Won't you? Come, give me ten kopecks for a rouble.'
Grisha looks suspiciously at Vasya, wondering whether it isn't some trick, a swindle.
'I won't,' he says, holding his pockets.
Vasya begins to get cross, and abuses them, calling them idiots and blockheads.
'I'll put down a stake for you, Vasya! ' says Sonya. 'Sit down.' He sits down and lays two cards before him. Anya begins counting the numbers.
'I've dropped a kopeck!' Grisha announces suddenly, in an agitated voice. 'Wait!'
He takes the lamp, and creeps under the table to look for the kopeck. They clutch at nutshells and all sorts of nastiness, knock their heads together, but do not find the kopeck. They begin looking again, and look till Vasya takes the lamp out of Grisha's hands and puts it in its place. Grisha goes on looking in the dark. But at last the kopeck is found. The players sit down at the table and mean to go on playing.
'Sonya is asleep!' Alyosha announces.
Sonya, with her curly head lying on her arms, is in a sweet, sound, tranquil sleep, as though she had been asleep for an hour. She has fallen asleep by
accident, while the others were looking for the kopeck.
'Come along, lie on mamma's bed!' says Anya, leading her away from the table. 'Come along!'
They all troop out with her, and five minutes later mamma's bed presents a curious spectacle. Sonya is asleep. Alyosha is snoring beside her. With their heads to the others' feet, sleep Grisha and Anya. The cook's son, Andrey too, has managed to snuggle in beside them. Near them lie the kopecks, that have lost their power till the next game. Good-night!
NOTES
loto: a game similar to bingo
MISERY
by Anton Chekhov
THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . . . His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.
It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.
'Sledge to Vyborgskaya!' Iona hears. 'Sledge!'
Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.
'To Vyborgskaya,' repeats the officer. 'Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!'
In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of. . . .
'Where are you shoving, you devil?' Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. 'Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!'
'You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right,' says the officer angrily.
A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.
'What rascals they all are!' says the officer jocosely. 'They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose.'
Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.
'What?' inquires the officer.
Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: 'My son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir.'
'H'm! What did he die of?'
Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:
'Who can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God's will.'
'Turn round, you devil!' comes out of the darkness. 'Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!'
'Drive on! drive on! . . .' says the officer. 'We shan't get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!'
The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. . . . Again the wet
