a sweet muzzle he has!

The devil take it all! What rubbish! And fancy filling up one’s letter with nonsense of that kind. Give me a man! I want to see a human being, I demand that spiritual food that would satisfy my thirsting soul, and instead of that, all this stuff.... Let’s see another page, perhaps it’ll be better.

Sophie was sitting at the table sewing something. I was looking out of the window, because I like watching the passers-by. Suddenly a footman came in and announced, “Teplòv.” “Ask him in,” cried Sophie, and flew to embrace me. “Oh, Medji, Medji! if only you knew who it is: a Kammerjunker,[^[16]] dark, and with such eyes! Quite black, and as bright as fire.” And she ran away to her room. A minute afterwards there came in a young Kammerjunker, with black whiskers. He went up to the mirror, set his hair straight, and looked about the room. I growled and sat down in my place. Presently Sophie came in, looking very happy. He clinked his spurs and she bowed. I pretended not to notice anything, and went on looking out of the window, but I turned my head a little on one side and tried to overhear their conversation. Oh, ma chère, what rubbish they talked! They talked about how, at a dance, one lady had made a mistake and done the wrong figure; then about how a certain Bobòv, with a jabot on, looked very like a stork and nearly tumbled down; then about how a certain Lìdina imagines that her eyes are blue, whereas they are green—and so on. I cannot think, ma chère, what she finds in her Teplòv. Why is she so enchanted with him?...

It seems to me, too, that there’s something wrong here. It’s quite impossible that Teplòv could bewitch her so. What comes next?

Really, if she can like this Kammerjunker, it seems to me she might as well like the official who sits in papa’s study. Oh, ma chère, if you knew what a fright he is! Exactly like a tortoise in a bag....

What official can that be?

He has a most peculiar name. He always sits and mends pens. The hair on his head is very much like hay. Papa always sends him on errands instead of the servant....

I believe that beastly little dog is alluding to me. Now, is my hair like hay?

Sophie simply cannot keep from laughing when she looks at him.

You lie, you confounded dog! What an abominable style! As if I didn’t know that this is simply a case of envy; as if I didn’t know it’s an intrigue. It’s an intrigue of the chief of the section. The man has sworn implacable hate against me, and now he does everything he can to injure me, to injure me at every step. Well, I’ll look at just one more letter, perhaps the affair will explain itself.

Ma chère Fidèle,—Forgive me for having been so long without writing; I have been in a state of absolute intoxication. It is perfectly true what some writer has said, that love is second life. And then there are great changes going on in our house. The Kammerjunker comes every day now. Sophie is madly in love with him. Papa is very happy. I even heard from our Grigòrii, who sweeps the floors and almost always talks to himself, that there will soon be a wedding, because papa is very anxious to see Sophie married, either to a general, or to a Kammerjunker, or an army colonel.

Deuce take it all! I can read no more. A Kammerjunker or a general! I should like to become a general myself, not in order to obtain her hand or anything like that—no, I should like to be a general, only to see them put on all their airs and graces and show off all their Court ways; and then tell them that I don’t care a brass farthing for either of them. It really is annoying, confound it all! I tore the silly little dog’s letters into bits.

December 3rd.

It cannot be; it’s impossible; there sha’n’t be a wedding. What if he is a Kammerjunker! That’s nothing more than a title; it’s not a tangible thing that you can pick up in your hand. Why, his being a Kammerjunker doesn’t give him a third eye in the middle of his forehead. After all, his nose is not made of gold; it’s just like mine or anybody else’s; after all, he has it to smell with, not to eat with; to sneeze with, not to cough with. I have often wished to understand what is the cause of all these differences. Why am I a Government clerk? And for what purpose am I a Government clerk? Perhaps I am really a count or a general, and only appear to be a Government clerk. Perhaps I myself don’t know what I am. There have been so many cases in history: some ordinary man, not a noble at all, but some common artizan or even peasant, will all of a sudden turn out to be a great lord or baron, or what do you call it? Well, if a peasant can turn out like that, what should a noble turn out? Now, suppose I suddenly come in with a general’s uniform on, an epaulette on the right shoulder and an epaulette on the left shoulder, and a blue ribbon across—what will my beauty say, then, ah? What will papa himself say, our director? Oh! he’s a very ambitious man! He’s a Freemason; I’m convinced he’s a Freemason; he makes all sorts of pretences, but I noticed at once that he’s a Freemason; if he shakes hands with you, he only puts out two fingers. And does anybody suppose that I can’t be appointed governor-general this very moment, or a commissary, or something else of the kind? I should like to know why I am a clerk? Why particularly a clerk?

December 5th.

I spent the whole of this morning reading the newspapers. Most extraordinary things are going on in Spain. I can’t even quite make them out. It is said that the throne is vacant; that the statesmen in office are in a great dilemma, having to choose an heir apparent; and that this has resulted in disturbances. All this seems to me exceedingly strange. How can the throne be vacant? They say that some donna will succeed to the throne; but a donna cannot be sovereign, it is quite impossible. There must be a king on the throne. They say there is no king; but it cannot happen that there is no king; a State cannot exist without a king. Undoubtedly there is a king, only he is living incognito somewhere or other. It is very likely that he is living there, only he is obliged to hide himself for some family reasons, or on account of some dangers threatened by neighbouring states—France and the other countries. Anyway, there must be some reason.

December 8th.

I had quite made up my mind to go to the Department, but was prevented by various causes and meditations. I could not get the affairs of Spain out of my head. How is it possible that a woman should become sovereign? It will not be permitted. To begin with, England will not allow it. And then the diplomatic affairs of all Europe; the Emperor of Austria.... I acknowledge that these matters have so upset and unnerved me that I have been utterly unable to settle to anything the whole day. Mavra remarked to me that I was extremely absent-minded at table. And indeed I believe that, while absorbed in meditation, I threw two plates on to the floor and smashed them. After dinner I went for a walk by the hill. I couldn’t find out anything worth knowing. Most of the time I lay on my bed and meditated on the affairs of Spain.

Year 2000, April 48th.

This day is a day of great solemnity! There is a king in Spain. He has been found. I am the king. It was only to-day that I found it out. It suddenly flashed across me like lightning. I cannot conceive how I could imagine that I was a clerk! How could such a crazy notion get into my head? It’s a good thing that nobody thought of putting me into a madhouse. Now all is open before me. I see all as from a mountain summit. But formerly—I can’t understand it—formerly everything was in a sort of fog before me. It seems to me that all this results from people imagining that the human brain is situated in the head; that is not the case: it travels on the wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First of all, I announced my identity to Mavra. When she heard that before her stood the King of Spain she clasped her hands and half died of terror. The foolish woman had never seen a Spanish king before. However, I did my best to quiet her; and told her that I am not at all angry with her for sometimes cleaning my boots badly. Of course she is one of the common people, and you cannot talk to them of high matters. The reason she was so terrified was because she is quite convinced that all Spanish kings must be like Philip II. But I explained to her that there is no resemblance between me and Philip II. I did not go to the Department. The devil take the Department! No, my friends, you won’t catch me now; I am not going to copy your nasty papers.

Marchober 86th,

Between Day and Night.

