Chapter XI: Act II: Scene I (9)

“You’ll hear; only I must tell you from the beginning. The apothecary’ll turn up if you wait a bit. Well, you see, I stopped at the farm a month, eating and sleeping, and unstiffening my joints in the bath; and I left the house in town to my nephew to look after; and, my word, he did give those scoundrels a lesson! He’s the lad to make the sparks fly! But all that doesn’t belong to the story. Well, as I said, I stopped there a month, resting and coming to my senses, when one day, who should come riding up but a mounted gendarme! My heart just leaped into my mouth! Lord have mercy upon us sinners! What could it be? He handed me a paper—a summons to appear in court ‘What for?’—‘It says there.’—So I read the paper; it was a summons to appear and answer for insulting the police in the discharge of their duty. Very good; I read it, and signed my name. But it just made my heart burn—that was really _too_ much of a good thing! What sort of duty do they call that? I’m hit over the head, and I’m responsible! I can’t see much duty in promiscuous fisticuffing. ‘No, no, my friends,’ thought I to myself, ‘I’ve had enough of this; you’ve played your little game, and that’ll do. If his Excellency himself took my part, and let me go free as an innocent man, you needn’t think you can get the better of me, not a bit of it!’ I had a _troika_ harnessed at once, went straight to the town, and telegraphed to Moscow for an advocate: ‘_Fisticuffing_ versus _Fisticuffing_. _Prosecution. Will pay 1,000 roubles._’ And a fine kettle of fish they got ready! So when the trial was to be, I went to Moscow with my wife. We got to the court quite early, before nine in the morning; and the trial wasn’t to begin till twelve; so we sat down in the porch to wait. All of a sudden up comes my apothecary. He came along dragging one foot after the other, all thin and shabby, for all the world like a beggar.—‘Where have you come from?’ I asked him.—‘That’s more than I know myself; my health’s gone to pieces; I’ve got rheumatism in both my legs; I’m half dead.’—And it was quite true; he had a cough, and couldn’t get his breath. He sat down on the step with us, and I said to him: ‘Well, well, friend! your pills have cost me something; I shall remember them, never fear!’—‘D’you think they didn’t cost _me_ anything?’ says he.—And so he told me how it had all happened: how he missed me at the tavern, and all that I told you before. ‘To this day,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got back the use of my arm, since they hit me on the shoulder when they took away the pills,’

“HE CAME ALONG DRAGGING ONE FOOT AFTER ANOTHER.”
]

“‘But why didn’t you give up the pills?’

“‘I was afraid to; they were illegal pills. I made them for you, as a friend, because I know your temperament.’

So then I asked him how did the whole thing happen; and he told me—

“‘That’s just what I can’t make out for the life of me. They tore off with me to the other end of the world; and then there came a telegram: ‘_Send him back; its the wrong man._’ So they brought me back; and I began asking at the head office what it was all about. They poked and muddled and fussed over their papers, and at last they got to the root of the whole matter. And what do you think it was? What do you suppose was the cause of it all?’

“‘How should I know? I’ve hardly got to the bottom of my own case yet.’

‘Well,’ says he, ‘it was all because of that scoundrel Lipàtkin.’

“Lipàtkin, I must tell you, is a shopkeeper in our town; he’s just a regular bloodsucker, and nothing else. So I asked him what Lipàtkin could have to do with it; and he said—

“‘When I had the business at Sousàlov, I hired rooms from him, and it was in the contract that I should repair the roof. Well, if you remember, I didn’t get on; and so I left the town and didn’t repair the roof, because, you see, as I had paid beforehand, and went away four months before the time was up, I didn’t see that I was bound to do it. I gave up my business, and off I went. But old Lipàtka[57] thought he’d screw some money out of me; so he hunted up some pettifogging notary and scribbled off a complaint to the Medical Department at St. Petersburg, asking to have apothecary so-and-so forced to pay, and all the rest of it. Well, in the Medical Department they didn’t take the trouble to go into it; they just wrote off to the administration in my province. And when it got to the head office of the province, they mixed up one paper with another; and they wrote to the district office: ‘_Summon the apothecary to explain_.’ So when the paper got to the district, I wasn’t there, so they set to work and made up a third paper: ‘_Find and forward apothecary_.’ And off they sent it to Moscow. So in Moscow they hunted me up. As soon as ever I got to Moscow and handed in my passport to the police, of course they nabbed me. Well, then, of course there were those unlucky pills; they wanted to take them away, and I wouldn’t give them up, and tried to hide them. And so they began to suspect all sorts of things. And at last they got so muddled at the head office that they mixed everything up together, and somehow the devil got into the thing. And now that I’ve gone back to my lodgings, all my luggage is stolen, and I don’t know what on earth I am to do.’

