 Chapter 16 of Best Russian Short Stories Well, Captain Zorubkin's wife called out impatiently to her husband, rising from the sofa and turning to face him as he entered. He doesn't know anything about it. He replied indifferently, as if the matter were of no interest to him. Then he asked in a business-like tone. Nothing for me from the office? How should I know? Am I your errand boy? Oh, they dilly-dally! If only the package doesn't come too late. It's so important! Idiot? Who is an idiot? You, with your indifference, your stupid egoism? The Captain said nothing. He was neither surprised nor insulted. On the contrary, the smile on his face was as though he had received a compliment. These wifely, animad versions, probably oft heard, by no means interfered with his domestic peace. It can't be that the man doesn't know when his wife is coming back home. As the rubkin continued excitedly, she's written to him every day of the four months that he's been away. The postmaster told me, sir, Semyonov! Home! Semyonov! Has anyone from the office been here? I don't know your Excellency. Came in a loud, clear voice from back of the room. Why don't you know? Where have you been? I went to Abramka, your Excellency. The tailor again? Yes, your Excellency. The tailor Abramka. The Captain spat in annoyance. And where is Krinka? He went to market your Excellency. Was he told to go to market? Yes, your Excellency. The Captain spat again. Why do you keep spitting? Such vulgar manners, his wife cried angrily. You behave at home like a drunken subaltern. You haven't the least consideration for your wife. You were so coarse in your behaviour towards me. Do, please, go to your office. Semyonov! Your Excellency? If the baggage comes, please have it sent back to the office and say I've gone there. And listen, someone must always be here. I won't have everybody out of the house at the same time. Do you hear? Yes, your Excellency. The Captain put on his cap to go. In the doorway he turned and addressed his wife. Please, Tasha, don't send all the servants out on your errands at the same time. Something important may turn up, and then there's nobody here to attend to it. He went out, and his wife remained reclining on the sofa corner as if his plea were no concern of hers. But scarcely had he left the house when she called out, Semyonov, come here, quick! A barefooted, unshaven man in dark blue pantaloons and cotton shirt presented himself. His stocky figure and red face made a wholesome appearance. He was the Captain's orderly. At your service, Your Excellency. Listen, Semyonov, you don't seem to be stupid. I don't know Your Excellency. For goodness' sake, drop Your Excellency. I am not your superior officer. Yes, Your Excell—Idiot! But the lady's manner towards the servant was far friendlier than toward her husband. Semyonov had it in his power to perform important services for her, while the Captain had not come up to her expectations. Listen, Semyonov, how do you and the Doctor's men get along together? Are you friendly? Yes, Your Excellency. Intolerable! cried the lady, jumping up. Stop using that silly title—can't you speak like a sensible man? Semyonov had been standing in a stiff attitude of attention, with the palms of his hands at the seams of his trousers. Now he suddenly relaxed, and even wiped his nose with his fist. That's the way we are taught to do, he said carelessly, with a clownish grin. The gentlemen, the officers, insist on it. Now, tell me, you are in good terms with the Doctor's men. You mean Podmar and Shukok? Of course. We're friends. Very well. Then go straight to them and try to find out when Mrs. Sheldon is expected back. They ought to know. They must be getting things ready against her return, cleaning her bedroom and fixing it up. Do you understand? But be careful to find out right, and also be very careful not to let on for whom you are finding it out. Do you understand? Of course I understand. Well, then go. But one more thing. Since you're going out, you may as well stop at a bramker again and tell him to come here right away. You understand? But his excellency gave me orders to stay at home, said Semyonov, scratching himself behind his ears. Please, don't answer back. Just do as I tell you. Go on. Now. That's your service. In the orderly, impressed by the lady's severe military tone, left the room. Mrs. Zarubkin remained reclining on the sofa for a while. Then she rose and walked up and down the room, and finally went to her bedroom, where her two little daughters were playing in their nurse's care. She scolded them a bit and returned to her former place on the couch. Her every movement betrayed great excitement. Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the most looked up to ladies of the S Regiment and even of the whole town of Chmyrsk, where the regiment was quartered. To be sure, you hardly could say that, outside the regiment, the town could boast any ladies at all. There were very respectable women, decent wives, mothers, daughters, and widows of honorable citizens. But they all dressed in cotton and flannel, and on high holidays made a show of cheap Kashmyr gowns over which they wore gay shawls with borders of wonderful arabesques. Their hats and other headgear gave not the faintest evidence of good taste. So they could scarcely be dubbed ladies. They were satisfied to be called women. None of them, almost, had the name of her husband's trade or position tacked to her name. Mrs. Grocer so-and-so, Mrs. Mere so-and-so, Mrs. Milena so-and-so, etc. Genuine ladies in the Russian society sense had never come to the town before the S Regiment had taken up its quarters there. And it goes without saying that the ladies of the regiment had nothing in common and therefore no intercourse with the women of the town. They were so dissimilar that they were like creatures of a different species. There is no disputing that Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the most looked up to of the ladies. She invariably played the most important part at all the regimental affairs, the amateur theatricals, the social evenings, the afternoon teas. If the captain's wife was not to be present, it was a foregone conclusion that the affair would not be a success. The most important point was that Mrs. Zarubkin had the untarnished reputation of being the best dressed of all the ladies. She was always the most distinguished looking at the annual ball. Her gown, for the occasion, ordered from Moscow, was always chosen with a grace regard for her charms and defects, and it was always exquisitely beautiful. A new fashion could not gain admittance to the other ladies of the regiment except by way of the captain's wife. Thanks to her good taste in dressing, the stately blonde was queen at all the balls and in all the salons of Chemirsk. Another advantage of hers was that although she was nearly forty, she still looked fresh and youthful, so that the young officers were constantly hovering about her and paying her homage. November was a very lively month in the regiment's calendar. It was on the 10th of November that the annual ball took place. The ladies, of course, spent their best efforts in preparation for this event. Needless to say that in all these arduous activities, Abramka Stiftik, the ladies tailor, played a prominent role. He was the one man in Chemirsk who had any understanding at all for the subtle art of the feminine toilet. Preparations had begun in his shop in August already. Within the last weeks, his modest parlor, furnished with six shabby chairs placed about a round table and a fly-spect mirror on the wall, the atmosphere heavy with the smell of onions and herring, had been filled from early morning to the evening hours with the most charming and elegant of the fairer sex. There was trying on and discussion of styles and selected of material. It was all very nerve-wracking for the ladies. The only one who had never appeared in this parlor was the captain's wife. That had been a thorn in Abramka's flesh. He had spent days and nights going over in his mind how he could rid this lady of the, in his opinion, wretched habit of ordering her clothes from Moscow. For this ball, however, as she herself had told him, she had not ordered a dress but only material from out of town, from which he deduced that he was to make the gown for her. But there was only one week left before the ball, and still she had not come to him. Abramka was in a state of feverishness. He longed once to make a dress for Mrs. Zorubkin. It was ad to his glory. He wanted to prove that he understood his trade just as well as any tailor in Moscow and that it was quite superfluous for her to order her gowns outside of Chimirsk. He would come out the triumphant competitor of Moscow. As each day passed, a Mrs. Zorubkin did not appear in his shop. His nervousness increased. Finally she ordered a dressing jacket from him, but not a word said of a ballgown. What was he to think of it? So when Semyonov told him that Mrs. Zorubkin was expecting him at her home, it goes without saying that he instantly removed the dozen pins in his mouth as he was trying on a customer's dress, told one of his assistants to continue with the fitting, and instantly set off to call on the captain's wife. In this case it was not a question of a mere ballgown, but the acquisition of the best customer in town. Although a bramka or a silk hat and a suit in keeping with the silk hat, still he was careful not to ring at the front entrance, but always knocked at the back door. At another