MEN WITH PASTS

I.

Vyézhaya (Entrance) Street consists of two rows of aged, one-story hovels, squeezed closely one against the other, with leaning walls and windows all awry; the hole-ridden roofs of these human habitations, thus crippled by time, are mottled with patches of the inner bark of the linden-tree, and overgrown with moss; above them, here and there, project tall poles surmounted by starling-houses, and they are shaded by the dusty verdure of elderberry bushes and crooked willows, the scanty flora of the town suburbs inhabited by poverty.

The window-panes of the tiny houses, of a turbid-green hue through age, stare at each other with the glances of cowardly sharpers. Up-hill, through the middle of the street, crawls a winding cart-track, which tacks back and forth among deep gullies, washed out by the rains. Here and there lie heaps of broken bricks and other rubbish, overgrown with high grass—representing the remnants or the beginnings of the constructions, unsuccessfully undertaken by the inhabitants in their fight with the floods of rain-water, which flow like torrents from the town. Up above, on the crest of the hill, handsome stone houses conceal themselves amid the luxuriant verdure of thick gardens, and the belfries of churches rise proudly into the blue sky, their golden crosses glitter dazzlingly in the sun.

During rains, the town sends its dirt down upon Vyézhaya Street; in dry weather, it sprinkles it with dust,—and all these deformed little houses look as though they, also, had been flung out of it, swept forth, like rubbish, by some mighty hand.

Flattened down against the earth, they were sprinkled all over the hill, half-decayed, infirm, decorated by sun, dust, and rain with that dirty grayish hue which defies description that wood acquires with age.

At the extremity of this wretched street, flung out of the town to the bottom of the hill, stood a long, two-story deserted house, which had escheated to the town, and had been purchased from the town by merchant Petúnnikoff. It was the last in the line, standing at the very foot of the hill, and beyond it extended a wide plain, intersected, half a verst from the house, by a steep declivity descending to the river.

This large and very aged house possessed the most gloomy aspect of all among its neighbors. It was all askew, in its two rows of windows there was not a single one which had preserved its regular shape, and the splinters of glass in the shattered frames had the turbidly-greenish hue of swamp water.

The walls between the windows were streaked with cracks and dark spots of peeling stucco—as though time had written its biography on the walls of the house in these hieroglyphs. The roof, which sloped toward the street, still further increased its rueful aspect—it seemed as though the house had bent down to the ground, and was submissively awaiting from Fate the final blow which should convert it into dust, into a shapeless heap of half-rotten fragments.

The gate stood open—one half of it, torn from its hinges, lay on the ground, and through the crevices between its planks had sprouted the grass, which thickly covered the desert courtyard of the house. At the far end of this courtyard stood a low, smoke-begrimed building with an iron roof, of one slant. The house itself was, of course, uninhabitable, but in this building, which had formerly been the blacksmith’s shop, there was now installed a “night lodging-house,” kept by Aristíd Fómitch Kuválda,38 retired captain of cavalry.

The interior of the night lodging-house presented a long, gloomy burrow, four fathoms by ten; it was lighted on one side by four small, square windows, and a broad door. Its unplastered brick walls were black with soot, the ceiling, of barge-bottom wood,39 was also smoked until it was black; in the middle of the place stood a huge stove, for which the forge served as foundation, and around the stove, and along the walls, ran wide sleeping-shelves with heaps of all sorts of stuff, which served the lodgers as beds. The wall reeked with smoke, the earthen floor reeked with dampness, from the sleeping-shelves proceeded an odor of sweaty and decaying rags.

The quarters of the lodging-house’s proprietor were on the stove; the sleeping-shelves around the stove were the places of honor, and upon them the night-lodgers who enjoyed the favor and friendship of the proprietor disposed themselves.

The cavalry captain always spent the day at the door of the night lodging-house, seated in something after the likeness of an arm-chair, which he had put together, with his own hands, out of bricks; or in the eating-house of Egór Vavíloff, which was situated slantwise opposite the Petúnnikoff house; there the captain dined and drank vódka.

Before he hired these quarters, Aristíd Kuválda had had an employment office for servants in the town; if we were to penetrate further back in his past, we should discover that he had had a printing-office, and before the printing-office he had—to use his own language—“simply lived. And I lived magnificently, devil take it! I may say, that I lived like a man who knows how!”

He was a broad-shouldered, tall man, fifty years of age, with a pock-marked face which was bloated with intoxication, framed in a broad, dirty-yellow beard. His eyes were gray, huge, audaciously jolly; he spoke in a bass voice, with a rumbling in his throat, and from his lips a German porcelain pipe, with a curved stem, almost always projected. When he was angry, the nostrils of his huge, hooked, bright-red nose became widely inflated, and his lips quivered, revealing two rows of yellow teeth, as large as those of a wolf. Long-armed, knock-kneed, always clad in a dirty and tattered officer’s cloak, a greasy cap with a red band but without a visor, and in wretched felt boots, which reached to his knees—he was always in a depressed state of drunken headache in the morning, while in the evening he was jolly drunk. Drink as he would, he could not get dead drunk, and he never lost his merry mood.

In the evenings, as he sat in his brick arm-chair, with his pipe in his teeth, he received lodgers.

“Who are you?”—he inquired of the man who approached him, a tattered, downtrodden individual who had been ejected from the town for drunkenness, or who, for some other, no less solid reason, had gone down hill.

The man replied.

“Present the legal document, in confirmation of your lies.”

The document was presented, if there was one.40 The captain thrust it into his breast, rarely interesting himself in its contents, and said:

“Everything is in order. Two kopéks a night, ten kopéks a week, by the month—thirty kopéks. Go and occupy a place, but look out that it doesn’t belong to somebody else, or you’ll get thrashed. The people who live in my house are stern.…”

Novices asked him:

“And you don’t deal in bread, tea or anything eatable?”

“I deal only in a wall and a roof, and for that I pay my rascally landlord, Judas41 Petúnnikoff, merchant of the second Guild, five rubles a month,”—explained Kuválda, in a business-like tone; “the people who come to me are not used to luxury…and if you are accustomed to gobble every day,—there’s the eating-house opposite. But it would be better if you, you wreck, would break yourself of that bad habit. You’re not a nobleman, you know,—so why should you eat? Eat yourself!”

For these and similar speeches, uttered in a tone of mock severity, and always with laughing eyes, and for his courteous behavior to his lodgers, the captain enjoyed wide popularity among the poor people of the town. It often happened that a former patron of the captain presented himself to him in the courtyard, no longer tattered and oppressed, but in a more or less decent guise, and with a brisk countenance.

“Good-day, your Well-Born! How’s your health?”

“I’m well. I’m alive. Speak further.”

“Don’t you recognise me?”

“No.”

“But you remember, I lived about a month with you in the winter…when that police round-up took place, and they gathered in three men!”

“We-ell now, brother, the police are constantly visiting my hospitable roof!”

“Akh, oh Lord! It was the time when you made that insulting gesture at the police-captain!”

“Wait, spit on all memories, and say simply, what do you want?”

“Won’t you accept a little treat from me? When I lived with you that time, you treated me, so.…”

“Gratitude ought to be encouraged, my friend, for it is rarely met with among men. You must be a fine young fellow, and although I don’t remember you in the least, I’ll accompany you to the dram-shop with pleasure, and drink to your success in life with delight.”

“And you’re just the same as ever…always joking?”

“But what else could I do, living among you unfortunates?”

They went. Sometimes the captain’s former patron returned to the lodging-house completely unscrewed and shaken lose by the treat; on the following day, they both treated each other again, and one fine morning, the former patron awoke with the consciousness that he had once more drunk up his last penny.

“Your Well-Born! A misfortune has befallen me! I’ve got into your squad again. What am I to do now?”

“A situation on which you are not to be congratulated, but, since you are in it, it’s not proper to be stingy,”—argued the captain.—“You must bear yourself with indifference toward everything, not spoiling your life with philosophy, and not putting questions. It is always stupid to philosophize, and to philosophize when one has a drunken headache—is inexpressibly stupid. A drunken headache demands vódka, and not gnawings of conscience and gnashing of teeth.?. spare your teeth, or there won’t be anything to beat you on. Here now, are twenty kopéks for you,—go and bring a measure of vódka, five kopék’s worth of hot tripe or lights, a pound of bread, and two cucumbers. When we get rid of our headache, we’ll consider the situation of affairs.”

The situation of affairs was defined with entire clearness, a couple of days later, when the captain had not a kopék left out of the three-ruble or five-ruble bank-note which he had had in his pocket on the day when his grateful patron had made his appearance.

“We’ve arrived! Enough!”—said the cavalry captain. “Now that you and I, you fool, have ruined ourselves with drink, let us try to enter again upon the path of sobriety and virtue. How just is the saying: If you don’t sin, you don’t repent, and if you don’t repent, you won’t be saved. We have performed the first, but repentance is useless, so let’s save ourselves at once. Take yourself off to the river and work. If you can’t trust yourself, tell the contractor to retain your money, or give it to me. When we have amassed a capital, I’ll buy you some trousers and the other things that are necessary to enable you to appear again as a respectable and quiet toiler, persecuted by fate. In new trousers you can go a long way! March!”

The patron took himself off to act as porter at the riverside, laughing at the captain’s long and wise speeches. He only dimly understood their poignant wit, but he beheld before him the merry eyes, felt the courageous spirit, and knew, that in the eloquent cavalry-captain he had a hand which could uphold him in case of need.

And, as a matter of fact, after a month or two of hard labor the patron, thanks to stem supervision of his conduct on the part of the captain, was in possession of the material possibility of rising again a step higher than the place to which he had descended through the benevolent sympathy of that same captain.

“We-ell, my friend,” said Kuválda, as he took a critical survey of his restored patron,—“you have trousers and a pea-jacket. These articles are of vast importance—trust my experience. As long as I had decent trousers, I lived in the town, in the character of a respectable man, but, devil take it, as soon as my trousers dropped off, I fell in people’s estimation, and was obliged to drop down here myself, from the town. People, my very fine blockhead, judge of everything by its form, but the essence of things is inaccessible to them, because of men’s inborn stupidity. Carve that on your nose, and when you have paid me even one half of your debt, go in peace, and seek, and thou shalt find!”

“How much do I owe you, Aristíd Fómitch?” inquired the patron in confusion.

“One ruble and seventy kopéks…Now give me a ruble or seventy kopéks, and I’ll wait for the rest until you have stolen or earned more than you have now.”

“Thank you most sincerely for your kindness!” said the patron, much affected. “What a good sort of fellow you are, really! Ekh, life did wrong in treating you hardly.… I think you must have been a regular eagle in your own place?!”

The captain could not exist without speeches of declamatory eloquence.

“What signifies ‘in my own place?’ No one knows his own place in life, and everyone of us gets his head into someone else’s harness. The place for merchant Judas Petúnnikoff is among the hard-labor exiles, but he walks about in broad day through the streets, and even wants to build some sort of a factory. The place for our teacher is by the side of a good wife, and in the midst of half a dozen children, but he is lying around at Vavíloff’s, in the dram-shop. And here are you—you’re going off to seek a place as a footman or a corridor-waiter,42 but I see that your place is among the soldiers, for you are stupid, you have endurance, and you understand discipline. You see what sort of affair it is? Life shuffles us like cards, and only accidentally—and that not for long—do we fall into our own places!”

Sometimes such conversations at parting served as prefaces to a continuation of the acquaintance, which again began with a good drinking-bout, and again reached the point where the patron had drunk up his all, and was amazed; the captain gave him his revenge, and…both drank up their last penny.

Such repetitions of what had gone before, did not, in the least, interfere with the kindly relations between the parties. The teacher mentioned by the captain was precisely one of those patrons who had reformed only to ruin himself again immediately. By his intellect, he was a man who stood closer to the captain than all the rest, and, possibly, it was precisely to this cause that he was indebted for the fact that, after having descended to the night-lodging-house, he could no longer raise himself.

With him alone could Aristíd Kuválda philosophize with the certainty of being understood. He prized this, and when the reformed teacher prepared to leave the lodging-house, after having earned a little money, and with the intention of hiring a nook for himself in the town,—Aristíd Kuválda escorted him with so much sorrow, spouted so many melancholy tirades, that they both infallibly set out on a spree, and drank up all they owned. In all probability, Kuválda deliberately arranged the matter so that the teacher, despite all his desires, could not get away from his lodging-house. Was it possible for Aristíd Kuválda, a member of the gentry, with education, the remnants of which even now glittered in his speech, from time to time, with a habit of thinking developed by the vicissitudes of fate,—was it possible for him not to desire and to try to behold always by his side a man of the same sort as himself? We know how to have compassion on ourselves.

This teacher had once taught some branch in the Teachers’ Institute of some town on the Vólga, but, in consequence of several scrapes, had been discharged from the institute. Then he had been a counting-house clerk at a tanning factory, and had been obliged to quit that also. He had been a librarian in some private library, he had tried a few more professions, and, finally, after passing an examination as attorney-at-law, he took to drinking like a fish, and hit upon the cavalry captain. He was tall, round-shouldered, with a long, sharp nose, and a perfectly bald head. In his bony, yellow face, with its small, pointed beard, shone large, restlessly-melancholy eyes, deeply sunk in their orbits, and the corners of his mouth drooped dolefully downward. He earned his means of livelihood, or rather of drink, by acting as reporter to the local newspapers. It did happen that he earned as much as fifteen rubles a week. Then he gave the money to the captain, and said:

“Enough! I’m going to return to the lap of culture. One week more of work,—and I shall dress myself decently, and addio, mio caro!”

“Very laudable!… As I, from my soul, sympathize with your resolution, Philip, I shall not give you a single glass during that entire week,”—the captain gave him friendly warning.

“I shall be grateful!—You won’t give even a single drop?”

The captain detected in his words something approaching a timid entreaty for relaxation, and said, still more sternly:

“Even if you roar for it—I won’t give it!”

“Well, that settles it”—sighed the teacher, and set off about his reporting. A day later, or, at most, two days, defeated, weary and thirsty he was staring at the captain from some nook, with mournful, beseeching eyes, and waiting in trepidation, for the heart of his friend to soften. The captain assumed a surly aspect, and uttered speeches impregnated with deadly irony, on the theme of the disgrace of having a weak character, about the beastly delight of drunkenness, and on all other themes appropriate to the occasion. To do him justice—he was sincerely carried away with his rôle as mentor and moralist; but his steady customers at the night-lodging-house, being of a sceptical cast of mind, said one to another, winking in the direction of the captain, as they watched him and listened to his croaking speeches.

“The sly dog! He puts him off cleverly! ‘I told you so,’ says he, ‘and you wouldn’t listen to me—now you may thank yourself!’”

But the teacher caught his friend somewhere in a dark corner, and tightly clutching his dirty cloak, trembling all over, licking his dry lips, he gazed in his face with a deeply-tragic glance inexpressible in words.

“You can’t?”—inquired the captain morosely.

The teacher nodded, in silent assent, and then dropped his head dejectedly on his breast, trembling all over his long, gaunt body.

“Hold out one day more…perhaps you’ll reform?” suggested Kuválda.

The teacher sighed, and shook his head negatively, hopelessly. The captain saw that his friend’s gaunt body was all quivering with thirst for the poison, and pulled the money out of his pocket.

“In the majority of cases, it is useless to contend with destiny,”—he remarked as he did so, as though desirous of justifying himself to someone.

But if the teacher did hold out the entire week, a touching scene of the farewell of friends was enacted between him and the captain, and its final act usually took place in Vavíloff’s eating-house.

The teacher did not drink up the whole of his money: he spent at least half of it on the children in Vyézhaya Street. Poor people are always rich in children, and in this street, in its dust and holes, swarms of dirty, tattered and half-starved little brats moved restlessly and noisily about, all day long, from morning till night.

Children are the living flowers of earth, but in Vyézhaya Street they had the appearance of flowers which had withered prematurely; it must have been because they grew on soil which was poor in healthy juices.