“So I asked him what he was there for; and he said—

“‘Why, to answer that old bloodsucker’s summons.’

“‘About the roof?’

“‘Yes; still that confounded roof. He wants thirty-four and a half roubles; but I shan’t give him a penny. And I shall call him up for the four months’ over-payment. I’ve begun a counter-suit against him. Two can play at that game, my fine fellow! I’ve dug a little pit too! When they’ve heard both our cases, you’d better come to my lodgings to rest.’

“Well, the law-suits began. First of all they heard the case of the apothecary and Lipàtkin, and found for the apothecary, and Lipàtkin didn’t get a penny. So when that was done, they took up my case. Dear heart! what a business it was! I can tell you my great gun of a counsel hit the right nail on the head; he didn’t leave them a leg to stand on. At last the public prosecutor got up and said—‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s no use; I give it up.’ But mine never stopped; he just went on hammering and blazing, and letting off fireworks at them; and the end of it was they all got up and said: ‘He’s innocent!’ And there you are.”

“There’s a statute about that,” interrupted one of the skinflints: ‘_In cases of reciprocal fisticuffing and mutual personal insults, all parties are innocent._’

“That’s just it. ‘You’re innocent,’ said they, ‘because the fisticuffing was reciprocal. You can go home.’ So we went out into the street, all the lot of us: the Mediterranean squadron, and the carpenters, and the doorkeepers, and I; and there we stood in the street, fifty or sixty of us, like so many green geese. You see, it was a bit strange; we’d been banging and slashing at each other like the biggest blackguards you could find; and here we come out as innocent as new-born babes. So there we stood on the pavement, as dumb as any stocks and stones. All of a sudden up comes that knave Rodiòn, with his cap off.”

“‘I’ve come to ask your honour’s pardon.’

“‘I should just think you had, after what you’ve done, you blockhead!’

“‘Well, I don’t know, sir.... We were told to let the police know, because there was one of those papers. People like us only have to do as we are told.... Just pass it over this once, sir, and take me on again.... The Lord will reward you for it.... It’s very hard on a poor man; it all comes upon us.’ Of course as soon as Rodiòn had done, a carpenter began—‘Forget and forgive, sir....’ You know yourself the times are so bad nowadays.... What could we do, when they said to us: “Mind you watch him carefully; he’s mixed up in a bad business!” ‘Don’t take it ill, sir.’... ‘So it was you, was it, you blockhead,’ I asked, ‘that got me into trouble?’ ‘If you please, sir, it was all of us. But, if you please, sir, it seems to me that we’re pretty well quits; for you’ve got a good-sized fist of your own, and you let us know it.’—Well, as soon as the carpenter had done, the gendarmes began: ‘It was all a misunderstanding; we’re very sorry.’ So I told them: ‘It’s all very well to be sorry; but what did you give me so many bruises for?’ ‘Well,’ said one, ‘you laid my cheek open.’ And then another put in: ‘We only obeyed orders; we had a telegram.... And you knocked me down, you know.... It was nothing but a misunderstanding.... We always.... As you’re a householder we’re very sorry....’ Then it was just the same with the apothecary; Lipàtkin came up and said: ‘Let’s make it up; don’t go to law against me.’ And the clerk of the police-station began excusing himself: ‘You know what troubled times we have nowadays! If a fellow has to sit the whole day long, from morning till night, writing _Instantly_, and _Apprehend_, and _Produce_, it’s not much wonder if he makes a mistake.... Such dangerous times!’... And they all came swarming round me together: ‘Such terrible times nowadays.... If it wasn’t for the times.... We’re very.... With the utmost respect.... Nothing but a mistake.’ And bless you! _I_ understood that the blockheads only wanted to be treated all round! You see, they’d all been so very painstaking; and nobody was guilty; and yet there was no drink going! They thought I ought to have a glass with them. ‘No, no! my fine fellows,’ says I, ‘if you weren’t such a set of dunderheads and blundering asses the times wouldn’t be so dangerous. And the times would be very different too, if all you knaves had got a bit of conscience between the lot of you.’ And I just walked away with the apothecary; and not a drop of drink did any of them get.”

