Chapter VI: Act II: Scene I (4)

The deacon put on a stern expression and continued gravely—

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

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

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

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

“What then? Some kind of soup? Yes?”

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

The peasant scratched his head.

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

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

“_What—the—deuce_ do you think any one cares _how much_ you ate? Well, get on; porridge now, is it?”

Silence.

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

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

“Pudding, was it?”

“Something of that kind.”

“And with what was the pudding served?”

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

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

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

“After what?”

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

“Well, what kind of thing?

“THE PEASANT SCRATCHED HIS HEAD.”
]

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

“The porridge come arter that.”

“After what?”

Silence once more.

“Can’t you speak?”

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

“Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

Presently the innkeeper came in.

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

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

“Well ... I suppose he did.”

“Then it comes to a silver rouble.”

“Can’t you make it a bit less.”

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

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

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

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

The deacon turned his head away in silence.

_A DOMESTIC PICTURE._
A SCENE FROM MOSCOW LIFE.

BY N. OSTRÒVSKY.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ANTÌP ANTÌPYCH POUZÀTOV, _merchant, 35 years old._
MATRYÒNA SÀVISHNA, _his wife, aged 25._
MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s sister, a girl of 19._
STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s mother, aged 60._
PARAMÒN FERAPÒNTYCH SHIRYÀLOV, _merchant, aged 60._
DÀRYA, _servant maid._

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

_Màrya (singing softly as she works)._

“Black colour, sad colour,
Yet for ever dear to me.”

(_Breaks off, stops working, and meditates._)

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

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

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

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

_Matryòna._ How handsome he is!

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

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

_Màrya._ Oh! how disgraceful!

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

_Màrya._ Oh! if mamma were to see her!

(_Enter_ DÀRYA, _hurriedly._)

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

_Màrya._ Yes, yes! But what about _them_?

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

_Matryòna._ Yes; but what did they say?

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

_Màrya._ Of course we’ll go, sister!

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

_Dàrya._ Yes’m. Anything else, please’m?

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

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

_Matryòna._ All right.

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

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

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

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

_Dàrya._ Yes’m.

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

_Matryòna._ What’s the matter?

_Antìp (enters)._ Good evening, wife. Why, how you jump! Who did you think it was? (_Kisses her._) Give us another kiss. (_Caressing her playfully._)

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

_Antìp._ But I want a kiss.

_Matryòna._ Oh! leave off, for goodness’ sake!

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

_Matryòna._ What now?

_Antìp._ It would be jolly to have some tea now. (_Stares at the ceiling, and puffs._)

_Matryòna._ Dàrya!

(_Enter_ DÀRYA.)

_Matryòna._ Bring the samovar; and ask Stepanìda Trofimovna for the keys. (_Exit_ DÀRYA. _Silence._ MÀRYA _sits at her embroidery_; MATRYÒNA _beside her_; ANTÌP _looks about the room, sighing._)

_Antìp (sternly)._ Wife! come here!

_Matryòna._ What now?

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

_Matryòna._ Why, are you gone crazy?

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

_Matryòna._ Whatever can it be? (_Timidly._) Antìp Antìpych?

_Antìp._ Eh? Frightened you? (_Bursts out laughing._) No, my lass! It was only my little joke. (_Sighs._) Can’t we have tea?

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

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

(_Enter_ STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA; _then_ DÀRYA _carrying the samovar._)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Matryòna._ Really, Antìp Antìpych, what things you do say!

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

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

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

_Antìp._ Do you think she’d change me for any one else? A handsome fellow like me! (_Strokes his moustache._) I say, wife, give us a kiss! (MATRYÒNA _kisses him with feigned tenderness._)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Antìp._ I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband?

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

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

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

_Antìp._ Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov?

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

_Antìp._ Well, then, Perepyàtkin; he’d be a fine lover. (_Laughs._)

_Màrya._ You just pick out all the frights on purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Màrya._ Really, brother, how should I know?... (_Casts down her eyes._)

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

_Matryòna._ It’s always the same talk with you.

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

_Màrya._ Mamma! How can you! I declare I shall go away! Come, sister! (_Runs out of the room_, MATRYÒNA _follows her._)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Stepanìda._ What! I never heard of such a thing!

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

_Shiryàlov._ How do you do, neighbours? (_Bows._) Antìp Antìpych! Good evening, friend. (_They kiss._) Little mother, Stepanìda Trofimovna, good evening. (_They kiss._)

_Antìp._ Sit down, Paramòn Ferapòntych.