To-day our usher came to me to insist that I should go to the Department; he said it was more than three weeks since I had been there. I went, just for a joke. The chief of the section thought that I should bow to him and make excuses; but I glanced at him with indifference, neither too sternly nor too graciously, and sat down at my place as if I observed nothing. I looked round at all the rag-tag-and-bob-tail, and thought, “Oh! if you knew who is sitting with you.... Good heavens! what a fuss there would be! And the chief of the section himself would begin bowing and scraping to me just as he does now to the director.” They laid some papers before me, telling me to make an extract; but I did not so much as touch them with a finger. A few minutes afterwards they all began bustling about, saying that the director was coming. Several of the officials hurried out, one after another, to present themselves to him; but I never moved. When he passed through our section they all buttoned up their coats; but I took no notice whatsoever. The director! What’s he? Do they think I’m going to stand up before him? Never! What sort of director is he? He’s a dummy, not a director; an ordinary, common dummy, like a dummy in a barber’s shop, and nothing else at all. The most amusing thing of all was when they handed me a paper to sign. They thought I was going to write at the very bottom of the sheet, “Clerk So-and-so.” I daresay! I signed, in the most conspicuous place, just where the Director of the Department signs, “Ferdinand VIII.” It was worth while to see what a reverential silence there was! However, I just waved my hand to them and said, “You needn’t trouble about tokens of allegiance,” and went away. I went straight to the director’s house. He was not at home, and the footman did not want to let me in, but I said something to him that made him just collapse. I went straight into her dressing-room. She was sitting before the looking-glass, but started up and shrank away from me. I did not tell her, however, that I am the king of Spain; I only told her that there lies before her such happiness as she cannot even imagine; and that, in spite of the snares of our foes, we shall be together. I did not want to say any more than that, and therefore went away. Oh! what a wily being is woman! It is only now I have fully understood what woman really is. Up till now no one has ever known with whom she is in love. I am the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, it is a fact. Physiologists write all sorts of nonsense; but really she loves no one and nothing but the devil. There, you see, she sits in the dress-circle with her opera-glass; do you think she’s looking at that fat man with the star on his breast? Not a bit of it! She’s looking at the devil behind his back. The devil is hidden in the fat man’s coat. There! he is beckoning to her with his finger! And she’ll marry him—she’ll certainly marry him! All that comes from ambition; and the cause of ambition is a little blister under the tongue with a tiny worm inside it no bigger than a pin’s head; and all that is the doing of a certain hairdresser who lives in the Goròkhovaya. I can’t remember his name; but I know positively that he and a certain midwife are trying to spread Mahometanism throughout the whole world; and it is said that in France the greater part of the population has already accepted the Mahometan faith.

“I SAID, ‘YOU NEEDN’T TROUBLE ABOUT TOKENS OF ALLEGIANCE,’ AND WENT AWAY.”

No date at all; the day was

without any date.

I walked incognito along the Nevsky Prospect, giving no sign at all that I am the king of Spain. I thought it would be a breach of etiquette to disclose my identity to every one now, because, first of all, I must present myself at Court. The only thing that hinders me is the want of a Spanish national costume. I must get hold of some sort of mantle. I thought of ordering one, but the tailors are such absolute donkeys; and then, besides, they have quite neglected their work and taken to speculating. And now they have gone in for paving the streets. I finally decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only put on twice; but, for fear these scoundrels should spoil my work, I decided to sit with the door locked, so that no one should see me make it. I snipped the uniform all to pieces with the scissors, because it must have quite a different cut.

I don’t remember the day, and

there wasn’t any month. The

deuce knows what there was.

The mantle is made and quite ready. Mavra shrieked out when I put it on. I cannot make up my mind, though, to present myself at Court yet. There is still no deputation from Spain; and to present myself without a deputation would be a breach of etiquette. I think it would prejudice my dignity. I expect the deputies every minute.

Date 1.

I am amazed at the tardiness of the deputies! What can be the cause of their delay? Can it be France? Yes; that is a most objectionable country. I went to the postoffice to inquire whether the Spanish deputies had arrived; but the postmaster was exceedingly stupid, and knew nothing about it. “No,” he said, “there are no Spanish deputies here; but if you like to write a letter, we can forward it at the ordinary postage rate.” The devil take it! What’s the use of a letter? Letters are all nonsense! Apothecaries write letters....

Madrid, February 30.

So I am really in Spain; and it all happened so quickly that I can hardly realise it. This morning the Spanish deputies presented themselves to me, and I got into the carriage with them. I was surprised at the great speed with which we travelled. We went so fast that in half an hour we reached the Spanish frontier. For that matter, of course there are railways all over Europe now; and the steamers go tremendously fast. Spain is an extraordinary country! When we went into the first room, I saw a lot of people with shaven heads. I guessed at once that they must be either grandees or soldiers, because they always shave their heads. I was very much struck with the behaviour of the Lord Chancellor, who led me by the hand; he pushed me into a little room, and said, “You sit here; and if you begin calling yourself King Ferdinand, I’ll knock that rubbish out of you.” But I, knowing that this was nothing more than a trial of my constancy, answered firmly. Whereupon the Chancellor struck me on the back twice with a stick so hard that I nearly cried out, but restrained myself, remembering that in chivalry this was a custom on a man’s entering any high office, and that the customs of chivalry are still in force in Spain. Remaining alone, I decided to occupy myself with affairs of State. I discovered that China and Spain are all the same country; it is only from ignorance that people suppose them to be different. I advise every one, as an experiment, to write “Spain” on a piece of paper, and it will come out “China.” I was profoundly grieved, though, at an event which is to happen to-morrow. At seven o’clock to-morrow morning there will occur a strange phenomenon: the earth will sit down on the moon. The famous English chemist, Wellington, has written about that. I confess that my heart throbbed with anxiety when I pictured to myself the extreme delicacy and fragility of the moon. The thing is that the moon is generally made in Hamburg, and is very badly made. I cannot understand why England takes no notice of the fact. It is made by a lame cooper, who is quite evidently a fool, and understands nothing about the moon at all. He puts in tarred rope and cheap oil; and it makes such an awful stink all over the earth that everybody has to hold their nose. And this makes the moon itself so fragile that people can’t live on it at all; and nothing lives on it but noses. That is the reason why we cannot see our own noses, because they are all in the moon. And when I thought what a heavy substance the earth is, and how, by sitting down, it may crush all our noses to powder, I was so overpowered by anxiety that I put on my shoes and socks, and ran into the State Council Chamber, to give orders to the police not to let the earth sit down on the moon. The shaven grandees, whom I found in the Council Hall in great numbers, proved to be a very sensible people; and when I said, “Gentlemen, we must save the moon, for the earth is going to sit down on it!” they all instantly rushed to fulfil my royal wish; and many tried to climb up the walls to get at the moon. But at that moment the Lord Chancellor came in; and when they saw him they all ran away. I, as king, alone remained. But the Chancellor, to my great amazement, struck me with his stick, and sent me into my room. What an extraordinary power national customs have in Spain!

“WHEN I SAID, ‘GENTLEMEN, WE MUST SAVE THE MOON, FOR THE EARTH IS GOING TO SIT DOWN ON IT!’ THEY ALL RUSHED TO FULFIL MY ROYAL WISH.”

January in the same year; following

after February.

So far, I cannot make out what sort of country Spain is. The popular customs and Court etiquette are altogether extraordinary. I can’t understand them; I can’t understand; I simply cannot understand. To-day they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice that I would not consent to be a monk. But what it was like, when they began to drop cold water on to my head, I cannot bear even to remember. I never suffered such a hell in my life. I got into such a state of frenzy that they could scarcely hold me. I can’t understand the meaning of this strange custom. It’s an utterly stupid and senseless custom! Nor can I make out the foolishness of the kings who have not abolished it before now. Considering all the probabilities of the case, it occurs to me that I must have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; and the person whom I took for the Chancellor is, no doubt, the Grand Inquisitor himself. Only it is quite incomprehensible how a king can be subject to the Inquisition. It is true, that might happen through the influence of France, and especially of Polignac. Oh, that brute, Polignac! He has sworn to persecute me to the death; and now he hunts and hunts me down. But I know, my friend, whose puppet you are. It’s the English that pull the wires. The English are great diplomatists; they worm their way in everywhere. For that matter, all the world knows that when England takes snuff France sneezes.

Date 25.

To-day the Grand Inquisitor came into my room, but, hearing his steps approaching, I hid myself under a chair; and not seeing me, he began to call out. First of all he called, “Poprìshchin!” I held my tongue. Then, “Aksèntyi Ivànovich! Government official! Nobleman!” I remained silent. “Ferdinand VIII., King of Spain!” I was just going to put out my head, but I thought, “No, my friend, you won’t catch me that way. I know what you are after: you’ll be pouring cold water on to my head again.” However, he saw me, and drove me out from under the chair with a stick. It’s most extraordinary how that confounded stick hurts! Ah, well! my last discovery repays me for all. I have found out that every cock has a Spain of its own hidden away under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor went away very angry, and threatening me with some kind of punishment; but I remained completely indifferent to his impotent rage, knowing that he acts as a mere machine, as the tool of England.

Da 34 te. Month yrae

February 349.