“Is that all?” asked the steward.

“Why, heart alive! isn’t it enough?”

_THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT._

BY “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).

One day, a rabbit incurred the displeasure of a wolf. You see, he was running along not far from the wolf’s lair, and the wolf saw him, and called out: “Little bunny! Stop a minute, dear!” But the rabbit, instead of stopping, ran on faster than ever. So the wolf, with just three bounds, caught him, and said—

“Because you did not stop when I first spoke, this is the sentence I pronounce: I condemn you to death by dismemberment. But, as I have dined to-day, and my wife has dined, and we have stored up food enough to last us five days, you sit down under this bush and wait your turn. Then perhaps—ha! ha! ha!—I will pardon you!”

So the rabbit sat on his haunches under the bush, and never moved. He thought of only one thing—how many days, how many hours would pass before he must die. He looked towards the lair, and saw the glittering eyes of the wolf watching him. And sometimes it was still worse; the wolf and his wife would come out into the field, and stroll up and down close by him. They would look at him, and the wolf would say something to his wife in wolf language, then they would burst out laughing, “Ha! ha! ha!...” And all the little wolf-cubs would come with them, and run up to him in play, rub their heads against him, gnash their teeth.... And the poor rabbit’s heart fluttered and bounded.

Never had he loved life so well as now. He was a highly respectable rabbit, and had chosen for a bride the daughter of a widowed lady-rabbit. At the moment when the wolf caught him by the neck, he was just running to his betrothed.

And now she, his betrothed, would wait, and think, “My squint-eyed one has forsaken me!” Or perhaps—perhaps she has waited—waited ... and loved another, ... and ... Or it may be ... she, too, ... playing, poor child, among the bushes, caught by a wolf!...

Tears almost choked the poor fellow at this thought. “And this is the end of all my warrens in the air! I, that was about to marry, had bought the samovar already, looked forward to the time when I should drink tea with sugar in it with my young wife,—and now, instead, what has befallen me!... How many hours now till death?”...

One night he fell asleep where he sat. He dreamed that the wolf had appointed him his special commissioner, and while he was absent, performing his duties, the wolf paid visits to his lady-rabbit.... Suddenly he felt some one touching his side; he awoke, and saw the brother of his betrothed.

“Your bride is dying,” said he. “She heard of your misfortune, and sank at once under the blow. Her one thought now is, ‘Must I die thus, and not say farewell to my beloved?’”

At these words the condemned one felt as though his heart would burst. Oh, why! How had he deserved his bitter fate? He had lived honestly, he had never stirred up revolutions, had never gone about with firearms, he had attended to his business—and must he die for that? Death! Oh, think what that word means! And not he alone must die, but she too, his little grey maiden-rabbit, whose only crime was that she had loved him, her squint-eyed one, with all her heart! Oh, if he could, how he would fly to her, his little grey love, how he would clasp his fore-paws behind her ears, and caress her, and stroke her little head!

“Let us escape,” said the messenger.

At these words the condemned one was for a moment as if transformed. He shrank up altogether, and laid his ears along his back. He was just ready to spring, and leave not a trace behind. But at that moment he glanced at the wolf’s lair. The rabbit heart throbbed with anguish.

“I can’t,” he said; “the wolf has not given me permission.”

All this time the wolf was looking on and listening, and whispering softly in wolf language with the she-wolf. No doubt they were praising the rabbit’s noble-mindedness.

“Let us escape,” said the messenger once more.

“I can’t,” repeated the condemned.

“What treason are you muttering there?” suddenly snarled the wolf.

The rabbits stood as petrified. Now the messenger was lost too. To incite a prisoner to flight—is that permitted? Ah! the little grey maiden-rabbit will lose both lover and brother; the wolf and the she-wolf will tear them both in pieces.

When the rabbits came to their senses, the wolf and the she-wolf were gnashing their teeth before them, and in the darkness their eyes shone like lamps.

“Your Excellency, it was nothing: we were just talking; ... a neighbour came to visit me,” stammered the condemned, half dead with terror.

