heart beating in her bosom!'
The long yard ended, and Boris found himself in a dark entry. The swing door creaked, there was a smell of cooking and a smoking samovar. There was a sound of harsh voices. Passing through the passage into the kitchen Boris could see nothing but thick smoke, a line with washing on it, and the chimney of the samovar through a crack of which golden sparks were dropping.
'And here is my cell,' said the old man, stooping down and going into a little room with a low-pitched ceiling, and an atmosphere unbearably stifling from the proximity of the kitchen.
Here three women were sitting at the table regaling themselves. Seeing the visitors, they exchanged glances and left off eating.
'Well, did you get it?' one of them, apparently the 'virago' herself, asked abruptly.
'Yes, yes,' muttered the old man. 'Well, Boris, pray sit down. Everything is plain here, young man . . . we live in a simple way.'
He bustled about in an aimless way. He felt ashamed before his son, and at the same time apparently he wanted to keep up before the women his dignity as cock of the walk, and as a forsaken, unhappy father.
'Yes, young man, we live simply with no nonsense,' he went on muttering. 'We are simple people, young man. . . . We are not like you, we don't want to keep up a show before people. No! . . . Shall we have a drink of vodka?'
One of the women (she was ashamed to drink before a stranger) heaved a sigh and said:
'Well, I'll have another drink on account of the mushrooms. . . . They are such mushrooms, they make you drink even if you don't want to. Ivan Gerasimitch, offer the young gentleman, perhaps he will have a drink!'
The last word she pronounced in a mincing drawl.
'Have a drink, young man!' said the father, not looking at his son. 'We have no wine or liqueurs, my boy, we live in a plain way.'
'He doesn't like our ways,' sighed the 'virago.' 'Never mind, never mind, he'll have a drink.'
Not to offend his father by refusing, Boris took a wineglass and drank in silence. When they brought in the samovar, to satisfy the old man, he drank two cups of disgusting tea in silence, with a melancholy face. Without a word he listened to the virago dropping hints about there being in this world cruel, heartless children who abandon their parents.
'I know what you are thinking now!' said the old man, after drinking more and passing into his habitual state of drunken excitement. 'You think I have let myself sink into the mire, that I am to be pitied, but to my thinking, this simple life is much more normal than your life, . . . I don't need anybody, and . . . and I don't intend to eat humble pie. . . . I can't endure a wretched boy's looking at me with compassion.'
After tea he cleaned a herring and sprinkled it with onion, with such feeling, that tears of emotion stood in his eyes. He began talking again about the races and his winnings, about some Panama hat for which he had paid sixteen roubles the day before. He told lies with the same relish with which he ate herring and drank. His son sat on in silence for an hour, and began to say good-bye.
'I don't venture to keep you,' the old man said, haughtily. 'You must excuse me, young man, for not living as you would like!'
He ruffled up his feathers, snorted with dignity, and winked at the women.
'Good-bye, young man,' he said, seeing his son into the entry. '
In the entry, where it was dark, he suddenly pressed his face against the young man's sleeve and gave a sob.
'I should like to have a look at Sonitchka,' he whispered. 'Arrange it, Borenka, my angel. I'll shave, I'll put on your suit . . . I'll put on a straight face . . . I'll hold my tongue while she is there. Yes, yes, I will hold my tongue! '
He looked round timidly towards the door, through which the women's voices were heard, checked his sobs, and said aloud:
'Good-bye, young man!
NOTES
summer villa: the Russian for a summer residence is 'dacha'
kvass: a Russian beer made from rye or barley
* * *
A HAPPY ENDING
by Anton Chekhov
LYUBOV GRIGORYEVNA, a substantial, buxom lady of forty who undertook matchmaking and many other matters of which it is usual to speak only in whispers, had come to see Stytchkin, the head guard, on a day when he was off duty. Stytchkin, somewhat embarrassed, but, as always, grave, practical, and severe, was walking up and down the room, smoking a cigar and saying:
'Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Semyon Ivanovitch recommended you on the ground that you may be able to assist me in a delicate and very important matter affecting the happiness of my life. I have, Lyubov Grigoryevna, reached the age of fifty-two; that is a period of life at which very many have already grown-up children. My position is a secure one. Though my fortune is not large, yet I am in a position to support a beloved being and children at my side. I may tell you between ourselves that apart from my salary I have also money in the bank which my manner of living has enabled me to save. I am a practical and sober man, I lead a sensible and consistent life, so that I may hold myself up as an example to many. But one thing I lack -- a domestic hearth of my own and a partner in life, and I live like a wandering Magyar, moving from place to place without any satisfaction. I have no one with whom to take counsel, and when I am ill no one to give me water, and so on. Apart from that, Lyubov Grigoryevna, a married man has always more weight in society than a bachelor. . . . I am a man of the educated class, with money, but if you look at me from a point of view, what am I? A man with no kith and kin, no better than some Polish priest. And therefore I should be very desirous to be united in the bonds of Hymen -- that is, to enter into matrimony with some worthy person.'
'An excellent thing,' said the matchmaker, with a sigh.
'I am a solitary man and in this town I know no one. Where can I go, and to whom can I apply, since all the people here are strangers to me? That is why Semyon Ivanovitch advised me to address myself to a person who is a specialist in this line, and makes the arrangement of the happiness of others her profession. And therefore I most earnestly beg you, Lyubov Grigoryevna, to assist me in ordering my future. You know all the marriageable young ladies in the town, and it is easy for you to accommodate me.'
'I can. . . .'
'A glass of wine, I beg you. . . .'
With an habitual gesture the matchmaker raised her glass to her mouth and tossed it off without winking.
'I can,' she repeated. 'And what sort of bride would you like, Nikolay Nikolayitch?'
'Should I like? The bride fate sends me.'
'Well, of course it depends on your fate, but everyone has his own taste, you know. One likes dark ladies, the other prefers fair ones.'
'You see, Lyubov Grigoryevna,' said Stytchkin, sighing sedately, 'I am a practical man and a man of character; for me beauty and external appearance generally take a secondary place, for, as you know yourself, beauty is neither bowl nor platter, and a pretty wife involves a great deal of anxiety. The way I look at it is, what matters most in a woman is not what is external, but what lies within -- that is, that she should have soul and all the qualities. A glass of wine, I beg. . . . Of course, it would be very agreeable that one's wife should be rather plump, but for mutual happiness it is not of great consequence; what matters is the mind. Properly speaking, a woman does not need mind either, for if she has brains she will have too high an opinion of herself, and take all sorts of ideas into her head. One cannot do without education nowadays, of course, but education is of different kinds. It
