'One must confess that to bury people like Byelikov is a great pleasure. As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet Lenten faces; no one wanted to display this feeling of pleasure -- a feeling like that we had experienced long, long ago as children when our elders had gone out and we ran about the garden for an hour or two, enjoying complete freedom. Ah, freedom, freedom! The merest hint, the faintest hope of its possibility gives wings to the soul, does it not?
'We returned from the cemetery in a good humour. But not more than a week had passed before life went on as in the past, as gloomy, oppressive, and senseless -- a life not forbidden by government prohibition, but not fully permitted, either: it was no better. And, indeed, though we had buried Byelikov, how many such men in cases were left, how many more of them there will be!'
'That's just how it is,' said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his pipe.
'How many more of them there will be!' repeated Burkin.
The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man, completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two dogs came out with him.
'What a moon!' he said, looking upwards.
It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a long street stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in deep silent slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe that nature could be so still. When on a moonlight night you see a broad village street, with its cottages, haystacks, and slumbering willows, a feeling of calm comes over the soul; in this peace, wrapped away from care, toil, and sorrow in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy, beautiful, and it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and with tenderness, and as though there were no evil on earth and all were well. On the left the open country began from the end of the village; it could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and there was no movement, no sound in that whole expanse bathed in moonlight.
'Yes, that is just how it is,' repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; 'and isn't our living in town, airless and crowded, our writing useless papers, our playing
'No; it's time we were asleep,' said Burkin. 'Tell it tomorrow.'
They went into the barn and lay down on the hay. And they were both covered up and beginning to doze when they suddenly heard light footsteps -- patter, patter. . . . Some one was walking not far from the barn, walking a little and stopping, and a minute later, patter, patter again. . . . The dogs began growling.
'That's Mavra,' said Burkin.
The footsteps died away.
'You see and hear that they lie,' said Ivan Ivanovitch, turning over on the other side, 'and they call you a fool for putting up with their lying. You endure insult and humiliation, and dare not openly say that you are on the side of the honest and the free, and you lie and smile yourself; and all that for the sake of a crust of bread, for the sake of a warm corner, for the sake of a wretched little worthless rank in the service. No, one can't go on living like this.'
'Well, you are off on another tack now, Ivan Ivanovitch,' said the schoolmaster. 'Let us go to sleep!
And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovitch kept sighing and turning over from side to side; then he got up, went outside again, and, sitting in the doorway, lighted his pipe.
NOTES
elder Prokofy: the village elder was the elected head of the
Anthropos: Greek for man
Turgenev and Shchedrin: Ivan S. Turgenev (1818-1883) and Shchedrin (real name Mikhail Y. Saltykov, 1826- 1889) were considered liberal and enlightened in the 1850-1860's
Buckle: Henry Thomas Buckle (1821-1862) was an English historian
Little Russian: Ukrainian
Aphrodite: refers to Botticellil's painting 'The Birth of Venus'
pothouses: taverns, pubs; the pun is that the Russian word for tavern,
aubergine: eggplant
* * *
Gooseberries
by Anton Chekhov
THE whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that there were meadows, green willows, homesteads there, and that if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same vast plain, telegraph-wires, and a train which in the distance looked like a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love of that countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.
'Last time we were in Prokofy's barn,' said Burkin, 'you were about to tell me a story.'
'Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother.'