So the teacher often collected them about him, and having purchased rolls, eggs, apples and nuts, he walked with them into the fields, to the river. There they disposed themselves on the ground, and, first of all, hungrily devoured everything the teacher offered them, and then began to play, filling the air for a whole verst43 round about with their careless noise and laughter. The long, gaunt figure of the drunkard somehow shrunk together in the midst of these little folks, who treated him with entire familiarity, as one of their own age. They even addressed him simply as Philip, without adding to his name “uncle” or “little uncle.” As they flitted swiftly around him, they jostled him, sprang upon his back, slapped him on his bald head, seized him by the nose. All this must have delighted him, for he did not protest against such liberties. On the whole, he talked very little with them, and if he did speak, he did it as cautiously and even timidly as though his words might spot them, or, in general, do them harm. He passed several hours at a time, in the rôle of their plaything and comrade, surveying their animated little faces with his mournfully-sad eyes, and then, thoughtfully and slowly, he went away from them to Vavíloff’s tavern, and there, quickly and silently, he drank himself into a state of unconsciousness.

* * * *

Almost every day, on his return from his reportorial work, the teacher brought with him a newspaper, and a general assembly of all the men with pasts formed around him. On catching sight of him, they moved toward him from the various nooks of the courtyard, in an intoxicated condition, or suffering from drunken headaches, diversely dishevelled, but all equally wretched and dirty.

Alexéi Maxímovitch Símtzoff came: he was as fat as a cask, had been a forester in the service of the Crown Estates, but was now a peddler of matches, ink, blacking, and refuse lemons. He was an old man of fifty, clad in a sail-cloth great-coat, and a broad-brimmed hat, which sheltered his fat, red face, with its thick, white beard, from amid which his tiny, crimson nose and his thick lips of the same color, and his tearful, cynical little eyes peered forth upon God’s world. They called him “The Peg-top”; and this nickname accurately described his round figure, and his speech, which resembled the humming of a top.

From somewhere in a corner, “The End” crawled forth,—a gloomy, taciturn and desperate drunkard, formerly prison-superintendent Luká Antónovitch Martyánoff, a man who subsisted by gambling at “Little Belt,” at “Three Little Leaves,” at “Little Bank,” and by other arts, equally witty, and equally disliked by the police. He lowered his heavy body, which had been more than once soundly beaten, heavily upon the grass, alongside the teacher, flashed his black eyes, and stretching out his hand for the bottle, inquired in a hoarse bass voice:

“May I?”

Mechanician Pável Sólntzeff made his appearance, a consumptive man, thirty years of age. His left side had been smashed in a fight, and his yellow, sharp face, like that of a fox, was constantly contorted by a venomous smile. His thin lips disclosed two rows of yellow teeth, which had been ruined by illness, and the rags on his narrow, bony shoulders fluttered as though from a clothes-rack. His nickname was “The Gnawed Bone.” His business consisted in peddling linden-bast brushes, of his own manufacture, and switches made of a certain sort of grass, which were very convenient for cleaning clothes.

There came, also, a tall, bony man, of unknown extraction, with a frightened expression in his large, round eyes, the left of which squinted,—a taciturn, timid fellow, who had thrice been incarcerated for theft, on the sentence of the judge of the peace, and the district judge. His surname was Kisélnikoff, but he was called Tarás-and-a-Half, because he was exactly one half taller than his inseparable friend, Deacon Tarás, who had been unfrocked for drunkenness and depraved conduct. The deacon was a short, thick man, with the chest of an epic hero, and a round, shaggy head. He danced wonderfully well, and was even more wonderful in his use of ribald language. He, in company with Tarás-and-a-Half, had selected for his specialty wood-sawing on the bank of the river, and in his leisure hours the deacon was wont to narrate to his friend, and to anyone who cared to listen, tales “of his own composition,” as he announced. As they listened to these tales, the heroes of which were always saints, kings, priests, and generals, even the inhabitants of the night lodging-house spat with squeamishness, and opened their eyes to their full extent in amazement at the fantasies of the deacon, who narrated, with his eyes screwed up, and with a dispassionate countenance, astonishingly shameless things, and foully-fantastic adventures. The imagination of this man was inexhaustible,—he could invent and talk all day long, from morning till night, and never repeated himself, In his person a great poet may have perished, possibly, or, at any rate, a remarkable story-teller, who knew how to animate everything, and even invested the stones with a soul by his vile but picturesque and powerful words.

There was also an awkward sort of youth, whom Kuválda called The Meteor. One day he had made his appearance to spend the night, and from that day forth he had remained among these men, to their astonishment. At first they did not notice him,—by day, like the rest of them, he went off to seek his livelihood, but in the evening he clung about this amicable company, and at last the captain noticed him.

“Little boy! What are you doing in this land?”

The little boy answered boldly and briefly:

“I’m…a tramp.…”

The captain eyed him over critically. He was a longhaired young fellow, with a rather foolish face, with high cheek-bones, adorned with a snub nose. He wore a blue blouse without a belt, and on his head was stuck the remains of a straw hat. His feet were bare.

“You’re—a fool!” Aristíd Kuválda pronounced his decision.—“What axe you knocking about here for? You’re of no use to us.… Do you drink vódka? No…Well, and do you know how to steal? No, again. Go and learn, and then come back when you have become a man.…”

The young fellow laughed.

“No, I think I’ll go on living with you.”

“What for?”

“Oh, because.…”

“Akh, you…Meteor!” said the captain.

“Come, now, I’ll knock his teeth out for him, in a minute,” suggested Martyánoff.

“And what for?” inquired the captain.

“Nothing.…”

“And I’ll take a stone and smash you over the head,”—announced the young fellow deferentially.

Martyánoff would have given him a drubbing, had not Kuválda intervened.

“Let him alone.… He’s a sort of relation to you, and to all of us, I think. You want to knock his teeth out without sufficient foundation; he, like yourself, wants to live with us, without sufficient foundation. Well, and devil take him.… We all live without sufficient foundation for it.… We live, but what for? Because! And he, also, because…let him alone.”

“But you’d better go away from us, young man,” advised the teacher, surveying the young fellow with his mournful eyes.

The latter made no reply, and remained. Later on, they got used to him, and ceased to notice him. But he lived among them, and observed everything.

All the individuals enumerated above constituted the captain’s General Staff, and he, with good-humored irony, called them “the have-beens.” In addition to them, five or six men constantly inhabited the night, lodging-house—ordinary tramps. They were men from the country, they could not boast of any such pasts as “the have-beens,” and although they, no less than the rest, had experienced the vicissitudes of fate, yet they were more unadulterated folks than those, not so horribly shattered. It is possible that a respectable man of the cultured class is higher than the same sort of man of the peasant class, but the depraved man from a town is always immeasurably more foul and disgusting than a depraved man from the country. This rule was made sharply apparent by comparing the former educated men with the former peasants who inhabited Kuválda’s refuge.

An old rag-gatherer, Tyápa by name, was a conspicuous representative of the former peasants. Long, and thin to deformity, he held his head in such a manner that his chin rested on his chest, so that his shadow reminded one, by its shape, of an oven-fork. From the front, his face was not visible, in profile, nothing was to be seen except an aquiline nose, a pendulous lower lip, and shaggy, gray eyebrows. He was the captain’s first lodger, in point of time, and they said of him that he had a lot of money concealed somewhere. Precisely on account of this money they had “scraped” his throat with a knife two years before, and from that day forth he had hung his head in that strange manner. He denied the existence of the money, he said that “they had scratched him simply for nothing, out of impudence,” and that since then he had found it very convenient to gather rags and bones—his head was constantly bent earthward. As he walked along, with a swaying, uncertain gait, without a stick in his hand or a sack on his back—the insignia of his profession—he looked like a man who was meditative to the point of losing consciousness, but Kuválda was wont to say, at such moments, pointing his finger at him:

“See there, it’s the conscience of merchant Judas Petúnnikoff, which has run away from him, and is seeking a refuge for itself! See how frayed, and vile, and filthy that runaway conscience is!”

Tyápa spoke in a harsh voice, which hardly permitted one to understand his remarks, and it must have been for that reason that he rarely talked, and was very fond of solitude. But every time that some fresh example of a man, who had been forced out of the country by poverty, made his appearance in the night lodging-house, Tyápa, at the sight of him, fell into melancholy ire and uneasiness. He persecuted the unfortunate man with caustic jeers, which emerged from his throat in a vicious rattle; he set some malicious tramp on him, and, in conclusion, he threatened to thrash him with his own hands, and rob him by night, and he almost always managed to make the frightened and disconcerted peasant disappear from the lodging-house and never appear there again.

Then Tyápa calmed down, and tucked himself away in a corner, where he mended his rags, or read a Bible, which was as old, dirty, and tattered as himself. He crawled out of his nook again when the teacher brought the newspaper and read it aloud. Generally, Tyápa listened to all that was read in silence, and sighed deeply, asking no questions about anything. But when the teacher folded up the paper, after he had finished reading it, Tyápa extended his bony hand, and said:

“Give it to me.…”

“What do you want with it?”

“Give it…perhaps there’s something about us in in.…”

“About whom?”

“About the village.…”

They laughed at him, and flung the paper at him. He took it, and read that in such and such a village the grain had been beaten down by hail, and in another thirty houses had been burned, and in a third a woman had poisoned her family—everything which it is customary to write about the country, and which depicts it as merely unfortunate, silly, and evil. Tyápa read all this in a dull tone, and bellowed, expressing by this sound, possibly compassion, possibly satisfaction.

He spent the greater part of Sunday, on which day he never went out to gather rags, in reading his Bible. As he read, he bellowed and sighed. He held the book supported on his chest, and was angry when anyone touched it, or interfered with his reading.

“Hey, there, you necromancer,”—Kuválda said to him,—“what do you understand? Drop it!”

“And what do you understand?”

“Just so, you sorcerer! Neither do I understand anything; but then, I don’t read books.…”

“But I do read them.…”

“Well, and you’re stupid,” …—declared the captain.—“When insects breed in the head, it’s uncomfortable, but if thoughts crawl in it also,—how will you live, you old toad?”

“Well, my time isn’t very long,”—said Tyápa calmly.

One day the teacher tried to find out where he had learned to read and write. Tyápa answered him curtly:

“In jail.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yes.…”

“What for?”

“Nothing.… I made a mistake.… And I brought this Bible from there. A lady gave it to me.… The jail is a nice place, brother.…”

“You don’t say so? How’s that?”

“It teaches you.… You see, I learned to read and write there.… I got a book.… Everything…is gratis.…”

When the teacher made his appearance in the lodging-house, Tyápa had already been living in it a long time. He stared long at the teacher,—in order to look in a man’s face Tyápa bent his whole body to one side,—listened long to his remarks, and one day he sat down beside him.

“Now, you’re one of those…you’ve been learned.… Have you read the Bible?”

“Yes.…”

“Exactly so.… Do you remember it?”

“Well…yes.…”

The old man bent his body on one side, and gazed at the teacher with his gray, sullen, distrustful eyes.

“And do you remember whether there were Amalekites there?”

“Well?”

“Where are they now?”

“They have disappeared, Tyápa…died out.…”

The old man said nothing for a while, then asked another question:

“And the Philistines?”

“It’s the same with them.”

“Have they all died off?”

“Yes…all.…”

“Exactly.… And we shall all die off?”

“The time will come when we, also, shall die off,”—the teacher predicted with indifference.

“And from which of the tribes of Israel do we come?”

The teacher looked at him, reflected, and then began to tell him about the Cimmerians, the Scythians, the Huns, the Slavs.… The old man curved himself still more on one side, and stared at him with terrified eyes.

“You’re inventing all that!”—he said hoarsely, when the teacher had finished.

“Why am I inventing?”—asked the other, in surprise.

“What did you tell me the names of those people were? They’re not in the Bible.”

He rose and went away, deeply offended, and muttering angrily.

“You’ve outlived your mind, Tyápa,” the teacher called after him, with conviction.

Then the old man turned again toward him, and stretching out his arm, he menaced him with his hooked and dirty finger:

“Adam came from the Lord, and the Hebrews descended from Adam, which signifies that all men are descended from the Hebrews.… And we, also.…”

“Well?”

“The Tatárs came from Ishmael…and he came from a Hebrew.…”

“Yes, but what do you want?”

“Nothing! Why did you lie?”

And he went away, leaving his interlocutor dumfounded. But a couple of days later he again sat down beside him.

“You’ve had education…well, and you ought to know—who are we?”

“Slavonians, Tyápa,”—replied the teacher, and began attentively to await Tyápa’s words, being desirous of understanding him.

“Speak according to the Bible—there are no such folks there. Who are we—Babylonians? Or from Edom?”

The teacher launched out upon a criticism of the Bible. The old man listened to him long and attentively, and interrupted:

“Hold on…stop that! You mean to say, that among the people known to God, there aren’t any Russians? Are we people who aren’t known to God? Is that it? Those who are inscribed in the Bible—those the Lord knew.… He annihilated them with fire and sword, he destroyed their towns and villages, but he also sent the prophets to them, for their instruction…that is to say, he had pity on them. He dispersed the Hebrews and the Tatárs, but he preserved them.… But how about us? Why haven’t we any prophets?

“I—I don’t know!”—said the teacher slowly, trying to understand the old man. But the latter laid his hand on the teacher’s shoulder, began to push him gently to and fro, and said hoarsely, as though he were endeavoring to swallow something:

“Tell me, now!… You talk a great deal, as though you knew everything. It disgusts me to listen to you…you muddle my soul.… You’d better have held your tongue!… Who are we? Exactly! Why haven’t we any prophets? Aha!—And where were we when Christ walked the earth? You see! Ekh, you stupid! And you keep on lying…could a whole nation die out? The Russian people can’t disappear—you’re lying…ifs written down in the Bible, only it isn’t known under what word.… You know the nation, what ifs like? Ifs huge.… How many villages are there on the earth? The whole nation lives there…a genuine, great nation.… And you say—it will die out.… A nation can’t die out, a man may…but a nation is necessary to God, he is the creator of the earth. The Amalekites didn’t die—they’re the Germans or the French…but you…ekh, you liar!… Come, now, tell me why God has passed us over? Haven’t we any treasure or prophets from the Lord? Who teaches us?.…”

Tyápa’s speech was strangely forceful; ridicule, and reproach, and profound faith resounded in it. He talked for a long time, and the teacher, who was, as usual, the worse for liquor, and in a peaceable mood, finally felt as uncomfortable in listening to him as though he were being sawed in twain with a wooden saw. He listened to the old man, watched his distorted countenance, felt this strange, crushing power of words, and, all of a sudden, he felt sorry to the verge of pain, for himself, and sad over something. He, also, felt a desire to say something powerful, something confident, to the old man, something which would interest Tyápa in his favor, would make him talk not in that reproachfully-surly tone, but in a different,—a soft, paternally-affectionate one. And the teacher felt something gurgling in his breast, rising in his throat…but he could find in himself no powerful words.

“What sort of a man are you?… your soul is torn to rags…and you have said various words.… As though you knew.… You’d better have held your tongue.…”

“Ekh, Tyápa,”—exclaimed the teacher sadly,—“what you say is true.… And it’s true…about the nation!… It’s huge…but I am a stranger to it…and it’s strange to me.… That’s where the tragedy of my life lies.… But—let me go! I shall suffer.… And there are no prophets…none!… I really do talk a great deal…and that’s of no use to anybody.… But I will hold my tongue…only, don’t talk to me like that.… Ekh, old man! you don’t know…you don’t know…you can’t understand.…”

The teacher began to weep at last. He wept so easily and freely, with such an abundance of tears, that he felt terribly pleased at the tears.

“You ought to go into a village…you might ask for the place of teacher or scribe there…and you’d get enough to eat, and you’d get aired. Why do you tarry?”—croaked Tyápa surlily.

But the teacher continued to weep, enjoying his tears.

From that time forth they became friends, and when the Men with Pasts saw them together they said:

“The teacher’s running after Tyápa…he’s steering his course to the money.”

“Kuválda put him up to that.… ‘Find out,’ says he, ‘where the old fellow’s capital is.…’”

It is possible that, when they talked thus, they thought otherwise. There was one absurd characteristic about these men: they were fond of displaying themselves, one to another, as worse than they were in reality.

A man who has nothing good in him sometimes is not averse to strutting in his bad qualities.

* * * *

When all these men had assembled around the teacher with his newspaper, the reading began.

“Well, sir,” said the captain, “what does that nasty little newspaper discuss to-day? Is there a feuilleton?”

“No,” answered the teacher.

