opportunity of exposing to the authorities and to the public all the infamy of her conduct. If I kill myself she may, with her characteristic duplicity and impudence, throw all the blame on me, and society will justify her behaviour and will very likely laugh at me. . . . If I remain alive, then . . .'
A minute later he was thinking:
'Yes, if I kill myself I may be blamed and suspected of petty feeling. . . . Besides, why should I kill myself? That's one thing. And for another, to shoot oneself is cowardly. And so I'll kill him and let her live, and I'll face my trial. I shall be tried, and she will be brought into court as a witness. . . . I can imagine her confusion, her disgrace when she is examined by my counsel! The sympathies of the court, of the Press, and of the public will certainly be with me.'
While he deliberated the shopman displayed his wares, and felt it incumbent upon him to entertain his customer.
'Here are English ones, a new pattern, only just received,' he prattled on. ' But I warn you, M'sieu, all these systems pale beside the Smith and Wesson. The other day-as I dare say you have read-an officer bought from u~ a Smith and Wesson. He shot his wife's lover, and-would you believe it?-the bullet passed through him, pierced the bronze lamp, then the piano, and ricochetted back from the piano, killing the lap-dog and bruising the wife. A magnificent record redounding to the honour of our firm! The officer is now under arrest. He will no doubt be convicted and sent to penal servitude. In the first place, our penal code is quite out of date; and, secondly, M'sieu, the sympathies of the court are always with the lover. Why is it? Very simple, M'sieu. The judges and the jury and the prosecutor and the counsel for the defence are all living with other men's wives, and it'll add to their comfort that there will be one husband the less in Russia. Society would be pleased if the Government were to send all the husbands to Sahalin. Oh, M'sieu, you don't know how it excites my indignation to see the corruption of morals nowadays. To love other men's wives is as much the regular thing to-day as to smoke other men s cigarettes and to read other men's books. Every year our trade gets worse and worse -- it doesn't mean that wives are more faithful, but that husbands resign themselves to their position and are afraid of the law and penal servitude.'
The shopman looked round and whispered: 'And whose fault is it, M'sieu? The Government's.'
'To go to Sahalin for the sake of a pig like that -- there's no sense in that either,' Sigaev pondered. 'If I go to penal servitude it will only give my wife an opportunity of marrying again and deceiving a second husband. She would triumph. . . . And so I will leave
'Here, M'sieu, is another make,' said the shopman, taking down another dozen from the shelf. 'Let me call your attention to the original mechanism of the lock.'
In view of his determination a revolver was now of no use to Sigaev, but the shopman, meanwhile, getting more and more enthusiastic, persisted in displaying his wares before him. The outraged husband began to feel ashamed that the shopman should be taking so much trouble on his account for nothing, that he should be smiling, wasting time, displaying enthusiasm for nothing.
Very well, in that case,' he muttered, 'I'll look in again later on . . . or I'll send someone.'
He didn't see the expression of the shopman's face, but to smooth over the awkwardness of the position a little he felt called upon to make some purchase. But what should he buy? He looked round the walls of the shop to pick out something inexpensive, and his eyes rested on a green net hanging near the door.
'That's . . . what's that?' he asked.
'That's a net for catching quails.'
'And what price is it?'
'Eight roubles, M'sieu.'
'Wrap it up for me. . . .'
The outraged husband paid his eight roubles, took the net, and, feeling even more outraged, walked out of the shop.
NOTES
Niobe: in mythology Niobe wept ceaselessly for her murdered children, and in pity the gods turned her into a stone out of which a stream flowed
Sahalin: Sakhalin, in Siberia, was Imperial Russia's most oppressive prison; Chekhov visited it in 1890
* * *
THE POST
by Anton Chekhov
IT was three o'clock in the night. The postman, ready to set off, in his cap and his coat, with a rusty sword in his hand, was standing near the door, waiting for the driver to finish putting the mail bags into the cart which had just been brought round with three horses. The sleepy postmaster sat at his table, which was like a counter; he was filling up a form and saying:
'My nephew, the student, wants to go to the station at once. So look here, Ignatyev, let him get into the mail cart and take him with you to the station: though it is against the regulations to take people with the mail, what's one to do? It's better for him to drive with you free than for me to hire horses for him.'
'Ready!' they heard a shout from the yard.
'Well, go then, and God be with you,' said the postmaster. 'Which driver is going?'
'Semyon Glazov.'
'Come, sign the receipt.'
The postman signed the receipt and went out. At the entrance of the post-office there was the dark outline of a cart and three horses. The horses were standing still except that one of the tracehorses kept uneasily shifting from one leg to the other and tossing its head, making the bell clang from time to time. The cart with the mail bags looked like a patch of darkness. Two silhouettes were moving lazily beside it: the student with a portmanteau in his hand and a driver. The latter was smoking a short pipe; the light of the pipe moved about in the darkness, dying away and flaring up again; for an instant it lighted up a bit of a sleeve, then a shaggy moustache and big copper-red nose, then stern-looking, overhanging eyebrows. The postman pressed down the mail bags with his hands, laid his sword on them and jumped into the cart. The student clambered irresolutely in after him, and accidentally touching him with his elbow, said timidly and politely: 'I beg your pardon.'
The pipe went out. The postmaster came out of the post-office just as he was, in his waistcoat and slippers; shrinking from the night dampness and clearing his throat, he walked beside the cart and said:
'Well, God speed! Give my love to your mother, Mihailo. Give my love to them all. And you, Ignatyev, mind you don't forget to give the parcel to Bystretsov. . . . Off!'
The driver took the reins in one hand, blew his nose, and, arranging the seat under himself, clicked to the horses.
'Give them my love,' the postmaster repeated.
The big bell clanged something to the little bells, the little bells gave it a friendly answer. The cart squeaked, moved. The big bell lamented, the little bells laughed. Standing up in his seat the driver lashed the restless tracehorse twice, and the cart rumbled with a hollow sound along the dusty road. The little town was asleep. Houses and trees stood black on each side of the broad street, and not a light was to be seen. Narrow clouds stretched here and there over the star-spangled sky, and where the dawn would soon be coming there was a narrow crescent moon; but neither the stars, of which there were many, nor the half-moon, which looked white, lighted up the night air. It was cold and damp, and there was a smell of autumn.
The student, who thought that politeness required him to talk affably to a man who had not refused to let him accompany him, began:
'In summer it would be light at this time, but now there is not even a sign of the dawn. Summer is over!'
