 Fat and Thin by Anton Chekhov This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Two friends, one of Fat Man and the other of Thin Man, met at the Nikolevsky Station. The Fat Man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and fleur de orange. The Thin Man had just stepped out of the train and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles and bandboxes. He smelt of ham and coffee grounds. A Thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up, came into view behind his back. Bofury cried the Fat Man on seeing the Thin Man. Is that you? My dear fellow, how many summers, how many winters! Holy saints! cried the Thin Man in amazement. Misha, the friend of my childhood, where have you dropped from? The friends kissed each other three times and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded. My dear boy! began the Thin Man after the kissing. This is unexpected. This is a surprise. Come, have a good look at me. Just as handsome as I used to be. Just as great a darling and a dandy. Good gracious me. Well, and how are you? Major fortune? Married? I'm married, as you can see. This is my wife Louise. Her maiden name was Vonsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. And this is my son Nathaniel, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of my childhood, Nathaniel. We were boys at school together. Nathaniel thought a little and took off his cap. We were boys at school together. The Thin Man went on. Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Hero Stratus, because you burned a hole in the schoolbook with a cigarette. And I was nicknamed Affiliatus, because I was fond of telling tales. We were children. Don't be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife. Her maiden name was Vonsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. Nathaniel thought a little and took refuge behind his father's back. Well, how are you doing, my friend? The fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. Are you in service? What grade have you reached? I am, dear boy. I have been a collegiate assessor for the last two years, and I have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that's no great matter. The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving cigarette cases in a private way. Capital cigarette cases. I sell them for a ruble each. And if anyone takes ten or more, I make a reduction, of course. We get along somehow. I serve as a clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a civil counselor now, eh? No, dear boy. Go higher than that, said the fat man. I have risen to privy counselor already. I have two stars. The thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions, and the broadest smile. It seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed, he doubled over, crumpled up. His portmanteaus, bundles, and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumble up, too. His wife's long chin grew longer still. Nafenel drew himself up to attention, and fastened all the buttons of his uniform. Your Excellency, I—delighted. The friend, one may say of a childhood, and, too, have turned into such a great man. Calm, calm. The fat man frowned. What's this tone for? You and I were friends as boys, and there is no need for this official obsequiousness. Merciful heavens, your Excellency, what are you saying? Sniggered the thin man, wriggling more than ever. Your Excellency's gracious attention is like refreshing mana. This, your Excellency, is my son Nafenel, my wife Louise, a Lutheran in a certain sense. The fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness that the privy counselor was sickened. He turned away from the thin man, giving him his hand at parting. The thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body, and sniggered like a Chinaman. His wife smiled. Nafenel scraped with his foot and dropped his cap. All three were agreeably overwhelmed. End of Fat and Thin. The Fly by Catherine Mansfield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Fly by Catherine Mansfield You're very snug in here, piped old Mr. Woody Field, and peered out of the great Green Lever armchair by his friend the Boss' desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over. It was time for him to be off, but he did not want to go, since he had retired since his stroke. The wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the city for the day. Though what he did there, the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Maiden usance of himself to his friends, they supposed. Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there's that old Woody Field, smoking a cigar, and staring almost greedily at the Boss, who rolled in his office chair. Stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, stood at the helm. It did one good to see him. Wisfully, admiringly, the old voice added, It's snug in here, upon my word. Yes, it's comfortable enough, agreed the Boss, and he flipped the financial times with the paper knife. As a matter of fact, he was proud of his room. He liked to have it admired, especially by old Woody Field. It gave him a feeling of deep solid satisfaction to be planted there, in the midst of it, in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler. I've had it done up again, he explained. As he had explained for the past, how many weeks? New carpet, and he pointed to the bright red carpet with the pattern of large white rings. New furniture, and he nodded towards the massive bookcase, and a table of legs like twisted treacle. Electric heating, he waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. But he did not draw old Woody Field's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform. Standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks, were photographers' dom clouds behind him. It was not new, it had been there for over six years. There was something I wanted to tell you, said old Woody Field, and his eyes grew dim remembering. No, what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning. His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss, and fearing kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, I'll tell you what, I've got a little drop or something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff, it wouldn't hurt a child. He took a key off his watch chain and locked a cupboard below his desk and drew forth a dark squat bottle. That's the medicine, said he, and the man from whom I got it told me on the strict QT it came from the cellars at Windsor Castle. Old Woody Field's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit. It's whiskey, ain't it? he piped feebly. The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label, whiskey it was. Do you know? said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly. They won't let me touch it at home, and he looked as though he was going to cry. Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies, cried the boss, swiping across the two tumblers that stood on the table with the water bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. Drink it down, it'll do you good, and don't pours any water with it, it's a sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah, he tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his mustaches, and cocked an eye on Old Woody Field, who was rolling his in his chaps. The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, It's nutty. But it warmed him, it crept into his chill old brain, and he remembered. That was it, he said, heeding himself out of his chair. I thought you'd like to know, the girls were in Belgium last week, having a look at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boys. They're quite near each other, it seems. Old Woody Field paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard. The girls were delighted with the way the places kept, pat the old voice. Beautifully looked after, couldn't be better of there at home. You've not been across, have you? No, no. For various reasons the boss had not been across. There's miles of it, quavered Old Woody Field, and as all his need is a garden, flowers growing on all the graves, nice broad paths. It was plain from his voice, how much he liked a nice broad path. The pause came again, then the old man brightened wonderfully. Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam? He piped. Ten francs, robbery I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half crown. And she hadn't taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude bought the pot away, with her to teach him a lesson. Quite right too, it's treading on our feelings. They think because we're over there having a look round, we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is, and he turned towards the door. Quite right, quite right, cried the boss. The what was quite right, he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woody Field was gone. For a long moment his boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then, I'll see nobody for half an hour, may see, said the boss. Understand, nobody at all. Very good sir. The door shut. The firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet. The fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep. It had been a terrible shock to him, when old Woody Field sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened, and he had seen the boy lying there with Woody Field's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy, except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep forever. My son, groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief, that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth, the boss had worked at building up this business for him. It had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years, without the promise forever before him, of the boy's tipping into his shoes and carrying on from where he left off. And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning, they had started off together. They had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy's father. No wonder, he had taken to it marvelously. As to his popularity with the staff, every man chuck of them down to old Macy, couldn't make enough of the boy. And he wasn't in the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, simply splendid. But all that was over and done with, as though it never had been. The day had come when Macy had handed in the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. Deeply regret to inform you. And he had left the office a broken man of his life in ruins. Six years ago, six years, how quickly time passed. It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face. He was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn't feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy's photograph. But it wasn't a favorite photograph of his. The expression was unnatural. He was cold, even stern looking. The boy had never looked like that. At that moment, the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad ink pot. And was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help, help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the ink pot were wet and slippery. It fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it onto a piece of blotting paper. For a fraction of a second, it lay still on the dark patch that oozed around it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the sky. