'The fact of the matter is you haven't a head on your shoulders,' he said, 'but this.'
'Come, come,' said the old lady, offended. 'Talk to your own wife like that. . . . You screw! . . . Don't be too free with your hands.'
And looking at her with fury, with exasperation, as though he would devour her, Alexey Nikolaitch said in a quiet, stifled voice:
'Clear out.'
'Wha-at?' squealed Madame Shtchukin. 'How dare you? I am a weak, defenceless woman; I won't endure it. My husband is a collegiate assessor. You screw! . . . I will go to Dmitri Karlitch, the lawyer, and there will be nothing left of you! I've had the law of three lodgers, and I will make you flop down at my feet for your saucy words! I'll go to your general. Your Excellency, your Excellency!'
'Be off, you pest,' hissed Alexey Nikolaitch.
Kistunov opened his door and looked into the office.
'What is it?' he asked in a tearful voice.
Madame Shtchukin, as red as a crab, was standing in the middle of the room, rolling her eyes and prodding the air with her fingers. The bank clerks were standing round red in the face too, and, evidently harassed, were looking at each other distractedly.
'Your Excellency,' cried Madame Shtchukin, pouncing upon Kistunov. 'Here, this man, he here . . . this man . . .' (she pointed to Alexey Nikolaitch) 'tapped himself on the forehead and then tapped the table. . . . You told him to go into my case, and he's jeering at me! I am a weak, defenceless woman. . . . My husband is a collegiate assessor, and I am a major's daughter myself! '
'Very good, madam,' moaned Kistunov. 'I will go into it . . . I will take steps. . . . Go away . . . later!'
'And when shall I get the money, your Excellency? I need it to-day!'
Kistunov passed his trembling hand over his forehead, heaved a sigh, and began explaining again.
'Madam, I have told you already this is a bank, a private commercial establishment. . . . What do you want of us? And do understand that you are hindering us.'
Madame Shtchukin listened to him and sighed.
'To be sure, to be sure,' she assented. 'Only, your Excellency, do me the kindness, make me pray for you for the rest of my life, be a father, protect me! If a medical certificate is not enough I can produce an affidavit from the police. . . . Tell them to give me the money.'
Everything began swimming before Kistunov's eyes. He breathed out all the air in his lungs in a prolonged sigh and sank helpless on a chair.
'How much do you want?' he asked in a weak voice.
'Twenty-four roubles and thirty-six kopecks.'
Kistunov took his pocket-book out of his pocket, extracted a twenty-five rouble note and gave it to Madame Shtchukin.
'Take it and . . . and go away!'
Madame Shtchukin wrapped the money up in her handkerchief, put it away, and pursing up her face into a sweet, mincing, even coquettish smile, asked:
'Your Excellency, and would it be possible for my husband to get a post again?'
'I am going . . . I am ill . . .' said Kistunov in a weary voice. 'I have dreadful palpitations.'
When he had driven home Alexey Nikolaitch sent Nikita for some laurel drops, and, after taking twenty drops each, all the clerks set to work, while Madame Shtchukin stayed another two hours in the vestibule, talking to the porter and waiting for Kistunov to return. . . .
She came again next day.
NOTES
collegiate assessor: The 8th rank (of 14) on the Russian civil service scale
to a chemist's: to a pharmacy
A BAD BUSINESS
by Anton Chekhov
'WHO goes there?'
No answer. The watchman sees nothing, but through the roar of the wind and the trees distinctly hears someone walking along the avenue ahead of him. A March night, cloudy and foggy, envelopes the earth, and it seems to the watchman that the earth, the sky, and he himself with his thoughts are all merged together into something vast and impenetrably black. He can only grope his way.
'Who goes there?' the watchman repeats, and he begins to fancy that he hears whispering and smothered laughter. 'Who's there?'
'It's I, friend . . .' answers an old man's voice.
'But who are you?'
'I . . . a traveller.'
'What sort of traveller?' the watchman cries angrily, trying to disguise his terror by shouting. 'What the devil do you want here? You go prowling about the graveyard at night, you ruffian!'
'You don't say it's a graveyard here?'
'Why, what else? Of course it's the graveyard! Don't you see it is?'
'O-o-oh . . . Queen of Heaven!' there is a sound of an old man sighing. 'I see nothing, my good soul, nothing. Oh the darkness, the darkness! You can't see your hand before your face, it is dark, friend. O-o-oh. . .'
'But who are you?'
'I am a pilgrim, friend, a wandering man.'
'The devils, the nightbirds. . . . Nice sort of pilgrims! They are drunkards . . .' mutters the watchman, reassured by the tone and sighs of the stranger. 'One's tempted to sin by you. They drink the day away and prowl about at night. But I fancy I heard you were not alone; it sounded like two or three of you.'
'I am alone, friend, alone. Quite alone. O-o-oh our sins. . . .'
The watchman stumbles up against the man and stops.
'How did you get here?' he asks.
'I have lost my way, good man. I was walking to the Mitrievsky Mill and I lost my way.'
'Whew! Is this the road to Mitrievsky Mill? You sheepshead! For the Mitrievsky Mill you must keep much more to the left, straight out of the town along the high road. You have been drinking and have gone a couple of miles out of your way. You must have had a drop in the town.'
'I did, friend . . . Truly I did; I won't hide my sins. But how am I to go now?'
'Go straight on and on along this avenue till you can go no farther, and then turn at once to the left and go till you have crossed the whole graveyard right to the gate. There will be a gate there. . . . Open it and go with God's blessing. Mind you don't fall into the ditch. And when you are out of the graveyard you go all the way by the fields till you come out on the main road.'
'God give you health, friend. May the Queen of Heaven save you and have mercy on you. You might take me along, good man! Be merciful! Lead me to the gate.'
'As though I had the time to waste! Go by yourself!'
'Be merciful! I'll pray for you. I can't see anything; one can't see one's hand before one's face, friend. . . . It's so dark, so dark! Show me the way, sir!'
'As though I had the time to take you about; if I were to play the nurse to everyone I should never have done.'
'For Christ's sake, take me! I can't see, and I am afraid to go alone through the graveyard. It's terrifying, friend, it's terrifying; I am afraid, good man.'
'There's no getting rid of you,' sighs the watchman. 'All right then, come along.'
The watchman and the traveller go on together. They walk shoulder to shoulder in silence. A damp, cutting