“Nothing! I dare say! I know you! Butter won’t melt in your mouths! Speak the truth. What is it all about?”

“It’s this way, your Excellency,” interposed the bride’s brother. “My sister, his betrothed, is dying, and asks, may he not come to say farewell to her?”

“H’m! It’s right that a bride should love her betrothed,” said the she-wolf. “That means that they will have a lot of little ones, and there will be more food for wolves. The wolf and I love each other, and we have a lot of cubs. Ever so many are grown up, and now we have four little ones. Wolf! wolf! shall we let him go to take leave of his betrothed?”

“But we were to have eaten him the day after to-morrow——”

“I will come back, your Excellency. I’ll go like a flash; I—indeed.... Oh, as God is holy, I’ll come back!” hurriedly exclaimed the condemned. And, in order to convince the wolf that he _could_ move like a flash, he sprang up with such agility that even the wolf looked at him admiringly, and thought—

“Ah! if only my soldiers were like that.”

And the she-wolf became quite sad, and said—

“See that, now! A rabbit, and how he loves his she-rabbit.”

There was nothing for it; the wolf consented to let the rabbit go on _parole_ with the stipulation that he should return exactly at the appointed time. And he kept the bride’s brother as hostage.

“If you are not back the day after to-morrow by six in the morning,” he said, “I’ll eat him instead of you; then if you come I’ll eat you too; perhaps, though, I’ll—ha! ha!—pardon you!”

The squint-eyed one darted off like the arrow from the bow. The very earth quivered as he ran. If a mountain barred his way, he simply dashed at it; if a river, he never stopped to look for a ford, but swam straight across; if a marsh, he sprang from tuft to tuft of grass. Not easy work! To get right across country, and go to the bath, and be married (“I will certainly be married!” he kept repeating to himself), and get back in time for the wolfs breakfast....

Even the birds wondered at his swiftness, and remarked—

“Yes, the _Moscow Gazette_ says that rabbits have no souls, only a kind of vapour, and there it goes.”

At last he arrived. Tongue cannot speak, neither can pen write the rapture of that meeting. The little grey maiden-rabbit forgot her sickness at the sight of her beloved. She stood up on her hind paws, put a drum upon her head, and with her fore-paws beat out the “Cavalier March”; she had been practising it as a surprise for her betrothed. And the widowed lady-rabbit completely lost her head with joy; she thought no place good enough for her future son-in-law to sit in, no food good enough to give him. Then the aunts and cousins and neighbours came running from all sides, overjoyed to see the bridegroom, and perhaps, too, to taste the good cheer.

The bridegroom alone was not like himself. While still embracing his betrothed, he suddenly exclaimed—

“I must go to the bath, and then be married at once.”

“Why should you be in such a hurry?” asked the mother rabbit, smiling.

“I must go back. The wolf only gave me leave of absence for one day.”

Then he told them all, and his bitter tears flowed as he spoke. It was hard to go, and yet he must not stay. He had given his word, and to a rabbit his word is law. And all the aunts and cousins declared with one voice: “Thou speakest truth, oh squint-eyed one. Once given, the spoken word is holy. Never in all our tribe was it known that a rabbit was false to his word!”

A tale is soon told, but a rabbit’s life flies faster still. In the morning they greeted the squint-eyed one, and before evening came he parted from his young wife.

“Assuredly the wolf will eat me,” he said. “Therefore be thou faithful to me. And if children shall be born to thee, educate them strictly; best of all, apprentice them in a circus; there they will be taught not only to beat the drum, but also to shoot peas from a pop-gun.”

Then suddenly, as though lost in thought, he added, remembering the wolf—

“It may be, though, that the wolf will—ha! ha!—pardon me!”

And that was the last of him they saw.

* * * * *

Meantime, while the squint-eyed one was making merry and getting married, great misfortunes were happening in the tract of country which divided him from the wolfs lair. In one place heavy rains had fallen, so that the river, which the rabbit swam across so easily the day before, overflowed and inundated ten versts of ground. In another place King Aaron declared war against King Nikìta, and a battle was pitched right in the rabbit’s path. In a third place the cholera appeared, so that quarantine was established for a hundred versts round. And, besides all that, wolves, foxes, owls—they seemed to lie in wait at every step.