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and sitting down, it began like a minute cat to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the front legs rubbed against each other, lightfully, joyfully. The horrible danger was over, it had escaped, it was ready for life again. But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings, down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What indeed? The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move, because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning. He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage. That was the way to tackle things, that was the right spirit. Never say die. It was only a question off, but the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the newly cleaned body, yet another dark drop. What about at this time? Painful moment of suspense followed, but behold, the front legs were again waving. The boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, You artful little b— And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the ink pot. It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body. The front legs were not to be seen. Come on! said the boss. Look sharp! And he stirred it with his pen, in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead. The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper knife and flung it into the waste paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macy. Bring me some fresh blotting paper! He said sternly. And look sharp about it! And while the old dog padded away, he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before, what was it? It was... He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him, he could not remember. End of The Fly. Recording by Ross Clement. The Green Door by O. Henry Suppose you should be walking down Broadway after dinner, with ten minutes allotted to the consummation of your cigar while you were choosing between a diverting tragedy and something serious in the way of vaudeville. Suddenly a hand is laid upon your arm. You turn to look into the thrilling eyes of a beautiful woman, wonderful in diamonds and Russian sables. She thrusts hurriedly into your hand in extremely hot, buttered roll, flashes out a tiny pair of scissors, snips off the second button of your overcoat, meaningly ejaculates the one word Parallelogram, and swiftly flies down across street, looking back fearfully over her shoulder. That would be pure adventure. Would you accept it? Not you. You would flush with embarrassment. You would sheepishly drop the roll and continue down Broadway, fumbling feebly for the missing button. This you would do unless you are one of the blessed few in whom the pure spirit of adventure is not dead. True adventurers have never been plentiful. They who are set down in print, as such, have been mostly businessmen with newly invented methods. They have been out after the things they wanted, golden fleeces, holy grails, lady loves, treasure, crowns and fame. The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet an unknown fate. A fine example was the Particle Son, when he started back home. Half adventurers, brave and splendid figures, have been numerous. From the Crusades to the Palisades, they have enriched the arts of history and fiction and the trade of historical fiction. But each of them had a prize to win, a gold a kick, an axe to grind, a race to run, a new thrust in tears to deliver, a name to carve, a crow to pick, so they were not followers of true adventure. In the big city, the twin spirits, romance and adventure, are always abroad seeking worthy wars. As we roam the streets, they slightly peep at us and challenge us in twenty different guises. Without knowing why, we look up suddenly to see in a window a face that seems to belong to our gallery of intimate portraits. In a sleeping thoroughfare, we hear a cry of agony and fear coming from an empty and shuttered house. Instead of at our familiar curb, a cab driver deposits us before a strange door, which, one, with a smile, opens for us and bids us enter. A slip of paper, written upon, flutters down to our feet from the high lattices of chance. We exchange glances of instantaneous hate, affection and fear with hurrying strangers in the passing crowds. A sudden douse of rain and our umbrella may be sheltering the daughter of the full moon and first cousin of the sidereal system. At every corner, handkerchiefs drop, fingers beckon, eyes besiege, and the lost, the lonely, the rapturous, the mysterious, the perilous, changing clues of adventure are slipped into our fingers. But few of us are willing to hold and follow them. We are grown stiff with the ramrod of convention down our backs. We pass on, and some day we come, at the end of a very dull life, to reflect that our romance has been a pallid thing of a marriage or two, a satin rosette kept in a safe deposit drawer, and a lifelong feud with a steam radiator. Rudolph Steiner was a true adventurer. Few were the evenings on which he did not go forth from his hallbed chamber in search of the unexpected and the egregious. The most interesting thing in life seemed to him to be what might lie just around the next corner. Sometimes his willingness to tempt fate led him into strange paths. Twice he had spent the night in a room, twice he had spent the night in a station house. Again and again he had found himself the dupe of ingenious and mercenary tricksters. His watch and money had been the price of one flattering allurement. But with undiminished ardor he picked up every glove cast before him into the merry lists of adventure. One evening Rudolph was strolling along a crosstown street in an older central part of the city. Two streams of people filled the sidewalks, the home hurrying, and that restless contingent that abandons home for the specious welcome of the thousand candle-power Tabledoak. The young adventurer was a pleasing presence and moved serenely and watchfully. By daylight he was a salesman in a piano store. He wore his tie drawn through a topaz ring instead of fastened with a stick pin, and once he had written to the editor of a magazine that Juni's Love Test by Miss Libby had been the book that had most influenced his life. During his walk a violent chattering of teeth and a glass case on the sidewalk seemed at first to draw his attention, with a quorum, to a restaurant before which it was set. But a second glance revealed the electric letters of a dentist's sign high above the next door. A giant negro, fantastically dressed in a red embroidered coat, yellow trousers, and a military cap, discreetly distributed cards to those of the passing crowd who consented to take them. This mode of dentistic advertising was a common sight to Rudolph. Usually he passed the dispenser of the dentist's cards without reducing his store. But tonight the African slipped one into his hands so deftly that he retained it there smiling a little at the successful feet. When he had traveled a few yards further he glanced at the card indifferently. Surprised, he turned it over and looked again with interest. One side of the card was blank. On the other was written in ink three words, the green door. And then Rudolph saw, three steps in front of him, a man throw down the card the negro had given him as he passed. Rudolph picked it up. It was printed with a dentist's name and address, and the usual schedule of plate work and bridge work and crowns, and specious promises of painless operations. The adventurous piano salesman halted at the corner and considered. Then he crossed the street, went down a block, recrossed and joined the upward current of people again. Without seeming to notice the negro as he passed the second time, he carelessly took the card that was handed him. Ten steps away he inspected it. In the same handwriting that appeared on the first card, the green door was inscribed upon it. Three or four cards were tossed to the pavement by pedestrians both following and leading him. These fell blank side up. Rudolph turned them over. Everyone bore the printed legend of the dental parlors. Rarely did the arch-sprite adventurer need to beckon twice to Rudolph Steiner, his true follower. But twice it had been done, and the quest was on. Rudolph walked slowly back to where the giant negro stood by the case of rattling teeth. This time as he passed he received no card. In spite of his gaudy and ridiculous garb, the Ethiopian displayed a natural barbaric dignity as he stood, offering the card suavely to some, allowing others to pass on the listed. Every half minute he chanced a harsh, unintelligible