“Your publisher is getting grasping.… And is there a leading article?”

“Yes, there is one to-day…Gulyáeff’s, apparently.”

“Aha! Let’s have it; that rascal writes sensibly; he has an eye as sharp as a nail.”

“Assessment of real estate,” reads the teacher.

“The appraisal of real estate,”—reads the teacher,—“which was made more than fifteen years ago, and continues to serve at the present time as the basis for the collection of an assessment, for the benefit of the town.…”

“That’s ingenious,”—comments Captain Kuválda;—“‘continues to serve’! That’s ridiculous. It’s profitable for the merchant who runs the town to have it continue to serve; well, and so it does continue to serve.…”

“The article is written on that theme,”—says the teacher.

“Yes? Strange! That’s the theme for a feuilleton…it must be written about in a peppery way.”

A small dispute blazes up. The audience listens attentively to him, for only one bottle of vódka has been drunk thus far. After the leading article, the city items and the court record are read. If a merchant appears in these criminal sections either as an active or a suffering personality—Aristíd Kuválda sincerely exults. If the merchant has been plundered—very fine, only, it’s a pity that he was robbed of so little. If his horses have smashed him up,—it’s delightful news, only it’s a great shame that he is still alive. If a merchant has lost his suit in court,—magnificent, but it’s sad that the court costs were not imposed upon him in double measure.

“That would have been illegal,”—remarks the teacher.

“Illegal? But is the merchant himself legal?”—inquires Kuválda bitterly.—“What’s a merchant? Let us examine that coarse and awkward phenomenon: first of all, every merchant is a peasant. He makes his appearance from the village, and, after the lapse of a certain time, he becomes a merchant. In order to become a merchant, he must have money. Where can the peasant get money? It is well known that money is not the reward of the labors of the upright. Hence, the peasant has played the scoundrel, in one way or another. Hence, a merchant is a scoundrelly-peasant!”

“That’s clever!”—the audience expresses its approval of the orator’s deduction.

But Tyápa roars, as he rubs his chest. He roars in exactly the same way when he drinks his first glass of vódka to cure his drunken headache. The captain is radiant. The letters from correspondents are read. These contain, for the captain, “an overflowing sea,” to use his own words. Everywhere he sees how evil a thing the merchant is making of life, and how cleverly he crushes and spoils it. His speeches thunder out, and annihilate the merchant. They listen to him with satisfaction in their eyes, because he swears viciously.

“If only I wrote for the newspapers!”—he exclaims.—“Oh, I’d show up the merchant in his true light…I’ll demonstrate that he’s only an animal, temporarily discharging the functions of a man. I understand him! He? He’s rough, he’s stupid, he has no taste in life, he has no idea of the fatherland, and knows nothing more elevated than a five-kopék coin.”

The Gnawed Bone, who knew the captain’s weak side, and was fond of exasperating people, put in venomously:

“Yes, ever since the time when noblemen began unanimously to die of starvation—real men are disappearing from life.…”

“You’re right, you son of a spider and a toad; yes, ever since the nobles fell, there are no people! There are only merchants…and I ha-a-ate them!”

“That’s easily understood, because you, brother, also have been trodden into dust by them.…”

“I? I was ruined through my love of life…you fool! I loved life.—. but the merchant plunders it. I can’t endure him, for precisely that reason…and not because I’m a nobleman. I’m not a nobleman, if you want to know it, but simply a man who has seen better days. I don’t care a fig now for anything or anybody…and all life is to me a mistress who has abandoned me…for which I despise her, and am profoundly indifferent to her.”

“You lie!”—says The Gnawed Bone.

“I lie?”—yells Aristíd Kuválda, red with wrath.

“Why shout?”—rings out Martyánoff’s cold, gloomy bass.—“Why dispute? What do we care for either merchant or nobleman?”

“Inasmuch as we are neither one thing nor the other,” interpolates the deacon.

“Stop it, Gnawed Bone,”—says the teacher pacifically.—“Why salt a herring?”

He did not like quarrels, and, in general, did not like noise. When passions flared up around him, his lips were contorted in a painful grimace, and he calmly and persuasively endeavored to reconcile everybody with everybody else, and if he did not succeed in this, he left the company. Knowing this, the captain, if he was not particularly drunk, would restrain himself, as he was not desirous of losing, in the person of the teacher, the best listener to his speeches.

“I repeat,”—he continues, more quietly,—“I behold life in the hands of enemies, enemies not only of the noblemen, but enemies of every well-born man, greedy enemies, incapable of adorning life in any way.…”

“Nevertheless, brother,”—says the teacher,—“the merchants created Genoa, Venice, Holland,—it was merchants, the merchants of England who won India for their country, the Counts Stróganoff.…”44

“What have I to do with those merchants? I have in view Judas Petúnnikoff, and along with him.…”

“And what have you to do with them?” asks the teacher softly.

“Am not I alive? Aha! I am—hence I must feel indignant at the sight of the way in which the savage people who fill it are spoiling it.”

“And they laugh at the noble indignation of the cavalry captain, and of the man on the retired list,” teased The Gnawed Bone.

“Good! It’s stupid, I agree.… As a man who has seen better days, I am bound to obliterate in myself all the feelings and thoughts which were formerly mine. That’s true, I admit.… But wherewith shall I and all of you—wherewith shall we arm ourselves, if we discard these feelings?”

“Now you’re beginning to talk sensibly,” the teacher encourages him.

“We require something else, different views of life, different feelings…we require something new…for we ourselves are a novelty in life.…”

“We undoubtedly do require that,”—says the teacher.

“Why?”—inquires The End.—“Isn’t it all the same what we say or think? We haven’t long to live…I’m forty years old, you’re fifty…not one among us is under thirty. And even at twenty, you wouldn’t live long such a life.”

“And how are we a novelty?”—grins The Gnawed Bone.—“The naked brigade has always existed.”

“And it founded Rome,”—says the teacher.

“Yes, of course,”—exults the captain.—“Romulus and Remus,—weren’t they members of the Golden Squad of robbers? And we, also, when our hour comes, will found.…”

“A breach of the public tranquillity and peace,” interpolates The Gnawed Bone. He laughs loudly, pleased with himself. His laugh is evil, and soul-rending. Símtzoff, the deacon, and Tarás-and-a-Half join in. The ingenuous eyes of the dirty little lad Meteor burn with clear flame, and his cheeks flush. The End says, exactly as though he were pounding on their heads with a hammer:

“All that’s nonsense…dreams…rubbish!”

It was strange to see these people, driven out of life, tattered, impregnated, with vódka and wrath, irony and dirt, thus engaged in discussion.

To the captain such conversations were decidedly a feast for the heart. He talked more than anybody else, and this afforded him the opportunity of thinking himself better than all the rest. But, no matter how low a man has fallen,—he will never deny himself the delight of feeling himself stronger, more sensible, although even better fed than his neighbor. Aristíd Kuválda abused this delight, but did not get surfeited with it, to the dissatisfaction of The Gnawed Bone, The Peg-top, and other “Have-beens,” who took very little interest in such questions.

But, on the other hand, politics was a universal favorite. A conversation on the theme of the imperative necessity that India should be conquered, or about the repression of England, might go on interminably. With no less passion did they discuss the means for radically exterminating the Hebrews from the face of the earth, but in this question The Gnawed Bone always got the upper hand, and had concocted wonderfully harsh projects, and the captain, who always wished to be the leading personage, avoided this theme. They talked readily, much, and evilly of women, but the teacher always came to their rescue, and got angry if they smeared it on too thickly. They yielded to him, for they all regarded him as an extraordinary man, and they borrowed from him, on Saturdays, the money which he had earned during the week.

Altogether, he enjoyed many privileges: for example, they did not beat him on those rare occasions when the discussion wound up in a universal thrashing match. He was permitted to bring women to the night lodging-house; no one else enjoyed that right, for the captain warned everyone:

“Don’t you bring any women to my house.… Women, merchants, and philosophy are the three causes of my had luck. I’ll give any man a sound drubbing whom I see making his appearance with a woman…and I’ll thrash the woman too.… For indulging in philosophy, I’ll tear off the offender’s head.…”

He could tear off a head: in spite of his age, he possessed astonishing strength. Moreover, every time that he fought, he was aided by Martyánoff. Gloomy and taciturn as a grave-stone, when a general fight was in progress the latter always placed himself back to back with Kuválda, and then they formed an all-destroying and indestructible machine.

One day, drunken Símtzoff, without rhyme or reason, wound his talons in the teacher’s hair and pulled out a lock of it. Kuválda, with one blow of his fist, laid him out senseless for half an hour, and when he came to himself he made him eat the teacher’s hair. The man ate it, fearing that he would be beaten to death.

In addition to reading the newspaper, discussions, and fighting, card-playing formed one of their diversions. They played without Martyánoff, because he could not play honestly, which he announced himself, after he had been caught several times cheating.

“I can’t help smuggling a card.… It’s my habit.…”

“That does happen,”—deacon Tarás confirmed his statement.—“I got into the habit of beating my wife after the Liturgy on Sundays; so, you know, when she died, such sadness overpowered me on Sundays as is even in credible. I lived through one Sunday, and I saw that things were bad! Another—I bore it. On the third—I hit my cook one blow.… She took offence.… ‘I’ll hand you over to the justice of the peace,’ says she. Imagine my position! On the fourth Sunday I thrashed her as though she were my wife! Then I paid her ten rubles, and went on beating her after the plan I had established until I got married.…”45

“Deacon,—you lie! How could you marry a second time?”—The Gnawed Bone interrupted him.

“Hey? Why I did it so…she looked after my household affairs.…”

“Did you have any children?”—the teacher asked him.

“Five.… One was drowned.… The eldest,…he was an amusing little boy! Two died of diphtheria.… One daughter married some student or other, and went with him to Siberia, and the other wanted to educate herself, and died in Peter46…of consumption, they say.… Ye-es…there were five of them…of course! We ecclesiastics are fruitful.…”

He began to explain precisely why this was so, arousing homeric laughter by his narration. When they had laughed until they were tired, Alexéi Maxímovitch Símtzoff remembered that he, also, had a daughter.

“Her name was Lídka.… She was such a fat girl.…”

And it must have been that he could recall nothing further, for he stared at them all, smiled apologetically…and stopped talking.

These people talked little with one another about their pasts, referred to them very rarely, and always in general terms, and in a more or less sneering tone. Possibly, such an attitude toward the past was wise, for, to the majority of people, the memory of the past relaxes energy in the present, and undermines hope for the future.

* * * *

But on rainy, overcast, cold days of autumn, these people with pasts assembled in Vavíloff’s tavern. There they were known, somewhat feared, as thieves and bullies, rather despised as desperate drunkards, but, at the same time, they were respected and listened to, being regarded as very clever people. Vavíloff’s tavern was the Club of Vyézhaya Street, and the men with pasts were the intelligent portion of the Club.

On Saturday evenings, on Sundays from morning until night, the tavern was full, and the people with a past were welcome guests there. They brought with them, into the midst of the inhabitants of the street, ground down with poverty and woe, their spirit, which contained some element that lightened the lives of these people, exhausted and distracted in their pursuit of a morsel of bread, drunkards of the same stamp as the denizens of Kuválda’s refuge, and outcasts from the town equally with them. Skill in talking about everything and ridiculing everything, fearlessness of opinion, harshness of speech, the absence of fear in the presence of that which the entire street feared, the challenging audacity of these men—could not fail to please the street. Moreover, nearly all of them knew the laws, were able to give any bit of advice, write a petition, help in cheating with impunity. For all this they were paid with vódka, and flattering amazement at their talents.

In their sympathies, the street was divided into two nearly equal parties: one asserted that the “captain was a lot more of a man than the teacher, a real warrior! His bravery and brains were huge!” The other party was convinced that the teacher, in every respect, “tipped the scales” over Kuválda. Kuválda’s admirers were those petty burghers who were known to the street as thoroughgoing drunkards, thieves, and hair-brained fellows, to whom the path from the beggar’s wallet to the prison did not seem a dangerous road. The teacher was admired by the more steady-going people, who cherished hopes of something, who expected something, who were eternally busy about something, and were rarely full-fed. The character of the relations of Kuválda and the teacher toward the street is accurately defined by the following example. One day, the subject under discussion in the tavern was an ordinance of the city council, by which the inhabitants of Vyézhaya Street were bound: to fill up the ruts and holes in their street, but not to employ manure and the corpses of domestic animals for that purpose, but to apply to that end only broken bricks and rubbish from the place where some buildings were in process of erection.

“Where am I to get those same broken bricks, if, during the whole course of my life I never have wanted to build anything but a starling-house, and haven’t yet got ready even for that?”—plaintively remarked Mokéi Anísimoff, a man who peddled rusks, which his wife baked for him.

The captain felt himself called upon to express his opinion upon the matter in hand, and banged his fist down upon the table, thereby attracting attention to himself.

“Where are you to get broken bricks and rubbish? Go, my lads, the whole street-full of you, into town, and pull down the city hall. It’s so old that it’s not fit for anything. Thus you will render double service in beautifying the town—you will make Vyézhaya Street decent, and you will force them to build a new city hall. Take the Mayor’s horses to cart the stuff, and seize his three daughters—they’re girls thoroughly suited to harness. Or tear down the house of Judas Petúnnikoff, and pave the street with wood. By the way, Mokéi, I know what your wife used to-day to bake your rolls:—the shutters from the third window, and two steps from the porch of Judas’ house.”

When the audience had laughed their fill and had exercised their wits on the captain’s proposition, staid market-gardener Pavliúgin inquired:

“But what are we to do, anyway, Your Well-Born?…Hey? What do you think?…”

“I? Don’t move hand or foot! If the street gets washed away—well, let it!”

“Several houses are about to tumble down.…”

“Don’t hinder them, let them tumble down! If they do—squeeze a contribution out of the town; if it won’t give it,—go ahead and sue it! Whence does the water flow? From the town? Well, then the town is responsible for the destruction of the houses.…”

“They say the water comes from the rains.…”

“But the houses in the town don’t tumble down on account of that? Hey? It extorts taxes from you, and gives you no voice in discussing your rights! It ruins your lives and your property, and then makes you do the repairs! Thrash it from the front and the rear!”

And one half of the street, convinced by the radical Kuválda, decided to wait until their wretched hovels should be washed away by rain-water from the town.

The more sedate persons found in the teacher a man who drew up a capital and convincing statement to the city council on their behalf.

In this statement the refusal of the street to comply with the city council’s ordinance was so solidly founded that the council granted it. The street was permitted to use the rubbish which was left over from repairs to the barracks, and five horses from the fire-wagon were assigned to them to cart it. More than this—it was recognized as indispensable that, in due course, a drain-pipe should be laid through the street. This, and many other things, created great popularity in the street for the teacher. He wrote petitions, printed remarks in the newspapers. Thus, for example, one day Vavíloff’s patrons noticed that the herrings and other victuals in Vavíloff’s tavern were entirely unsuited to their purpose. And so, two days later, as Vavíloff stood at his lunch-counter, newspaper in hand, he publicly repented.

“It’s just—that’s the only thing I can say! It’s a fact that I did buy rusty herrings, herrings that weren’t quite good. And the cabbage—had rather forgotten itself…that’s so! Everybody knows that every man wants to chase as many five-kopék pieces into his pocket as possible. Well, and what of that? It has turned out exactly the other way; I made the attempt, and a clever man has held me up to public scorn for my greed.… Quits!”

This repentance produced a very good impression on the public, and furnished Vavíloff with the opportunity of feeding the public with the herrings and the cabbage, and all this the public devoured unheeding to the sauce of their own impressions. A very significant fact, for it not only augmented the prestige of the teacher, but it made the residents acquainted with the power of the printed word. It happened that the teacher was reading a lecture on practical morals in the tavern. “I saw you,”—said he, addressing the painter Yáshka Tiúrin,—“I saw you, Yákoff, beating your wife.…”

Yáshka had already “touched himself up” with two glasses of vódka, and was in an audaciously free-and-easy mood. The public looked at him, in the expectation that he would immediately surprise them with some wild trick, and silence reigned in the tavern.

“You saw me, did you? And were you pleased?”—inquired Yáshka.

The audience laughed discreetly.