The squint-eyed one was prudent; he had so calculated his time as to leave himself three hours extra; but when one hindrance after another beset him his heart sank. He ran without stopping all the evening, half the night; the stones cut his feet, the fur on his sides hung in ragged tufts, torn by the thorny branches, a mist covered his eyes, blood and foam fell from his mouth,—and still he had so far to go! And his friend, the hostage, haunted him constantly, as though alive before him. Now he stands like a sentinel in front of the wolfs lair, thinking: “In so many hours my dear brother-in-law will return to deliver me.”... When the rabbit thought of that, he darted on yet faster. Mountains, valleys, forests, marshes—it was all the same to him. Often he felt as though his heart would break; then he would crush it down, by sheer force of will, that fruitless emotion might not distract him from his great aim. He had no time now for sorrow or tears: he must think of nothing but how to tear his friend from the wolf’s jaws.

And now the day began to break. The owls and bats slipped into their hiding-places; the air became chilly. Suddenly all grew silent, like death. And still the squint-eyed one fled on and on, with the one thought ever in his heart: “Shall I come too late to save my friend?”

The east grew red; first on the far horizon the clouds were faintly tipped with fire; then it spread and spread, and suddenly—a flame. The dew flashed on the grass, the birds awoke, the ants and worms and beetles began to move, a light smoke rose from somewhere; through the rye and oats a whisper seemed to pass—clearer, clearer.... But the squint-eyed one saw nothing, heard nothing, only murmured to himself again and again: “I have destroyed my friend,—destroyed my friend!”

At last, a hill! Beyond that was a marsh, and in the marsh the wolf’s lair.... Too late, oh squint-eyed one, too late!...

With one last effort he put forth all his remaining strength, and bounded to the top of the hill. But he could go no further; he was sinking from exhaustion. And must he fail now?...

The wolf’s lair lay before him as on a map. Somewhere far off six o’clock struck from a church steeple, and every stroke of the bell beat like a hammer on the heart of the agonized creature. At the last stroke the wolf rose from his lair, stretched himself, and wagged his tail for pleasure. Then he went up to the hostage, seized him in his fore-paws, and stuck the claws into his body, in order to tear him in two halves, one for himself, the other for his wife. And the wolf-cubs surrounded their father and mother, gnashing their teeth and looking on....

“I am here!—Here!” shrieked the squint-eyed one, like a hundred thousand rabbits at once; and he flung himself down from the hill into the marsh.

And the wolf praised him.

“I see,” he said, “that a rabbit’s word can be trusted. And now, my little dears, this is my command: Sit, both of you, under this bush, and wait till I am ready, and afterwards I will ... ha! ha! ... pardon you!”

_CHOIR PRACTICE._

BY

V. A. SLYEPTZÒV.

At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into the ante-room, which contained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed, the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the ante-room, the choir-master would ask—

“Now, are you all here?”

Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—

“Not yet, sir.”

“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys.

The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down the room talking together softly.

“Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?”

“All here, Ivàn Stepànych,”

“Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s _Credo_.”

The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music.

The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear of him.

“Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through _The Gates of Mercy_ with the trebles?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the others out.”

“Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy; I shall have to take you in hand soon!”

Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and steadily perused his music.

“Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that you?—For shame!”

“It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I was advised to rub them with spirits.”

“Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m, so I see.... Your face looks drunk enough.”

“No, sir ... indeed....”

“There, there! Never mind! Gentlemen, you’re placed all wrong! Basses, don’t you know you have to stand by the stove?”

The basses sullenly went across to the stove.

“And you, Pàvel Ivànych? One might as well talk to a baby as to you, for all the notice you take!”

Pàvel Ivànych, a gloomy, unshaven, deep-bass singer, stared meditatively at the ceiling.

“Pàvel Ivànych!”

“What?”

“What did I say to you?—And all you answer is, ‘What?’ Confound it all, man, where’s your place?”

Pàvel Ivànych gazed meditatively at his music, and never moved.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Pètka’s hitting me,” whimpered an alto.

“Pètka!”

“Ivàn Stepànych, I didn’t——”

“Hold your tongue before I come and make you. Now, then!”

The choir-master struck several chords.

“Now listen! You all begin _piano_: ‘_I believe in one God the Father Almighty_,’ ... recitative, you know; and mind every word is clear. The basses must get their vowels out well.... Pàvel Ivànych! Where are you looking?”

“I?”