No; I can endure no more. Good God! what things they do to me! They pour cold water on to my head! They neither see, nor hear, nor understand me. What have I done to them? Why do they torment me so? Alas! what would they have of me? What can I give them, I that have nothing? It is too much; I cannot bear all this misery. My head burns, and everything whirls before me. Save me! take me! Give me steeds swifter than the hurricane. Come, come, my yamshchìk![^[17]] Ring, my sledge-bells! Bound, my noble steeds, and bear me from this world! On, on, that I may see no more, no more! See! the heavens whirl before me; a star gleams in the distance; the forest rushes past, with the moon and the dark trees; the blue mist is unrolled beneath my feet; and through the mist I hear the vibration of a string. On one side of me is the sea, on the other side is Italy.... Ah, and there are Russian cottages! Is that my house in the blue distance? Is that my mother that sits beside the window? Oh, mother, save thy wretched son! Weep one tear over his fallen head! See how he is wronged and tormented! Clasp thy sad orphan to thy breast! He is driven and hunted down! There is no place for him on earth! Mother, have pity on thy weary child!... But do you know that the Dey of Algiers has a wart just under his nose?

PORRIDGE.

By NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY.

A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village deacon[^[18]] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over the shafts, a peasant in a kaftan.[^[19]]

“Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking.

“Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[^[20]] answered the deacon. “It is all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling you about in the posting station.”

“And is there any sort of man above the governor?”

“Of course there is.... Look here, Yeremèi; when we get to the inn, I’ll go into the Consistorium, and you order dinner for yourself here; there is bread in the bag, so you needn’t get any here.”

“As your honour likes; of course I’ll eat our own bread, as if I didn’t know! ’Tis all the same to me. How much oats shall I take? I doubt ’tis terrible dear in these parts?”

“Take half a measure, not more; everything’s dear hereabouts. That’s why it’s so dear to live in the town.”...

“Lord bless you, yes, sir, ’tis all so dear, so dear, that it is!”

When they reached the posting inn the deacon put on his ecclesiastical dress, and went to the Consistorium; the peasant, meanwhile, went straight into the kitchen, where the dinner was cooking.

On the fire was a huge cauldron filled with pieces of beef, boiling, and emitting clouds of steam; a workman in a cotton shirt was ranging on a shelf steaming wheaten loaves, and a woman was turning a whole leg of veal on the spit, and sucking her fingers between whiles.

The peasant held his breath as he looked.

Meanwhile there came into the kitchen several travelling merchants and well-to-do sledge-drivers in fur coats; they were smoking their pipes and talking about the forthcoming dinner.

At last the dinner was ready; Yeremèi sat down to table with the travellers.

During the dinner (which lasted for three hours) Yeremèi experienced a misty sensation in the head, and occasionally a pain in the stomach; but he continued eating just the same, though he still remembered the deacon.

On rising from table he sighed profoundly, said grace with peculiar fervour, and lay down on a bench, but he could not sleep. He kept thinking of how the deacon would appear before him, and say, “Well, have you had your dinner? How much is it?”...

Yeremèi began to regret that he had not left table directly after the shchi (cabbage soup).

Two hours later the deacon arrived. He called the peasant into the other room and began—

“Well, Yeremèi, it’s time to go home. God be thanked, I have settled my business up all right, and had a bite of something at a friend’s house. You’ve had dinner, I suppose?”

The peasant stood in the middle of the room, looking at the floor.

“Have you had dinner or not?” said the deacon, standing with the abacus[^[21]] in his hand.

“Oh, ay, I had my dinner, ... only ’tis something ... if I hadn’t eaten it....”

“What do you mean?”

The peasant held his tongue.

“I don’t understand; what did you have? Can’t you tell me? I’ve got to pay the bill, you know. Well, what was there? I suppose you had something to drink?”

“Oh, ay, something to drink, I had.”

“What was it—cider?” And the deacon lifted his hand to mark it off.

“Ay, sir, there was cider, of course there was....”

“Plain cider? No, something in it, I dare say?”

“Ay, sir, ... there was cider....”

“Well, what else did they give you? Speak up, man! Why, we shall stand here all day!... What else was there?”

“Ah ... well, sir, there was a kind of quaking jelly stuff, ... sort of sloppy mess it was, ... I don’t rightly know....”

“Doesn’t matter to me whether it was sloppy or not; I shall have to pay for it just the same. Well, and after the jelly what? Shchi, no doubt. Did you eat shchi?”

“Oh, ay, I ate it up, sartain sure....”

“Well, then?”

“Only, you see, sir, ’tis almost as if I hadn’t eaten it, like ...”

The deacon put on a stern expression and continued gravely—

“Well, and what did you have with the shchi? I suppose there was some kind of soup-meat with it, wasn’t there?”

“Ay, ay, there were a wee bit, for sure ... but ’twas terrible fat—terrible fat, it was....”

“What’s that to me? You ate it, I doubt, even if it was fat? Well, that’s all, I suppose. Or perhaps you had porridge too?”

“No, there was something else ... the porridge come arter that....”

“What then? Some kind of soup? Yes?”

“Ay, ay, sir! That’s just it ... and all sorts of trotter things ... mucky stuff it was....”

The peasant scratched his head.

“Trotters! Well, you ate them, I suppose?”

“Ah ... sir! ’Twas the weest bit I ate ... tru-ly!”

“What—the—deuce do you think any one cares how much you ate? Well, get on; porridge now, is it?”

Silence.

“There can’t have been anything more? Something with the porridge, was it?”

“Ay, sir, seems like as if there was something else besides the porridge.”

“Pudding, was it?”

“Something of that kind.”

“And with what was the pudding served?”

“Eh, sir, they always do put that fancy bread ... cake stuff ... you know, with pudding, but it was right old and hard, it were like a stone....”

“H’m! and what did you have with the porridge?”

“Eh, no, the porridge come arter that....”

“After what?”

“Ah ... fecks, sir, I don’t rightly know ... kind of mess ... the Lord knows what....”

“Well, what kind of thing?

“THE PEASANT SCRATCHED HIS HEAD.”

The peasant began to help himself out by gesticulating with his hands.

“You know, sir, kind of ... veal, isn’t? Veal ... something of that like.... All white and flabby....”

“Con ... found the blockhead! And you gobbled that up too, did you?”

“Of course, ... but ’twas all burnt to a chip....”

“Never mind that!... Well, is that all, at last?”

Silence.

“When are we coming to that porridge, I’d like to know?”

“The porridge come arter that.”

“After what?”

Silence once more.

“Can’t you speak?”

“Eh-h! There was a turkey, or something of that like ... I don’t rightly mind what it was ... or maybe the mutton came first....”

“Anything else?”

“There was honey; only ’twas in the comb....”

“My stars! The landlord’ll bring me in a fine bill for that! Is that all? Ah, no, the porridge!”

“No, no, the porridge come arter that.”

The deacon flung down the abacus, and, plunging his hands into his pockets, began to pace the room. The peasant moved away to the corner, so as not to disturb him.

Presently the innkeeper came in.

“Landlord,” said the deacon, “what do I owe you for my man’s dinner?”

“He had everything on the bill of fare, didn’t he?”

“Well ... I suppose he did.”

“Then it comes to a silver rouble.”

“Can’t you make it a bit less.”

“No, no, little father, we never bargain; we make all our little profit off the oats; the dinners cost us what we get for them.”

The deacon discontentedly took a silver rouble out of his pocket. Yeremèi, meanwhile, stood in the corner, equally discontented.

They had passed the town boundaries and got out into the open country two versts back, but the deacon remained perfectly silent. Yeremèi, anxious to know whether his master was still angry with him, ventured a question—

“And is there any kind of body grander than the archbishop?”

The deacon turned his head away in silence.

A DOMESTIC PICTURE.
A SCENE FROM MOSCOW LIFE.

By N. OSTRÒVSKY.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Antìp Antìpych Pouzàtov, merchant, 35 years old.

Matryòna Sàvishna, his wife, aged 25.

Màrya Antìpovna, Pouzàtov’s sister, a girl of 19.

Stepanìda Trofimovna, Pouzàtov’s mother, aged 60.

Paramòn Ferapòntych Shiryàlov, merchant, aged 60.

Dàrya, servant maid.

A room in Pouzàtov’s house, furnished in glaringly bad taste. Portraits hanging above the sofa; Birds of Paradise painted on the ceiling; bright-coloured window-curtains; bottles on the window-sills. Màrya Antìpovna sits by the window with an embroidery-frame.

Màrya (singing softly as she works).

“Black colour, sad colour,

Yet for ever dear to me.”

(Breaks off, stops working, and meditates.)

MÀRYA: “THERE! LOOK! OH! HE BOWED TO US! OH! THE WICKED MAN!”