time when the captain's orderly was not in the house, for the captain's orderly also performed the duties of the captain's cook, he might have knocked long and loud. On other occasions a cannon might have been shot off right next to Tatyana Grigorevnia's ears, and she would not have lifted her fingers to open the door. But now she instantly caught the sound of the modest knocking and opened the back door herself for a bramka. Oh! She cried delightedly, you a bramka! She really wanted to address him less familiarly, as was more befitting so dignified a man in a silk hat. But everyone called him a bramka, and he would have been very much surprised had he been honoured with his full name Abrams Rulovich Stiftig. So she thought it best to address him as the others did. Mr Abramka was tall and thin. There was always a melancholy expression in his pale face. He had a little stoop, a long and very heavy grayish beard. He had been practicing his profession for thirty years, ever since his apprenticeship he had been called a bramka, which did not strike him as at all derogatory or unfitting. Even his shingle red, Lady's Tailor Abramka Stiftig, the most valid proof that he had deemed his name immaterial, but that the chief thing to him was his art. As a matter of fact he had attained, if not perfection in tailoring, yet remarkable skill. To this all the ladies of the S Regiment could attest with conviction. Abramka removed his silk hat, stepped into the kitchen, and said gravely, with profound feeling, Mrs Rulovich, I am in entirely at your service. Come into the reception room, I have something very important to speak to you about. Abramka followed in silence. He stepped softly on tiptoe, as if afraid of waking someone. Sit down, Abramka, listen, but give me your word of honour, you won't tell anyone. Tatyana Grigorevna began reddening a bit. She was ashamed to have let the Tailor Abramka into her secret, but since there was no getting round it, she quieted herself and in an instant had regained her ease. You don't know what you are speaking of Mrs Rulovich, Abramka rejoined. He assumed a somewhat injured manner. Have you ever heard of Abramka ever babbling anything out? You certainly know that in my profession, you know everybody has some secret to be kept. Oh, you must have misunderstood me, Abramka. What sort of secrets do you mean? Well, one lady is a little bit one-sided, another lady, he pointed to his breast. She's not quite full enough, another lady has scrawny arms. Such things as that have to be covered up or filled out or laced in so as to look better. That is where our art comes in. But we are in duty bound not to say anything about it. Tatyana Grigorevna smiled. Well, I can assure you I am all right that way. There is nothing about me that needs to be covered up or filled out. Oh, as if I didn't know that. Everybody knows that Mrs Rulovich's figure is perfect. Abramka cried, trying to flatter his new customer. Mrs Rulovich laughed and made up her mind to remember, everybody knows that Mrs Rulovich's figure is perfect. Then she said, you know that the ball is to take place in a week. Yes, indeed, Mrs Rulovich, in only one week, unfortunately, only one week, replied Abramka, sighing. But you remember your promise to make my dress for me for the ball this time. Mrs Rulovich, Abramka cried, laying his hand on his heart. Have I said that I was not willing to make it? No, indeed, I said it must be made, and made right. For Mrs Rulovich, it must be better than for anyone else. That's the way I feel about it. Splendid, just what I wanted to know. But why don't you show me your material? Why don't you say to me, here, Abramka, here is the stuff. Make a dress. Abramka would work on it day and night. Ahem, that's just it. I can't order it. That's where the trouble comes in. Tell me, Abramka, what is the shortest time you need for making the dress? Listen, the very shortest. Abramka shrugged his shoulders. Well, is a week too much for a ball dress such as yours will want? It's got to be sewed. It can't be pasted together. You yourself know that, Mrs Rulovich. But supposing I ordered only three days before the ball. Abramka started. Only three days before the ball. A ball dress? Am I a god, Mrs Rulovich? I am nothing but the lady's tailor, Abramka Stiftec. Well then, you are a nice tailor, said Tatyana Grigoryevna scornfully. In Moscow they made a ball dress for me in two days. Abramka jumped up as if at a shot and beat his breast. Is that so? Then I say, Mrs Rulovich, and he cried pathetically. If they made a ball gown for you in Moscow in two days, very well, then I will make a ball gown for you if I must in one day. I will neither eat nor sleep, and I won't let my help off either for one minute. How does that suit you? Sit down, Abramka. Thank you very much. I hope I shall not have to put such a strain on you. It really does not depend upon me. Otherwise I should have ordered the dress from you long ago. It doesn't depend on you. Then upon whom does it depend? It depends upon... But now, Abramka, remember this is just between you and me. It depends upon Mrs Sheldon. Upon Mrs Sheldon? The doctor's wife? Why? She isn't even here. That's just it. That's why I have to wait. How is it that a clever man like you, Abramka, doesn't grasp the situation? Hum, hum! Let me see. Abramka wrecked his brains for a solution of the riddle. How could it be that Mrs Sheldon, who was away, should have anything to do with Mrs Arubkin's order for a gown? No, that passed his comprehension. She certainly will get back in time for the ball, said Mrs Arubkin, to give him a cue. Well, yes. And certainly will bring a dress back with her. Certainly! A dress from abroad, something we have never seen here, something highly original. Mrs Arubkin, Abramka cried, as if a truth of tremendous import had been revealed to him. Mrs Arubkin, I understand. Why, certainly. Yes, but that will be pretty hard. That's just it. Abramka reflected a moment, then said, I assure you, Mrs Arubkin, you need not be a bit uneasy. I will make a dress for you that will be just as grand as the one from abroad. I assure you, your dress will be the most elegant one at the ball. Just as it always has been. I tell you, my name won't be Abramka schtiftig, if his eager asseverations seem not quite to satisfy the captain's wife. Her mind was not quite set at ease. She interrupted him. But the style of Abramka, the style, you can't possibly guess what the latest fashion is abroad. Why shouldn't I know what the latest fashion is, Mrs Arubkin? In Kiev, I have a friend who publishes fashion plates. I will telegraph to him, and he will immediately send me pictures of the latest French models. A telegram will cost only 80 cents, Mrs Arubkin, and I swear to you, I will copy any dress he sends. Mrs Sheldon can't possibly have a dress like that. All very well and good, and that's what we'll do. Still, we must wait until Mrs Sheldon comes back. Don't you see, Abramka, I must have exactly the same style that she has. Can't you see that nobody can say that she is in the latest fashion? At this point, Semyonov entered the room cautiously. He was wearing the oddest-looking jacket and the captain's old boots. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were shining suspiciously. There was every sign that he'd used the renewal of friendship with the doctor's men as a pretext for a booze. We had to stand them so brave to your excellency. He said sourcely, but catching his mistress's threatening look, he lowered his head guiltily. Idiot! she yelled at him. Face about! Be off with you to the kitchen! In his befuddlement, Semyonov had not noticed Abramka's presence. Now he became aware of him, faced about, and retired to the kitchen sheepishly. What an impolite fellow! said Abramka reproachfully. You wouldn't believe, said the captain's wife, but instantly followed Semyonov into the kitchen. Semyonov, aware of his awful misdemeanor, tried to stand up straight and give a report. She will come back, your excellency, day after tomorrow toward evening. She sent a telegram. Is that true now? I swear it's true. Shukok saw it himself. All right, very good. You'll get something for this? Yes, your excellency. Silence, you goose. Go on, sit at the table. Abramka remained about ten minutes longer with the captain's wife, and on leaving said, Let me assure you once again, Mrs. Arubkin, you needn't worry. Just select the style, and I'll make it gown for you that the best tailor in Paris can't beat. He pressed his hand to his heart in token of his intention to do everything in his power for Mrs. Arubkin. It was seven o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Sheldon and her trunk had arrived hardly half an hour before, yet the captain's wife was already there paying visit, which was a sign of the warm friendship that existed between the two women. They kissed each other and fell to talking. The doctor, a tall man of forty-five, seemed discomforted by the visit, and passed unfriendly side glances at his guest. He had hoped to spend that evening undisturbed with his wife, and he well knew that when the ladies of the regiment came to call upon each other for only a second, it meant a whole evening of listening to idle talk. You won't believe me, dear, how bored I was the whole time you're away, how I longed for you, Natalia Semionova. But you probably never gave us a thought. Eh, how can you say anything like that? I was thinking of you every minute, every second, if I hadn't been obliged to finish the cure, I should have