“No, I wasn’t,”—replied the teacher. His tone was so impressively serious that the audience kept quiet.

“It struck me that I was doing my best,”—Yáshka braved it out, foreseeing that the teacher would “floor” him.—“My wife was satisfied…she can’t get up to-day.…”

The teacher thoughtfully traced some figures on the table with his finger, and as he inspected them he said:

“You see, Yákoff, the reason I’m not pleased is this.… Let’s make a thorough examination into what you are doing, and what you may expect from it. Your wife is with child: you beat her, yesterday, on her body and on her sides—which means, that you beat not only her, but the baby also. You might have killed him, and your wife would have died in childbed, or from this, or have fallen into very bad health. It’s unpleasant and troublesome to worry over a sick wife, and it will cost you dear, for illness requires medicines, and medicines require money. But if you haven’t yet killed the child, you certainly have crippled it, and perhaps it will be born deformed; lopsided, or hunchbacked. That means, that it will not be fit to work, but it is important for you that he should be a worker. Even if he is born merely ailing,—and that’s bad—he will tie his mother down, and require doctoring. Do you see what you have prepared for yourself? People who live by the toil of their hands ought to be born healthy, and ought to bring forth healthy children.… Am I speaking the truth?”

“Yes,”—the audience hacked him up.

“Well, I don’t think…that will happen,”—said Yáshka, somewhat abashed at the prospect as depicted by the teacher.—“She’s healthy…you can’t get through her to the child, can you now? For she, the devil, is an awful witch!”—he exclaimed bitterly. “As soon as I do anything…she starts in to nag at me, as rust gnaws iron!”

“I understand, Yákoff, that you can’t help beating your wife,”—the teacher’s calm, thoughtful voice made itself heard again;—“you have many causes for that.… It’s not your wife’s character that is to blame for your beating her so incautiously…but your whole sad and gloomy life.…”

“There, now, that’s so,”—ejaculated Yákoff,—“we really do live in darkness like that in the bosom of a chimneysweep.”

“You’re enraged at life in general, but your wife suffers…your wife, the person who is nearest to you—and suffers without being to blame toward you, simply because you are stronger than she is; she is always at your elbow, she has no place to go to get away from you. You see how…foolish…it is!”

“So it is…devil take her! And what am I to do? Ain’t I a man?”

“Exactly so, you are a man!… Well, this is what I want to say to you: beat her, if you must, if you can’t get along without it, but beat her cautiously: remember, that you may injure her health, or the health of the child. In general, it is never right to beat women who are with child…on the body, the breast, or the sides…beat her on the neck, or take a rope, and…strike on the soft places.…”

The orator finished his speech, and his deeply-sunken, dark eyes gazed at his audience, and seemed to be apologizing to them or guiltily asking them about something.

And the audience rustled with animation. This morality of a man who had seen better days, the morality of the dram-shop and of misery, was comprehensible to it.

“Well, brother Yáshka, do you understand?”

“That’s what the truth is like!”

Yákoff understood: to beat his wife incautiously was—injurious to himself.

He said nothing, replying to his comrades’ jeers with an abashed smile.

“And then again—what is a wife?”—philosophized rusk-peddler Mokéi Anísimoff:—“A wife’s a friend, if you get rightly at the root of the matter. She’s in the nature of a chain, that has been riveted on you for life…and both you and she are, after a fashion, hard-labor convicts. So try to walk evenly, in step with her…and if you can’t, you will feel the chain.…”

“Hold on,”—said Yákoff,—“you beat your wife, too, don’t you?”

“And did I say that I didn’t? I do.… One can’t get along otherwise.… Whom have I to thump my fists against—the wall?—when I can’t endure things any longer?”

“Well, there then, it’s the same way with me.…” said Yákoff.

“Well, what a cramped and doleful life is ours, my brethren! We haven’t space anywhere for a regular good swing of our arms!”

“And you must even beat your wife with care!”—moaned someone humorously. And thus they went on talking until late at night, or until they fell into a fight, which arose on the basis of intoxication, or of the moods which these discussions inspired.

The rain dashed against the windows of the tavern, and the cold wind howled wildly. Inside the tavern the air was close, impregnated with smoke, but warm; outside all was damp, cold, and dark. The wind beat upon the windows, as though it were impudently summoning all these men forth from the tavern, and threatening to disperse them over the earth, like dust. Sometimes, amid its roar, a repressed, hopeless groan became audible, and then a cold, cruel laugh rang out. This music prompted to melancholy thoughts about the close approach of winter, the accursed short days without sunshine, the long nights, and the indispensable necessity of having warm clothing and plenty to eat. One sleeps so badly on an empty stomach during the endless winter nights. Winter was coming, coming.… How were they to live?

These sorrowful meditations evoked in the inhabitants of Vyézhaya Street an augmented thirst, and in the speeches of the men with pasts the quantity of sighs increased and the number of wrinkles on their foreheads, their voices became duller, their relations to one another more blunt. And all of a sudden, savage wrath blazed up among them, the exasperation of outcasts, tortured by their harsh fate, awoke. Or they were conscious of the approach of that implacable enemy, which converted their whole life into one cruel piece of stupidity. But this enemy was intangible, for it was invisible.

And so they thrashed one another; they thrashed mercilessly, they thrashed savagely, and again, having made peace, they began to drink, drinking up everything that Vavíloff, who was not very exacting, would accept as a pledge.

Thus, in dull wrath, in sadness which clutched at their hearts, in ignorance as to the outcome of their wretched existence, they passed the autumnal days, in anticipation of the still more inclement days of winter.

At such times, Kuválda came to their aid with philosophy.

“Don’t get down in the mouth, my boys! There’s an end to everything—that’s the merit of life.—The winter will pass, and summer will come again…a splendid season, when, they say, the sparrows have beer.”—But his harangues had no effect—a starving man cannot be fed to satiety with a swallow of water.

Deacon Tarás also tried to divert the public, by singing songs and narrating his stories. He was more successful. Sometimes his efforts led to the result that desperate, audacious mirth bubbled up in the tavern; they sang, danced, roared with laughter, and, for the space of several hours, resembled madmen. Only.…

And then again they fell back into dull, indifferent despair, and sat around the tavern tables, in the soot of the lamps and tobacco-smoke, morose, tattered, languidly chatting together, listening to the triumphant howl of the gale, and meditating as to how they might get a drink of vódka, and drink until they lost their senses.

And all of them were profoundly opposed to each, and each concealed within himself unreasonable wrath against all.

II.

Everything is comparative in this world, and there is for man no situation so utterly bad that nothing could be worse.

On a bright day, toward the end of September, Captain Aristíd Kuválda was sitting, as was his wont, in his arm-chair at the door of the night lodging-house, and as he gazed at the stone47 building erected by merchant Petúnnikoff, next door to Vavíloff’s tavern, he meditated.

The building, which was still surrounded by scaffolding, was intended for a candle-factory, and had long been an eye-sore to the captain, with the empty and dark hollows of its long row of windows, and that spider’s web of wood, which surrounded it, from foundation to roof. Red, as though it were smeared with blood, it resembled some cruel machine, which was not yet in working-order, but which had already opened a row of deep, yawning maws, and was ready to engulf, masticate, and devour. Vavíloff’s gray wooden tavern, with its crooked roof, overgrown with moss, leaned against one of the brick walls of the factory, and looked like some huge parasite, which was driving its suckers into it.

The captain reflected, that they would soon begin to build on the site of the old house also. They would tear down the lodging-house, too. He would be compelled to seek other quarters, and no others, so convenient and so cheap, could be found. It was a pity, it was rather sad, to move away from a place where he had been so long. But move he must, merely because a certain merchant had taken it into his head to manufacture candles and soap. And the captain felt, that if any opportunity should present itself to him, of ruining the life of that enemy, even temporarily—oh! with what delight would he ruin it!

On the previous evening, merchant Iván Andréevitch Petúnnikoff had been in the courtyard of the night lodging-house with the architect and his son. They had measured the courtyard, and had stuck little sticks everywhere in the ground, which, after Petúnnikoff had departed, the captain ordered The Meteor to pull out of the ground and throw away.

Before the captain’s eyes stood that merchant—small, gaunt, in a long garment which simultaneously resembled both an overcoat and an undercoat, in a velvet cap, and tall, brilliantly-polished boots. His bony face, with high cheek-bones, with its gray, wedge-shaped beard, with a lofty brow furrowed with wrinkles, from beneath which sparkled small, narrow, gray eyes, which always appeared to be on the watch for something.… A pointed, cartilaginous nose, a small mouth, with thin lips.… Altogether, the merchant’s aspect was piously-rapacious, and respectably-evil.

“A damned mixture of fox and hog!”—swore the captain to himself, and recalled to mind Petúnnikoff’s first phrase with regard to himself. The merchant had come with a member of the town court to purchase the house, and, catching sight of the captain, he had asked of his guide, in alert Kostromá dialect:

“Isn’t he a candle-end himself…that lodger of yours?”

And from that day forth—now eighteen months gone by—they had vied with one another in their cleverness at insulting man.

And on the preceding evening, a little “drill in vituperation,” as the captain designated his conversation with the merchant, had taken place between them. After he had seen the architect off, the merchant had stepped up to the captain.

“You’re sitting?”—he asked, tugging with his hand at the visor of his cap so that it was not possible to understand whether he was adjusting it or intended to express a salutation.

“You’re trotting about?”—said the captain, imitating his tone, and made a movement with his lower jaw, which caused his beard to waggle, and which a person who was not exacting might take for a bow, or for a desire on the part of the captain to shift his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“I have a great deal of money—so I trot about. Money demands that it shall be put out in life, so I’m giving it circulation.…” the merchant mocked the captain a little, cunningly narrowing his little eyes.

“The ruble doesn’t serve you, that is to say, but you serve the ruble,”—commented Kuválda, contending with a desire to give the merchant a kick in the belly.

“Isn’t it all the same thing? With it, with money, everything is agreeable.… But if you haven’t any.…”

And the merchant eyed the captain over, with shamelessly-counterfeit compassion. The captain’s upper lip twitched, disclosing his large, wolfish teeth.

“A man who has brains and conscience can get along without it…It generally makes its appearance precisely at the time when a man’s conscience begins to dry up.… The less conscience, the more money.…

“That’s true.…? But, on the other hand, there are people who have neither money, nor conscience.…”

“Were you just the same when you were young?”—inquired Kuválda innocently. It was now the turn of Petúnnikoff’s nose to twitch. Iván Andréevitch sighed, screwed up his little eyes, and said:

“In my youth, o-okh! I was forced to raise great weights!”

“I think.…”

“I worked, okh, how I worked!”

“And you worked up a good many people!”

“Such as you? Noblemen? Never mind…they learned plenty of prayers to Christ from me.…”

“You didn’t murder, you merely stole?”—said the captain sharply. Petúnnikoff turned green, and found it expedient to change the subject.

“You’re a bad host, you sit, while your guest stands.”

“Let him sit down, too,” Kuválda gave permission.

“But there’s nothing to sit on, you see.…”

“Sit on the earth…the earth accepts all sorts of rubbish.…”

“I see that, from you.… But I shall leave you, you scold,” said Petúnnikoff, in a calm, equable voice, but his eyes poured forth cold poison on the captain.

And he took his departure, leaving Kuválda with the pleasing consciousness that the merchant was afraid of him. If he had not been afraid of him, he would long ago have driven him out of the night lodging-house. He would not have refrained from expelling him for those five rubles a month! And the captain found it pleasant to stare at Petúnnikoff’s back, as he slowly left the courtyard. Then the captain watched the merchant walk around his factory, walk over the scaffoldings, upstairs and down. And he longed greatly to have the merchant fall and break his bones. How many clever combinations he had made of the fall, and the injuries, as he gazed at Petúnnikoff climbing over the scaffoldings of his factory, like a spider over his web! On the preceding evening, it had even seemed to him that one plank trembled under the merchant’s feet, and the captain sprang from his seat in excitement.… But nothing happened.

And to-day, as always, before the eyes of Aristíd Kuválda rose aloft that red building, so well-built, and solid, which had laid as firm a hold upon the earth as though it were already sucking the juices out of it. And it seemed to be laughing coldly and gloomily at the captain, with the yawning holes of its walls. The sun poured its autumnal rays upon it as lavishly as upon the wretched hovels of Vyézhaya Street.

“Is it really going to happen!”—exclaimed the captain mentally, as he measured the wall of the factory with his eye.—“Akh, you rascal, devil take you! If …” and all startled and excited by his thought, Aristíd Kuválda sprang up, and went hastily into Vavíloff’s tavern, smiling and muttering something to himself.

Vavíloff met him at the lunch-counter, with the friendly exclamation:

“We wish health to Your Well-Born!”

Of medium height, with a bald head surrounded by a wreath of curly gray hair, with smoothly-shaven cheeks, and a mustache which bristled straight up, clad in a greasy leather jacket, by his every movement he permitted one to discern in him the former non-commissioned officer.

“Egór! Have you the deed of sale and the plan of the house?” inquired Kuválda hastily.

“I have.”

Vavíloff suspiciously narrowed his knavish eyes, and rivetted them intently on the face of the captain, in which he perceived something particular.

“Show them to me!”—cried the captain, banging the counter with his fist, and dropping upon a stool alongside it.

“Why?”—asked Vavíloff, who had made up his mind, on beholding Kuválda’s excitement, that he would be on his guard.

“Bring them here quick, you blockhead!”

Vavíloff wrinkled up his brow, and raised his eyes scrutinizingly to the ceiling.

“Where have I put them, those same papers?”

He found on the ceiling no information on that point; then the non-commissioned officer fixed his eyes on his stomach, and with an aspect of anxious meditation, began to drum on the bar with his fingers.

“Stop making faces!” shouted the captain at him, for he did not like the man, considering the former soldier to be more adapted for a thief than for a tavern-keeper. “Well, I’ve just called it to mind,’Ristíd Fómitch. It appears that they were left in the district court. When I entered into possession.…

“Drop that, Egórka!48 In view of your own profit, show me immediately the plan, the deed of purchase, and everything there is! Perhaps you’ll make several hundred rubles out of this—do you understand?”

Vavíloff understood nothing, but the captain spoke so impressively, with such a serious mien, that the underofficer’s eyes began to blaze with burning curiosity, and, saying that he would look and see whether he had not the documents packed away in the house, he went out of the door behind the lunch-counter. Two minutes later, he returned with the documents in his hands, and with an expression of extreme amazement on his face.

“On the contrary, the cursed things were in the house!”

“Ekh, you…clown from a show-booth! And yet he used to be a soldier…Kuválda did not let slip the opportunity to reproach him, as he snatched from his hands a calico-covered pasteboard box, with the blue title-deed. Then, unfolding the papers in front of him and still further exciting the curiosity of Vavíloff, the captain began to read, scrutinize, and at the same time to bellow in a very significant manner. At last he rose with decision, and went to the door, leaving the documents on the bar, and nodded to Vavíloff.

“Hold on…don’t put them away.…”

Vavíloff gathered up the documents, laid them in the drawer of the counter, locked it and gave it a jerk with his hand,—to make sure that it was locked. Then, thoughtfully rubbing his bald spot, he emerged on the porch of the tavern. There he beheld the captain, after pacing off the front of the building, snap his fingers and again begin to measure off the same line, anxious but not satisfied.

Vavíloff’s face assumed a rather strained expression, then relaxed, then suddenly beamed with joy.

“’Ristíd Fómitch! Is it possible?”—he exclaimed, when the captain came opposite him.

“There’s no ‘is it possible’ about it! More than an arshín49 has been cut off. That’s on the front line, and as to the depth, I’ll find that out directly.…”

“The depth?… ten fathoms, twenty-eight inches!”

“So you’ve caught the idea, you shaven-face?”

“Certainly,’ Ristíd Fómitch! Well, what an eye you have—you can see three arshíns into the earth!” cried Vavíloff in ecstasy.