There! The summer’s nearly over; here we have September already, and you just sit cooped up within four walls, for all the world like a nun, and don’t dare to look out of window. That’s an interesting life for a young lady! (A pause.) I daresay! It’s all very well to shut us up and turn the key on us; but I know what we’ll do! We’ll ask leave to go to midnight mass at the convent, and then we’ll put on our best things and go off to the park or somewhere. There’s nothing for it, one has to do things on the sly. (Goes on embroidering; a pause.) I wonder how it is that Vasìli Gavrìlych hasn’t passed by once to-day? (Looks out of window.) Sister! sister! There’s an officer riding past! Sister! Quick! With a white plume!

Matryòna (runs into the room). Where, sister, where?

Màrya. There! Look! (They look out.) Oh! he bowed to us! Oh! the wicked man! (They hide behind the window-curtains.)

Matryòna. How handsome he is!

Màrya. Sister, let’s sit here; perhaps he will pass again.

Matryòna. Oh! Màsha! how can you? You’ll just encourage him, and he’ll take to passing half-a-dozen times a day; and then we shall never be able to get rid of him. I know what these military men are. Why, there was that hussar that Anna Màrkovna encouraged so; he used to ride past, and she’d look out of window and smile at him; and do you know what he did, my dear? He rode his horse right into the hall.

Màrya. Oh! how disgraceful!

Matryòna. I should think so! Nothing happened, you know; but she was just the talk of Moscow. (Looks out of window.) Màsha! there comes Dàrya. Oh! what message will she bring?

Màrya. Oh! if mamma were to see her!

(Enter Dàrya, hurriedly.)

Dàrya. Matryòna Sàvishna, little mother! I as near as anything got caught! I was just running upstairs, and who must come running slap against me but Stepanìda Trofimovna! Of course I said I’d been to shop for a skein of silk. You know, she’s up to anything. Why, only yesterday, our Petrùsha——

Màrya. Yes, yes! But what about them?

Dàrya. Yes, miss; they sent their respects. I went in, ma’am, and there was Ivàn Petròvich lying on the sofa, and Vasìli Gavrìlych on the bed.... Leastways, it was Vasìli Gavrìlych as was on the sofa, and they’d been a-smoking, ma’am, till you fair couldn’t breathe.

Matryòna. Yes; but what did they say?

Dàrya. Well, they said, ma’am, if you please, that you was both of you to come this evening to Ostànkino at vesper-time. And he said, “Dàrya,” says he, “tell them to be sure and come, even if it rains.”

Màrya. Of course we’ll go, sister!

Matryòna. All right. Run back again, Dàrya, and say we’ll come.

Dàrya. Yes’m. Anything else, please’m?

Màrya. Yes, Dasha. Tell them to bring some books to read. Say the young ladies desired it.

Dàrya. Yes, miss; is that all?... Oh! ma’am! I clean forgot! I was to tell you to bring some Madeira with you; that was Ivàn Petròvich’s orders. “It’s so nice,” says he, “in the open air.”

Matryòna. All right.

Dàrya (comes up to Matryòna and speaks softly). Matryòna Sàvishna, Vasìli Gavrìlych was saying to Ivàn Petròvich, “Of course,” says he, “it’s quite a different thing for you,” says he. “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a married woman ... and, of course ... But Màrya Antìpovna,” says he, “she’s a young girl ... and it isn’t ... like as if, you know ... and somehow or other,” says he, “’tis a bad business. Why,” says he, “for all I know, they may go and marry her to some shopkeeper with a beard; and then what’s the use of my putting myself out?” says he. “Of course that don’t mean as I’m not”—there, you understand me, ma’am.... “But I’m a poor man,” says he.... “I’d be glad enough to marry her,” says he, “but,” says he, “what’s the use of my going poking my nose in?” It was Vasìli Gavrìlych as said this to Ivàn Petròvich, you know, ma’am. “It’s quite a different thing for you,” says he; “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a married woman ... any sort of thing can happen with an official, you know.... Wintertime,” says he, ... “Well, and a fine cloak of racoon fur.... Anyways”——

Matryòna. Oh! you silly girl! Why, you should have said——

Dàrya (listening). Little mother! it’s the master hisself come in! (Goes to the window.) Yes, it is; he’s going in at the door.

Matryòna. Well, then, you take the message while we’re at tea.

Dàrya. Yes’m.

Voice in the ante-room. Wife! I say! wife! Matryòna Sàvishna!

Matryòna. What’s the matter?

Antìp (enters). Good evening, wife. Why, how you jump! Who did you think it was? (Kisses her.) Give us another kiss. (Caressing her playfully.)

Matryòna (shrinking away). That’ll do, Antìp Antìpych! Let me alone! Oh! what a nuisance you are!

Antìp. But I want a kiss.

Matryòna. Oh! leave off, for goodness’ sake!

Antìp. I daresay! (Kisses her.) What a jolly little wife it is! That’s the sort of wife to have! (Sits on the sofa.) Do you know what, Matryòna Sàvishna?

Matryòna. What now?

Antìp. It would be jolly to have some tea now. (Stares at the ceiling, and puffs.)

Matryòna. Dàrya!

(Enter Dàrya.)

Matryòna. Bring the samovar; and ask Stepanìda Trofimovna for the keys. (Exit Dàrya. Silence. Màrya sits at her embroidery; Matryòna beside her; Antìp looks about the room, sighing.)

Antìp (sternly). Wife! come here!

Matryòna. What now?

Antìp (striking the table with his fist). Come here, I tell you!

Matryòna. Why, are you gone crazy?

Antìp (drumming on the table). What do you expect me to do with you?

Matryòna. Whatever can it be? (Timidly.) Antìp Antìpych?

Antìp. Eh? Frightened you? (Bursts out laughing.) No, my lass! It was only my little joke. (Sighs.) Can’t we have tea?

Matryòna. In a minute. Why, bless my heart, you won’t die!

Antìp. Well, it’s so dull to sit and do nothing.

(Enter Stepanìda Trofimovna; then Dàrya carrying the samovar.)

Stepanìda. Lord, save us! You’re in a mighty hurry, my girl! What are you rushing about like a wild thing for? Nothing is going to fall on our heads. And as for you, little father, you must be gone clean daft! How many more times in the day do you want to drink tea? This is the third time at home; and I doubt you had some down in the town too? (Pours out tea.)

Antìp. Well, dear heart! what does it matter? A fellow can’t get tipsy on tea. Yes; I had some tea with Brioùkhov, and again with Sàvva Sàvvich. What harm is there in drinking tea with a jolly good fellow? I say, mamma, I did Brioùkhov out of a thousand roubles to-day. (Takes teacup.)

Stepanìda. What next, child! Why, you get fleeced yourself on all sides. You never keep an eye upon your shopmen; you never look after the business. Why, Antìpoushka, what sort of business man are you? All you do is to sit from morning till night in a tavern and drink tea. Ah! dear, dear! it’s just a grief to look at you; there’s not a bit of method in you; even I can’t manage to keep order in this house. The samovar stands on the table till eleven o’clock in the morning; first the men have their breakfast and go off to the shop; then you get up and dawdle over your breakfast till goodness knows when; and then your fine lady here comes down. And as for going to mass before breakfast, why, you don’t so much as cross yourselves, the Lord forgive you! Ah! Antìpoushka! if you’d give up your new-fangled ways and live as all respectable people should! You ought to get up at four in the morning and see that everything’s in order, and go out into the yard and look after everything there, and go to mass. Yes, my dear, and rout your good lady here out of bed too, and tell her it’s time to get up and look after the house; that’s what you ought to do. Yes, you needn’t look at me like that, Matryòna Sàvishna; I’ve said nothing but what’s right and true.

Matryòna. I suppose you are going to begin and preach now!

Stepanìda. Ah! little mother! And what would become of the house if it wasn’t for me? You’re not much of a housekeeper; you’re too young yet, little mother; you’ve a good deal to learn yet! Why, just look at you—you don’t get up till after ten o’clock—it’s a shame to say it, my girl, but it’s the Lord’s own truth—and here I have to sit by the samovar and wait till you please to come down; and I’m older than you are, madam. You’re too much of a fine lady, Matryòna Sàvishna, too much by a long way! It’s no use for you to give yourself airs, my lass; you’re naught but a shopkeeper’s wife, and you can’t be a real lady, however hard you try. Why, my good man, what’s the use of her dressing herself up, and hanging herself all over with gew-gaws and furbelows like a heathen savage, and making a sight of herself, the Lord forgive us our sins! and rustling about with a long tail like a peacock ... why, it’s a sin and a shame, so it is! You can flaunt about in your furbelows as much as you like, Matryòna Sàvishna; but you’re none the more of a lady for that.... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Matryòna. Yes; you’d like me to go about with an old shawl over my head!