phrase akin to the jabber of car conductors and grand opera. And not only did he withhold the card this time, but it seemed to Rudolph that he received from the shining and massive black countenance a look of cold, almost contemptuous disdain. The look stung the adventurer. He read in at a silent accusation that he had been found wanting. Whatever the mysterious written words of the cards might mean, the black had selected him twice from the throng for their recipient, and now seemed to have condemned him as deficient in the wit and spirit to engage the enigma. Standing aside from the rush, the young man made a rapid estimate of the building in which he conceived that his inventor must lie. Five stories high it rose. A small restaurant occupied the basement. The first floor, now closed, seemed to house millinery or furs. The second floor, by the winking electric letters, was the dentists. Above this a polyglot babble of signs struggled to indicate the abodes of palmists, dressmakers, musicians, and doctors. Still higher up, draped curtains and milk bottles white on the windowsills proclaimed the regions of domesticity. After concluding his survey, Rudolph walked briskly up the high flight of stone steps into the house. Up two flights of the carpeted stairway he continued, and at its top paused. The hallway there was dimly lit by two pale jets of gas, one far to his right, the other nearer to his left. He looked toward the nearer light and saw, within its wall on halo, a green door. For one moment he hesitated, then he seemed to see the contumelious sneer of the African juggler of cards, and he walked straight to the green door and knocked against it. Moments like those that passed before his knock was answered measure the quick breath of true adventure. What might not be behind those green panels? Gamesters at play, cunning rogues baiting their traps with subtle skill, beauty and love with courage, and thus planning to be sought by it. Danger, death, love, disappointment, ridicule? Any of these might respond to that tamarious trap. A faint rustle was heard inside, and the door slowly opened. A girl not yet twenty stood there, white-faced and tottering. She loosed the knob and swayed weakly, groping with one hand. Rudolph caught her and laid her on a faded couch that stood against the wall. He closed the door and took a swift glance around the room by the light of a flickering gas jet. Neat, but extreme poverty was the story that he read. The girl lay still, as if in a faint. Rudolph looked around the room excitedly for a barrel. People must be rolled upon a barrel who, no, no, that was for drowned persons. He began to fanner with his hat. That was successful, for he struck her nose with the brim of his derby, and she opened her eyes. And then the young man saw that hers, indeed, was the one missing face from his heart's gallery of intimate portraits. The frank, gray eyes, the little nose turning pertly outward, the chestnut hair, curling like the tendrils of a pee-vine, seemed the right end and reward of all his wonderful adventures. But the face was woefully thin and pale. The girl looked at him calmly, and then smiled. Fainted, didn't I? She asked, weakly. Well, who wouldn't? You try going without anything to eat for three days and see. Himmel! exclaimed Rudolph, jumping up. Wait till I come back. He dashed out the green door and down the stairs. In twenty minutes he was back again, kicking at the door with his toe for her to open it. With both arms he hugged an array of wares from the grocery in the restaurant. On the table he laid them. Bread and butter, cold meats, cakes, pies, pickles, oysters, a roasted chicken, a bottle of milk, and one of red hot tea. This is ridiculous! said Rudolph, blusteringly, to go without eating. You must quit making election bets of this kind. Supper is ready. He helped her to a chair at the table and asked, Is there a cup for the tea? On the shelf by the window, she answered. When he turned again with the cup he saw her, with eyes shining rapturously, beginning upon a huge dill pickle that she had rooted out from the paper bags, with a woman's unerring instinct. He took it from her, laughingly, and poured a cup full of milk. Drink that first, he ordered. And then you shall have some tea, and then a chicken wing. If you are very good you shall have a pickle tomorrow. And now, if you'll allow me to be your guest, we'll have supper. He drew up the other chair. The tea brightened the girl's eyes and brought back some of her color. She began to eat with a sort of dainty ferocity, like some starve, wild animal. She seemed to regard the young man's presence and the aid he had rendered her as a natural thing. Not as though she undervalued the conventions, but as one of those whose great stress gave her the right to put aside the artificial for the human. But gradually, with the return of strength and comfort, came also a sense of the little conventions that belong, and she began to tell him her little story. It was one of thousands such that the city yawns at every day. The shop girl's story of insufficient wages, further reduced by fines, that go to swell the store's profits. Of time lost through illness, and then of lost positions, lost hope, and the knock of the adventurer upon the green door. But to Rudolph, the history sounded as big as the Iliad, or the crisis in Juni's love test. To think of you going through all that, he exclaimed. It was something fierce, said the girl, solemnly. And you have no relatives or friends in the city? None whatever. I'm all alone in the world, too, said Rudolph after a pause. I'm glad of that, said the girl promptly, and somehow it pleased the young man to hear that she approved of his bereft condition. Very suddenly her Iliads dropped and she sighed deeply. I'm awfully sleepy, she said, and I feel so good. Then Rudolph rose and took his hat. I'll say good night. A long night's sleep will be fine for you. He held out his hand and she took it and said, good night. But her eyes asked a question so eloquently, so frankly and pathetically, that he answered it with words. Oh, I'm coming back tomorrow to see how you were getting along. You can't get rid of me so easily. Then, at the door, as though the way of his coming had been so much less important than the fact that he had come, she asked, how did you come to knock at my door? He looked at her for a moment, remembering the cards, and felt a sudden jealous pain. What if they had fallen into other hands as adventurous as his? Quickly he decided that she must never know the truth. He would never let her know that he was aware of the strange expedient to which she had been driven by her great distress. One of our piano tuners lives in this house, he said. I knocked on your door by mistake. The last thing he saw in the room before the green door closed was her smile. At the head of this stairway, he paused and looked curiously about him. Then he went along the hallway to its other end, and, coming back, ascended to the floor above, and continued his puzzled explorations. Every door that he found in the house was painted green. Wondering, he descended to the sidewalk. The fantastic African was still there. Rudolph confronted him with his two cards in his hand. Will you tell me why you gave me these two cards and what they mean, he asked. In a broad, good-natured grin, the negro exhibited a splendid advertisement of his master's profession. There it is, boss, he said, pointing down the street, but I expect you was a little late for the first act. Looking the way he pointed, Rudolph saw above the entrance to a theater the blazing electric sign of its new play, the green door. I'm informed it is a first-rate show, sir, said the negro. The agent was representative presently with a dollar, sir, to distribute a few of his cards along with the doctors. May I offer you one of the doctor's cards, sir? At the corner of the block in which he lived, Rudolph stopped for a glass of beer and a cigar. When he had come out with his lighted weed, he buttoned his coat, pushed back his hat, and said stoutly to the lamppost at the corner. All the same, I believe it was the hand of fate that doped out the way for me to find her. Which conclusion, under the circumstances, certainly admits Rudolph Steiner to the ranks of the true followers of romance and adventure. End of The Green Door Her First Ball by Catherine Mansfield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda McDaniel. Her First Ball by Catherine Mansfield Exactly when the ball began, Leila would have found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit. And away they bowled past waltzing lampposts and houses and fences and trees. Have you ever been to a ball before, Leila? But my child, how too weird! cried the Sheridan girls. Our nearest neighbor was fifteen miles, said Leila softly, gently opening and shutting her fan. Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others. She tried not to smile too much. She tried not to care. But every single thing was so new and exciting. Meg's tube roses, Josie's long loop of amber, Lara's little dark head pushing above her white fur like a flower through snow. She would remember forever. It even gave her a pang to see her cousin Lari throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would have liked to have kept those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Lari leaned forward and put his hand on Lara's knee. Look here, darling. He said, the third and the ninth as usual, twig. Oh, how marvelous to have a brother. In her excitement, Leila felt that if there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever said twig to her. No sister would ever say, as Meg said to Josie that moment, I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it has tonight. But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill-hole already. There were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on either side, with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement, gay couples seemed to float through the air. Little satin shoes chased each other like birds. Hold on to me, Leila. You'll get lost, said Lara. Come on, girls. Let's make a dash for him, said Lari. Leila put two fingers on Lara's pink velvet cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big golden lantern. I carried along the passage and pushed into the little room marked Ladies. Here the crowd was so great that there was hardly space to take off their things. The noise was deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two old women in white aprons ran up and down, tossing fresh armfuls, and everybody was pressing forward, trying to get at the little dressing table and mirror at the far end. A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies room. It couldn't wait. It was dancing already. Then the door opened again, and there came a burst of tuning from the drill-hole. It leapt almost to the ceiling. Dark girls, fair girls, were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble white gloves. And because they were all laughing, it seemed to Leila that they were all lovely. Aren't there any invisible hairpins? cried a voice. How most extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hairpin. Powder my back. There's a darling! cried someone else. But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and miles of the thrill. Wailed a third. Then passed them along, passed them along. The straw basket of programs was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink and silver programs with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila's fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask someone, am I meant to have one too? But she had just time to read, Walt's three. Two, two and a canoe. Polka four, making the feathers fly. When Meg cried, ready Leila? And they pressed their way through the crush in the passage toward the big double doors of the drill hall. Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play, it would never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looked over Meg's shoulder, felt that even the little quivering colored flags strung across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy. She forgot how, in the middle of dressing, she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on, and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up country home, listening to the baby owls crying, more pork in the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan and gazing at the gleaming golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs, and the band in a corner. She thought breathlessly, how heavenly, how simply heavenly. All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor toward the stage. This is my little country cousin, Leila. Be nice to her. Find her partners. She's under my wing, said Meg, going up to one girl after another. Strange faces smiled at Leila, sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices answered, Of course, my dear! But Leila felt the girls didn't really see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair, and smiling among themselves. Then, quite suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that this was what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized her program, scribble something. Meg passed him on to Leila. May I have the pleasure? He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckle fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man, fat, with a big ball patch on his head, took her program and murmured, Let me see, let me see. And he was a long time comparing his program, which looked black with names with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was ashamed. Oh, please don't bother, she said eagerly. But instead of replying, the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. Do I remember this bright little face? He said softly. Is it known to me of your? At that moment the band began playing. The fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning. Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where Mrs. Eccles, of London, held her select classes. But the difference between that dusty smelling hall with calico texts and the walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet tuck with rabbit's ears thumping the coal piano, Miss Eccles poking the girl's feet with her long white wand, and this was so tremendous that Leila was sure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvelous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die, at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars. Ours, I think, someone bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm. She hadn't to die after all. Someone's hand pressed her waist and she floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. Quite a good floor, isn't it? Drawed a faint voice close to her ear. I think it's most beautifully slippery, said Leila. Pardon? The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again, and there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed. Oh, quite! And she was swung around again. He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other and stamped on each other's feet. The girl who was gentleman always clutched you so. The azaleas were separate flowers no longer. They were pink and white flags streaming by. Were you at the bells last week? The voice came again. It sounded tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to stop. No, this is my first dance, said she. Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. Oh, I say, he protested. Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to. Leila was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. You see, I've lived in the country all my life up until now. At that moment, the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned herself while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and disappearing through the swing doors. Enjoying yourself, Leila? Asked Josie nodding her golden head. Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink. It made Leila wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly, her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it didn't matter. Almost immediately, the band started, and her second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. Floor's not bad, said the new boys. Did one always begin with the floor? And then, were you at the knaves on Tuesday? And again Leila explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more interested, for it was thrilling. Her first ball. She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often. Oh yes, but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it would never be like that again. It had opened dazzling bright. Care for an ice? Said her partner. And they went through the swing doors down the passage to the supper room. Her cheeks burned. She was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and how cold the frosted spoon was. Iced too. And when they came back to the hall, there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how old he was. He ought to have been on the stage with the mothers and fathers. And when Leila compared him with her other partners, he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased. There was a button off his glove. His coat looked as if it were dusty with French chalk. Come along, little lady. Said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her and they moved away so gently. It was more like walking than dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. Your first dance, isn't it? He murmured. How did you know? Ah, said the fat man. That's what it is to be old. He wheezed faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. You see, I've been doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years. Thirty years, cried Leila, twelve years before she was born. It hardly bears thinking about, does it? Said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head and she felt quite sorry for him. I think it's marvelous to be still going on, she said kindly. Kind little lady, said the fat man, and he pressed her a little closer and hummed a bar of the waltz. Of course, he said, you can't hope to last anything like as long as that. No, oh, said the fat man. Long before that, you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on in your nice black velvet, and these pretty arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you'll be time with such a different kind of fan, a black bony one. The fat man seemed to shudder, and you'll smile away like the poor old dears up there and point to your daughter and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to kiss her at the club ball, and your heart will ache, ache. The fat man squeezed her closer still as if he really was sorry for that poor heart. Because no one wants to kiss you now, and you'll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on. How dangerous they are. Eh, mademoiselle, twinkle-toes, said the fat man softly. Leila gave a light little laugh. Eh, mademoiselle, twinkle-toes, said the fat man softly. Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was it? Could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the beginning of her last ball after all? Had that the music seemed to change? It sounded sad, sad. It rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things changed. Why didn't happiness last forever? Forever wasn't a bit too long. I want to stop. She said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to the door. No, she said, I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand here. Thank you. She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves, and trying to smile. But deep inside her, a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all? I say, you know, said the fat man. You mustn't take me seriously, little lady. As if I should, said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking her underlip. Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to dance anymore. She wanted to be home or sitting on the veranda listening to those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings. But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance out of politeness until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the middle. Very hotly she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man, and he said, pardon, she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn't even recognize him again. End of Her First Ball by Catherine Mansfield Recording by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia, July 2008 An Ideal Family by Catherine Mansfield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org An Ideal Family by Catherine Mansfield That evening, for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the swing door, and ascended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. Neve felt he was too old for the spring. Spring, warm, eager, restless, was there waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn't meet her. No, he couldn't square up once more and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired, and, although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly, he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand this gaiety, and bright movement any longer. It confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, be off of you. Suddenly, it was a terrible effort to greet as usual, tipping his wide awake with his stick, all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, I'm a match and more for any of you, that old Mr. Neve could not manage at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high, as if he were walking through air, that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the homeward looking crowd, hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless defiant indifference, that one knows only in dreams. It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch, until close on four. Where had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father know. Old Mr. Neve happened to be in the vegetable, saying goodbye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile, that woman found so fascinating. Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far, that had been the trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes and such lips. It was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters and the servants, it was not too much to say, they made a young god of him. They worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything, and he needed some forgiving, ever since the time, when he was thirteen, and he had stolen his mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom. Old Mr. Neve struck sharply with his stick, upon the pavement edge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was everybody, he had only to look and to smile, and down they went before him. So perhaps, it wasn't to be wondered, at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition. Hmm, but it couldn't be done. No business, not even a successful, established, big pain concern, could be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart, and soul into it, or it went all the pieces, before his eyes. And then Charlotte and the girls, were always at him, to make the whole thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying himself. Old Mr. Neve stopped dead, under a group of ancient cabbage palms, outside the government buildings. Enjoying himself. The wind of evening, shook the dark leaves, to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while, that his life's work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine fingers, while Harold smiled. Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need, for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us, when people persist, in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge house and garden, surely you could be happy in, in appreciating it for a change, or you could take up some hobby. And Lola the baby, had chimed in loftily. All men ought to have hobbies, it makes life impossible if they haven't. Well well, he couldn't help but grim smile, as painfully, he began to climb the hill, that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and his sisters and Charlotte be, if he had gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies couldn't pay for the townhouse, and the seaside bungalow, and their horses and their golf, and the 60-guinea gramophone in the music room, for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman, it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs, no other family entertained so much. And how many times, old Mr. Neve, pushing the cigar box across the smoking room table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one reads about, or sees on the stage. That's all right, my boy, old Mr. Neve would reply. Try one of those, I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say. That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anybody, but they had too good a time at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. Well, well, perhaps so. By this time, he had walked the length of fashionable hard-court avenue. He had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed back, they were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide open windows, its dull curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of high synth, on the broad sills. On the other side of the carriage-ports, their hydrangeas, famous in the town, were coming into flower, the pinkish-bluish masses of flower, they like light, among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neve, that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, there is young life here, there are girls. The hall, as always, was dusky with raps, parasols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. From the music room, the sound of the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing room door, that was a jar, voices floated. And were there ices, came from Charlotte? Then the creek-creek of her rocker. Isis cried Ethel, my dear mother, you never saw such ices, only two kinds, and one, a common little strawberry-shop-ice, in a sopping wet frill. The food, altogether, was too appalling, came from Marion. Still, it's rather early for ices, said Charlotte easily. But why, if one has them at all, began Ethel. Oh, quite so, darling, crooned Charlotte. Suddenly the music room door opened, and Lola dashed out. She started. She nearly screamed at the sight of old Mr. Neve. Gracious Father, what a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat? Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered. The hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed, as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neve stared at his youngest daughter. He felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father. It was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled anchor jeep between her teeth, and tugged it angrily. The telephone rang. Ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of the telephone room slammed. And at the same moment, Charlotte called. Is that you, Father? You're tired again, said Charlotte reproachfully. And she stopped the rocker and offered her warm, plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked his beard. Marion's lips brushed his ear. Did you walk back, Father? Asked Charlotte. Yes, I walked home, said Old Mr. Neve. And he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs. But why didn't you take a cab, said Ethel? There are hundreds of cabs about at that time. My dear Ethel, cried Marion. If Father prefers to tire himself out, I really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere. Children, children! Coked Charlotte. But Marion wouldn't be stopped. No, Mother. You spoil, Father. And it's not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty. She laughed in a hard, bright laugh and petted her here in a mirror. Strange. When she was a little girl, she had such a soft, hesitating voice, she had even stuttered. And now, whatever she said, even if it was only Champley's, Father, it rang out as though she were on the stage. Did Harold leave the office before you, dear? Asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. I'm not sure, said old Mr. Neve. I'm not sure. I didn't see him after four o'clock. He said, began Charlotte. But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper-rother, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. There you see, she cried. That's what I mean, Mummy. Yellow with touches of silver. Don't you agree? Give it to me, love, said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise sure spectacles and put them on. Gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers and first up her lips. Very sweet, she groaned vaguely. She looked at Ethel over her spectacles. But I shouldn't have the train. Not the train, wowed Ethel tragically, but the train's the whole point. Here, Mother, let me decide. Marian snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. I agree with Mother, she cried triumphantly. The train outweights it. Old Mr. Neve, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair and dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it. He was tired out. He had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him tonight. They were too, too. But all his drowsing brain could think of was too rich for him. And somewhere, at the back of everything, he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he? I shan't dress tonight, he muttered. What do you say, Father? Eh, what, what? Old Mr. Neve woke with a start and stared across at them. I shan't dress tonight, he repeated. But Father, we've got Lucille coming and Henry Davenport and Mrs. Teddy Walker. It will look so very out of the picture. Don't you feel well there? You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for? But if you're really not up to