returned long ago. No matter how beautiful it may be away from home, so the only place to live is among those that are near and dear to you. These were only the preliminary soundings. They lasted with variations for a quarter of an hour. First Mrs. Sheldon narrated a few incidents of the trip. Then Mrs. Zorubkin gave a report of some of the chief happenings in the life of the regiment. When the conversation was in full swing, and the Semionova was singing on the table, and the pancakes were spreading their appetizing odour, the captain's wife suddenly cried, I wonder if the fashions are abroad now. I say, you must have feasted your eyes on them. Mrs. Sheldon simply replied with a scornful gesture. Eh, other people may like them, but I don't care for them one bit. I'm glad we here don't get to see them until a year later. You know, Tatyana Grigoryevna, you sometimes see the ugliest styles. Really? Asked the captain's wife eagerly, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, the great moment of complete revelation seemed to have arrived. Perfectly hideous, I tell you. Just imagine. You know how nice the plain skirts were. Then why change them? But now, to be in the style now, the skirts have to be draped. Why? It's just a sign of the complete lack of imagination. And in Lyon they got out a new kind of silk. But that is still a French secret. Why? A secret? The silk is certainly being worn already. Yes, but one does see it being worn already. But when it was first manufactured, the greatest secret was made of it. They were afraid the Germans would imitate. You understand? Oh, but what is the latest style? I really can't explain it to you. All I know is it is something awful. She can't explain? That means she doesn't want to explain. Who is the cunning one? What a sly look she has in her eyes. So thought the captain's wife. From the very beginning of the conversation, the two warm friends, it needs scarcely be said, were mutually distrustful. Each had the conviction that everything the other said was to be taken in the very opposite sense. They were of about the same age. Mrs. Sheldon, possibly one or two years younger than Mrs. Zarubkin. Mrs. Zarubkin was rather plump and had heavy, light hair. Her appearance was blooming. Mrs. Sheldon was slim, though well proportioned. She was a brunette with a pale complexion and large, dark eyes. There were two types of beauty, very likely to divide the gentleman of the regiment into two camps of admirers. But women are never content with halves. Mrs. Zarubkin wanted to see all the officers of the regiment at her feet, and so did Mrs. Sheldon. It naturally led to great rivalry between the two women, of which they were both conscious, though they always had the friendliest smiles for each other. Mrs. Sheldon tried to give a different turn to the conversation. Do you think the ball will be interesting this year? Why should it be interesting? rejoined the captain's wife scornfully. Always the same people, the same old hum-drum jog trot. I suppose the ladies had been besieging your poor abrumka? I really can't tell you. As far as I am concerned, I have scarcely looked at what he made for me. Him? How is that? Didn't you order your dress from Moscow again? No, it really does not pay. I am sick of the bother of it all. Why all that trouble? For whom? Our officers don't care a bit how one dresses. They haven't the least taste. Hmm, there's something back of that, thought Mrs. Sheldon. The captain's wife continued with apparent indifference. I can guess what a gorgeous dress you had made abroad. Certainly, in the latest fashion. I, Mrs. Sheldon laughed innocently, how could I get the time from doing my cure to think of a dress? As a matter of fact, I completely forgot the ball, thought of it at the last moment, and bought the first piece of goods I laid my hands on. Pink? Oh no, how can you say pink? Light blue then. You can't call it exactly light blue. It's a very undefined sort of colour. I really wouldn't know what to call it. But it certainly must have some sort of a shade. He may believe me or not if you choose, but I really don't know. It's a very indefinite shade. Is it Soura's silk? No, I can't bear Soura. It doesn't keep the folds well. I suppose it's crepe de chan. Heavens know crepe de chan is much too expensive for me. Then what can it be? Wait a minute, what is the name of that goods? You know, there are so many funny new names now. They don't make any sense. Then show me your dress, dearest. Do please show me your dress. Mrs. Sheldon seemed to be highly embarrassed. I am so sorry I can't. It is way down at the bottom of the trunk. There is the trunk. You see yourself. I couldn't unpack it now. The trunk, close to the wall, was covered with oil cloth and tied tight with heavy cords. The captain's wife devoured it with her eyes. She would have liked to see through and through it. She had nothing to say and reply, for it certainly was impossible to ask her friend, tired out from her recent journey, to begin to unpack right away and take out all her things to show her new dress. Yet she could not tear her eyes away from the trunk. There was a magic in it that held her enthralled. Had she been alone, she would have begun to unpack it herself, nor even ask the help of the servant to undo the knots. Now there was nothing left for her but to turn her eyes sorrowfully away from the fascinating object and to take up another topic of conversation to which she would be utterly indifferent. But she couldn't think of anything else to talk about. Mrs. Sheldon must prepare herself beforehand. She must have suspected something. So now Mrs. Sehrubkin pinned her last hope to Abramka's inventiveness. She glanced at the clock. Dear me, she exclaimed, as if surprised at the lateness of the hour, I must be going. I don't want to disturb you any longer either, dearest. You must be very tired. I hope you rest well. She shook hands with Mrs. Sheldon, kissed her, and left. Abramka's shtiftik had just taken off his coat and was doing some ironing in his shirt sleeves when a peculiar figure appeared in his shop. It was that of a stocky orderly in a well-worn uniform without buttons and old galoshes instead of boots. His face was gloomy looking and was covered with a heavy growth of hair. Abramka knew this figure well. It seemed always just to have awakened from the deepest sleep. Ah, Shukok, what do you want? Mrs. Sheldon would like you to call upon her, said Shukok. He behaved as if he had come on a terribly serious mission. Hey, that's her. Your lady has come back. I heard about it. You see, I'm very busy. Still, you may tell her I'm coming right away. I just want to finish ironing Mrs. Connor Potkin's dress. Abramka simply wanted to keep up appearances, as always when he was sent for. But his joy at the summons to Mrs. Sheldon was so great that, to the astonishment of his helpers and Shukok, he left immediately. He found Mrs. Sheldon alone. She had not slept well the two nights before and had risen late that morning. Her husband had left long before for the military hospital. She was sitting beside her open trunk, taking her things out very carefully. How do you do, Mrs. Sheldon? Welcome back to Chamiask. I congratulate you on your happy arrival. Hey, how do you do, Abramka? Said Mrs. Sheldon delightfully. We haven't seen each other for a long time, have we? I was rather homesick for you. Hey, Mrs. Sheldon, you must have had a very good time abroad. But what do you need me for? You certainly brought a dress back with you. Abramka always comes in handy. Said Mrs. Sheldon jestingly. We ladies of the regiment are quite helpless without Abramka. Take a seat. Abramka seated himself. He felt much more at ease in Mrs. Sheldon's home than in Mrs. Zorubkin's. Mrs. Sheldon did not order her clothes from Moscow. She was a steady customer of his. In this room he had many a time circled about the doctor's wife with a yard-measure, pins, chalk, and scissors. A kneel down beside her, raised himself to his feet, bent over again and stood puzzling over some difficult problem of dressmaking. How low to cut the dress out at the neck, how long to make the train, how wide the hem, and so on. None of the ladies of the regiment ordered as much from him as Mrs. Sheldon. Her grandmother would send her material from Kiev, or the doctor would go on a professional trip to Chernigov, and would always bring some goods back with him. Or sometimes her aunt in Voronezh would make a gift of some silk. Abramka is always ready to serve Mrs. Sheldon first, said the tailor, those seized with a little pang, as if bitten by a guilty conscience. Are you sure you're telling the truth? Is Abramka always to be depended upon? Eh, is he? She looked at him searchingly from beneath dripping lids. What a question! He rejoined Abramka, his face quivered slightly, his feeling of discomfort was waxing. Has Abramka ever? Eh, things can happen. But all right, never mind, I brought a dress along with me. I had to have it made in a great hurry, and there is just a little more to be done on it. Now, if I give you this dress to finish, can I be sure that you positively won't tell another soul how it is made? Mrs. Sheldon, ah, Mrs. Sheldon, said Abramka reproachfully. Nevertheless, the expression of his face was not so reassuring as usual. You give me your word of honour? Certainly! My name isn't Abramka Stiftik if I— Well, all right, I will trust you. But be careful. You know whom you must be careful. Who is that, Mrs. Sheldon? Oh, you know very well who I mean. No, you