A few minutes later, they were sitting opposite each other in Vavíloff’s room, and the captain, as he annihilated beer in huge gulps, said to the tavern-keeper:

“So, all the walls of the factory stand on your land. Act without any mercy. The teacher will come, and we’ll draw up a petition in haste to the district judge. In order not to waste money on stamped paper, we’ll fix the value of the suit at the most modest figure, and we’ll ask to have the building tom down. This, you fool, is infringing on the boundaries of another man’s property…a very pleasant event for you! Tear away! And to tear down and remove such a huge thing is an expensive job. Effect a compromise! You just squeeze Judas! We’ll reckon up, in the most accurate manner, how much it will cost to tear it down—with the pressed brick, and the pit under the new foundation…we’ll reckon it all up! We’ll even take our time into account! And—please to hand over two tho-ou-sand rubles, pious Judas!”

“He won’t give it!”—said Vavíloff slowly, anxiously, winking his eyes, which were sparkling with greedy fire.

“You’re mistaken! He will give it! Stir up your brains—what can he do? Tear it down? But—see here, Egórka, don’t you lower your price! They’ll buy you—don’t sell yourself cheap! They’ll try to frighten you—don’t be afraid! Trust in us.…”

The captain’s eyes blazed with savage joy, and his face, crimson with excitement, twitched convulsively. He had kindled the tavern-keeper’s greed, and exhorting him to act as promptly as possible, he went away, triumphant and implacably-ferocious.

* * * *

In the evening, all the men with pasts learned of the captain’s discovery, and, as they hotly discussed the future actions of Petúnnikoff, they depicted, in vivid colors, his amazement and wrath on the day when the messenger of the court should hand him a copy of the complaint. The captain felt himself a hero. He was happy, and everyone around him was contented. The big throng of dark figures, clad in rags, lay in the courtyard, and buzzed, and exulted, being enlivened by the event. They all knew merchant Petúnnikoff, who had passed before them many a time. Scornfully screwing up his eyes, he bestowed upon them the same sort of attention that he did on any other sort of rubbish, strewn about the courtyard. He reeked with good living, which irritated them, and even his boots shone with scorn for them all. And now, one of them was about to deal this merchant a severe blow in his pocket and his self-conceit. Wasn’t that good?

Mischief, in the eyes of these people, had much that was attractive about it. It was the sole weapon which fitted their hand and their strength. Each one of them had long ago reared up within him a half-conscious, confused sentiment of keen hostility toward all people who were well-fed and were not clad in rags, and in each one of them this sentiment was in a different stage of its development. This it was, which evoked in all the men with pasts a burning interest in the war that Kuválda had declared against merchant Petúnnikoff.

For two weeks the night lodging-house lived in expectation of fresh occurrences, and during that whole period Petúnnikoff never once made his appearance at the new building. They found out that he was not in town, and that the copy of the petition had not yet been served on him. Kuválda battered away at the practice of the town court procedure. It is not probable that that merchant has been ever, or by anyone awaited with such strained impatience as that with which the vagrants awaited him.

“He cometh not, he cometh not, my da-ar-ling.…”

“Ekh, it means that he lo-o-oves me not!”—sang Deacon Tarás, thrusting out his cheek in humorously-afflicted fashion, as he gazed up the hill.

And lo! one day, toward evening, Petúnnikoff made his appearance. He arrived in a well-built little cart, with his son in the rôle of coachman—a rosy-cheeked young fellow, in a long, checked overcoat, and dark glasses. They tied their horse to the scaffolding;—the son took from his pocket a tape-measure in a case, gave the end to his father, and they began to measure off the land, both silent and anxious.

“Aha-a!” ejaculated the captain triumphantly.

All who were present in the lodging-house poured out to the gate, and looked on, audibly expressing their opinions as to what was taking place.

“That’s the result of being in the habit of stealing—a man steals even by mistake, without any desire to steal, at the risk of losing more than he steals.. condoled the captain, calling forth laughter and a series of similar remarks from his staff.

“Oï, young fellow!”—exclaimed Petúnnikoff, at last, irritated by the sneers,—” look out that I don’t drag you before the judge of the peace for your words!”

“Nothing will come of that without witnesses…your own son can’t testify on behalf of his father.…” said the captain warningly.

“Well, look out, all the same! You’re a gallant bandit-chief, but we’ll manage to get satisfaction from you, nevertheless!”

And Petúnnikoff made a menacing gesture with his finger.… His son, composed and absorbed in his calculations, paid no heed to this pack of shady individuals, who were maliciously amusing themselves at his father’s expense. He did not so much as once glance in their direction.

“The young spider has had good training,”—remarked The Gnawed Bone, who was minutely watching all the actions and movements of the younger Petúnnikoff.

After taking the measurements of everything that was required, Iván Andréevitch scowled, seated himself in silence in his cart, and drove off, but his son went, with firm tread, toward Vavíloff’s tavern, and disappeared inside it.

“Oho! He’s a resolute young thief…yes! Come now, what will happen next?” asked Kuválda.

“The next thing is, that Petúnnikoff junior will buy Egór Vavíloff.…” said The Gnawed Bone confidently, and he smacked his lips delicately, expressing complete satisfaction on his sharp face.

“You’re glad of that, are you?”—inquired Kuválda harshly.

“It pleases me to see how folks are deceived in their reckoning,” explained The Gnawed Bone with delight, screwing up his eyes and rubbing his hands.

The captain spat angrily, and made no reply. And all of them, as they stood at the gateway of the half-ruined house, maintained silence, and stared at the door of the tavern. An hour and more passed in this expectant silence. Then the door of the tavern opened, and Petúnnikoff emerged from it, as calm as when he had entered it. He halted for a minute, coughed, turned up his coat-collar, glanced at the men who were watching him, and went up the street toward the town.

The captain followed him with his eyes, and, turning to The Gnawed Bone, he grinned.

“I guess you were right, you son of a scorpion and a wood-louse.… You have a good nose for everything rascally…that you have.… It’s evident, from the ugly phiz of that young sharper alone, that he has got his own way.… How much did Egórka get out of them? He got something.… He’s a bird of the same feather as they. He took something, may I he thrice damned if he didn’t! I arranged things for him.’ Tis bitter for me to realize my stupidity. Yes, life is all against us, my brethren, scoundrels! And even when you spit in your neighbor’s eye, the spittle flies back into your own eyes.”

Comforting himself with this sentiment, the worthy captain inspected his staff. All were disenchanted, for all felt that what had taken place between Vavíloff and Petúnnikoff had not been what they had anticipated. And all were incensed at this. The consciousness of inability to cause evil is more offensive to a man than the consciousness of the impossibility to do good, because it is so easy and simple to do evil.

“So,—what are we staying here for? There’s nothing more for us to expect…except the bargain-treat, which I’m going to get out of Egórka …” said the captain, staring at the tavern with a scowl.…” The end has come to our prosperous and peaceful life50 under the roof of Judas. Judas will trample us under foot.… Of which. I make announcement to the department of the unclad vagabonds entrusted to my care.…”

The End laughed gloomily.

“What are you laughing at, you jail-warden?”—inquired Kuválda.

“Where am I to go?”

“That’s a big question, my dear soul.… Your fate will answer it for you, don’t be uneasy,”—said the captain thoughtfully, as he went toward the lodging-house. The men with pasts moved slowly after him.

“We will await the critical moment,” said the captain, as he walked along among them.—“When they pitch us out of this, we’ll hunt up another den for ourselves. But, in the meanwhile, it doesn’t pay to spoil life with such thoughts.… At critical moments, a man becomes more energetic…and if life, with all its combinations, would make the critical moment more frequent, if a man were forced every second to tremble for the safety of his sound pate…by God, life would be more lively, and people would be more interesting!”

“That is to say, they would gnaw at one another’s throats with more fury,”—explained The Gnawed Bone, with a smile.

“Well, and what if they did?”—angrily exclaimed the captain, who was not fond of having his ideas explained.

“Why, nothing…that’s good. When people want to get anywhere more quickly, they lash the horses with the whip, and exasperate machines with fire.”

“Well, that’s it! Let everything gallop to the devil far away! It would please me if the earth were suddenly to blaze up, and bum to ashes, or explode into fragments…on condition that I was the last to perish, and might look on at the others first.…”

“That’s savage!” grinned The Gnawed Bone.

“What of it? I’m a man who has seen better days…isn’t that so? I’m an outcast—which means, that I’m free from all beaten paths and fetters.… It means, that I don’t care a fig for anything! By the manner of my life, I’m bound to fling aside everything old…all manners and modes of relations to folks who exist well-fed, and finely dressed, and who despise me because I’ve fallen behind them in the matter of enough food and of costume…and I’m bound to breed within me something new—understand? The sort of thing, you know, which will make the lords of life, after the pattern of Judas Petúnnikoff, who pass me, feel a cold chill in their livers at the sight of my imposing form!”

“What a brave tongue you’ve got!”—laughed The Gnawed Bone.

“Ekh, you…paltry creature.…” Kuválda eyed him over disdainfully. “What do you understand? What do you know? Do you know how to think? But I have thought…and I’ve read books, in which you wouldn’t be able to understand a single word.”

“I should think so! I couldn’t sup cabbage-soup with a bast-slipper.… But though you have read books and thought, and I haven’t done either, we’ve come out pretty close together.…”

“Go to the devil!”—shouted Kuválda.

His conversations with The Gnawed Bone always wound up in this manner. On the whole, without the teacher—and he was aware of this himself—his speeches only spoiled the air, and were dispersed on it without bringing him either appreciation or attention; but he could not refrain from talking. And now, after swearing at his interlocutor, he felt himself alone among his own people. But he wanted to talk, and therefore he turned to Símtzoff with the question:

“Well, and you, Alexéi Maxímovitch—where shall you lay your gray head?”

The old man smiled good-naturedly, rubbed his nose with his hand, and said:

“I don’t know…I’ll see about it! I’m of no great importance: I’ve had a good time, and I shall again!”

“A worthy, though simple problem,”—the captain lauded him.

Símtzoff added, after a pause, that he would get settled more promptly than the rest, because the women were very fond of him. This was true: the old man always had two or three mistresses among the women of the town, who supported him, for two or three days at a stretch, on their scanty earnings. They frequently beat him, but he bore it stoically; for some reason or other, they could not hurt him much—perhaps, because they were sorry for him. He was a passionate lover of women, and was wont to relate, that women were the cause of all his misfortunes in life. The intimacy of his relations to women, and the character of their relations to him were confirmed, both by his frequent illnesses, and by his clothing, which was always well mended, and cleaner than the clothing of his comrades. And now, as he sat on the ground, at the door of the lodging-house, in a circle of his comrades, he began boastfully to relate, that he had long since been invited by The Radish to live with her, but he would not go to her, he did not wish to desert the company.

He was listened to with interest, and not without envy. They all knew The Radish—she lived not far away, under the hill, and only a short time before this had spent several months in prison for her second case of theft. She was a wet-nurse, who “had seen better days,” a tall, plump country woman, with a pock-marked face, and very handsome, though always drunken, eyes.

“You don’t say so, you old devil!”—swore The Gnawed Bone, as he gazed at Símtzoff, who was smiling conceitedly.

“And why do they love me? Because I know what their souls delight in.…”

“We-ell?”—exclaimed Kuválda, interrogatively.

“I know how to make them feel sorry for me.… And when a woman feels compassion—she’ll even go so far as to cut a throat out of compassion. Weep before her, beg her to kill you, she’ll take compassion on you and kill you.…”

“I’ll kill!” declared Martyánoff, resolutely, grinning in his gloomy style.

“Whom?”—inquired The Gnawed Bone, moving away from him.

“It doesn’t matter…Petúnnikoff…Egórka…even you’d do!”

“Why?”—queried Kuválda, with great interest.

“I want to go to Siberia…I’m tired of this…mean life.… But there a fellow will find out how he ought to live.…”

“Ye-es, they’ll show you there, in detail,”—assented the captain in a melancholy way.

Nothing more was said about Petúnnikoff, and their approaching expulsion from the night lodging-house. All of them were already convinced that this expulsion was near at hand—at a distance of two or three days, perhaps, and they regarded it as superfluous to bother themselves with discussions on that subject. Discussing the matter would not improve the situation, and, in conclusion, the weather was not cold yet, although the rains were beginning—it was still possible to sleep on any clod of earth, outside the town.

Arranging themselves in a circle on the grass, these men idly conducted a long conversation on various subjects, passing freely from one theme to another, and wasting just so much attention on the other man’s words as was required to keep up the conversation without a break. It was tiresome to remain silent, but it was also tiresome to listen attentively. This company of men with pasts had one great merit: in it no one put any constraint upon himself, in the effort to appear better than he was, and no one incited the others to exercise such constraint over himself.

The August sun assiduously warmed the rags of these men, who had turned to it their backs and their uncombed heads—a chaotic combination of the vegetable kingdom with the mineral and the animal. In the corners of the courtyard the grass grew luxuriantly,—tall burdocks sown with clinging burs, and some other plants, which were of no use to anybody, delighted the eyes of the men who were of no use to anybody.

* * * *

But in Vavíloff’s tavern the following scene had been enacted.

Petúnnikoff junior had entered it, in a leisurely manner, had looked about him, frowned fastidiously, and slowly removing from his head his gray hat, he had inquired of the tavern-keeper, who greeted him with a respectful bow, and an amiable grin:

“Egór Teréntievitch Vavíloff—are you he?”

“Exactly so!”51 replied the non-commissioned officer, resting both hands on the counter, as though preparing to leap over it.

“I have some business with you,”—announced Petúnnikoff.

“Perfectly delighted.… Please come to my rooms!”

They entered his rooms, and seated themselves—the visitor on the waxed-cloth divan in front of the round table, the host on a chair facing him. In one corner of the room burned a shrine-lamp in front of a huge, treble-panelled image-case, around which, on the wall, more holy pictures were also suspended. Their vestments were brilliantly polished, and shone like new ones. In the room, closely set with trunks, and ancient furniture of various sorts, there was an odor of olive oil, tobacco, and sour cabbage. Petúnnikoff surveyed things, and again made a grimace. Vavíloff, with a sigh, glanced at the holy pictures, and then they fixedly regarded each other, and both made a mutually good impression. Vavíloff’s frankly-knavish eyes pleased Petúnnikoff. Petúnnikoff’s open, cold, resolute face, with its broad, strong cheek-bones, and closely set white teeth, pleased Vavíloff.

Well, sir, you know me, of course, and you can guess what I am going to talk to you about!” began Petúnnikoff.

“About the suit…I assume,”—said the non-commissioned officer deferentially.

“Precisely. It is pleasant to see that you make no pretences, but go straight to the point, like a man with a straight-forward soul,”—Petúnnikoff encouraged his interlocutor.

“I’m a soldier, sir.…” said the latter, modestly.

“That’s evident. So, we will conduct the business in a simple, straight-forward manner, in order to get through with it the more promptly.”

“Just so.…”

“Very good.… Your suit is entirely legal, and, as a matter of course, you will win it—that is the first thing which I consider it necessary to state to you.”

“I thank you sincerely,”—said the non-commissioned officer, winking his eyes, in order to conceal the smile in them.

“But, tell me, why was it necessary for you to make acquaintance with us, your future neighbors, in so harsh a manner…straight from the courts?…”

Vavíloff shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply.

“It would have been simpler to come to us, and arrange everything peaceably…wouldn’t it? What do you think about it?”

“Of course, that would be more agreeable. But, you see…there’s one hitch about it.… I did not act of my own free will…but I was instigated to do it.… Afterward, when I understood what would have been the better way, it was already too late.”

“Just so.… I assume that some lawyer or other put you up to it?”

“Something of that sort.…”

“Aha! Well, sir, and so you wish to conclude the affair peaceably?”

“With the greatest pleasure!” exclaimed the soldier. Petúnnikoff paused, looked at him, and then inquired, coldly and dryly:

“And why do you wish that?”

Vavíloff had not expected such a question, and could not reply at once. In his opinion, it was an absurd question, and the soldier, with a consciousness of his superiority, laughed in Petúnnikoff’s face.

“It’s plain enough why…one must try to live at peace with people.”

“Come,”—Petúnnikoff interrupted him,—“that’s not precisely the fact. I perceive that you do not clearly understand why you wished to make peace with us.… I will tell you why.”

The soldier was somewhat astonished. This young fellow, all clad in checked material, and presenting a rather ridiculous figure in it, talked just as company commander Rakshín had been wont to talk, after he had, with angry hand, knocked out the soldiers’ teeth, three at a time.

