Short Fiction

the stairs. He even used to crawl across the whole yard into the garden. He had a great big head, clumsy looking, like his father’s; his temples coarse, red-haired, like a dog’s wool; he had a broad, old-looking face. That was because he used to eat an awful lot⁠—he’d eat sausage, and chocolate bonbons, and pretzels, and pastry made out of layers of dough⁠—whatsoever his heart might desire. But his little legs, his little arms, was like a sheep’s, and all broken, all in scars. They used to keep him just so for a long time, making long shirts for him of different colours; sometimes blue, sometimes pink. They had a lady teacher from a parochial school coming over to our house to teach him. He was a great hand for learning, and had a good head on his shoulders! And the way he’d play on an accordion⁠—you couldn’t find even a whole person to play like that! He’d play, and sing in time with the music. He had a strong, piercing voice. He used to go way, way up when he’d sing: “I’m a monk, and handsome too!” He used to sing that song often.

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

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

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

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

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

But, like as if I hadn’t noticed him, I took and threw down a slop-bowl, with water! I threw it down, and then was scared myself. But he crawls, he struggles up the stairs, drying himself with one