Stepanìda. You’ve no call to be ashamed of your own class, my girl.

Antìp. Why, heart alive! Why shouldn’t she dress herself up fine if the money’s there? There’s no harm in it. And as for being a lady, hang me if she isn’t handsomer than any lady when she’s dressed in her best things! By your leave, mother, I don’t think all these fine ladies are worth the trouble of looking at. But just see what my little wife is like.... That’s to say, I mean, what a figure she’s got!... and all that, you know.

Matryòna. Really, Antìp Antìpych, what things you do say!

Màrya. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself, brother! You always make one blush.

Antìp. What’s the matter now? I haven’t said anything so dreadful. Another day a man may say worse things than that, and nobody cares. Why, the other day, before his Excellency the General, such a word slipped off my tongue, I was quite frightened myself; but what can a fellow do? A word isn’t a sparrow, that you can put salt on its tail. And as for what you were saying, mother, I stick to my point. My wife shall dress as fine as she likes; I don’t care if she isn’t a lady, all the same....

Stepanìda. Yes; I know, my boy, I know. When she goes out with you dressed up like that, with a train two yards long, what do you suppose she’s thinking about? Well, I’ll tell you my son, she thinks—“Here have I got to put up with a great clumsy husband with a beard, instead of having a proper sort of beau that pomades his hair and puts scent on his handkerchief!”

Antìp. Do you think she’d change me for any one else? A handsome fellow like me! (Strokes his moustache.) I say, wife, give us a kiss! (Matryòna kisses him with feigned tenderness.)

Stepanìda. Ah! my child! the enemy of man is cunning. Look at the way my poor dear husband and I lived. We were a happier couple than you are; and all the same he kept me in fear and submission, as a man should, the Lord rest his soul! However much he loved and cherished me, he always kept a little whip hanging on a nail in the bedroom, just in case of anything.

Matryòna. You’re always making mischief between me and my husband! Why can’t you let me alone?

Stepanìda. You’d best hold your tongue, my good girl!

Matryòna. I’m to hold my tongue! What next! Anybody would think I was the dirt under your feet. I’m a merchant’s wife of the first guild!

Stepanìda. You and your guild! You needn’t talk like that to me, my girl! I’ve had to do with your betters in my time....

Matryòna. Even so, you’ve no right to shut me up. I’m not going to hold my tongue for anybody.

Stepanìda. And what do you suppose I care? There! go your own way; it’s all one to me; but when you drive me to it I must speak out; it’s my way. I’m not going to make myself over again for your pleasure. (Silence. They all sit and sulk.) You’ve just spoiled my Màsha between you.

Antìp. I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband?

Stepanìda. ’Twas time to think of that long ago. Seems to me you’ve clean forgotten that you have a sister; and she getting on, too.

Màrya. Really, mamma! Always “getting on,” and “getting on”! I’m not so old as all that comes to.

Stepanìda. Don’t try your fine airs on me, miss! I was married at thirteen; and you—I’m downright ashamed to tell people of it—you’re twenty.

Antìp. Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov?

Màrya. Well, really, brother! You know he smells of onions all the year round; and in Lent it’s just dreadful!

Antìp. Well, then, Perepyàtkin; he’d be a fine lover. (Laughs.)

Màrya. You just pick out all the frights on purpose.

Antìp. Well, they’re all right. I think they’re very fine lovers, Màsha; first-rate lovers! (Bursts out laughing.)

Màrya (almost in tears). You’re just laughing at me!

Stepanìda. Come, leave off your foolishness! I’m talking seriously, Antìp Antìpych! What do you mean by all this rubbish? As for you, my girl, don’t be afraid; you shall have suitors enough to choose from. Bless my heart! You’re not a gipsy beggar-wench; you’re a marriageable girl with a position. Only you needn’t think I’ll let you marry a nobleman ... I won’t; so don’t imagine it.

Antìp. Why, mamma, any one would think there are no decent folks among noblemen. Dear me! there are plenty. (Laughs.)

Stepanìda. Of course there are, little father! there are decent people in every class; only everybody should keep to their own. Our grandfathers were no worse than we are, and they weren’t always trying to get in among the nobles.

Antìp. I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her to a noble. There’s no harm in it; why should you mind?

Stepanìda. Eh! my lad! A real proper noble, that’s worth having, wouldn’t take her; he’d want at the very least a hundred thousand, or may be two or three; and as for the others, they might as well not be there at all for me. All they know how to do is to turn up their noses and give themselves airs, as much as to say, “I’m a noble, and you’re common people!” And after all, they’re nothing but a lot of dressed up beggars! Goodness gracious! As if I didn’t know! Look at Lopàtikha,[^[22]] she married her girl to a noble, without asking any respectable person’s advice. I told her of it at the time. “Eh! Maxìmovna,”[^[23]] said I, “‘Don’t try to drive in strange sledges.’[^[24]] You’ll remember my words when it’s too late.” Well, of course she began and answered me that she wasn’t going to stand in her own child’s way, and all that. “I only want the best,” says she; “after all,” says she, “he’s a gentleman, not a shopkeeper; and maybe he’ll get on in the service and get a handle to his name.” And now, you see what’s come of it! Ah! it’s a poor tale when a frog will be a bull! There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip! Half her dowry he’s drunk away; and the rest he’s gambled away, good man! (Sighs.) Yes; I was at the wedding; such a set out as they had at the dinner, Lord save us! “Where’s the bridegroom?” said I. And what do you think, my lad? When I looked round, as it might be now, a nasty little slimy toad buttoned up into a tight jacket with the tails cut off, for all the world like a blind kitten that’s been licked down. And there he was, wriggling and twisting about, like any heathen flibberty-gibbet—Lord forgive us our sins!—as if he couldn’t find a place to sit down. Nobody’d ever have known him for a bridegroom, that they wouldn’t. He might just as well have been all hung on wires. I thought to myself when I looked at him, “You’ve made a fine choice, my friends!” (They all laugh.) But, dear heart! What am I talking about? Everybody knows that. And even if you do get one that isn’t a drunkard—of course there are decent ones here and there—he’ll only smoke you out of your own house with his tobacco; or else he’ll bring deadly sin into your house eating meat on fast days. (Spits.) Good Lord! it’s just sickening to think of.... No doubt there are good sensible people among them, that do their business properly; only all I say is, we and they don’t belong together, and we’re best apart. Now, a good, well-to-do shopkeeper, Màsha——

Antìp. Plump and fresh-coloured, you know, Màsha, like me. That’s the sort of fellow to love; not a dried-up scarecrow, eh, Màsha?

Màrya. Really, brother, how should I know?... (Casts down her eyes.)

Antìp. How should you know? Well, anyway, Matryòna knows; I say, Matryòna, don’t you think I’m right? Best have a shopkeeper, eh?

Matryòna. It’s always the same talk with you.

Stepanìda. He’s quite right, Màsha, my girl. At least there’s some one worth kissing.

Màrya. Mamma! How can you! I declare I shall go away! Come, sister! (Runs out of the room, Matryòna follows her.)

Antìp. Oho! my lass; it’s not much use to run away.

Stepanìda. You made her bashful, Antìpoushka; she’s only a girl, you see.

Antìp. Well, I don’t mind if it’s a merchant. Give her to a merchant, you may as well.

Stepanìda (Moves nearer to him and speaks softly). By the bye, Antìpoushka, I heard from neighbour Terèntyevna that Paramòn Ferapòntych thinks of marrying again, and is looking for a wife. That’s a chance we oughtn’t to miss, you know. Of course I know he’s getting old, and a widower, and all that; but he has plenty of money, Antìpoushka—heaps of money. And then, you know, he’s respectable and religious, and a capital business man.

Antìp. Ye—es, mamma; only he’s an awful cheat.

Stepanìda. Dear heart alive! What do you mean by a cheat, I’d like to know? He goes to church on all the holidays; and he always comes before any one else; he keeps all the fasts; and in Lent he doesn’t even drink sugar in his tea, only honey or raisins. Yes, my dear, you might take example by him! And if he does play a trick sometimes, like any business man, who’s the worse for it? He’s neither the first nor the last. Why, there’d be no trade without that, Antìpoushka. It’s a true saying—“No lies, no sale.”