“No, I, of course! What do you suppose I’m talking to you for? Oh! good heavens, what a life! Well now, you begin piano; and, trebles, mind you don’t drag! Do you hear? ‘_By whom all things were made!_’ All the parts break up here! _Sforzando: ‘By whom all things!_’ ... D’you understand? Pètka, look at me! ‘_And the third day He rose again, according to the Scriptures._’... _Forte._ ‘_And sitteth on the right hand._’ ... _Fortissimo._... Do you understand what it means? Do you? ‘_From thence He shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead._’... Think what it means—the earth, the heavens, everything, going to dust ... and the last trumpet,—lightning,—thunder,—everything annihilated!... ‘_Whose kingdom shall have no end._’... At ‘end’ you have another _diminuendo_, and let the voices die away. You have to express all that great—how do you call it?—wisdom, and power, and eternity, ... don’t you see? Basses lead. Bring out all the tone you can; it wants to be like three hundred voices here! Tenors, change tone; take the octave! Trebles and altos: tra-la-la-la-la.... Stop!”

The choir-master had got so absorbed in describing how the Creed ought to be sung, that he had started up from the piano, and, imagining that it was really being sung as he said, began gesticulating and excitedly nudging the tenors, who edged away as far as they could. The basses, meanwhile, were taking snuff indifferently, while the trebles and altos, hiding their faces behind their music, were pinching each other and giggling. At last the singing began in good earnest; they all coughed, shuffled their feet, mumbled a little, and suddenly burst out in a roar: “_I believe in one God the Father Almighty._”... The choir-master stood in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, nodding his head and beating time with his hand.

“Stop! Stop! Not that way!”

The singing broke off.

“What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev, where are you looking? And you a clerical![58] How can you behave so?”

Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer.

“It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children, I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses.

Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible.

“What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and, basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the singers began once more: “_I believe._”...

“Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!”

“_Very God of Very God, begotten, not made._”...

“_Legato!_ Hold the note.... Break off! Basses, _crescendo_.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘_By whom all things were made._’... What do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; what _am_ I to do with you? Look this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look at _me_; there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately, tapping the music.

The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which instantly resulted in a quarrel.

“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”

“Mìtka!”

“Yes, sir!”

“What are you doing?”

“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.

“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my pipe!”

Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and, of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little groups and talked.

“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he is!”

In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.

“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore. First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass, then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘_Give ear_’ as high as he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for nothing;—so when we started ‘_Glory be to Thee_’ a whole tone lower, he was just done for. ‘_For ever and ev_——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh, and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’ll serve you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”

“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.

“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’ So you see, we can do as we like.”

“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice. “Koulìkov! ‘_We sing to Thee._’ Trebles hold your tongues!”

The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took his place at the piano.

“Do—mi—la. _Pianissimo._ One!”

“_We sing to Thee, we bless_——”

“Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv, what are you doing?”

Skvortzòv meditated.

“What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.”

“What are you singing?”

“Sing to Thee——”

“And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!”

Skvortzòv smiled.

“What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels properly. ‘_Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!_’ You always make it sound like, ‘_Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!_’ What sort of music do you call that? Begin again. ‘_We give thanks to Thee._’ Tenors, just touch the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook. Trebles, die away.”

At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing.

“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”
]

“_And we worship Thee_,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces they could put on.

“_Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd_,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail.

“_And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee_,” bellowed, like an ophicleide, the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and looking ready to tear some one in pieces.

At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off again.

“Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted.

The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face, after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered the conventional salutation: “My respects.”

“Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The choir-master had suddenly become very amiable.

“Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I not?”

“No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at once, in a minute.”

The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed—

“Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——”

“Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,” answered his wife.

“I didn’t invite him; he came.”

“There, there; get along with you.”

“Well, but, really, you might——”

“Shut up!”

“All right, I won’t, I won’t really.”

And the choir-master returned into the sitting-room, and sat down beside the deacon.

“Well, Vasìli Ivànych, and how are you getting on?”

“Pretty middling, thank you,” answered the deacon, coughing.

“Won’t you really have a pipe?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah, I forgot, you don’t smoke pipes; and I have no cigars. Dear, dear, what a pity! And is your wife pretty well, and the children?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“That’s all right.”

“And how’s the reverend father?”

“The father? Oh, as usual, you know.”

“Not well?”