it, Charlotte wavered. Very well, very well, old Mr. Neve got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing room. There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his, ever since as a little red-faced boy, he'd come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neve lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening jug. Dress him up, Charles, and Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the fin out of his tie. Well, well. It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant, a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below. He heard the soft chair of the mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought, he seemed to hear Marion's voice ring out. Good for you, partner. Oh, play, partner. Oh, very nice indeed. Then Charlotte calling from the veranda. Where is Harold, an Ethel? He's certainly not here, mother. And Charlotte's vague. He said, Old Mr. Neve's side got up, and put in one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle case. That will do my lad. The door shut, he sank back. He was alone. And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering gay dining room. What legs he had? They were like a spider's. Thin, withered. You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and then to his horror, Old Mr. Neve saw him slip past the dining room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop him! Stop him, somebody! Old Mr. Neve started up. He was dark in his dressing room, the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the big, airy, darkened house, they floated far away voices, far away sounds. Perhaps he thought vaguely he'd been asleep for a long time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him? This house and Charlotte, the girls and Harold? What did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife, his wife. A dark porch, half hidden by a passion vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful as though it understood. Small warm arms were round his neck, a face little in pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed. Goodbye, my treasure. My treasure. Goodbye, my treasure. Which of them had spoken? Why had they said goodbye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier. Dinner is on the table, sir. I'm coming. I'm coming, said Old Mr. Neve. End of An Ideal Family. Recording by Ross Clement. A Madman's Manuscript. By Charles Dickens. Excerpt from Chapter 11 of the Pickwick Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It was past eleven o'clock, a late hour for the little village of Cobham, when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom, which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days. The hour and the place were both favorable to contemplation. Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased, the stillness seemed insupportable. He almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited, and hastily undressing himself, and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed. Everyone has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment. He tossed first on one side and then on the other, and perseveringly closed his eyes, as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwanted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy in water, or the strange bed. Whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion that it was of no use trying to sleep. So he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything he thought was better than lying there, fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out the window. It was very dark. He walked about the room. It was very lonely. He had taken a few turns from the door to the window and from the window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden start too, and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance around the room, reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings. However, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows. A Madman's Manuscript Yes, I'm Madman's. How that word would have struck my heart many years ago. How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright. I like it now, though. It's a fine name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a Madman's eye. Whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a Madman's gripe. Ho-ho! It's a grand thing to be mad, to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars, to gnash one's teeth and howl through the long, still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain, and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the Mad House! It's a rare place. I remember days when I was afraid of being mad, when I used to start from my sleep and fall upon my knees and pray to be spared from the curse of my race, when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew the madness was mixed up with my very blood and the marrow of my bones, that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so. That so it always has been, and so ever would be. And when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper and point and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman, and I slunk away again to mope in solitude. I did this for years, long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes, very long, but they are nothing to the restless nights and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Largely dusky forms would sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers that the floor of the old house, in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew, they told the truth. I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. I was too cunning for them, madman, as they've thought me. At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight when I thought of the fine trick I was playing on them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so. And how I used to laugh for joy when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned and how fast he would have run if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife, was a madman with all the power and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. It was a merry life. Riches became mine, wealth poured upon me, and I rioted and pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law, the eagle-eyed law itself, had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman's hands. Where was the wit of sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers eager to discover a flaw? The madman's cunning had overreached them all. I had money. How I courted? I spent it profusely. How I was praised. How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me. The old white-haired father, too. Such deference. Such respect. Such devoted friendship. He worshipped me. The old man had a daughter and the young man a sister, and all the five were poor. I was rich, and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of their needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme and their fine prize. It was for me to smile, to smile, to laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman. Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body. In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad, for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes. I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold, in a dull leaden coffin, than born an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep, and that she had been sacrificed to me to relieve the poverty of the old white-headed man and the haughty brothers. I don't remember forms of faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was, for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me. I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. The blood chills at my heart as I write it down. That form is hers. The face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright, but I know them well. That figure never moves, it never frowns and mouths, as others do, that fill this place sometimes. But it is much more dreadful to me even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago. It comes fresh from the grave, and it is so very deathlike. For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler. For nearly a year I saw the tears steel down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last, though. They could not keep her from me long. She had never liked me. I had never thought she did. She despised my wealth, and hated the splendor in which she lived. But I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts forced upon me by some secret power, world round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied, yes, I pitied, the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long. But the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being destined to hand down madness to its offspring determined me. I resolved to kill her. For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house and flames, and the madman's wife smoldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too. And of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman's cunning. I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh, the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin bright edge would make. At last the old spirit, who had been with me so often before, whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping, for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid. And even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started. It was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke. One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered a cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me, and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled. The razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground. Now I could have killed her without a struggle, but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual draw, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance. They came