“You want to make peace with us, because our vicinity is very profitable to you! And it is profitable because we shall have not less than one hundred and fifty workmen in our factory,—in course of time, more. If one hundred of them drink a glass apiece after each weekly pay-day, you will sell, in the course of a month, four hundred glasses more than you are selling now. I have put it at the lowest figure. Moreover, you have your eating-house. Apparently, you are anything but stupid, and you are a man of experience; consider for yourself the advantages of our proximity.”

“That’s true, sir.…” Vavíloff nodded assent,—“I knew that.”

“And what then?”—the merchant inquired loudly.

“Nothing, sir…Let’s make peace.”

“I am very glad that you make up your mind so promptly. Here, I have furnished myself with a notification to the courts of the withdrawal of your claims against my father. Read it over, and sign it.”

Vavíloff stared, with round eyes, at his interlocutor, and trembled, foreseeing something very bad indeed.

“Excuse me…I am to sign it? What does that mean?”

“Simply, you are to write your baptismal name and your surname, and nothing more,”—explained Petúnnikoff, obligingly pointing out with his finger the place where he was to sign.

“No—what’s the meaning of tha-at! I wasn’t talking about that.… I meant to say—what compensation are you going to give me for my land?”

“But the land is of no use to you!” said Petúnnikoff, soothingly.

“Nevertheless, it’s mine!” exclaimed the soldier.

“Of course.… How much do you want?”

“Why…what is stated in the complaint.…”

“What is written there,”—said Vavíloff timidly.

“Six hundred?”—Petúnnikoff laughed softly.—“Akh, you comical fellow!”

“I have the right…I might even demand two thousand…I can insist on your tearing down.… That’s what I will do.… For the value of the suit is so small. I demand—that you shall tear the building down!”

“Go ahead.… Perhaps we will tear it down …three years hence, after having involved you in great expense for the suit. And after we have paid, we’ll open our own little dram-shop and eating-house,—better ones than yours—and you’ll be ruined, like the Swede at Poltáva.52 You shall be ruined, my good man, we’ll take care of that. We might begin to take steps about the dram-shop now, only it’s a bother, and time is valuable to us. And we’re sorry for you—why take the bread away from a man, for no cause whatever?”

Egór Teréntievitch set his teeth firmly, stared at his visitor, and felt conscious that the visitor was the master of his fate. Vavíloff commiserated himself, in the presence of this coldly-composed, implacable figure in the ridiculous checked costume.

“Being in such close vicinity to us, and living in peace with us, my old soldier, you might do a fine business. We would take care of that, also. For example, I will even recommend you on the spot, to open a little shop…you know—cheap tobacco, matches, bread, cucumbers, and so on.… All that would have a ready sale.”

Vavíloff listened, and being anything but a stupid young fellow, he comprehended that the very best thing he could do would be to yield to his magnanimous enemy. He ought, properly, to have begun with that. And, not knowing how to get rid of his wrath and sense of injury, he swore aloud at Kuválda:

“You drunkard, an-athema, may the devil give it to you!”

“You’re swearing at the lawyer who drew up your petition?”—calmly inquired Petúnnikoff, and added, with a sigh:—“as a matter of fact, he might have played you a sorry trick…if we had not taken pity on you.”

“Ekh!” and the mortified soldier waved his hand in despair. “There are two of them.… One planned, the other wrote.… The damned correspondent!”

“And why do you call him a correspondent?”

“He writes in the newspapers.… They’re your lodgers.… Nice people, truly! Get rid of them, drive them away, for Christ’s sake! Robbers! They stir up everybody here in this street, they urge them on. There’s no living for them…they’re desperate men—the first you know, they’ll rob you or set fire to your house!”

“And that correspondent—who is he?” Petúnnikoff asked with interest.

“He? A drunkard! He used to be a teacher—they turned him out. He drank up all he owned…and now he writes for the papers, and composes petitions. He’s a very mean man!”

“Hm! And so he wrote your petition for you? Exactly so! Evidently, it was he, also, who wrote about the disorders in construction—he found that the scaffolding was not properly placed, or something of that sort.”

“It was he! I know it, it was he, the dog! He read it here, himself, and bragged—‘Here, I’ve caused Petúnnikoff a loss,’ says he.”

“We-ell.… Come, sir, so we intend to make peace?”

“I make peace?”

The soldier hung his head and meditated.

“Ekh, thou gloomy life of ours!”—he exclaimed, in an injured tone, as he scratched the nape of his neck.

“You must get some education,” Petúnnikoff advised him, as he lighted a cigarette.

“Get some education? That’s not the point, my good sir! There’s no liberty, that’s what’s the trouble! No, look here, what sort of a life do I lead? I live in trepidation,…continually looking around me…completely deprived of freedom in the movements I wish to make! And why? I’m afraid…that spectre of a teacher writes about me in the newspapers…he brings the sanitary inspectors down on me, I have to pay fines.… The first you know, those lodgers of yours will bum down, murder, rob.… What can I do against them? They’re not afraid of the police.… If the police locked them up, they’d even be glad of it—they’d get their bread for nothing.…”

“We’ll get rid of them…if we unite with you,” promised Petúnnikoff.

“How are we to unite?” asked Vavíloff sadly and sullenly.

“Name your terms.”

“But why? Give…six hundred, as stated in the claim.…”

“Won’t you take one hundred?”—inquired the merchant calmly, carefully scrutinizing his interlocutor, and smiling gently, he added:—“I won’t give a ruble more.”

After that, he removed his glasses, and began slowly to wipe them, with a handkerchief which he took from his pocket. Vavíloff gazed at him with grief in his heart, and, at the same time, was impressed with respect for him. In the calm countenance of young Petúnnikoff, in his gray eyes, in his broad cheek-bones, in the whole of his well-built figure, there was a great deal of strength, self-reliant and well disciplined by his brain. The way Petúnnikoff had talked to him also pleased Vavíloff: simply with friendly tones in his voice, without any pretensions to superiority, as though with his own brother, although Vavíloff understood that he, a soldier, was not the peer of that man. As he scrutinized him, almost admired him, the soldier, at last, could not hold out, and feeling within him an impulse of curiosity, which, for the moment, smothered all his sentiments, he deferentially asked Petúnnikoff:

“Where were you pleased to be educated?”

“In the technological institute. Why?” and the latter turned smiling eyes upon him.

“Nothing, sir, I only…excuse me!”—The soldier dropped his head, and suddenly, with ecstasy, envy, and even inspiration, he exclaimed:—“We-ell! Here’s education for you! In one word—science—light! But people of my sort are like owls in the sunlight in this world.… Ekh-ma! Your Well-Born! Come on, let’s finish that business!”

With a resolute gesture, he offered his hand to Petúnnikoff, and said in a suppressed way:

“Well…five hundred?”

“Not more than one hundred, Egór Teréntievitch,”—as though regretting that he could not give more. Petúnnikoff shrugged his shoulders, as he slapped his large, white hand into the hairy hand of the soldier.

They soon concluded the business, for the soldier suddenly advanced to meet Petúnnikoff’s wishes in great leaps, and the latter was immovably firm. And when Vavíloff had received one hundred rubles, and had signed the document, he flung the pen on the table, in exasperation, and exclaimed:

“Well, now it remains for me to deal with that golden horde! They’ll ridicule me, and put me to shame, the devils!”

“Tell them that I have paid you the full sum mentioned in the suit,”—suggested Petúnnikoff, calmly emitting from his mouth slender streams of smoke and watching them.

“But will they believe that? They’re clever scoundrels, also, just as bad as …” Vavíloff halted in time, disconcerted by the comparison which he had almost uttered, and glanced in alarm at the merchant’s son. The latter smoked on, and was entirely absorbed in that occupation. He soon took his departure, after promising Vavíloff, as he said farewell, that he would destroy the nest of those restless people. Vavíloff looked after him, and sighed, feeling strongly inclined to shout something spiteful and insulting at the back of this man, who, with firm steps, was mounting the hill along the road filled with pits and obstructed with rubbish.

* * * *

In the evening, the captain presented himself in the tavern. His brows were severely contracted, and his right hand was energetically clenched into a fist. Vavíloff smiled apologetically as he greeted him.

“We-ell, you worthy descendant of Cain and Judas, tell me.…”

“We’ve come to a settlement.…” said Vavíloff, sighing and lowering his eyes.

“I don’t doubt it. How many rubles did you get?” “Four hundred.…”

“You’re certainly lying.… But that’s all the better for me.… Without further words, Egórka, pay me ten per cent for the discovery, four rubles to the teacher for writing your petition, a bucket of vódka to all of us, and a decent amount of luncheon. Hand over the money instantly, the vódka and the rest at eight o’clock.”

Vavíloff turned green, and stared at Kuválda with widely-opened eyes.

“That’s nonsense! That’s robbery! I won’t give it.… What are you thinking of, Aristíd Fómitch! No, you’d better restrain your appetite until the next feast-day! What a man you are! No, now I’m in a position not to fear you. Now I’m.…”

Kuválda looked at his watch.

“I’ll give you, Egórka, ten minutes for your dirty conversation. Put an end to the wanderings of your tongue in that time, and give what I demand. If you don’t give it—I’ll eat you alive! Did The End sell you something? Did you read in the newspaper about the robbery at Básoff’s? You understand? You won’t succeed in hiding anything—we’ll prevent that. And this very night.… Do you understand?”

“Aristíd Fómitch! What is this for?”—wailed the retired non-commissioned officer.

“No words! Do you understand or not?”

Tall, gray-haired Kuválda, with his brows impressively knit, spoke in an undertone, and his hoarse bass hummed ominously in the empty tavern. Vavíloff had always been a little afraid of him, both as a former military man and as a man who had nothing to lose. But now Kuválda presented himself in a new light to him: he did not talk much and hurriedly, as usual, and in what he did say in the tone of a commander, who is confident that he will be obeyed, there resounded a threat not uttered in jest. And Vavíloff felt that the captain would ruin him, if he chose, would ruin him with pleasure. He must yield to force. But, with a fierce trepidation in his heart, the soldier made one more effort to escape punishment. He heaved a deep sigh, and began submissively:

“Evidently, the saying is true: ‘The peasant woman beats herself if she doesn’t reap clean.…’ I told you a lie about myself, Aristíd Fómitch.… I wanted to appear cleverer than I am.… I received only one hundred rubles.…”

“Go on.…” Kuválda flung at him.

“And not four hundred, as I told you.… Which signifies.…”

“Which signifies nothing. I don’t know when you were lying—a while ago, or now. I get sixty-five rubles from you. That’s moderate.… Well?…”

“Ekh, oh Lord my God! Aristíd Fómitch! I have always shown regard for Your Well-Born, as far as was in my power.”

“Well? Drop your talk, Egórka, grandson of Judas!”

“Very well.… I’ll give it.…? Only, God will punish you for this.”

“Hold your tongue, you rotten pimple on the face of the earth!”—bawled the captain, rolling his eyes ferociously.—“I am chastised by God.… He has placed me under the necessity of seeing you, of talking with you.… I’ll mash you on the spot, like a fly!” He shook his fist under Vavíloff’s nose, and gnashed his teeth, displaying them in a snarl.

When he went away, Vavíloff began to grin awry, and wink his eyes at frequent intervals. Then, down his cheeks trickled two big tears. They were of a grayish hue, and when they disappeared in his mustache, two others made their appearance to replace them. Then Vavíloff went off to his own room, took up his stand there in front of the holy pictures, and there he stood for a long time, without moving or wiping away the tears from his wrinkled, cinnamon-brown cheeks.

Deacon Tarás, who was always drawn to the forests and fields, proposed to the men with pasts that they should go out on the plain, to a certain ravine, and there, in the lap of Nature, drink up Vavíloff’s vódka. But the captain and all the others unanimously cursed the deacon and Nature, and decided to drink it at home, in their own courtyard.

“One, two, three …” counted Aristíd Fómitch,—“our sum total is thirteen; the teacher isn’t here…well, and several jolly dogs will join us. We’ll reckon it at twenty persons. At two cucumbers and a half per brother, and a pound of bread and meat apiece—it won’t be so bad! We must have a bottle of vódka apiece…there’s sour cabbage, and apples, and three watermelons. The question is, what the devil more do we need, my fellow-scoundrels? So we’ll make ready to devour Egórka Vavíloff, for all this is his flesh and blood!”

They spread out the remains of some garments or other on the ground, on them laid out the viands and liquor, and seated themselves around them,—seated themselves sedately and in silence, with difficulty restraining their greedy desire to drink which beamed in their eyes.

Evening drew near, its shadows descended upon the ground in the courtyard of the lodging-house, disfigured with scraps, and the last rays of the sun lighted up the roof of the half-ruined edifice. It was cool and still.

“Let’s start in, brothers!”—the captain gave the word of command.—“How many cups have we? Six…and there are thirteen of us.… Alexéi Maxímovitch! Pour! Ready? Co-ome on, first platoon…fire!”

They drank, grunted, and began to eat.

“And the teacher isn’t here…this is the third day that I haven’t seen him. Has anybody seen him?”—inquired Kuválda.

“Nobody.…”

“That’s not like him! Well, no matter. Let’s have another drink!… Let’s drink to the health of Aristíd Kuválda, my only friend, who, all my life long, has never left me alone for a minute. Although, devil take him, I should have been the gainer if he had deprived me of his society for a while!”

“That’s witty,”—said The Gnawed Bone, and coughed.

The captain, with a consciousness of his superiority, gazed at his comrade, but said nothing, for he was eating.

After taking two drinks, the company grew lively all of a sudden—the portions were inspiring. Tarás-and-a-Half expressed a desire to listen to a story, but the deacon had got into a dispute with The Peg-top about the advantages of thin women over fat ones, and paid no attention to the other man’s words, but demonstrated his views to The Peg-top with the obduracy and heat of a man who is profoundly convinced of the justice of his views. The ingenuous face of The Meteor, who was lying on his stomach beside him, expressed emotion, as he relished the heady little words of the deacon. Martyánoff, clasping his knees with his huge hands, overgrown with black hair, stared silently and gloomily at a bottle of vódka, and fished for his mustache with his tongue, in the endeavor to bite it with his teeth. The Gnawed Bone was teasing Tyápa.

“I’ve already observed, you sorcerer, where you hide your money!”

“You’re lucky.…” said Tyápa hoarsely.

“I’m going to snatch it away …”

“Take it.…”

These people bored Kuválda: there was not among them a single companion worthy to listen to his eloquence and capable of comprehending him.

“Where can the teacher be?”—he meditated aloud.

Martyánoff looked at him, and said:

“He’ll come …”

“I’m convinced that he’ll come—but he won’t drive up in a carriage. Future convict, let’s drink to your future. If you murder a man with money, share it with me.… Then, my dear fellow, I’ll go to America, to those…what’s their name? Lampas?… Pampas! I’ll go there, and I’ll wind up as president of the states. Then I’ll declare war on all Europe, and give it a sound drubbing. I’ll buy an army…in Europe, also…I’ll invite the French, the Germans, the Turks, and so forth, and with them I’ll beat their own relatives…as Ilyá of Muróm beat the Tatár with a Tatár.… With money, one can be an Ilyá also…and annihilate Europe, and hire Judas Petúnnikoff as a lackey.… He’ll do it…give him a hundred rubles a month, and he’ll do it! But he’ll make a bad lackey, for he’ll begin to steal.…”

“And a thin woman is better than a fat one in this respect also, she comes cheaper,”—said the deacon argumentatively. “My first wife used to buy twelve arshíns for a dress, the second bought ten.… And so it was with the food, also.…”

Tarás-and-a-Half laughed apologetically, turned his head toward the deacon, fixed his eyes on the latter’s face, and said, in confusion:

“I, also, had a wife.…”

“That may happen to anybody,”—remarked Kuválda.—“Continue your lies.…”

“She was thin, but she ate a great deal.… And she even died of that.…”

“You poisoned her, cock-eye!”—said The Gnawed Bone, with conviction.

“No, by God I didn’t! She overate herself on sturgeon,”—said Tarás-and-a-Half.

“And I tell you—that you poisoned her!”—reiterated The Gnawed Bone, decisively.

It often happened thus with him: when he had once uttered some piece of folly, he began to reiterate it, without quoting any grounds in confirmation, and though he talked, at first, in a capriciously-childish tone, he gradually worked up almost to a state of frenzy.