“He doesn’t like this place; there’s such a lot of work, and at his age it’s hard.”

“Yes, yes, he’s getting on. Yes, it’s a pity.”

Silence.

“Won’t you have some whiskey?” suddenly asked the choir-master.

“Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.”

“As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.”

“Why should you—trouble?”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.”

The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat, and carefully examined the ceiling.

“Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly.

There was no answer.

Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the bedroom. There another whispered conversation began.

“Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey.

“There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?”

“Sh-sh! How am I trying to fool you? Can’t you see that my reputation may suffer?”

“From the drink? Yes, I should think so. Be off with you—be off!”

“Now, really, Màshenka, do be reasonable.”

Presently the choir-master returned, and after him came the maid-servant, carrying a tray with a decanter and a plate of cucumbers.

“Ah-h! Put it down here, my girl. Vasìli Ivànych, the first glass is yours.”

“Won’t you drink too?”

“You first; you are a guest.”

“Properly, the master of the house ought to begin,” said the deacon, modestly.

“No, no, you first, please. I’ll drink afterwards.”

“Well, if you will have it so....”

The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of bread, and began upon a cucumber.

“Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t you have another glass?”

“H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.”

“Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!”

“Well, then, you begin.”

And the former ceremony was gone through again.

“Your health!”

“Yours!”

The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted.

“Koulìkov!” said one.

“Well?”

“What time is mass to-morrow?”

“How should I know? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.”

Another tenor was remarking to a friend—

“Look here, when you write out music, you ought to put the sharps bigger. I always get wrong.”

“All right.”

“I shall go home and get to bed,” murmured one of the basses, yawning.

The boys in the ante-room had started some game there in the dark.

After the third glass the choir-master became sentimental and embraced the deacon.

* * * * *

The whiskey was nearly all drunk—only two glassfuls were left. The choir-master, holding on to the table with one hand and leaning against the deacon, tried to snuff the candle, but could not. The deacon had got upon his dignity, and would listen to nothing.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Vasìli Ivànych!” cried the choir-master, frowning.

“No, I won’t, then!” answered the irate deacon.

“Won’t you, my friend? Oho! Very well, you remember that. I’ll remind you of it; I’ll remind you!” said the choir-master, threatening him with something unknown. Then, seeing that his menaces had no effect, he suddenly became affectionate. The deacon, pacified, drank another glass.

“There now! There’s a good fellow! Kiss me, old man, and let’s be friends. You and I are both ... psalm singers.... We ought to be friends ... eh?” said the choir-master, tapping the deacon on the chest. “I’m not a common sort of man either, I can tell you; you needn’t mind my looking a bit queer.... Just see what a wife I’ve got, eh? She’s a civic councillor’s daughter. D’you understand that?”

“’Course I do ... ’tisn’t a syntax ... nothing much to understand.”

“Ah! I tell you that woman’s an angel. I’m not worthy of her. I feel myself I’m not. I’ve held an officer’s rank for fifteen years, and I’ve got a medal belonging to me, but all the same I’m not worth her little finger.”

An angry murmur came from the bedroom.

“There! D’you hear? She’s angry. She doesn’t like to be praised before people. She’s modest. I tell you I never saw any one so modest.... You’ll hardly believe it.... Why, sometimes, when we’re alone——”

The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering.

“Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....”

The deacon got up to go home.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took the deacon mysteriously into a corner.

“What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”

“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick. She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”

The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.

“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”

Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer desperation made up their minds to go home.

“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master, with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light, and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into his mouth, without eating anything.

“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”

Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.

“Why?”

“Thanks, I won’t take any.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”

“N—no, I ... really——”

“Rubbish!”

“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”

“When?”

“More than a month ago.”

“As you like.”

Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audible from the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured him for the tenth time (_à propos_ of nothing) that his wife was an angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.

“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.

“All that’s idle talk.”

“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ... Fèkla!”

The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.

“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”

“Missis told me not.”

“Then you won’t go?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then you’re a pig. I’ll go myself.”

“Go then! Missis’ll give you what for.”

However, after thinking it over, the choir-master decided not to go, and only shouted at her:

“Be off with you! Yah! Scandalmonger!”

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”
]

The servant went away. Presently a third pint was brought in and the basses and tenors once more crowded round the decanter. Suddenly the choir-master quite unexpectedly sat down at the piano, struck a few chords, and shouted: “Get to your places!” The sleepy boys came in from the ante-room, and the whole choir stood in a crowd together.