and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours. And when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously. Doctors were called in, great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, cleverest, and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bided me prepare for the worst, told me, me, the madman, that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it, but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after they told me I must place her under some restraint. I must provide a keeper for her. I went into the open fields, where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts. She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her, whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief, which I held upon my face as we rode home, till the tears came to my eyes. But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets, or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee that I should have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down, and no one knew I was a madman, yet. I remember, though it's one of the last things I can remember, for now I mix my realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved. I remember how I let it out at last. I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenching fists into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There. See how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench? I could snap it like a twig. Only there are long galleries here, with many doors. I don't think I could find my way along them, and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below, which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here to show. Let me see. Yes. I had it out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me. Urgent business, they said. I recollect it well. I hated the man with all the madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together for the first time. I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought, and I gloried in the knowledge that the light of madness gleaned from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister's death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore to demand this explanation. This man had a commission in the army, a commission purchased with my money, and his sister's misery. This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister's to wed me, well knowing that her heart was given to that pealing boy. Due to his uniform, the livery of his degradation, I turned my eyes upon him. I could not help it. But I spoke not a word. I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the color faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him, and I laughed. I was very merry then. I saw him shudder. I felt a madness rising within me. He was afraid of me. You were very fond of your sister when she was alive, I said. Ferry! He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair. But he said nothing. You villain! I said. I found you out. I discovered your hellish plots against me. I know her heart was fixed on someone else, before you compelled her to marry me. I know it! I know it! He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished at a loft, and bid me stand back. For I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke. I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passion eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taming me to tear his heart out. Damn you! said I, starting up and rushing upon him. I killed her! I am a madman! Down with you! Blood! Blood! I will have it! I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror. I closed with him, and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together. It was a fine struggle that, for he was a tall, strong man fighting for his life, and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right, right again, though a madman. His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple, his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue he seemed to mock me. I seized the tighter. The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman. My secret was out, and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself upon my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banister, and in an instant was in the street. Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of the feet behind and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether. But on I bounded through marsh and rivulet over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was born upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head spin. Until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and it fell heavily upon the earth. When I awoke I found myself here, here in this grey cell where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake I can sometimes hear strange streaks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What are they? I know not. But they never come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chair, and watching my gambles on my straw bed. At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note. The unhappy man whose ravings were recorded above was a melancholy instance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and delirium. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly contended for by some and is strongly contested by others that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom which in time developed a morbid insanity and finally terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed, though distorted in the description of his diseased imagination, really happened. It was only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with devices of his early career that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds. Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript. And when the light went suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame, hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets and soon fell fast asleep. End of A Madman's Manuscript by Charles Dickens. The School Mistress by Anton Chekhov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Eugene Smith. The School Mistress by Anton Chekhov. At half past eight, they drove out of the town. The high road was dry. A lovely April sun was shining warmly. But the snow was still lying in the ditches and in the woods. Winter, dark, long, and spiteful was hardly over. Spring had come all of a sudden. But neither the warmth nor the languid transparent woods warmed by the breath of spring, nor the black flocks of birds flying over the huge puddles that were like lakes, nor the marvelous fathomless sky into which it seemed one would have gone away so joyfully, presented anything new or interesting to Maria Vasilyevna, who was sitting in the cart. For thirteen years she had been School Mistress, and there was no reckoning how many times during all those years she had been to the town for her salary. And whether it were spring as now, or rainy autumn evening, or winter, it was all the same to her. And she always, invariably, long for one thing only, to get to the end of her journey as quickly as could be. She felt as though she had been living in that part of the country for her ages and ages, for a hundred years. And it seemed to her that she knew every stone, every tree on the road from the town to her school. Her past was here, her present was here, and she could imagine no other future than the school, the road to the town and back again, and again the school, and again the road. She had got out of the habit of thinking of her past before she became a School Mistress, and had almost forgotten it. She had once had a father and mother, they had lived in Moscow, in a big flat near the Red Gate. But of all that life, it was left in her memory only something vague and fluid, like a dream. Her father had died when she was ten years old, and her mother had died soon after. She had a brother, an officer. At first they used to write to each other, then her brother had given up answering her letters. He'd got out of the way of writing. Of her old belongings, all that was left was a photograph of her mother. But it had grown dim from the dentless of the school, and now nothing could be seen but the hair and the eyebrows. When they had driven a couple of miles, old Semyon, who was driving, turned around and said, they have caught a government clerk in the town, they have taken him away. The story is that with some Germans he killed Alexia, the mayor, in Moscow. Who told you that? They were reading it in the paper in a Ivan Yanov's tavern. And again they were silent for a long time. Maria Vasilevna thought of her school, of the examination that was coming soon, and of the girl and four boys she was sending up for it. And just as she was thinking about the examination, she was overtaken by a neighboring landowner named Hanoff in a carriage with four horses, the very man who had been examined her in her school the year before. When he came up to her, he recognized her and bowed. Good morning, he said to her, you are driving home, I suppose. This Hanoff, a man of 40 with a listless expression and a face that showed signs of wear, was beginning to look old, but was still handsome and admired by women. He lived in his big homestead alone and was not in the service. And people used to say of him that he did nothing at home, but walk up and down the room whistling or play chess with his old footmen. People said too that he drank heavily, and indeed at the examination the year before, the papers he brought with him smelled of wine and scent. He had been dressed all in new clothes on that occasion, and Maria Vasilevna thought him very attractive. And all the while she sat beside him, she had felt embarrassed. She was accustomed to see frigid and sensible examiners at the school, while this one did not remember a single prayer or know what to ask questions about, and was exceedingly courteous and delicate, giving nothing but the highest marks. I am