bath-house, like a hermit. . . . I am well fed. Next week I am thinking of moving on. . . . I've had enough of it. . . .'
'Inconceivable!' said Dyukovsky.
'What is there inconceivable in it?'
'Inconceivable! For God's sake, how did your boot get into the garden?'
'What boot?'
'We found one of your boots in the bedroom and the other in the garden.'
'And what do you want to know that for? It is not your business. But do drink, dash it all. Since you have waked me up, you may as well drink! There's an interesting tale about that boot, my boy. I didn't want to come to Olga's. I didn't feel inclined, you know, I'd had a drop too much. . . . She came under the window and began scolding me. . . . You know how women . . . as a rule. Being drunk, I up and flung my boot at her. Ha-ha! . . . 'Don't scold,' I said. She clambered in at the window, lighted the lamp, and gave me a good drubbing, as I was drunk. I have plenty to eat here. . . . Love, vodka, and good things! But where are you off to? Tchubikov, where are you off to?'
The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of the bath-house. Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging. Both got into the waggonette in silence and drove off. Never had the road seemed so long and dreary. Both were silent. Tchubikov was shaking with anger all the way. Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar as though he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling rain might read his shame on his face.
On getting home the examining magistrate found the doctor, Tyutyuev, there. The doctor was sitting at the table and heaving deep sighs as he turned over the pages of the
'The things that are going on in the world,' he said, greeting the examining magistrate with a melancholy smile. 'Austria is at it again . . . and Gladstone, too, in a way. . . .'
Tchubikov flung his hat under the table and began to tremble.
'You devil of a skeleton! Don't bother me! I've told you a thousand times over, don't bother me with your politics! It's not the time for politics! And as for you,' he turned upon Dyukovsky and shook his fist at him, 'as for you. . . . I'll never forget it, as long as I live!'
'But the Swedish match, you know! How could I tell. . . .'
'Choke yourself with your match! Go away and don't irritate me, or goodness knows what I shall do to you. Don't let me set eyes on you.'
Dyukovsky heaved a sigh, took his hat, and went out.
'I'll go and get drunk!' he decided, as he went out of the gate, and he sauntered dejectedly towards the tavern.
When the superintendent's wife got home from the bath-house she found her husband in the drawing- room.
'What did the examining magistrate come about?' asked her husband.
'He came to say that they had found Klyauzov. Only fancy, they found him staying with another man's wife.'
'Ah, Mark Ivanitch, Mark Ivanitch!' sighed the police superintendent, turning up his eyes. 'I told you that dissipation would lead to no good! I told you so -- you wouldn't heed me!'
NOTES
police superintendent:
witnesses: members of the public had to be present when the police searched for evidence
police captain's:
examining magistrate:
Nana: the prostitute heroine of the French novel
non dubitandum est: no doubt
Old Believer: those who adhered to the ritual of the Russian Orthodox Church as practiced before the 17th century reforms
read Dostoevsky: Ivan Shatov, in
Lyeskov . . . and Petchersky: Nikolay Semenovich Leskov (1831-1895) wrote stories of the Russian church and its clergy; Andrey Petchersky (real name, Pavel Ivanovich Melnikov, 1819-1883) wrote fiction concerned with the lives of Old Believers
Veni, vidi, vici!: I came, I saw, I conquered, saying of Julius Caesar
Gaboriau: Emile Gaboriau (1832-1873), Frenchman who wrote many early crime novels
* * *
CHORISTERS
by Anton Chekhov
THE Justice of the Peace, who had received a letter from Petersburg, had set the news going that the owner of Yefremovo, Count Vladimir Ivanovitch, would soon be arriving. When he would arrive -- there was no saying.
'Like a thief in the night,' said Father Kuzma, a grey-headed little priest in a lilac cassock. 'And when he does come the place will be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry. All the neighbours will flock here. Mind now, do your best, Alexey Alexeitch. . . . I beg you most earnestly.'
'You need not trouble about me,' said Alexey Alexeitch, frowning. 'I know my business. If only my enemy intones the litany in the right key. He may . . . out of sheer spite. . . .'
'There, there. . . . I'll persuade the deacon. . . I'll persuade him.'
Alexey Alexeitch was the sacristan of the Yefremovo church. He also taught the schoolboys church and secular singing, for which he received sixty roubles a year from the revenues of the Count's estate. The schoolboys were bound to sing in church in return for their teaching. Alexey Alexeitch was a tall, thick-set man of dignified deportment, with a fat, clean-shaven face that reminded one of a cow's udder. His imposing figure and double chin made him look like a man occupying an important position in the secular hierarchy rather than a sacristan. It was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the ground before the bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the deacon Yevlampy Avdiessov, remain on his knees for two hours by order of the head priest of the district. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humiliation.
On account of the rumours of the Count's approaching visit he had a choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir practice was held at the school. It did not interfere much with the school work. During the practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur.
This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would come into the school-room, slamming the door and blowing his nose. The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the school-tables. The tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. They all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note with the tuning fork.
'To-to-li-to-tom . . . Do-mi-sol-do!'
'Adagio, adagio. . . . Once more.'
After the 'Amen' there followed 'Lord have mercy upon us' from the Great Litany. All this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. It was sung indolently, unconsciously. Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice. It was all slow, there was nothing interesting. . . . But before the 'Cherubim' hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music. The sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his violin. The preparations lasted a couple of minutes.