Antìp. That’s true enough! Why shouldn’t one trick a chap if it comes easy? There’s no harm in that. Only you see, mamma, ... a man must have a bit of conscience sometimes. (Scratches his head.) After all, you know, ... one must think of one’s latter end. (Silence.) I know I can be as cunning as he is, when it comes in my way; but I always tell a chap honestly afterwards. I always say:—“Look here, friend, I fleeced you a little bit over such and such a business.” Last year, for instance, I did Sàvva Sàvvich out of five hundred roubles when we were settling up accounts; but I told him about it afterwards:—“Sàvva Sàvvich,” said I, “you’ve let a nice little five hundred slip through your fingers; but it’s too late now, friend,” said I; “only another time keep your eyes open.” He was a bit riled up about it; but we’re the best of friends again. There’s no harm in that!... Why, just lately I did that German, Karl Ivànych, out of three hundred roubles. That was a good joke! Matryòna had been buying a lot of furbelows and things in his shop, and he sent me in a little bill for two thousand.

Stepanìda. What! I never heard of such a thing!

Antìp. There, that’s no harm! Let her dress up if she likes! Well, so I thought to myself—“Surely I’m not going to give the German all that money. No, no,” thought I, “he may wait till he gets it.” So I gave him a little over three hundred roubles short. “The rest, mounseer, afterwards,” says I. “All right, all right,” says he, as polite as you please. So after that, of course he began nagging at me; every time I met him it was the same thing—“What about the money?” I got just sick of it; and one day, when I’d got my back up, that German must needs come along. “What about the money?” says he. “What money?” says I; “I paid you long ago, man; let me alone, for the Lord’s sake!” Eh! there was my German in a rage! “That’s dishonest,” says he; “that’s underhand dealing,” says he; “it’s written down in my books,” says he. And I said to him:—“The deuce knows what you’ve got written down in your books; you’d have one always paying you.” “Ah!” says he, “that’s the Russian way of doing business; no German would do that. I’ll go to law,” says he. Well, what can you do with a man like that? It’s for all the world like a sick man and his nurse! (Both laugh.) “All right,” says I; “much you’ll get from lawyering!” Well, he went to law; and of course I simply denied it. I stuck to my point, that I’d paid and knew nothing more about it. Oh! what a laugh we had over that German! He was just wild. “It’s dishonest,” says he. So after it was all over, I said to him—“Karl Ivànych, I’d have given you that money, only I couldn’t spare it.” You should have seen how our shopkeepers shook their fat paunches with laughing! (Both laugh.) For that matter, why should I pay up all his bill? That’s too much of a good thing. They stick on any price they like; and people are silly enough to believe them. I’d do the same thing again if a man won’t give credit. That’s my way, mamma, and I see no harm in it. But Shiryàlov—he’s no better than a Jew; he’d cheat his own father! It’s true, mamma; and he’ll look you right in the face and tell you lies—and then pretends to be a saint! (Enter Shiryàlov.) Ah! Paramòn Ferapòntych, glad to see you; how do you do?

Shiryàlov. How do you do, neighbours? (Bows.) Antìp Antìpych! Good evening, friend. (They kiss.) Little mother, Stepanìda Trofimovna, good evening. (They kiss.)

Antìp. Sit down, Paramòn Ferapòntych.

Stepanìda. Sit down, little father.

Shiryàlov (sits down). Well, little mother, and how are you getting on?

Stepanìda. Badly enough, little father; I’m getting old. And how goes the world with you?

Shiryàlov. Ah! little mother! last week I was taken bad all on a sudden. Good Lord I how sharply it did catch me; I was downright frightened, I can tell you. First of all, ma’am, I got a pain in my bones; I assure you, every little bone and joint ached of itself; just ached as if it would all go to pieces, ma’am. The Lord sends us these trials, little mother, as a chastisement for our sins. And then, ma’am, it went into the middle of my back.

Stepanìda. You and I are getting old, little father.

Shiryàlov. I turned this way and that, on one side and the other; no use, ma’am; it would just leave off a minute, and then catch me again. It seemed to go right to my heart.

Stepanìda. Dear! dear!

Antìp. I say, Paramòn Ferapòntych, haven’t you been going it rather too much with your chums?

Shiryàlov. No indeed, sir; I haven’t had a drop of liquor in my mouth; not for over a month, Stepanìda Trofimovna! That is, I don’t say that I’ve given it up for altogether; only for a little while. I won’t say I’ll never touch it again; the flesh is weak, as the Holy Scripture says.

Stepanìda. Very true, little father!

Shiryàlov. I’ll tell you what I think, neighbours; I must have caught cold, somehow; maybe going out in the street without buttoning my coat, or standing out in the garden in my shirt after dark.

Stepanìda. Yes, yes; it’s so easy to go wrong, little father! Let me give you some tea, Paramòn Ferapòntych.

Shiryàlov (bows). Thank you, ma’am, thank you; I’ve just had tea.

Stepanìda. Never mind, little father, have some more.

Antìp. With us, for company’s sake.

Shiryàlov. Just one cup, then. (Stepanìda pours out tea. He takes his cup and drinks.) So this is what I did, ma’am. I thought to myself—“All this doctor’s stuff is just rubbish! it’s nothing but stealing people’s money.” And I never have taken doctor’s stuff, little mother; it’s a sin that I’ve never taken on my soul. So I thought to myself—“I’ll go to the bath; that’s what I’ll do.” Well, I went to the bath, neighbour; and then I sent out for a bottle of wine, and two or three red peppers, ma’am; and I had them mixed in properly; then I drank one half and made the bath-man rub me down with the other half; and when I got home I had some punch; and at night, ma’am, I came out all in a sweat; and that threw it off.

Stepanìda. Yes, yes, little father! My Antìpoushka always takes punch if he’s not well.

Antìp. That’s good stuff for every sort of illness, friend; you remember my words. (Shiryàlov puts down cup.)

Stepanìda. Take another cup.

Shiryàlov (bows). Thank you, no more. Very grateful, Stepanìda Trofimovna.

Stepanìda. Without ceremony, little father. (Pours out tea.) How’s your business getting on?

Shiryàlov (takes cup). Thanks be to God, Stepanìda Trofimovna, fairly well. I’ve only one trouble: my Sènka’s gone to the bad altogether. I can’t think what I’m to do about it: it’s a real trial and affliction.

Antìp. Wild oats, I suppose?

Shiryàlov. Worse than that, Antìp Antìpych, worse than that! I wouldn’t mind if he’d take to drinking; he couldn’t throw away so much on that; but he runs over head and ears into debt. Ah! little mother! what are young people coming to nowadays?

Stepanìda. You’ve no one to blame but yourself, Paramòn Ferapòntych; you’ve regularly spoiled the boy; you should have broken him in when he was a child, it’s too late now. He should have gone into town with your shopmen, and learned to keep his eyes open and bring in money.

Shiryàlov. Ah! little mother! you see, he’s my only one. In these days a young man has to get into society. It was very different when we were young: we whipped our tops until we were eighteen; and then our elders took and married us and started us in business. Nowadays, a young man that’s had no schooling gets called a fool; the world’s grown so wise! And then you see, neighbour, God has blessed us; we’ve a tidy little fortune. What would people say if I couldn’t manage to give an only son learning, with all my capital? I don’t want to be worse than my neighbours. One’s always hearing that So-and-So’s sent his boy to a simminry and another’s sent his to the Commercial ’Cademy. So I sent my Sènka to a simminry, and paid my money down for a year in advance. And if you’ll believe it, ma’am, before three months was up, he cut an’ run; so I thought I’d eddicate him at home; and I got a tutor, cheap. But I’d nothing but ill luck, ma’am; the tutor turned out wild, and Sènka took to wheedling money out of his mother and going off on the spree with his tutor, now to the drink-shops, now to the gipsy wenches.... Well, of course I turned the tutor out o’ doors; and now I’m left to get on with my Sènka how I can. Dear Lord! dear Lord! how wicked the people are grown nowadays!

SHIRYÀLOV: “LAST WINTER HE SPENT THREE HUNDRED ROUBLES ON GLOVES ALONE—THREE HUN—DRED ROUBLES!”

Antìp. He seems to have taken after his father!