_Stepanìda._ Sit down, little father.

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

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

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

_Stepanìda._ You and I are getting old, little father.

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

_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear!

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

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

_Stepanìda._ Very true, little father!

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

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

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

_Stepanìda._ Never mind, little father, have some more.

_Antìp._ With us, for company’s sake.

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

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

_Antìp._ That’s good stuff for every sort of illness, friend; you remember my words. (SHIRYÀLOV _puts down cup._)

_Stepanìda._ Take another cup.

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

_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony, little father. (_Pours out tea._) How’s your business getting on?

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

_Antìp._ Wild oats, I suppose?

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

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

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

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

_Antìp._ He seems to have taken after his father!

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

_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear! dear!

_Antìp._ Wh-whew!

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

_Antìp._ What joke?

_Shiryàlov._ About the Armenian.

_Antìp._ No; what is it?

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

_Antìp._ Well, and what was the end of it?

_Shiryàlov._ Just twenty-five kopecks. (_Laughs._)

_Antìp._ No? Really? That’s capital! (_Laughs._)

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

_Stepanìda._ Another cup?

_Shiryàlov._ No more, little mother, no more.

_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony——

_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, little mother, can’t, indeed. (_Bows._)

_Stepanìda._ As you like; but there’s plenty more.

_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, really. (_Rises and bows._)

_Stepanìda._ Dàrya, clear away the tea. (DÀRYA _enters, clears away tea, and goes out_). Good-bye, little father.

_Shiryàlov._ Good-bye, little mother. (_They kiss._)

_Stepanìda._ Don’t forget to look in on us.

_Shiryàlov._ Always a pleasure, ma’am; always a pleasure.

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

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

_Antìp._ Not a bit of it; there’s no trouble. (STEPANÌDA _goes out_.)

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

_Antìp._ Have a drink, neighbour! (_They drink._)

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

_Antìp._ Why, that’s capital! That’s first-rate! Have a drink, neighbour. (_They drink._)

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

_Antìp._ Well, I never did!...

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

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

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

_Antìp._ Very true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Antìp._ He’d set the money in circulation. (_Laughs._)

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

_Antìp._ Yes; that’s not a bad idea.

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

_Antìp._ Yes, why not? Marriage is a good thing.

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

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

_Shiryàlov._ No, friend; that’s just my trouble.

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

_Shiryàlov._ Are you in earnest?

_Antìp._ Quite. Why shouldn’t I find you one?

_Shiryàlov_ (_looks keenly at him_). You’re fooling me!

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

_Shiryàlov._ What did you say? Eh-h-h!

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

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

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

_Shiryàlov_ (_drops his eyes lower_). She’ll say: “He’s old.”

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

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

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

_Shiryàlov._ Never, so help me, God!

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

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

_Antìp._ All right. You go on and get everything ready, and I’ll come in a minute; I’ll just get my cap. (SHIRYÀLOV _goes out_.)

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

(MATRYÒNA _enters, showily dressed_; DÀRYA _follows her_.)

_Matryòna._ Has Antìp Antìpych gone out?

_Dàrya._ Yes, ma’am.

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

(MÀRYA _enters, in her best clothes_.)

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

_Matryòna._ How?

_Màrya._ Said I wanted to go to vespers! (_They burst out laughing; and exeunt._)

“_LA TRAVIATA._”

(AS DESCRIBED BY A SHOPKEEPER).

BY GORBOUNÒV.

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

_A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS._

BY GORBOUNÒV.

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

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

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

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL MASTER.

BY N. USPÈNSKY.

An elderly gentleman, sitting on the verandah of his house, called to a workman who was passing with a water-cart—

“Hi! Prokòfyi! Prokòfyi!”

The cart stopped.

“Are you deaf?”

“The wheels makes such a noise, Grigòryi Naòmich; one can’t hear anything. They wants greasing.”

“Oh, they’re all right. What have you got there? water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From the pond?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” said the master after a moment’s pause, “you can go.”

A soldier came up to the verandah.

“Wish your honour good-day!”

“Who are you?”

“From Verkhogliàdov in the Merkoùlovsky district; perhaps you know it?—by the river Kostra....”

“What d’ you want?”

“I’m looking for a place, sir, as doorkeeper, or bailiff.”

“What have you been up till now?”