The deacon stood up for his friend.

“No, he is incapable of poisoning…there was no cause.…”

“And I say that he did poison her!”—squealed The Gnawed Bone.

“Hold your tongues!”—shouted the captain menacingly. His ill-humor had been converted into morose wrath. He stared at his friends with savage eyes, and not descrying in their ugly physiognomies, already half-drunk, anything which could supply further food for his wrath, he hung his head on his breast, sat thus for a few minutes, and then lay down on the ground, face upward. The Meteor was nibbling at a cucumber. He had taken the cucumber into his hand, without looking at it, thrust it up to the middle in his mouth, and immediately began to chew it with his large, yellow teeth, so that the brine from the cucumber spattered in all directions, bedewing his cheeks. Evidently, he was not hungry, but this process of eating diverted him. Martyánoff sat motionless as a statue, in the same attitude in which he had seated himself on the ground, and he, also, was staring in a concentrated, gloomy way, at a six-quart bottle of vódka, which was already half empty. Tyápa was staring at the ground, and noisily chewing meat, which did not yield to his aged teeth. The Gnawed Bone lay on his stomach, and coughed, with his whole tiny body curled up in a ball. The rest—all taciturn, obscure figures—were sitting and lying in various attitudes, and all these men together, clad in their rags and the evening twilight, were hardly distinguishable from the heaps of rubbish scattered over the courtyard and overgrown with tall grass. Their ungainly attitudes and their rags made them resemble deformed animals, created by a rough, fantastic power, as a travesty on man.

“There lived and dwelt in Súzdal town

A gentlewoman of no account.

And she was seized with a fit of cramps,

Of mo-st unpleasant cramps!”

the deacon began to hum, in an undertone, as he embraced Alexéi Maxímovitch, smiling beatifically into the latter’s face. Tarás-and-a-Half giggled voluptuously.

Night was at hand. In the sky, the stars were quietly kindling—up on the hill, in the town, the lights in the street-lamps. The mournful whistles of the steamers were wafted from the river, the door of Vavíloff’s tavern opened with a creaking and crashing of glass. Two dark figures entered the courtyard, approached the group of men gathered round the bottle, and one of them asked, hoarsely:

“Are you drinking?”

And the other, in an undertone, with envy and joy, said:

“Oh, what devils!”

Then a hand was extended across the head of the deacon, and grasped the bottle, and the characteristic gurgling of vódka became audible, as it was poured from the bottle into a cup. Then there was a loud grunting noise …

“Well, this is melancholy!”—ejaculated the deacon.—“Cock-eye! Let’s call to mind days of yore, let’s sing ‘By the rivers of Babylon!’”

“Does he know how?” inquired Símtzoff.

“He? He used to be a soloist in the Bishop’s choir, my good fellow.… Come on, Cock-eye.… O-on-the-e-ri-i-iv-ers .…”

The deacon’s voice was wild, hoarse, cracked, and his friend sang in a squeaking falsetto.

Enveloped in the gloom, the empty house seemed to have increased in size, or to have moved its whole mass of half-decayed wood nearer to these men, who were awaking in it a dull echo by their wild singing. A cloud, magnificent and dark, was slowly floating across the sky above it. Some one of the men with pasts was snoring, the rest, still not sufficiently intoxicated, were either eating and drinking in silence, or chatting in an undertone, broken with prolonged pauses. None of them were accustomed to this dejected mood at a banquet, which was rare as to the abundance of vódka and of viands. For some reason or other, the boisterous animation characteristic of the lodging-house’s inhabitants over a bottle did not flare up for a long time.

“You’re…dogs! Stop your howling,” said the captain to the singers, raising his head from the ground, and listening.—“Someone is driving in this direction…in a drozhky.…”

A drozhky at that hour in Vyézhaya Street could not fail to arouse general attention. Who from the town would run the risk of driving over the ruts and pit-holes of the street—who was it, and why? All raised their heads and listened. In the nocturnal silence the rumbling of the wheels, as they came in contact with the splashers, was plainly audible. It grew nearer and nearer. A voice rang out, roughly inquiring:

“Well, where is it?”

Someone answered:

“It must be that house, yonder.”

“I won’t go any further.…”

“They’re coming here!” exclaimed the captain.

“The police!” a tremulous murmur ran round.

“In a carriage! The fool!”—said Martyánoff in a dull tone.

Kuválda rose, and went to the gate.

The Gnawed Bone, stretching his head after him, began to listen.

“Is this the night lodging-house?” inquired someone, in a shaking voice.

“Yes, Aristíd Kuválda’s.. boomed the dissatisfied bass voice of the captain.

“There, there now…has Títoff the reporter been living here?”

“Aha! Have you brought him?”

“Yes.…”

“Drunk?”

“Ill!”

“That means, that he’s very drunk. Hey there, teacher! get up!”

“Wait! I’ll help you…he’s very ill. He has been lying ill in my house for two days. Grasp him under the arm-pits.… The doctor has been. He’s in a very bad way.…”

Tyápa rose, and slowly walked to the gate, but The Gnawed Bone grinned and took a drink.

“Light up, there!” shouted the captain.

The Meteor went into the lodging-house and lighted the lamp. Then from the door of the house a broad streak of light streamed across the courtyard, and the captain, in company with a small man, led the teacher along it to the lodging-house. His head hung flabbily on his breast, his legs dragged along the ground, and his arms dangled in the air, as though they were broken. With the aid of Tyápa, they laid him in a heap on the sleeping-shelf, and he, trembling all over, stretched himself out on it, with a quiet groan.

“He and I have been working on the same newspaper.… He’s very unfortunate. I said:—‘Pray lie at my house, you will not incommode me …’ But he entreated me—‘Take me home!’ He got excited.… I thought that was injurious to him, and so I have brought him…home! He really belongs here, does he?”

“And, in your opinion, has he a home somewhere else?” asked Kuválda roughly, as he stared intently at his friend. “Tyápa, go and fetch some cold water!”

“So now.…” hesitated the little man.… “I suppose…he does not need me?”

“You?”—and the captain examined him critically.

The little man was dressed in a sack-coat, much the worse for wear, and carefully buttoned clear up to the chin. There was fringe on the edges of his trousers, his hat was red with age and crumpled, as was also his gaunt, hungry face.

“No, he doesn’t need you…there are a great many of your sort here.…” said the captain, turning away from the little man.

“Farewell for the present, then!”—The little man went to the door, and from that spot he quietly asked:

“If anything should happen…please give notice at the editorial office.… My name is Rýzhoff. I should like to write a brief obituary…for, after all, you know, he was a worker on the press.…”

“Hm! An obituary, you say? Twenty lines—twenty kopéks? I’ll do better: when he dies, I’ll cut off one of his legs and send it to the editorial office, addressed to you. That will be more profitable to you than an obituary, It’ll last you for two or three days…his legs are thick.… You’ve all been devouring him alive, surely you will eat him when he’s dead…also,.…”

The man gave a queer sort of snort, and vanished. The captain sat down on the sleeping-shelf beside the teacher, felt the latter’s brow and breast with his hand, and called him by name:

“Philip!”

The dull sound re-echoed from the dirty walls of the night lodging-house, and died away.

“This is awkward, brother!”—said the captain, softly smoothing the dishevelled hair of the teacher with his hand. Then the captain listened to his breathing, which was hot and spasmodic, scrutinized his face, which was sunken and earthy in hue, sighed, and frowning harshly, glanced around. The lamp was a bad one: its flame flickered, and black shadows danced silently over the walls of the lodging-house. The captain began to stare stubbornly at their silent play, and to stroke his beard.

Tyápa arrived with a bucket of water, set it on the sleeping-shelf by the teacher’s head, and, taking his hand, he raised it on his own hand, as though weighing it.

“The water is not needed,” and the captain waved his hand.

“The priest is needed,” announced the old rag-picker confidently.

“Nothing is needed,” decided the captain.

They fell silent, gazing at the teacher.

“Let’s go and have a drink, you old devil!”

“And he?”

“Can you help him?”

Tyápa turned his back on the teacher, and both of them went out into the courtyard, to their company.

“What’s going on there?”—inquired The Gnawed Bone, turning his sharp face to the captain.

“Nothing in particular.… The man is dying .…” the captain curtly informed him.

“Have they been beating him?” asked The Gnawed Bone, with interest.

The captain made no reply, for he was drinking vódka at the moment.

“It seems as though he knew that we have something wherewith to hold a feast in commemoration of him,” said The Gnawed Bone, as he lighted a cigarette.

Someone laughed, someone else sighed deeply. But, on the whole, the conversation between the captain and The Gnawed Bone did not produce upon these men any perceptible impression; at all events, it could not be seen that it had disturbed anyone, interested anyone, or set anyone to thinking. All of them had treated the teacher as though he were a remarkable man, but now many were already drunk, while others still remained calm outwardly. The deacon alone suddenly straightened himself up, made a noise with his lips, rubbed his forehead, and howled wildly:

“Whe-ere the just re-po-o-ose!”53

“Here, you!”—hissed The Gnawed Bone,—“what’s that you’re roaring?”

“Give him a whack in his ugly face!”—counselled the captain.

“Fool!” rang out Tyápa’s hoarse voice. “When a man is dyings one should hold his tongue…there should be quiet.…”

It was quiet enough: both in heaven, which was covered with storm-clouds and threatened rain, and on earth, enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the autumnal night. From time to time the snores of those who had fallen asleep, the gurgling of the vódka as it was poured out, and munching were audible. The deacon kept muttering something. The storm-clouds floated low, as though they were on the point of striking the roof of the old house and overturning it on top of the group of men.

“Ah…one’s soul feels badly when a man whom he knows is dying,” remarked the captain, with a hiccough, and bowed his head upon his breast.

No one answered him.

“He was the best…among us…the cleverest…the most decent.… I’m sorry for him.…”

“Gi-i-ive re-est wi-i-ith the Sa-a-aints54…sing, you cock-eyed rogue!”—blustered the deacon, punching the ribs of his friend who was slumbering by his side.

“Shut up!… you!”—exclaimed The Gnawed Bone in a whisper, as he sprang to his feet.

“I’ll hit him over the noddle,”—suggested Martyánoff, raising his head from the ground.

“Aren’t you asleep?”—said Aristíd Fómitch, with unusual amiability.—“ Did you hear? The teacher’s here.…”

Martyánoff fidgeted heavily about on the ground, rose, looked at the strip of light which proceeded from the door and windows of the lodging-house, waggled his head, and sat down in silence by the captain’s side.

“Shall we take a drink?” suggested the latter.

Having found some glasses by the sense of feeling, they took a drink.

“I’ll go and take a look.. said Tyápa; “perhaps he needs something.…”

“He needs a coffin.…” grinned the captain.

“Don’t you talk about that,” entreated The Gnawed Bone, in a low voice.

After Tyápa, The Meteor rose from the ground. The deacon, also, attempted to rise, but rolled over on his side, and swore loudly.

When Tyápa went away the captain slapped Martyánoff on the shoulder, and said in a low voice:

“So now, Martyánoff.… You ought to feel it more than the others.… You were…however, devil take it. Are you sorry for Philip?”

“No,”—replied the former jail-warden, after a pause.—“I don’t feel anything of that sort, brother.… I’ve got out of the habit.… It’s abominable to live so. I’m speaking seriously when I say that I’ll murder somebody.…”

“Yes?”—said the captain vaguely. “Well…what of that? Let’s have another drink!”

“W-we are in-in-sig-ni-fi-cant fo-olks. I’ve had a drink—but I’ll take ano-therrr!”

Símtzoff now awoke, and began to sing in a blissful voice.

“Brethren! Who’s there? Pour out a cupful for the old man!”

They poured it and handed it to him. After drinking it, he again rolled over in a heap, knocking his head against someone’s side.

The silence lasted for a couple of minutes—a silence as gloomy and painful as the autumnal night. Then someone whispered.…

“What?” the question rang out.

“I say, that he was a splendid fellow. Such a quiet head.…” they said in an undertone.

“And he had money, too…and he didn’t spare it for the fellows.…” and again silence reigned.

“He’s dying!” Tyápa’s shout resounded over the captain’s head.

Aristíd Fómitch rose, and moving his feet with forced steadiness, he went to the lodging-house.

“What are you going for?” Tyápa stopped him.—“Don’t go. For you’re drunk…and it isn’t a good thing.…”

The captain halted and meditated.

“What is good on this earth? Go to the devil!” And he gave Tyápa a shove.

The shadows were still leaping along the walls of the night lodging-house, as though engaged in mute conflict with one another. On the sleeping-shelf, stretched out at full length lay the teacher, rattling in the throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare chest heaved violently, froth was oozing from the comers of his mouth, and on his face there was a strained expression, as though he were making an effort to say something great, difficult—and was not able, and was suffering inexpressibly in consequence.

The captain stood in front of him, with his hands clasped behind his back, and stared at him for about a minute. Then he began to speak, painfully contracting his brows:

“Philip! Say something to me…throw a word of comfort to your friend!… I love you, brother.… All men are beasts, but you were for me—a man …although you were a drunkard. Akh, how you did drink vódka! Philip! It was exactly that which has ruined you.… And why? You ought to have known how to control yourself…and listen to me. D-didn’t I use to tell you.…”

The mysterious, all-annihilating power called Death, as though insulted by the presence of this intoxicated man at the gloomy and solemn scene of its conflict with life, decided to make as speedy an end as possible of its business, and the teacher, heaving a deep sigh, moaned softly, shuddered, stretched himself out, and died.

The captain reeled on his legs, as he continued his speech.

“What’s the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some vódka? But better not drink it, Philip.… Restrain yourself, conquer yourself.… If you can’t—drink! Why restrain yourself, to speak plainly.… For whose sake, Philip? Isn’t that so? For whose sake?…”

He grasped his foot, and drew him toward him.

“Ah, you are asleep, Philip? Well…sleep on.… A quiet night to you…to-morrow I’ll explain it all to you, and you’ll be convinced that it isn’t necessary to deny yourself anything.… But now—sleep…if you are not dead.…”

He went out, accompanied by silence, and when he came to his men he announced:

“He’s asleep…or dead…I don’t know…I’m a l-lit-tle drunk.…”

Tyápa bent over still further, making the sign of the cross on his breast. Martyánoff writhed quietly, and lay down on the ground. The Meteor, that stupid lad, began to whimper, softly and plaintively, like an affronted woman. The Gnawed Bone began to wriggle swiftly over the ground, saying in a low, spiteful, and sorrowful tone:

“The devil take the whole lot of you! Tormentors.… Well, he’s dead! Come, what of that? I…why need I know that? Why must I be told about that? The time will come…when I shall die myself…just as much as he…I, as much as the rest.”

“That’s true!” said the captain loudly, dropping heavily to the ground.—“The time will come, and we shall all die, like the rest…ha-ha! How we pass our lives…is a trifling matter! But we shall die—like everybody. Therein lies the goal of life, believe my words. For a man lives in order that he may die.… And he dies.… And if that is so, what difference does it make why and how he dies, and how he has lived? Am I right, Martyánoff? Let’s have another drink…and another, as long as we are alive.…”

The rain began to fall. Dense, stifling gloom covered the forms of the men, as they wallowed on the earth, curled up in slumber or intoxication. The streak of light proceeding from the lodging-house paled, flickered, and suddenly vanished. Evidently, the wind had blown out the lamp or the kerosene in it had burned down. The raindrops tapped timidly, irresolutely, as they fell upon the iron roof of the lodging-house. From the town, at the top of the hill, melancholy, occasional strokes of a bell were wafted—it was the churches being guarded.

The brazen sound, floating from the belfry, floated softly through the darkness, and slowly died away in it, but before the darkness could engulf its last, tremulously-sobbing note, another stroke began, and again, through the silence of the night, the melancholy sigh of the metal was borne forth.

* * * *

Tyápa was the first to awaken in the morning.

Turning over on his back, he stared at the sky—only in this posture did his deformed neck permit him to see the heaven overhead.

On that morning the sky was uniformly gray. There, on high, the dark, cold gloom had thickened, it had extinguished the sun, and covering the blue infinity, poured forth melancholy upon the earth. Tyápa crossed himself, and raised himself on his elbow, in order to see whether any of the vódka anywhere remained. The bottle was there, but it was empty. Crawling across his comrades, Tyápa began to inspect the cups from which they had drunk. He found one of them almost full, drank it down, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and began to shake the captain by the shoulder.