Shiryàlov. And indeed you wouldn’t believe what he costs me: a hundred here, two hundred there; just lately I paid his tailor a thousand roubles; it’s dreadful to think of; I don’t wear out a thousand roubles’ worth in ten years. I don’t know how it is; he can’t be content with a waistcoat that’s just a waistcoat and a coat that’s just a coat. Ah! it must be a judgment on me for my sins! (Almost in a whisper.) Last winter he spent three hundred roubles on gloves alone—three hun—dred roubles!

Stepanìda. Dear! dear! dear!

Antìp. Wh-whew!

Shiryàlov. The worst of it is that they give him credit everywhere; they know that I can pay. He owes four thousand now in some restaurant or other. No fortune in the world would stand that sort of thing. (Drinks tea; silence.) By the bye, Antìp Antìpych, did I tell you the joke?

Antìp. What joke?

Shiryàlov. About the Armenian.

Antìp. No; what is it?

Shiryàlov. Eh! It’s as good as a play. (Laughs, moves his chair nearer, and speaks in a whisper.) Last year, my good sir, this Armenian came to the town with silk to sell; and he got playing ducks and drakes with his money, just like my Sènka. People began to talk about him in the town—you know how ... and I’d got I O U’s of his for fifteen thousand. It’s a bad business, thinks I. There was no getting rid of them in the town; everybody smelled a rat. Just about that time our manufacturer turned up; his factory’s in a town some way off, you know. I went straight to him, before he’d heard about it; and what do you think, sir? Got rid of them all in a lump!

Antìp. Well, and what was the end of it?

Shiryàlov. Just twenty-five kopecks. (Laughs.)

Antìp. No? Really? That’s capital! (Laughs.)

Shiryàlov. But Sènka’s not like that; no, no, sir, not that sort at all. Verily the Almighty chastises me in my son! He keeps company with the Lord knows what sort of rag-tag-and-bobtail (puts down cup), with people not fit to speak to....

Stepanìda. Another cup?

Shiryàlov. No more, little mother, no more.

Stepanìda. Without ceremony——

Shiryàlov. Can’t, little mother, can’t, indeed. (Bows.)

Stepanìda. As you like; but there’s plenty more.

Shiryàlov. Can’t, really. (Rises and bows.)

Stepanìda. Dàrya, clear away the tea. (Dàrya enters, clears away tea, and goes out). Good-bye, little father.

Shiryàlov. Good-bye, little mother. (They kiss.)

Stepanìda. Don’t forget to look in on us.

Shiryàlov. Always a pleasure, ma’am; always a pleasure.

Antìp. I say, mamma, let’s have some brandy in; and a bite of something, and a bottle of Madeira, or something of that kind. Let’s have a drink, neighbour, eh?

Shiryàlov. Eh! Antìp Antìpych, that would be too much trouble.

Antìp. Not a bit of it; there’s no trouble. (Stepanìda goes out.)

Shiryàlov. Yes, neighbour; he keeps away from home; he never goes near the shop. What does he care how his father has to get the money? It’s time I should have a little rest in my old age. But I’ve no one to depend on. The other day I went and served in the shop myself; I hadn’t done it for fifteen years. “I’ll just go and show my lazy louts how to do business,” said I to myself. And would you believe it, sir——(Draws his chair nearer. Wine is brought in.)

Antìp. Have a drink, neighbour! (They drink.)

Shiryàlov. There was a piece of stuff that was left on hand. Two years ago the price of it was two roubles forty the arshin; but this year they’d marked it eighty kopecks. Well, sir, as I sat in the shop there came in two ladies, and asked for some stuff for blouses to wear in the house. “Certainly, ma’am,” says I. “Mìtya, bring that last new material. Here’s a fine stuff,” said I. “And what’s the price?” said the lady. “Two and a half roubles it cost me,” says I; “and profit—what you please, ma’am.” “I’ll give one rouble eighty,” says she. What do you think of that, Antìp Antìpych? One rouble eighty. “Oh! no, ma’am,” says I; “I couldn’t possibly let it go for that.” Well, they haggled a bit, and said they’d give two roubles. Hear that? Two roubles! (Laughs.) “How much do you want?” says I. “Twenty-five arshin” “Can’t do it, ma’am,” says I; “if you’ll take the whole piece, I don’t mind letting it go at two roubles.” You see, the thing was that I didn’t dare touch the stuff. (Laughs.) I was afraid to lay a finger on it. For anything I knew, it might be all rotten inside. Well, my ladies talked it over, and took the whole piece. You should just have seen how the shopmen stared. (Laughs.)

Antìp. Why, that’s capital! That’s first-rate! Have a drink, neighbour. (They drink.)

Shiryàlov. But Sènka’s not that sort; oh, no! Sènka’s not that sort at all. (Sighs.) My good sir, he goes to the theatre every blessed day. He knows everybody there; he’s made friends with them all; every sort of rabble comes dangling after him. What do you think! The other day I called in at Ostolòpov’s. “Just give me that money,” says he. “What money?” says I. “For the shawl.” “What shawl?” “Why, that your son bought.” I thought to myself: “What in the world can he want with a shawl?” Of course, I knew I shouldn’t get the truth out of him, so I began making inquiries; and would you believe it, sir, he’s got one of these actress girls!

Antìp. Well, I never did!...

Shiryàlov. What would you have me do with him? That’s more than I can stand; I’m ashamed to acknowledge him.

Antìp. The fact is, that it’s time to marry him. You must find the boy a wife.

Shiryàlov. Wait a bit, Antìp Antìpych; that’s not the worst of it; the worst is that there’s no end; it’s just like pouring water into a sieve. It’s a shawl to-day, it’ll be a sable cloak to-morrow; and for all I know a furnished house next day; and then a carriage and pair; and then heaven knows what; its worse than the horseleech!

Antìp. Very true.

Shiryàlov. And you know, when a man gets entangled with them, he’s like one blind. That sort of company is just ruin, Antìp Antìpych.

Antìp. You’re right there; a man loses his head altogether. There’s only one thing to do, neighbor—to get him married quick.

Shiryàlov. It’s easy to say, “Get him married”; but how am I to do it?

Antìp. How are you to do it? Well, of course, I don’t mean that you should tie him hand and foot. Just hunt up a girl with a nice little dowry, you know; and I doubt he won’t kick at it. Why should any one mind marrying? It’s nothing but a pleasure!

Shiryàlov, Why, who do you think would have him? No one but a mad woman would marry such a rake!

Antìp. You think the girls care for that? Bless my soul, that’s nothing! Why man, young bachelors are always like that. Do you remember what I was like as a bachelor? I used to drink, and sow my wild oats, and be up to all sorts of larks. My poor father just gave me up for good and all. You talk about theatres! We didn’t go to theatres, we used to be off to the dancing saloons, or to the gipsies at Grouzìna; and go on spree, drinking, for a fortnight at a time. Why, the factory hands at Preobrazhènskoye nearly murdered me over a wench; all Moscow knew about it. None the less I got Matryòna Sàvishna. All that’s stuff and nonsense; that doesn’t matter.

Shiryàlov. Ah! it’s all very well to say, “Marry him, and find a girl with a dowry.” Why, my dear fellow, now that he hasn’t got any money, he carries on like mad; but if once he were to get money into his hands, heaven knows what he’d do—he’d play old Harry with everything.

Antìp. He’d set the money in circulation. (Laughs.)

Shiryàlov. No, sir; the thing I think of doing is to put a notice in the newspapers. Like this you know: “I entrust no commissions to my son; and have no intention of paying his debts in future.” Then I’ll sign it: “Manufacturer-Counsellor-Merchant-Temporarily-of-the-First-Moscow-Guild, Paramòn, son of Ferapònt Shiryàlov.”

Antìp. Yes; that’s not a bad idea.

Shiryàlov. And another thing I think of doing to punish him, is to get married myself and cut him out.

Antìp. Yes, why not? Marriage is a good thing.

Shiryàlov. It’s just possible, you know, that the good Lord will hear my prayers and send me a son and heir to comfort my old age. I’ll leave everything to him. The other is like a stranger to me; and my heart turns away from him. Only think of it; if I were to leave the fortune to him, what would he do? He’d just squander my money, the sweat of my brow, among his tailors and his actress wenches!

Antìp. Well then, marry; there’s no harm in that. Have you got any girl in particular in your eye?

Shiryàlov. No, friend; that’s just my trouble.

Antìp. Would you like me to find you one? Let’s have a drink first of all. (They drink.)