needn't put your hand on your heart. She was here to see me yesterday, and tried in every way she could to find out how my dress is made. But she couldn't get it out of me. Abramka sighed. Mrs. Sheldon seemed to suspect his betrayal. I am right, am I not? She has not had her dress made yet, has she? She waited to see my dress, didn't she? And she told you to copy the style, didn't she? Mrs. Sheldon asked with honest naivety. But I warn you, Abramka, if you give away the least little thing about my dress, then all is over between you and me. Remember that? Abramka's hand went to his heart again, and the gesture carried the same sense of conviction as of old. Mrs. Sheldon, how can you speak like that? Wait a moment. Mrs. Sheldon left the room. About ten minutes passed during which Abramka had plenty of time to reflect. How could he have given a captain's wife a promise like that so lightly? What was the captain's wife to him as compared with the doctor's wife? Mrs. Serubkin had never given him a really decent order, just a few things for the house, and some mending. Supposing he were now to perform this great service for her, would that mean he would depend upon her for the future? Was any woman to be depended upon? She would wear this dress out and go back to ordering her clothes from Moscow again. But Mrs. Sheldon, she was very different. He could forgive her having brought this one dress along from abroad. What woman in Russia would have refrained? When abroad, from buying new dress, Mrs. Sheldon would continue to be a steady customer all the same. The door opened. Abramka rose involuntarily and clasped his hands in astonishment. Well, he exclaimed rapturously. That is a dress that is my, my. He was so stunned he could find nothing more to say. And how charming Mrs. Sheldon looked in her wonderful gown. Her tall, slim figure seemed to have been made for it. What simple yet elegant lines. At first glance, she would think it was nothing more than an ordinary house gown, but only at first glance. If you looked at it again, you could tell right away that it meant all the requirements of a fancy ball gown. What struck Abramka most was that it had no waistline, that it did not consist of bodice and skirt. That was strange. It was just caught lightly together under the bosom, which it brought out in relief. Draped over the hole was the sort of upper garment of exquisite old rose lace, embroidered with large silk flowers which fell from the shoulders and broadened out in bold, superb lines. The dress was cut low, an edge with a narrow strip of black down round the bosom, round the bottom of the lace drapery, and around the hem of the skirt. A wonderful fan of feathers to match the down edging gave the finishing touch. Well, how do you like it, Abramka? Asked Mrs. Sheldon with a triumphant smile. Glorious, glorious, I haven't the words at my command. What a dress! No, I couldn't make a dress like that. And how beautifully it fits you, as if you had been born in it, Mrs. Sheldon. What do you call the style? Empire. Empire? He queried. Is that a new style? Well, well, what people don't think of. Tailors like us might just as well throw our needles and scissors away. Now, listen, Abramka, I wouldn't have shown it to you if there were not this sewing to be done on it. You were the only one who would have seen it before the ball. I'm not even letting my husband look at it. Hey, Mrs. Sheldon, you can rely upon me as upon a rock, but after the ball, may I copy it? Oh, yes, after the ball, copy it as much as you please, but not now, not for anything in the world. There were no doubts in Abramka's mind when he left the doctor's house. He had arrived at his decision. That superb creation had conquered him. It would be a piece of audacity on his part, he felt, even to think, of imitating such a gown. Why, it was not a gown. It was a dream, a fantastic vision, without a bodice, without puffs or frills or tordery trimmings of any sort. Simplicity itself, and yet so chic. Back in his shop, he opened the package of fashion plates that had just arrived from Kiev. He turned the pages and stared in astonishment. What was that? Could he trust his eyes? An empire gown. There it was, with the broad, voluptuous drapery of lace hanging from the shoulders and the edging of down. Almost exactly the same thing as Mrs. Sheldon's. He glanced up and saw Seminov outside the window. He had certainly come to fetch him to the captain's wife. He must have ordered him to watch the tailor's movements. He must have learnt that he'd just been at Mrs. Sheldon's. Seminov entered and told him his mistress wanted to see him right away. Abramka slammed the fashion magazine shut, as if afraid Seminov might catch a glimpse of the new empire fashion and give the secret away. I will come immediately, he said crossly. He picked up his fashion plates, put the yard-measure in his pocket, rammed his silk hat sorrowfully on his head, and set off for the captain's house. He found Mrs. Rubkin pacing the room excitedly, greeted her, but carefully avoided meeting her eyes. Well, what did you find out? Nothing, Mrs. Rubkin said Abramka dejectedly. Unfortunately, I couldn't find out a thing. Idiot, I have no patience with you. Where are the fashion plates? Here, Mrs. Rubkin. She turned the pages, looked at one picture after the other, and suddenly her eyes shone and her cheeks reddened. Oh, empire! The very thing! Empire is a very latest! Make this one for me! She cried commandingly. Abramka turned pale. Empire, Mrs. Rubkin? I can't make that empire dress for you, he murmured. Why not? Asked the captain's wife, giving him a searching look. Because, because I can't. Oh, you can't! You know why you can't? Because that is the start of Mrs. Sheldon's dress. So that is a reliability you boast so about? Great! Mrs. Rubkin, I will make any other dress you choose. But it is absolutely impossible for me to make this one. I don't need your fashion plates. Do you hear me? Get out of here, and don't ever show your face again. Mrs. Rubkin, I get out of here! Repeated the captain's wife, quite beside herself. The poor tailor stuck his yard-measure, which he had already taken out, back into his pocket and left. Half an hour later, the captain's wife was entering a train for Kyiv, carrying a large package which contained material for a dress. The captain had accompanied her to the station with a packer in his forehead. That was five days before the ball. At the ball, two expensive empire gowns stood out conspicuously from among the more or less elegant gowns, which had been finished in the shop of Abramka Stiftik, Lady's Tailor. The one gown adorned Mrs. Sheldon's figure, the other the figure of the captain's wife. Mrs. Rubkin had bought her gown ready made at Kyiv, and had returned only two hours before the beginning of the ball. She had scarcely had time to dress. Perhaps it would have been better had she not appeared at this one of the annual balls. Had she not taken that fateful trip to Kyiv? For in comparison with the make and style of Mrs. Sheldon's dress, which had been brought abroad, hers was like the botched imitation of an amateur. That was evident to everybody, though the captain's wife had her little circle of partisans, who maintained with exaggerated eagerness that she looked extraordinarily fascinating in her dress. A Mrs. Sheldon still could not rival her. But there was no mistaking it. There was little justice in this contention. Everybody knew better. What was worst of all? Mrs. Rubkin herself knew better. Mrs. Sheldon's triumph was complete. The two ladies gave each other the same friendly smiles as always, but one of them was experiencing the fine disdain and the derision of the conqueror, while the other was burning inside with a furious resentment of a dethroned goddess, goddess of the annual ball. From that time on, Abramka cautiously avoided passing the captain's house. End of Dethroned by I. N. Potapenko, recording by L. G. Pug Perth, Western Australia. When a man sticks even to a poor job in the expectation of a present, for three weeks the peasant lad had been going about in vain seeking a position. He stayed with relatives and friends from his village, and though he had not yet suffered great want, it disheartened him that he, a strong young man, should go without work. Gerasim had lived in Moscow from early boyhood. When still a mere child, he had gone to work in a brewery as a bottle washer, and later as a lower servant in a house. In the last two years he had been in a merchant's employ, and would still have held that position had he not been summoned back to his village for military duty. However, he had not been drafted. It seemed all to him in the village. He was not used to the country life, so he decided he would rather count the stones in Moscow than stay there. Every minute it was getting to be more and more irksome for him to be tramping the streets in idleness. Not a stone did he live and turn in his effort to secure any sort of work. He plagued all of his acquaintances, he even held up people on the street and asked them if they knew of a situation, all in vain. Finally, Gerasim could no longer bear being a burden on his people. Some of them were annoyed by his coming to them, and others had suffered unpleasantness from their masters on his account. He was all together at a loss for what to do. Sometimes he would go a whole day without eating. One day, Gerasim betook himself to a friend from his village, who lived at the extreme outer edge of Moscow, near Sokonic. The