“Get up…hey there! Do you hear?”

The captain raised his head, gazing at him with dim eyes.

“We must inform the police…come, then, get up!”

“What’s the matter?”—asked the captain, sleepily and angrily.

“The matter is, that he’s dead.…”

“Who’s dead?”

“The learned man.…”

“Philip? Ye-es!”

“And you’ve forgotten—ekhma!”—grunted Tyápa reproachfully.

The captain rose to his feet, yawned with a whizzing noise, and stretched himself so hard that his bones creaked.

“Then, you go and report.…”

“I won’t go…I don’t like them,”—said Tyápa in a surly tone.

“Well, then, wake up the deacon yonder.… And I’ll go and see about things.…”

“All right…get up, deacon!”

The captain went into the lodging-house, and stood at the teacher’s feet. The dead man was lying stretched out at full length: his left hand was on his breast, his right was flung back in such a manner as though he had been flourishing it preparatory to dealing someone a blow. The captain reflected, that if the teacher were to rise now, he would be as tall as Tarás-and-a-Half. Then he seated himself on the sleeping-shelf, at the feet of his friend, and calling to mind that they had lived together for three years, he sighed. Tyápa entered, holding his head, as a goat does, when he is about to butt. He sat down on the other side of the teacher’s feet, gazed at the latter’s dark, calm, serious face, with its tightly closed eyes, and said hoarsely:

“Yes…there he is dead.… I shall die soon.…”

“It’s time you did,”—said the captain morosely.

“It is time!”—assented Tyápa.—“And you must die also.… Anyhow, it’s better than.…”

“Perhaps it’s worse? How do you know?”

“It can’t be worse. You’ll die, you’ll have to deal with God.… But with the people here.… But what do people signify?”

“Well, all right, don’t rattle in your throat like that …” Kuválda angrily interrupted him.

And in the gloom which filled the night lodging-house an impressive silence reigned.

For a long time they sat there in silence, at the feet of their dead comrade, and glanced at him, now and then, both absorbed in thought. Then Tyápa inquired:

“Shall you bury him?”

“I? No! Let the police bury him.”

“Well! You’d better bury him, I think…you know, you took his money from Vavíloff for writing that petition.… I’ll contribute, if there isn’t enough.…”

“I have his money…but I won’t bury him.”

“That’s not well. You’re robbing a corpse. I’ll just tell everybody that you want to devour his money.…” menaced Tyápa.

“You’re stupid, you old devil!”—said Kuválda scornfully.

“I’m not stupid.… Only, that isn’t good, I say, not a friendly thing to do.”

“Well, it’s all right, anyway. Get away with you!”

“You don’t say so! And how much money is there?”

“Four rubles.…” said Kuválda abstractedly.

“There, now! You might give me five rubles.…”

“What a rascally old fellow you are …” and the captain swore at Tyápa, looking him indifferently in the face.

“What of that? Really, now, give it.…”

“Go to the devil!… I’m going to build him a monument with the money.”

“What’s the good of that to him?”

“I’ll buy a mill-stone and an anchor. I’ll put the millstone on the grave, and I’ll fasten the anchor to it with a chain.… It will be very heavy.…”

“What for? You’re getting whimsical.…”

“Well…it’s no business of yours.”

“I’ll tell, see if I don’t.…” threatened Tyápa again.

Aristíd Fómitch gazed dully at him and made no reply. And again, for a long time, they sat in silence, which always assumes an impressive and mysterious coloring in the presence of the dead.

“Hark, there…somebody’s driving up!”—said Tyápa, as he rose, and left the lodging-house.

The police captain of the district, the coroner, and the doctor soon made their appearance at the door. All three, one after the other, approached the teacher, and after taking a look at him went out, rewarding Kuválda with sidelong and suspicious glances. He sat there, paying no attention to them, until the police captain asked him, nodding toward the teacher:

“What did he die of?”

“Ask him…I think, from lack of practice.…”

“What’s that you say?”—inquired the police captain.

“I say—he died, in my opinion, from lack of practice, because he wasn’t used to the illness that seized upon him.…”

“Hm…yes! And was he ill long?”

“We might drag him out here, we can’t see anything in there,” suggested the doctor, in a bored tone.—“Perhaps there are traces.…”

“Here, you, there, call someone to carry him out,”—the police captain ordered Kuválda.

“Call them yourself.… He doesn’t bother me where he is.…” retorted Kuválda indifferently.

“Get along, there!”—shouted the policeman, with a savage face.

“Whoa!” parried Kuválda, not stirring from the spot and calmly disclosing his teeth in a vicious snarl.

“I’ll give it to you, devil take you!”—shouted the police captain, enraged to such a degree that his face became suffused with blood.—“I won’t overlook this!…”

“A very good-morning, honored sirs!”—said merchant Petúnnikoff, in a sweet voice, as he made his appearance in the doorway.

Taking them all in with one sharp glance, he shuddered, retreated a pace, and removing his cap, began to cross himself vehemently. Then a smile of malevolent triumph flitted across his countenance, and staring point-blank at Kuválda he inquired respectfully:

“What’s this here?—Can they have murdered the man?”

“Why, something of that sort,” the coroner replied.

Petúnnikoff heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself again, and said, in a tone of distress:

“Ah, Lord my God! This is just what I was afraid of! Every time I dropped in here to take a look…áï, áï, áï! And when I got home, I kept having such visions—God preserve everyone from such an experience!—Many a time I have felt like turning that gentleman yonder…the commander-in-chief of the golden horde, out of his quarters, but I was always afraid to…you know…it’s better to yield to that sort of people…I said to myself…otherwise.…”

He made an easy gesture with his hand in the air, then drew it across his face, gathered his beard in his fist, and sighed again.

“Dangerous people. And that gentleman there is a sort of commander over them…a regular bandit chieftain.”

“And we’re going to examine him,” said the police captain in an extremely significant tone, as he gazed at the cavalry captain with revengeful eyes. “He is well known to me!…”

“Yes, brother, you and I are old acquaintances.…” assented Kuválda, in a familiar tone.—“What a lot of bribes I’ve paid to you and to your sprouts of under-officials to hold your tongues!”

“Gentlemen!”—cried the police captain,—“you hear him? I request that you will bear this in mind! I won’t overlook this.… Ah…ah! So that’s it? Well, I’ll give you cause to remember me! I’ll…put an end to you, my friend!”

“Don’t brag when you set out for the wars…my friend,”—said Aristíd Fómitch coolly.

The doctor, a young man in spectacles, stared at him with curiosity, the coroner with ominous attention, Petúnnikoff with triumph, but the police captain shouted and dashed about, as he flung himself on him.

The sinister form of Martyánoff made its appearance in the doorway of the lodging-house. He stepped up quietly and stood behind Petúnnikoff, so that his chin was just over the merchant’s crown. On one side, from behind him, peered the deacon, his small, swollen, red eyes opened to their fullest extent.

“Come on, let’s do something, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor.

Martyánoff made a terrible grimace, and suddenly sneezed straight on Petúnnikoff’s head. Hie latter shrieked, squatted down, and sprang to one side, almost knocking the police captain off his feet, as the latter supported him, having opened his arms wide to receive him.

“You see?”—said the merchant, pointing at Martyánoff. “That’s the sort of people they are! Hey?”

Kuválda broke out into a roar of laughter. The doctor and the coroner laughed, and new forms kept constantly approaching the door of the night lodging-house. The half-awake, bloated physiognomies, with red, swollen eyes, with dishevelled heads, unceremoniously scrutinized the doctor, the coroner, and the police captain.

“Where are you crawling to!”—the policeman exhorted them, tugging at their rags and pushing them away from the door. But he was one, and they were many, and paying no heed to him, silent and threatening they continued to advance, exhaling an odor of stale vódka. Kuválda looked at them, then at the authorities, who were somewhat disconcerted by the size of this ugly audience, and, with a grin, he remarked to the authorities:

“Gentlemen! Perhaps you would like to make the acquaintance of my lodgers and friends? You would? Never mind…sooner or later, you’ll be forced to make acquaintance with them, in the discharge of your duties.…”

The doctor laughed in an embarrassed way. The coroner pressed his lips tightly together, and the police captain saw what it was necessary to do, and shouted outside:

“Sídoroff! Whistle…when the men arrive, tell them to get a cart …”

“Well, I must be going!”—said Petúnnikoff, moving forward from somewhere in the corner.—“You will vacate my quarters to-day, sir.… I’m going to have this old shanty torn down.… Look out, or I’ll apply to the police …”

The shrill whistle of the policeman rang out in the courtyard. At the door of the night lodging-house its denizens stood in a dense mass, yawning and scratching their heads.

“So, you don’t want to make acquaintance?… That’s impolite!…” laughed Aristíd Kuválda.

Petúnnikoff took his purse out of his pocket, fumbled in it, pulled out two five-kopék pieces, and, crossing himself, laid them at the feet of the corpse.

“Bless, oh Lord…for the burial of the sinner’s dust.…”

“Wha-at!” bawled the cavalry captain.—“You? For his burial? Take it away! Take it away, I tell you…you scou-oundrel! You dare to contribute your stolen pennies to the burial of an honest man.… I’ll tear you to bits!”

“Your Well-Born!” shouted the merchant in alarm, seizing the police captain by the elbow. The doctor and the coroner rushed out, the police captain shouted loudly:

“Sídoroff, come here!”

The men with pasts formed a wall across the door, and with interest lighting up their rumpled faces they watched and listened.

Kuválda shook his fist over Petúnnikoff’s head, and roared, rolling his blood-shot eyes ferociously. “Scoundrel and thief! Take your money! You dirty creature…take it, I say…if you don’t, I’ll ram those five-kopék pieces into your eyeballs—take it!”

Petúnnikoff stretched out a trembling hand toward his mite, and fending off Kuválda’s fist with the other hand, he said:

“Bear witness, Mr. Police Captain, and you, my good people.”

“We’re bad people, merchant,” rang out The Gnawed Bone’s trembling voice.

The police captain, puffing out his face like a bladder, whistled desperately, and held his other hand in the air over the head of Petúnnikoff, who was wriggling about in front of him exactly as though he were about to jump upon his body.

“If you like, Ill make you kiss the feet of this corpse, you base viper? D-do you want to?”

And grasping Petúnnikoff by the collar, Kuválda hurled him to the door, as though he had been a kitten. The men with pasts hastily stepped aside, to make room for Petúnnikoff to fall. And he sprawled at their feet, howling in rage and terror:

“Murder! Police…I’m killed!”

Martyánoff slowly raised his foot, and took aim with it at the merchant’s head. The Gnawed Bone, with a voluptuous expression on his countenance, spat in Petúnnikoff’s face. The merchant contracted himself into a small ball, and rolled, on all fours, into the courtyard, encouraged by a roar of laughter. But two policemen had already made their appearance in the courtyard, and the police captain, pointing at Kuválda, shouted triumphantly:

“Arrest him! Bind him!”

“Bind him, my dear men!”—entreated Petúnnikoff.

“Don’t you dare! I won’t run away…I’ll go of myself, wherever it’s necessary.…” said Kuválda, waving aside the policemen, who had run up to him.

The men with pasts vanished, one by one. A cart drove into the courtyard. Several dejected tatterdemalions had already carried the teacher out of the lodging-house.

“I’ll g-give it to you, my dear fellow…just wait!”—the police captain menaced Kuválda.

“Well, you bandit chief!”—inquired Petúnnikoff venomously, excited and happy at the sight of his enemy, whose hands had been bound.

“Lead him off!” said the police captain, pointing at the cavalry captain.

Kuválda, making no protest, silent and with knitted brows, moved from the yard, and as he passed the teacher he bowed his head, but did not look at him. Martyánoff, with his stony face, followed him. Merchant Petúnnikoff’s courtyard was speedily emptied.

“Go on, now!” and the cab-driver shook his reins over his horse’s crupper.

The cart moved off, jolting over the uneven ground of the courtyard. The teacher, covered with some rag or other, lay stretched out in it, face upward, and his belly quivered. It seemed as though the teacher were laughing, in a quiet, satisfied way, delighted that, at last, he was to leave the night lodging-house, never to return there again.… Petúnnikoff, as he accompanied him with a glance, crossed himself piously, and then began with his cap to beat off the dust and rubbish which had clung to his clothing. And, in proportion as the dust disappeared from his coat, a calm expression of satisfaction with himself and confidence in himself made its appearance on his countenance. From the courtyard he could see Aristíd Fómitch Kuválda walking along the street, up the hill, with his hands bound behind him, tall, gray-haired, in a cap with a red band, which resembled a streak of blood.

Petúnnikoff smiled the smile of the conqueror, and went into the night lodging-house, but suddenly halted, shuddering. In the door, facing him, with a stick in his hand and a huge sack on his shoulder, stood a terrible old man, bristling like a hedgehog with the rags which covered his long body, bent beneath the weight of his burden, and with his head bowed upon his breast exactly as though he were about to hurl himself at the merchant.

“What do you want?” shouted Petúnnikoff.—“Who are you?”

“A man…” rang out a dull, hoarse voice.

This hoarse rattle rejoiced and reassured Petúnnikoff. He even smiled.

“A man! Akh, you queer fellow…do such men exist?”

And stepping aside, he let the old man pass him, as the latter marched straight at him, and muttered dully: “There are various sorts of men…as God wills.… There are worse men than I…worse than I…yes!”

The overcast sky gazed silently into the dirty courtyard, and at the clean man, with the small, pointed, gray beard, who was walking over the ground, measuring something with his footsteps and with his sharp little eyes. On the roof of the old house a crow sat and croaked triumphantly, as it stretched out its neck, and rocked to and fro. In the stern, gray storm-clouds, which thickly covered the sky, there was something strained and implacable, as though they, in preparing to discharge a downpour of rain, were firmly resolved to wash away all the filth from this unhappy, tortured, melancholy earth.

38 Kuválda means a mallet; or, figuratively, a clown.—Translator.

39 The barges for transporting wood, and so forth, on Russian rivers, are put together with huge wooden pegs. After being unloaded, at their destination, they are broken up, and the hole-riddled planks are sold at a very low price.—Translator.

40 “Document” or (literally) “paper,” here, as often, means the passport.—Translator.

41 As the reader will perceive, later on, Petúnnikoff’s name was not Iuda (Judas). This is Kuválda’s sarcasm.—Translator.

42 This “corridor-waiter” in Russian hotels, prepares the samovár, or makes coffee, in a small, up-stairs buffet, near the bedrooms of his allotted section, and serres, with bread, butter and cream, or whatever is ordered. It is also his duty to bring up all other meals which are served in private rooms.—Translator.

43 A verst is two-thirds of a mile.—Translator.

44 Yermák Timoféevitch, the conqueror of Siberia, was in the service of the Counts Stróganoff.—Translator.

45 The Parish (or White) Clergy, in the Holy Orthodox Church of the East, beginning with the rank of Sub-Deacon, must be married—and must be married before they are ordained. They cannot marry again. This rule ceases with an Arch-Priest, which is the highest rank attainable by the White Clergy. Bishops must be celibates.—Translator.

46 The colloquial abbreviation for St. Petersburg.—Translator.

47 “A stone building” does not mean literally stone in Russia, as it does elsewhere. “Stone,” in this connection, means brick, rubble, or any other substance, with an external dressing of mastic, washed with white or any gay hue. Briefly, not of wood.—Translator.

48 Diminutive of Egór (George).—Translator.

49 An arshín (the Russian equivalent of the yard) is twenty-eight inches.—Translator.

50 “Prosperous and peaceful life” is a (sarcastic) quotation from the “Many Years” (Long Life), which is proclaimed in church, at the end of the service, on special occasions, in honor of royal or distinguished persons.—Translator.

51 The regulation reply, in the army, to a superior, is not plain “da” (yes), but “tótchno tak!” The negative is correspondingly regulated.—Translator.

52 Charles XII of Sweden, defeated at Poltáva by Peter the Great.—Translator.

53 A quotation from the Funeral and Requiem Services.—Translator.

54 From the Funeral and Requiem Services.—Translator.