Shiryàlov. Are you in earnest?

Antìp. Quite. Why shouldn’t I find you one?

Shiryàlov (looks keenly at him). You’re fooling me!

Antìp. What should I fool you for? I haven’t got far to look, man; I’ve got a marriageable sister.

Shiryàlov. What did you say? Eh-h-h!

Antìp. Didn’t that occur to you? Well, you are a simple minded fellow!

Shiryàlov. My dear lad, of course I thought of it. (Lowers his eyes.) But I doubt she wouldn’t care to have me.

Antìp. What next. Why shouldn’t she? Never fear, she’ll have you.

Shiryàlov (drops his eyes lower). She’ll say: “He’s old.”

Antìp. Old? What does that matter? There’s no harm in that. Never fear, she’ll have you. And then, my mother’s fond of you. Why, what more can the girl want? A good respectable man: why shouldn’t she have you?—quiet and peaceable in his cups.... By the bye, you are quiet in drink, aren’t you? You don’t get fighting?

Shiryàlov. As quiet as any innocent babe, Antìp Antìpych. Whenever I get a drop too much, it just sends me off to sleep; I never get rowdy and wild.

Antìp. You didn’t used to come to blows with your first wife, did you?

Shiryàlov. Never, so help me, God!

Antìp. Very well then, why should she object to a decent fellow? Never fear, she’ll have you. You can send the matchmaker. There now, let’s drink health and happiness to you. (They drink.)

Shiryàlov. Antìp Antìpych, you’re my benefactor, my—I’ll tell you what: we’ve had a little drink here; come to me and we’ll make a regular jolly night of it. There’s more room in my place, and there are no women-folk, and we’ll fetch in the factory hands to give us a song.

Antìp. All right. You go on and get everything ready, and I’ll come in a minute; I’ll just get my cap. (Shiryàlov goes out.)

Antìp (alone, winks). What a beast it is! And such a sly fox! To see the doleful ways he puts on. It’s all poor Sènka’s fault. It’s very well for you to talk, my man, you’ve just got a sweet tooth in your old age. Well, for my part, I don’t care; it’s all one to me. But I know one thing, Paramòn Ferapòntych; when it comes to the dowry, who’ll get the best of who—that’s quite another matter. Mamma and I are not quite so green as you think. (Goes out.)

(Matryòna enters, showily dressed; Dàrya follows her.)

Matryòna. Has Antìp Antìpych gone out?

Dàrya. Yes, ma’am.

Matryòna. Off on the spree! What a nuisance it is. He’ll disappear for two or three days now!

(Màrya enters, in her best clothes.)

Màrya. Come along, sister! Do you know how I got leave?

Matryòna. How?

Màrya. Said I wanted to go to vespers! (They burst out laughing; and exeunt.)

“LA TRAVIATA.”

(AS DESCRIBED BY A SHOPKEEPER).

By GORBOUNÒV.

One day I was out for a spree with my man Jack, that serves in the shop, you know, and we passed a stone theatre. Jack went up and began reading the advertisement bill that they’d got stuck up, and says he, “I can’t understand this; ’tisn’t written plain in our talk.” Well, a gent came by and Jack says: “Please, mister, what’s written here?” So he read it. “Frou-Frou” says he. “And what does that mean?” “Oh,” says he, “that’s foreign for any real good thing.” “Really now! thank you kindly, sir.... Mister Policeman, you belong in these parts; perhaps you can tell us what sort of thing a frou-frou is?” “You’d better go to the ticket-office,” says he; “they’ll tell you all about it there.” So we went to the ticket-office and asked for two tickets, right up top, as high as you can go. “For which performance?” “Frou-Frou.” “This is the opera here,” says he. “Oh well, it’s all one to us; give us two tickets; we don’t mind what you show us. Now Jack! Hurry up!” So we went in and sat down and these I-talian actor-folk were singin’ away as hard as they could go. First of all, they were sitting at dinner, eating and drinking and singin’ about how they was havin’ a jolly time and was quite satisfied. Then Mrs. Patty poured out a glass of claret and gave it to Mr. Canzelari, an’ says she: “Have a drink, won’t you?” So he drank it off and said: “My dear, I’m in love with you!” “You don’t mean it?” “True.” “Then if so,” says she, “you can go off about your business and I’ll sit and think over my life, because that’s the right and proper thing for a woman to do when she thinks of takin’ a sweetheart.” So Mrs. Patty sat and thought over all her life, and then another man came in. “Look here, ma’am,” says he, “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name, but I’ve come to talk to you about my lad; he’s got himself into hot water, and now he’s hiding in your house. Just you kick him out.” “Let’s go into the garden, sir,” said she, “it’s nicer talking in the open air.” So out they went into the garden, and there she says to him, says she: “I tell you what I’ll do, sir; I’ll write and give him a piece of my mind, and I’ll give it him so plain that he won’t come hanging about me any more, because I don’t hold with wildness and bad ways myself.” So then we went out into a sort of passage place and had some apples to cool our throats, for it was that hot that I was just stifled. When we got back again I says to Jack: “Now, mind you look at it and see all they do.” “I’m a-lookin’,” says he. “What’s going to come of it all?” “Why,” says he, “the young man’s come back to her—silly fellah—to make his apologies and tell her it was none of his doin’, an’ his guv’nor made the whole think up.” So then she up an’ says to him: “You’ve not done the genteel thing by me; you’ve put me to the blush before all these people; but all the same,” says she, “I’m over head and ears in love with you! An’ there’s my photygraph for a keepsake, an’ I’m very sorry,” says she, “but it’s time for me to die.”... She just went on singing for another half-hour, and then she gave up the ghost.

A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS.

By GORBOUNÒV.

Most Orthodox Tzar! Thy faithful slave strikes the earth with his brow before thy glory! In this present year (377) received I the letter which Thou didst deign to write to me. In that letter is it written: “Go thou, oh Ivàn, and journey through the towns of the realm of Germany, and look upon the folk that dwell therein and write of them to me, thy great master. And thou shalt take with thee much goods and riches. And when thou journeyest through the towns of the land of Germany, so shalt thou neither rob nor steal, nor shalt thou drink of strong drink to be drunken therewith, but thou shalt speak with the men of Germany; softly and fair shalt thou speak with them, and shalt give answer in soberness and truth, and in the fear of my displeasure, that I chastise thee not in my wrath. And if any man that is a chieftain among the men of Germany shall ask of thee for what need has thy mighty lord sent thee hither, thou shalt say unto him: ‘For State matters of great moment.’ And gifts shalt thou not give unto him. And if any man of Germany shall ask of thee help, so shalt thou give unto him food that he may eat and coins that he may have wherewithal to drink, even three pennies unto every one.”

Therefore, oh Most Orthodox Tzar, by Thy command did I go out from the borders of the land of Muscovy in the month of May, on the seventeenth day of the month, even the day of the memory of the holy Saint N.N. And on my right hand I beheld the wide sea, and ships thereon, and by the sea standeth the town which is called Königsberg. And in the olden days that town and land were ruled over by the King of Poland, but now all these men of Poland are become changed into Germans, and are commanded to live after the fashion of the Germans, but to believe in the Catholic faith, even as their fathers before them. Yet if any man of them shall turn to the Lutheran faith, to that man shall be shown much honour. And the town of Ems is but a little town, and it standeth in the mountains, and the water therein is alive, and the water hisseth and bubbleth, and the water floweth from a stony mountain and many trees grow thereon. And if any man have a sickness in his entrails, or an evil, or any unsoundness, then the doctors in their wisdom look upon his sickness and command him that he drink the hissing waters, and that he sit in them naked. But the men of the land of Muscovy drink not of the water; they drink much Rhine-wine and are whole and sound. And the wine of the Rhineland is good, and every day do I drink to Thee, Most Orthodox Tzar. And in that town is built a great stone hall, and a German sitteth therein and turneth a foolish toy like a wheel. And the German is small of stature and fair. And around the German is a mighty multitude of people from far-off lands, both Jews and Jesuits, and maidens and matrons and aged women, and an evil folk of thieves and robbers, and they lay coins of gold and silver before the German, and the German gathereth up the coins and turneth his wheel, ceasing not. And in the doorway is the sound of trumpets and the beating of drums and the playing of instruments, to tempt the people that they fall away from righteousness.

“THEY LAY COINS OF GOLD AND SILVER BEFORE THE GERMAN.”