man was the coachman to a merchant by the name of Shorov, in whose service he had been for many years. He had ingratiated himself with his master so that Shorov trusted him absolutely and gave every sign of holding him in high favor. It was the man's glib tongue, chiefly, that had gained him his master's confidence. He told on all the servants and Shorov valued him for it. Gerasim approached and greeted him. The coachman gave his guest a proper reception, served him with tea and something to eat, and asked him how he was doing. Very badly, Yegor Danilevich, said Gerasim, I've been without a job for weeks. Didn't you ask your old employer to take you back? I did. He wouldn't take you again. The position was filled already. That's it. That's the way you young fellows are. You serve your employees so-so, and when you leave your jobs, you usually have muddied up the way back to them. You ought to serve your master so that they will think a lot of you, and when you come again, they will not refuse you, but rather dismiss the man who has taken your place. How can a man do that? In these days there aren't any employers like that, and we aren't exactly eight nose-arder. What's the use of wasting words? I just want to tell you about myself. If for some reason or other I should ever have to leave this place and go home, not only would Mr. Shorov, if I came back, take me on again without a word, but he would be glad to, too. Gerasim sat there downcast. He saw his friend was boasting, and it occurred to him to gratify him. I know it, he said, but it's hard to find men like you, Yegor Danilevich. If you were a poor worker, your master would not have kept you twelve years. Yegor smiled. He liked the praise. That's it, he said. If you were to live in service I do, you wouldn't be out of work for months and months. Gerasim made no reply. Yegor was summoned to his master. Wait a moment, he said to Gerasim, I'll be right back. Very well. Yegor came back and reported that inside of half an hour he would have to have the horses harnessed and ready to drive his master to town. He lightened his pipe and took several turns in the room. Then he came to a halt in front of Gerasim. Listen, my boy, he said, if you want I'll ask my master to take you as a servant here. Does he need a man? We have one, but he's not much good. He's getting old, and it's very hard for him to do the work. It's lucky for us that the neighborhood isn't a lively one, and the police don't make a fuss about things being kept just so, else the old man couldn't manage to keep the place clean enough for them. Oh, if you can, then please do say a word for me, Yegor Donelich. I'll pray for you all my life. I can't stand being without working any longer. All right, I'll speak for you. Come again tomorrow, and in the meantime, take this ten-copic piece. It may come in handy. Thanks, Yegor Donelich. Then you will try for me? Please, do me the favor. All right, I'll try for you. Gerasim left and Yegor harnessed his horses. Then he put out his horseman's cabit and drove up to the front door. Mr. Sharof stepped out of the house, seated himself in the sleigh, and the horses galloped off. He attended to his business in town and returned home. Yegor, observing that his master was in a good humor, said to him, Yegor Donelich, I have a favor to ask of you. What is it? There's a young man from my village here. A good boy. He's without a dog. Well, wouldn't you take him? What do I want him for? Use him as a man of all work-round place. How about polycarpet? What good is he? It's about time you dismissed him. That wouldn't be fair. He has been with me so many years. I can't let him go just so, without any cause. Supposing he has worked for you for years. He didn't work for nothing. He got paid for it. He's certainly saved up a few dollars for his old age. Saved up? How could he from what? He's not alone in the world. He has a life to support. And she has to eat and drink also. His life earns money too. A day's work as a child woman. A lot you could have made. Enough for class. Why should you care about polycarpet and his wife? To tell you the truth, he's a very poor servant. Why should you throw your money away on him? He never shovels the snow away on time or does anything right. And when it comes his turn to be night watchman, he slips away at least ten times a night. It's too cold for him. He'll see some day because of him you will have trouble with the police. The quarterly inspector will descend on us. And it won't be so agreeable for you to be responsible for polycarpet. Still, it's pretty rough. He's been with me fifteen years. And to treat him that way in his old age it would be a sin. A sin? What harm would you be doing him? He won't starve. He'll go to the alms house. It will be better for him too to be quiet in his old age. Sheriff reflected. All right, he said finally. Bring your friend here. I'll see what I can do. Do take him, sir. I'm so sorry for him. He's a good boy and he has been without work for such a long time. I know he'll do his work well and sir real faithfully. On account of having to report for military duty, he lost his last position. If it hadn't been for that, his master would never have let him go. The next evening Gerasim came again and asked, Well, could you do anything for me? Something, I believe. First, let's have some tea. Then we'll go see my master. Even tea had no element for Gerasim. He was eager for a decision, but under the compulsion of politeness to his coast, he gulped down to glasses of tea and then they betook themselves to Sharov. Sharov asked Gerasim where he had lived before and what work he could do. Then he told him he was prepared to engage him as a man of all work and he should come back the next day ready to take the place. Gerasim was fairly stunned by the great stroke of fortune, so overwhelming was his joy that his legs would scarcely carry him. He went to the coachman's room and Yegor said to him, Well, my lad, see to it that you do your work right so that I shan't have to be ashamed of you. You know what masters are like if you go wrong once, they'll be at you forever after with their fault finding and never give you peace. Don't worry about that, Yegor Danilec. Well, well. Gerasim took leave crossing the yard to go out by the gate. Polycarpet rooms gave on the yard and the broad beam of light from the window fell across Gerasim's way. He was curious to get a glimpse of his future home, but the pains were all frosted over and it was impossible to pee through. However, he could hear what the people inside were saying. What we would do now, was said in a woman's voice. I don't know, I don't know. A man, undoubtedly, Polycarpet replied, Go begging, I suppose. That's all we can do, there's nothing else left, said the woman. Oh, we poor people, what miserable life we lead! We work and work from early morning to late at night, day after day, and when we get out, then it's away with you. What can we do? Our master is not one of us. It wouldn't be worth the while to say much to him about it. He cares only for his advantage. Oh, the masters are so mean, they don't think of anyone but themselves. It doesn't occur to them that we work for them honestly and faithfully for ears and use up all our best strength in their service. They're afraid to keep us a year longer, even though we've got all the strength we need to do their work. If we weren't strong enough, we'd go off our own accord. The master is not so much to blame as his coachman. Jagger Danilich wants to get a good position for his friend. Yes, he's a serpent. He knows how to lock his tongue. You wait, you foam-mouthed beast. I'll get even with you. I'll go straight to the master and tell him how the fellow deceives him, how he steals the hand-fooder. I'll put it down in writing, and he can convince himself how the fellow lies about us all. Don't tell the woman, don't sin. Sin isn't what I said or true. I know or taught dot what I'm saying, and I mean to tell it straight out to the master. He should see with his own eyes. Why not? What can we do now anyhow? Where shall we go? He's ruined us, ruined us! Doad woman burst out sobbing. Gerasim heard all that, and it stabbed him like a dagger. He realized what misfortune he would be bringing doad people, and it made him sick at heart. He stood there long while, saddened, lost in thought. Then he turned and went back into the coachman's room. Ah, you forgot something. No, Jagger Danilich. Gerasim stammered out. I have come. Listen. I want to thank you ever and ever so much for the way you received me, and all the trouble you took for me. But I can't take the place. What? What does that mean? Nothing. I don't want the place. I will look for another one for myself. Did you mean to make a fool of me? Did you? You idiot! You come here so meek. Try for me! Do try for me! And then you refused to take the place. You rascal! You have disgraced me. Gerasim found nothing to say in reply. He reddened and lowered his eyes. Jagger turned his back sconfully and said nothing more. Then Gerasim quietly picked up his cap and left the coachman's room. He crossed the yard rapidly, went out by the gate, and hurried off down the street. He felt happy and light heartened. End of the Sermon by Sergei Semyonov One Autumn Night by Maxim Gorky Once in the autumn I happened to be in a very unpleasant and inconvenient position. In the town where I had just arrived and where I knew not a soul, I found myself without a farthing in my pocket and without a night's lodging. Having sold