“See, the light is dying,
See, the time is flying....”[59]

yelled the choir-master, hammering unmercifully on the keys.

“The lasses went to the fields to play,
Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

bellowed the choir.

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

howled the tipsy deacon, swinging his legs under the table.

“In the name of law and order!” shrieked the choir-master. “Basses, out with your tone! _Crescendo! Crescendo!_”

* * * * *

At about eleven o’clock at night the deacon was hunting for his galoshes in the ante-room. For a long time he could not find them; at last he stuck his foot into somebody’s cap, which happened to be lying on the floor, and went home.

THE EAGLE
AS
MECÆNAS.

A FABLE.

BY

“SHCHEDRÌN”
(SALTYKÒV).

A great deal is written by various poets about Eagles; and always in praise of them. The Eagle has invariably a form of indescribable beauty, piercing vision, and a majestic flight. In fact, he does not fly like other birds, but “sails” or “soars” through the air; moreover, he can gaze upon the sun and battle with the thunders. Some writers speak of the magnanimity of his soul. For instance, if you want to write an ode in praise of a policeman, it is quite essential to compare him to an Eagle. Thus: “Like the majestic Eagle, Police-sergeant No. So-and-so looked on the suspected person, seized him, heard his explanation, and magnanimously pardoned him.”

I, personally, long cherished a belief in these panegyrics. I used to think: After all, it really is a grand idea! “Seized him and ... pardoned!” Pardoned! That was what really fascinated me. Whom did he pardon? A mouse! A miserable mouse! And then I would rush off to some one of my poetical friends to tell him of this new act of magnanimity on the part of the Eagle. And my poetical friend would strike an attitude, breathe hard for a moment, and then ... would become affected with the sea-sickness of versification.

One day, though, the idea occurred to me: What did the Eagle “pardon” in the mouse? All that the mouse had done was to run across the road on its own private business; and the Eagle saw it, swooped, squeezed it half to death, and ... pardoned it! Why in the world did the Eagle pardon the mouse and not the mouse the Eagle?

Well, I began to look about me and take notice of things; and the more I saw, the more muddled I got. There certainly was something askew about the whole business. In the first place, it is evident that the Eagle does not catch mice for the purpose of pardoning them. In the next place, even if the Eagle did pardon the mouse, I cannot help thinking that it would have been still better if he had taken no interest in its affairs at all. And, finally, in the third place, granted he is an Eagle—an Arch-eagle for that matter—all the same he’s a bird. Indeed, he is so essentially a bird that, even for a policeman, a comparison with him can be considered complimentary only in virtue of a misunderstanding.

My present opinion concerning Eagles is as follows:—Eagles are Eagles—and that is the long and short of the matter. They are simply carnivora, birds of prey; but, it is true, they have this justification: that Nature herself made them anti-vegetarians. As they are, moreover, powerful, long-sighted, agile, and merciless, it is perfectly natural that, whenever they appear, the entire feathered kingdom does its best to hide itself away. This is simply the effect of terror, and not at all of admiration, as the poets maintain. Eagles habitually live in solitary and inaccessible places; never exchange bread-and-salt with any one;[60] but live by robbery; and, when not engaged in burgling, go to sleep.

There turned up, however, a certain Eagle who grew sick of living in solitude. So one day he said to his mate: “It’s a fearful bore to live in this fashion, _tête-à-tête_; if one does nothing but gaze at the sun the whole day long, it muddles one’s head.”

He set to work to meditate. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that it would be very nice to live as the landed proprietors used to live in the old days. He could get a whole suite of servants and be as happy as the day is long. The rooks would provide him with scandal; the parrot would turn upside down and do tricks; the magpie would cook his porridge; the robins would sing songs in praise of him; the owls and night-jars would serve as watchmen and sentinels; and the hawks and falcons would bring him food. For himself he would keep no speciality but bloodthirstiness.

He thought and thought; and at last he made up his mind. One day he called a hawk, a kite, and a falcon, and said to them—

“Collect for me a staff of servants, such as the old landlords used to have; they will amuse me, and I will keep them in order. That will be pleasant for me and good for them.”

“THEY DROVE IN A WHOLE FLIGHT OF ROOKS.”
]