Forty Stories

wondered—perhaps after all she should be writing to Gruzdev. An unreasoning joy stirred in her heart: at first it was a very small joy, and rolled about in her heart like a little rubber ball, but it became more powerful and vaster, and at last poured out of her like a fountain. She had forgotten Gorny and Gruzdev. She was confused; but her joy grew and spread from her heart into her hands and feet, and it seemed that a gentle and refreshing wind was fanning her face and lifting her hair. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter, the table shook, the lamp chimney trembled. Her tears were sprinkled on the letter she was writing. She could not control her laughter and so, to prove that she was not laughing for no reason at all, she quickly thought of something funny.

“Oh, what an amusing poodle!” she exclaimed, feeling faint with laughter. “What an amusing poodle!”

She remembered how on the previous day Gruzdev had romped with Maxim, the family poodle, after they had taken tea together, and later he told her the story of a clever poodle who chased a raven round the garden. Suddenly the raven stopped, looked round, and said: “Stinker!” The poodle was completely unaware that the raven was trained, and became terribly confused, running away with a look of utter bewilderment. After a while he began to bark.

“No, it would be much better to fall in love with Gruzdev,” Nadia decided, and she tore up the letter.

Her thoughts turned to the student, of his love for her and her love for him, and soon her thoughts went wandering, and she found herself thinking of many things: of her mother, of the street, of the pencil, of the piano.… She thought of all these things with joy, and it seemed to her that everything was good and splendid and beautiful, and her joy spoke to her, saying there was much more to come, and in a little while it would be still better. Soon spring would come, and then it would be summer, and she would go with her mother to Gorbiky, and then Gorny would come for the holidays, take her for walks in the garden, and flirt with her. And then Gruzdev would come. They would play croquet and bowls, and he would tell her funny stories and others that would leave her dumb with astonishment. Passionately she longed for the garden, the darkness, the clear sky, the stars. Once more her shoulders shook with laughter: the room seemed to fill with aromatic scents, and a twig was tapping against the windowpane.

She went to her bed and sat down, and then not knowing what to do with the joy that was flooding into her heart, she gazed at the icon which hung at the head of her bed, and murmured: “Dear God, dear God, dear God!”

April 1892

A Fragment

ON his retirement State Councilor Kozerogov bought a modest property in the country and settled down on it. There, partly in imitation of Cincinnatus, but also partly in imitation of Professor Kaigorodov, he toiled in the sweat of his brow and wrote down his observations of natural phenomena. After his death these writings, together with his effects, following the desire expressed in his will, fell into the possession of his housekeeper, Marfa Yevlampyevna. As is well known, this inestimable old woman tore down his manor house and in its place erected a superb tavern licensed to sell strong liquor. This tavern acquired a “special room” fitted out for passing landowners and civil servants. On a table of this room were placed the writings of the deceased, for the convenience of such of the guests who might be in need of paper. One sheet fell into my hands. Apparently it relates to the very early agricultural efforts of the deceased, and contains the following information:

March 3. The spring migration of birds has begun. Yesterday I saw sparrows. I greet you, O feathered children of the south! In your sweet chirping I seem to hear you express the wish: “Be happy, Your Excellency.”

March 14. Today I asked Marfa Yevlampyevna: “Why does the cock crow so much?” She answered me: “Because he has a throat.” I replied: “I, too, have a throat, but I don’t crow!” So multitudinous are the mysteries of Nature! During my years of service in St. Petersburg I ate turkey more than several times, but only yesterday for the first time in my life did I observe a living turkey. A very remarkable bird indeed!

March 22. The rural officer called. For a long time we debated the subject of virtue—I sitting down, he standing. Among other things he said: “Have you ever wished, Your Excellency, to return to the days of your youth?” I replied to this question: “No, not in the least, for if I were young again, I would not be enjoying my present rank.” He agreed with my point of view, and went off, visibly moved.

April 16. With my own hands I have dug up two rows in the kitchen garden and planted semolina. I said nothing about this to anyone, to surprise my Marfa Yevlampyevna, to whom I am indebted for many happy moments in my life. Yesterday at tea she grumbled bitterly about her constitution, remarking that her expanding girth prevented her from passing through the door leading to the storehouse. My observation to her was: “On the contrary, my dear, the fullness of your form serves as an embellishment and disposes me all the more favorably towards you.” She blushed at this. I rose and embraced her with both arms, for it is impossible to embrace her with only one.

May 28. An old man, seeing me near the women’s bathing place, asked me why I was sitting there. I answered him with the observation: “The reason I am sitting here is because I want to see that young men do not come and sit here.” “Then let us watch together,” the old man said, and then he sat down beside me, and we began to talk about virtue.

April 1892

In Exile

OLD Semyon, nicknamed Smarty, and a young Tartar whom nobody knew by name, were sitting by a bonfire near the river: the other three ferrymen were inside the hut. Semyon was an old man of sixty, and though gaunt and toothless he was broad in the shoulder and gave an appearance of health. He was drunk, and would have been asleep long ago if it had not been for the half bottle in his pocket and his dread that the young fellows in the hut would want his vodka. The Tartar was ill and tired, and wrapping himself up in his rags, he talked about how good it was in Simbirsk province and about the good-looking, clever wife he had left behind him. He was no more than twenty-five, but looking at his pale, sick, melancholy face in the firelight, you would have thought he was only a boy.

“You can hardly call this place Paradise,” Smarty said. “You can see for yourself: water, the naked shore, clay everywhere—nothing else.… Holy Week is over, but the ice is still floating down the river, and there was snow this morning.”

“Misery, misery!” moaned the Tartar, looking round him in terror.

Ten paces below, the river flowed darkly, muttering to itself as it dug a path between the steep clay banks and made its way to the distant sea. The dark shape of one of those huge barges which the ferrymen call a karbass loomed against the bank. Far-off, on the further shore, dying down and flickering up again, were little serpents of fire: they were burning last year’s grasses. And behind these serpents darkness again. There could be heard the sound of little blocks of ice crashing against the barge. Dampness and cold.…