during the first few days every part of my costume without which it was still possible to go about, I passed from the town into the quarter called Yiste, where were the steamship-warves, a quarter which during the navigation season fermented with boisterous, laborious life, but now was silent and deserted, for we were in the last days of October. Dragging my feet along the moist sand and obstinately scrutinizing it with the desire to discover in it any sort of fragment of food, I wandered alone among the deserted buildings and warehouses and thought how good it would be to get a full meal. In our present state of culture, hunger of the mind is more quickly satisfied than hunger of the body. You wander about the streets, you are surrounded by buildings not bad looking from the outside, and, you may safely say it, not so badly furnished inside, and the sight of them may excite within you stimulating ideas about architecture, hygiene, and many other wise and high-flying subjects. You may meet warmly and neatly dressed folks, all very polite, and turning away from you tactfully, not wishing offensively to notice the lamentable fact of your existence. Well, well, the mind of a hungry man is always better nourished and healthier than the mind of the well-fed man, and there you have a situation from which you may draw a very ingenious conclusion in favor of the ill-fed. The evening was approaching, the rain was falling, and the wind blew violently from the north. It whistled in the empty booths and shops, blew into the plastered windowpains of the taverns, and whipped into foam the wavelets of the river which splashed noisily on the sandy shore, casting high their white crests, racing one after another into the dim distance, and leaping impetuously over one another's shoulders. It seemed as if the river felt the proximity of winter, and was running at random away from the fetters of ice which the north wind might well have flung upon her that very night. The sky was heavy and dark, down from it swept incessantly, scarcely visible drops of rain, and the melancholy elegy in nature all around me was emphasized by a couple of battered and misshapen willow trees, and a boat, bottom upwards, that was fastened to their roots. The overturned canoe with its battered keel and the miserable old trees rifled by the cold wind, everything around me was bankrupt, barren and dead, and the sky flowed with undryable tears. Everything around was waste and gloomy. It seemed as if everything were dead, leaving me alone among the living, and for me also a cold death waited. I was then eighteen years old, a good time. I walked and walked along the cold wet sand, making my chattering teeth warble in honor of cold and hunger, when suddenly, as I was carefully searching for something to eat behind one of the empty crates, I perceived behind it, crouching on the ground, a figure in women's clothes, dank with the rain and clinging fast to her stooping shoulders. Standing over her, I watched to see what she was doing. It appeared that she was digging a trench in the sand with her hands, digging away under one of the crates. Why are you doing that? I asked, crouching down on my heels quite close to her. She gave a little scream and was quickly on her legs again. Now that she stood there, staring at me with her wide open gray eyes full of terror, I perceived that it was a girl of my own age with a very pleasant face embellished, unfortunately, by three large blue marks. This spoiled her, although these blue marks had been distributed with a remarkable sense of proportion, one at a time, and all were of equal size, two under the eyes, and one a little bigger on the forehead just over the bridge of the nose. This symmetry was evidently the work of an artist well inured to the business of spoiling the human physiognomy. The girl looked at me, and the terror in her eyes gradually died out. She shook the sand from her hands, adjusted her cotton headgear, cowered down, and said, I suppose you two want something to eat? Dig away, then! My hands are tired. Over there! She nodded her head in the direction of a booth. There is bread for certain, and sausage is too! That booth is still carrying on business! I began to dig. She, after waiting a little and looking at me, sat down beside me and began to help me. We worked in silence. I cannot say now whether I thought at that moment of the criminal code, of morality, of proprietorship, and all the other things about which, in the opinion of many experienced persons, one ought to think every moment of one's life. Wishing to keep as close to the truth as possible, I must confess that apparently I was so deeply engaged in digging under the crate that I completely forgot about everything else except this one thing. What could be inside that crate? The evening drew on. The gray, moldy, cold fog grew thicker and thicker around us. The waves roared with a hollower sound than before, and the rain pattered down on the boards of that crate more loudly and more frequently. Somewhere or other the night watchman began springing his rattle. Has it got a bottom or not? softly inquired my assistant. I did not understand what she was talking about, and I kept silence. I say, has the crate got a bottom? If it has, we shall try in vain to break into it. Here we are digging a trench, and we may, after all, come upon nothing but solid boards. How should we take them off? Better smash the lock. It is a wretched lock. Good ideas rarely visit the heads of women, but as you see they do visit them sometimes. I have always valued good ideas, and have always tried to utilize them as far as possible. Having found the lock, I tugged at it and wrenched off the whole thing. My accomplice immediately stooped down and wriggled like a serpent into the gaping open four-cornered cover of the crate whence she called to me approvingly, in a low tone. You're a prick. Nowadays a little crumb of praise from a woman is dearer to me than a whole dithy ram from a man, even though he be more eloquent than all the ancient and modern orators put together. Then, however, I was less amiably disposed than I am now, and paying no attention to the compliment of my comrade, I asked her curtly and anxiously, is there anything? In a monotonous tone she said about calculating our discoveries. A basket full of bottles, thick furs, a sunshade, an iron pail. All this was uneatable. I felt that my hopes had vanished, but suddenly she exclaimed vivaciously, Aha! Here it is! What? Brad! A loaf! It's only wet! Take it! A loaf flew to my feet and after it herself, my valiant comrade. I had already bitten off a morsel, stuffed it in my mouth, and was chewing it. Come, give me some too, and we mustn't stay here. Where shall we go? She looked inquiringly about on all sides. It was dark, wet, and boisterous. Look! There's an upset canoe yonder. Let us go there. Let us go, then! And off we set, demolishing our booty as we went, and filling our mouths with large portions of it. The rain grew more violent, the river roared, from somewhere or other resounded a prolonged mocking whistle, just as if someone great who feared nobody was whistling down all earthly institutions, and along with them this horrid octumnal wind and us its heroes. This whistling made my heart throb painfully, in spite of which I greedily went on eating, and in this respect the girl, walking on my left hand, kept even pace with me. What do they call you? I asked her. Why, I know not. Natasha! she answered shortly, munching loudly. I stared at her. My heart ached within me, and then I stared into the mist before me, and it seemed to me as if the inimical countenance of my destiny was smiling at me, enigmatically and coldly. The rain scourged the timbers of the skiff incessantly, and its soft patter induced melancholy thoughts, and the wind whistled as it flew down into the boat's battered bottom through a rift, where some loose splinters of wood were rattling together, a disquieting and depressing sound. The waves of the river were splashing on the shore, and sounded so monotonous and hopeless, just as if they were telling something unbearably dull and heavy which was boring them into utter disgust, something from which they wanted to run away and yet were obliged to talk about all the same. The sound of the rain blended with their splashing, and a long-drawn sigh seemed to be floating above the overturned skiff, the endless laboring sigh of the earth, injured and exhausted by the eternal changes from the bright and warm summer to the cold misty and damp autumn. The wind blew continually over the desolate shore and the foaming river blew and sang its melancholy songs. Our position beneath the shelter of the skiff was utterly devoid of comfort. It was narrow and damp, tiny cold drops of rain dribbled through the damaged bottom, gusts of wind penetrated it. We sat in silence and shivered with cold. I remembered that I wanted to go to sleep. Natasha leaned her back against the whole of the boat and curled herself up into a tiny ball, embracing her knees with her hands and resting her chin upon them. She stared doggedly at the river with wide open eyes. On the pale patch of her face they seemed immense because of the blue marks below them. She never moved, and this immobility in silence, I felt it, gradually produced within me a terror of my neighbor. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew not how to begin. It was she herself who spoke. What a cursed thing life is! she exclaimed plainly, abstractly, and in a tone of deep conviction. But this was no complaint. In these words there was too much of indifference for a complaint. This simple soul thought according to her understanding, thought and proceeded to form a certain conclusion which she expressed aloud and which I could not confute for fear of contradicting myself. Therefore I was silent, and she, as if she had not noticed me, continued to sit there immovable. Even if we croaked, what then? Natasha began again, this time quietly and reflectively, and still there was not one note of complaint in her words. It was plain that this person, in the course of her reflections on life, was regarding her own case, and had arrived at the conviction that in order to preserve herself from the mockeries of life, she was not in a position to do anything else but simply croak, to use her own expression. The clearness of this line of thought was inexpressibly sad and painful to me, and I felt that if I kept silence any longer I was really bound to weep, and it would have been shameful to have done this before a woman, especially as she was not weeping herself. I resolved to speak to her. Who was it that knocked you about? I asked. For the moment I could not think of anything more sensible or more delicate. Pashka did it all. She answered in a dull and level tone. And who is he? My lover. He was a baker. Did he beat you often? Whenever he was drunk he beat me often. And suddenly, turning towards me, she began to talk about herself, Pashka, and their mutual relations. He was a baker with red mustaches and played very well on the banjo. He came to see her and greatly pleased her, for he was a merry chap and wore nice clean clothes. He had a vest which cost fifteen rubles and boots with dress tops. For these reasons she had fallen in love with him and he became her creditor, and when he became her creditor he made it his business to take away from her the money which her other friends gave to her for bonbons, and, getting drunk on this money, he would fall to beating her. But that would have been nothing if he hadn't also begun to run after other girls before her very eyes. Now, wasn't that an insult? I am not worse than the others. Of course that meant that he was laughing at me, the black guard. The day before yesterday I asked leave of my mistress to go out for a bit, went to him, and there I found Dimka sitting beside him drunk, and he too was half seized over. I said, you scoundrel you. And he gave me a thorough hiding. He kicked me and dragged me by the hair, but that was nothing to what came after. He spoiled everything I had on, left me just as I am now. How could I appear before my mistress? He spoiled everything, my dress and my jacket too. It was quite a new one. I gave a fiver for it and tore my kerchief from my hand. Oh Lord, what will become of me now? She suddenly whined in a lamentable, overstrained voice. The wind howled and became ever colder and more boisterous. Again my teeth began to dance up and down, and she, huddled up to avoid the cold, pressed as closely to me as she could, so that I could see the gleam of her eyes through the darkness. Ah, what wretches all you men are. I'd burn you all in an oven. I'd cut you in pieces. If any one of you was dying, I'd spit in his mouth and not pity him a bit. Mean skunks. You weadle and weadle. You wag your tails like cringing dogs, and we fools give ourselves up to you, and it's all up with us. Immediately you trample us underfoot. Miserable loafers. She cursed us up and down, but there was no vigor, no malice, no hatred of these miserable loafers in her cursing that I could hear. The tone of her language by no means corresponded with its subject matter, for it was calm enough, and the gamut of her voice was terribly poor. Yet all this made a stronger impression on me than the most eloquent and convincing pessimistic books and speeches, of which I had read a good many, and which I still read to this day. And this, you see, was because the agony of a dying person is much more natural and violent than the most minute and picturesque descriptions of death. I felt really wretched, more from cold than from the words of my neighbor. I groaned softly and ground my teeth. Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me, one of them touched my neck and the other lay upon my face, and at the same time an anxious, gentle, friendly voice uttered the question, What ails you? I was ready to believe that someone else was asking me this and not Natasha, who had just declared that all men were scoundrels and expressed a wish for their destruction. But she it was, and now she began speaking quickly, hurriedly. What ails you, eh? Are you cold? Are you frozen? Ah, what a when you are sitting there so silent like a little owl. Why, you should have told me long ago that you were cold. Come, lie on the ground, stretch yourself out, and I will lie there. How's that? Now put your arms round me. Titer. How's that? You shall be warm very soon now, and then we'll lie back to back. The night will pass so quickly. See if it won't. I say, have you two been drinking? Turned out of your place, eh? It doesn't matter. And she comforted me. She encouraged me. May I be thrice accursed? What a world of irony was in this single fact for me. Just imagine. Here was I, seriously occupied at this very time with a destiny of humanity, thinking of the reorganization of the social system, of political revolutions, reading all sorts of devilishly wise books whose abysmal profundity was certainly unfathomable by their very authors at this very time. I say, I was trying with all my might to make of myself a potent active social force. It even seemed to me that I had partially accomplished my object. Anyhow at this time in my ideas about myself I had got so far as to recognize that I had an exclusive right to exist, that I had the necessary greatness to deserve to live my life, and that I was fully competent to play a great historical part therein. And a woman was now worming me with her body, a wretched, battered, hunted creature who had no place and no value in life, and whom I had never thought of helping till she helped me herself, and whom I really would not have known how to help in any way even if the thought of it had occurred to me. Ah, I was ready to think that this was all happening to me in a dream, in a disagreeable and oppressive dream. But, agh, it was impossible for me to think that, for cold drops of rain were dripping down upon me, the woman was pressing close to me, her warm breath was fanning my face, and, despite a slight odor of vodka, it did me good. The wind howled and raged, the rain smote upon the skiff, the waves splashed, and both of us, embracing each other convulsively, nevertheless shivered with cold. All this was only too real, and I am certain that nobody ever dreamed such an oppressive and horrid dream as that reality. But Natasha was talking all the time of something or other, talking kindly and sympathetically, as only women can talk. Beneath the influence of her voice and kindly words, a little fire began to burn up within me, and something inside my heart thawed in consequence. Then tears poured from my eyes like a hail storm, washing away from my heart much that was evil, much that was stupid, much sorrow and dirt which had fastened upon it before that night. Natasha comforted me. Come, come, that will do, little one. Don't take on. That'll do. God will give you another chance. You will write yourself and stand in your proper place again, and it will be all right. And she kept kissing me. Many kisses did she give me, burning kisses, and all for nothing. Those were the first kisses from a woman that had ever been bestowed upon me, and they were the best kisses, too, for all the subsequent kisses cost me frightfully dear, and really gave me nothing at all in exchange. Come, don't take on so funny one. I'll manage for you to-morrow if you cannot find a place. Her quiet pervasive whispering sounded in my ears, as if it came through a dream. There we lay till dawn. And when the dawn came, we crept from behind the skiff and went into the town. Then we took friendly leave of each other and never met again, although for half a year I searched in every hole and corner for that kind Natasha, with whom I spent the autumn night just described. If she be already dead, and well for her if it were so, may she rest in peace, and if she be alive, still I say, peace to her soul, and may the consciousness of her fall never enter her soul, for that would be a superfluous and fruitless suffering if life is to be lived. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Best Russian Short Stories, edited and compiled by Thomas Seltzer. Chapter 19, entitled, Her Lover, by Maxim Gorky. An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story. When I was a student at Moscow, I happened to live alongside one of those ladies whose repute is questionable. She was a pole, and they called her Teresa. She was a tallish, powerfully built brunette, with black bushy eyebrows and a large coarse face as if carved out by a hatchet. The bestial gleam of her dark eyes, her thick bass voice, her cab man like gate, and her immense muscular vigor, worthy of a fish-wife, inspired me with horror. I lived on the top flight, and her garret was opposite to mine. I never left my door open when I knew her to be at home. But this, after all, was a very rare occurrence. Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the staircase, or in the yard, and she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me to be sly and cynical. Occasionally I saw her drunk, with blurry eyes, tousled hair, and a particularly hideous grin. On such occasion she would speak to me. How do you do, Mr. Student? And her stupid laugh would still further intensify my loathing of her. I should have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have avoided such encounters and greetings, but my little chamber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from the window, and it was always so quiet in the street below. So I endured. And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class, when the door opened, and the bass voice of Teresa the loathsome resounded from my threshold. Good health to you, Mr. Student! What do you want? I said. I saw that her face was confused and supplicatory. It was a very unusual sort of face for her. Sir, I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it me? I lay there silent and thought to myself, gracious, courage, my boy. I want to send a letter home. That's what it is, she said. Her voice was beseeching, soft, timid. Deuce, take you. I thought, but up I jumped, sat down at my table, took a sheet of paper, and said, Come here, sit down and dictate. She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked at me with a guilty look. Well, to whom do you want to write? To Bolaslav Kashput, at the town of Svetpitsiana on the Warsaw Road. Well, fire away! My dear Bolas, my darling, my faithful lover, may the mother of God protect thee. Thou heart of gold, why hast thou not written for such a long time to thy sorrowing little dove, Teresa? I very nearly burst out laughing, a sorrowing little dove, more than five feet high, with fists, a stone, and more in weight, and as black a face as if the little dove had lived all its life in a chimney, and had never once washed itself. Restraining myself somehow, I asked. Who is this Bolas? Bolas, Mr. Student, she said, as if offended with me for blundering over the name. He is Bolas, my young man. Young man? Why are you so surprised, sir? Can't I, a girl, have a young man? She, a girl? Well. Oh, why not? I said. All things are possible, and has he been your young man long? Six years. Oh, I thought. Well, let us write your letter. And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed places with this Bolas if his fair correspondent had been not Teresa but something less than she. I thank you most heartily, sir, for your kind services, said Teresa to me with a curtsy. Perhaps I can show you some service, eh? No, I most humbly thank you all the same. Perhaps, sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a little mending? I felt that this mastodon in petticoat said may be grow quite red with shame, and I told her pretty sharply that I had no need whatever of her services. She departed. A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sitting at my window whistling and thinking of some expedient for enabling me to get away from myself. I was bored. The weather was dirty. I didn't want to go out, and out of sheer ennui I began a course of self-analysis and reflection. This also was dull enough work, but I didn't care about doing anything else. Then the door opened. Heaven be praised! Someone came in. Oh, Mr. Student, you have no pressing business, I hope? It was Teresa. No, what is it? I was going to ask you, sir, to write me another letter. Very well. Toboles, eh? No, this time it is from him. What? Stupid that I am. It is not for me, Mr. Student. I beg your pardon. It is for a friend of mine. That is to say, not a friend, but an acquaintance. A man acquaintance. He has a sweetheart just like me here, Teresa. That's how it is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this Teresa? I looked at her. Her face was troubled. Her fingers were trembling. I was a bit fogged at first. And then I guessed how it was. Look here, my lady! I said. There are no boluses or Teresa's at all, and you've been telling me a pack of lies. Don't you come sneaking about me any longer. I have no wish whatever to cultivate your acquaintance. Do you understand? And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught. She began to shift from foot to foot without moving from the place, and spluttered comically, as if she wanted to say something and couldn't. I waited to see what would come of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently, I had made a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something very different. Mr. Student! She began, and suddenly, waving her hand, she turned abruptly towards the door and went out. I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my mind. I listened. Her door was flung violently, too. Plainly the poor wench was very angry. I thought it over, and resolved to go to her, and inviting her to come in here, write everything she wanted. I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sitting at the table, leading on her elbows, with her head in her hands. Listen to me, I said. Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always feel horribly awkward and idiotic. Well, well. Listen to me, I said. She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing eyes, and laying her hands on my shoulders began to whisper, or rather to hum in her peculiar bass voice. Look you now. It's like this. There's no bolus at all, and there's no Teresa either. But what's that to you? Is it a hard thing for you to draw your pen over paper? Eh? Ah, and you, too. Still such a little fair-haired boy. There's no body at all. Neither bolus, nor Teresa. Only me. There you have it. And much good may it do you. Pardon me, said I, altogether flabbergasted by such reception. What is it all about? There's no bolus, you say? No. So it is. And no Teresa either? And no Teresa. I'm Teresa. I didn't understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, and tried to make out which of us was taking leave of his or her senses. But she went again to the table, searched about for something, came back to me, and said in an offended tone, If it was so hard for you to write to bolus, Look, there's your letter. Take it. Others will write for me. I looked. In her hand was my letter to bolus. Listen, Teresa, what is the meaning of all this? Why must you get others to write for you when I have already written it, and you haven't sent it? Sent it where? Where? Why, to this bolus? There's no such person. I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing for me but to spit and go. Then she explained. What is it? She said, still offended. There's no such person, I tell you. And she extended her arms as if she herself did not understand why there should be no such person. But I wanted him to be. Am I then not a human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes, I know. I know, of course. Yet no harm was done to anyone by my writing to him that I can see. Pardon me? To whom? To bolus, of course. But he doesn't exist? Alas, alas. But what if he doesn't? He doesn't exist, but he might. I write to him, and it looks as if he did exist. And, Teresa, that's me. And he replies to me, and then I write to him again. I understood at last, and I felt so sick, so miserable, so ashamed somehow. Alongside of me, not three yards away, lived a human creature who had nobody in the world to treat her kindly, affectionately, and this human being had invented a friend for herself. Look now. You wrote me a letter to bolus, and I gave it to someone else to read it to me. And when they read it to me, I listened and fancied that bolus was there. And I asked you to write me a letter from bolus to Teresa. That is, to me. When they write such a letter for me, and read it to me, I feel quite sure that bolus is there. And life grows easier for me in consequence. Deuce, take you for a blockhead, said I to myself when I heard this. And from thence forth, regularly, twice a week, I wrote a letter to bolus, and an answer from bolus to Teresa. I wrote those answers well. She, of course, listened to them, and wept like anything, roared, I should say, with her base voice. And in return for my thus moving her to tears by real letters from the imaginary bolus, she began to mend the holes I had in my socks, shirts, and other articles of clothing. Subsequently, about three months after this history began, they put her in prison for something or other. No doubt by this time she is dead. My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette, looked pensively up at the sky, and thus concluded, Well, well, the more a human creature has tasted of bitter things, the more it hungers after the sweet things of life. And we, wrapped round in the rags of our virtues, and regarding others through the midst of our self-sufficiency, and persuaded of our universal impeccability, do not understand this. And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly, and very cruelly. The falling classes, we say. And who are the falling classes, I should like to know? They are, first of all, people with the same bones, flesh, and blood and nerves as ourselves. We have been told this day after day for ages. And we actually listen, and the devil only knows how hideous the whole thing is. Or are we completely depraved by the loud sermonizing of humanism? In reality, we also are fallen folks. And so far as I can see, very deeply fallen into the abyss of self-sufficiency, and the conviction of our own superiority. But enough of this. It is all as old as the hills. So old that it is a shame to speak of it. Very old indeed. Yes, that's what it is. End of Her Lover by Maxim Gorky