going to visit Baklist, he went on, addressing Maria Vasilevna, but I am told he is not at home. They turned off the high road into a by-road to the village, Hanoff leading the way and Semyon following. The four horses moved at a walking pace, with effort dragging the heavy carriage through the mud. Semyon tacked from side to side, keeping to the edge of the road, at one time through a snowdrift, at another through a pool, often jumping out of the cart and helping the horse. Maria Vasilevna was still thinking about the school, wondering whether the arithmetic questions at the examination would be difficult or easy. And she felt annoyed with the zentsful board at which she had found no one the day before, no one business-like. He or she had been asking them for the last two years to dismiss the watchman who did nothing, was rude to her and hit the schoolboys, but no one paid any attention. It was hard to find the president at the office, and when one did find him, he would say with tears in his eyes that he had not a moment to spare. The inspector visited the school at most once in three years and knew nothing whatever about his work, as he had been in the excise duties department and had received the post of school inspector through influence. The school council met very rarely, and there was no knowing where it met. The school guardian was an almost illiterate peasant, the head of a tanning business, unintelligent, rude, and a great friend of the watchman's, and goodness knows to whom she could appeal with complaints or inquiries. He really is handsome, she thought, lancing at headoff. The road grew worse and worse. They drove into the wood. Here there was no room to turn around. The wheels sank deeply in, water splashed and gurgled through them, and sharp twigs struck them in the face. What a road! said headoff, and he laughed. The schoolmistress looked at him and could not understand why this queer man lived here. What could his money, his interesting appearance, his refined bearing do for him here, in this mud, in this godforsaken, dreary place? He got no special advantages out of life, and here, like Semyon, was driving at a jog trot on an appalling road and enduring the same discomforts. Why live here, if one could live in Petersburg or abroad? And one would have thought it would be nothing for a rich man like him to make a good road instead of this bad one to avoid enduring this misery and seeing the despair on the faces of his coachmen and Semyon. It would be nothing for a rich man like him to make a good road instead of this bad one to avoid enduring this misery and seeing the despair on the faces of his coachmen and Semyon. But he only laughed, and apparently did not mind, and wanted no better life. He was kind, soft, naive, and he did not understand this course life, just as at the examination he did not know the prayers. He subscribed nothing to the schools but globes and genuinely regarded himself as a useful person and a prominent worker in the cause of popular education. In what use were his globes here? Hold on, Vasilyevna, said Semyon. The cart lurched violently and was on the point of upsetting. Something heavy rolled on to Mario Vasilyevna's feet. It was her parcel of purchases. It was a steep ascent uphill through the clay. Here in the winding ditches, rivulets were gurgling. The water seemed to have gnawed away the road. And how could one get along here? The horses breathed hard. Hanoff got out of his carriage and walked at the side of the road in his long overcoat. He was hot. What a road! he said and laughed again. It would soon smash up one's carriage. Nobody obliges you to drive about in such weather, said Semyon surly. You should stay at home. I am dull at home, grandfather. I don't like staying at home. Besides all Semyon, he looked graceful and vigorous, and yet in his walk there was something just perceptible which betrayed him of being already touched by decay, weak and on the road to ruin. And all at once there was a whiff of spirits in the wood. Mario Vasilyevna was filled with dread and pity for this man going to his ruin for no visible cause or reason. Then it came into her mind that if she had been his wife or sister, she would have devoted her whole life to saving him from ruin. His wife. Life was so ordered that here he was living in his great house alone, and she was living in a god forsaken village alone. And yet for some reason the mere thought that he and she might be close to one another and equals seemed impossible and absurd. In reality, life was arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when one thought about it, one felt uncanny and one's heart sank. And it is beyond all understanding, she thought, why God gives beauty, this graciousness and sad sweet eyes to weak, unlucky, useless people. Why they are so charming. Here he must turn off to the right, said Hanoff, getting into his carriage. Goodbye, I wish you all things good. And again she thought of her pupils of the examination of the watchmen of the school council. And when the wind brought the sound of the retreating carriage, these thoughts were mingled with others. She longed to think of beautiful eyes of love, of the happiness which would never be. His wife. It was cold in the morning. There was no one to heat the stove. The watchmen disappeared. The children came in as soon as it was light, bringing in snow and mud and making a noise. It was also inconvenient, so comfortless. Or a boat consisted of one little room and kitchen close by. Her head ached every day after her work. And after dinner, she had heartburn. She had to collect money from the school children for wood and for the watchmen, and to give it to the school guardian. And then to entreat him, that overfed, insolent peasant, for God's sake to send her wood. And at night she dreamed of examinations, peasants, snowdrifts. And this life was making her grow old and coarse, making her ugly, angular and awkward, as though she were made of lead. She was always afraid that she would get out from her seat and not venture to sit down in the presence of a member of the Zempsville, or the school guardian. And she used formal deferential expressions when she spoke of any one of them. And no one thought her attractive. Life was passing drearily, without affection, without friendly sympathy, without interesting acquaintances. How awful it would have been in her position if she had fallen in love. Hold on, Vasilyevna! Again, a sharp ascent uphill. She had become a schoolmistress from necessity, without feeling any vocation for it. And she had never thought of a vocation, of serving the cause of enlightenment. And it always seemed to her that what was most important in her work was not the children, nor enlightenment, but the examinations. And what time had she for thinking of vocation, of serving the cause of enlightenment? Teachers badly paid doctors and their assistants with their terribly hard work, have not even the comfort of thinking that they are serving an idea, or the people, as their heads are always stuffed with thoughts of their daily bread, of wood for the fire, of bad roads, of illnesses. It is a hardworking and uninteresting life, and only silent patient hearthorses like Maria Vasilyevna could put up with it for long. A lively, nervous, impressionable people who talked about vocation and serving the idea were soon weary of it, and gave up the work. Semyon kept picking out the driest and shortest way, first by a meadow, then by the backs of the village huts. But in one place the peasants would not let them pass. In another was the priest's land, and they could not cross it. In another, Ivanyonov had bought a plot from the landowner that had dug a ditch around it. They kept having to turn back. They reached Nizhnya Goroditcha, near the tavern on the dung-strewn earth, where the snow was still lying. There stood wagons that had bought great bottles of crude sulfuric acid. There were great many people in the tavern, all drivers. And there was the smell of vodka, tobacco, and sheepskins. It was a loud noise of conversation and the banging of the swing door. Through the wall, without ceasing for a moment, came the sound of a concertina being played in the shop. Maria Vasilyevna sat down and drank some tea. While at the next table peasants were drinking vodka and beer, perspiring from the tea they had just swallowed, and the stifling fumes of the tavern. I say Kuzma! voices kept shouting in confusion. What there? The Lord bless us! Yvon Demich, I can tell you that. Look out, old man! A little pockmarked man with a black beard, who was quite drunk, was suddenly surprised by something and began using bad language. What are you swearing at? You there, Semion, who was sitting some way off, responded angrily. Don't you see the young lady? The young lady, someone mimicked in another corner, swineish crow. We meant nothing, said the little man in confusion. I beg your pardon. We pay with our money and the young lady with hers. Good morning! Good morning! answered the schoolmistress. And we thank you most feelingly. Maria Vasilyevna drank her tea with satisfaction, and she too began turning red like the peasants and fell to thinking again about firewood, about the watchman. Stay, old man! she heard from the next table. It's the schoolmistress from Bayazovia. We know her. She's a good young lady. She's all right. The swing door was continually banging, some coming in, others going out. Maria Vasilyevna sat on, thinking all the time of the same things, while the concertina went on playing and playing. The patches of sunshine had been on the floor, then they passed to the counter, to the wall, and disappeared altogether. So by the sun, it was past midday. The peasants at the next table were getting ready to go. The little man, somewhat unsteadily, went up to Maria Vasilyevna and held out his hand to her. Following his example, the others shook hands too at parting and went out one after another, and the swing door squeaked and slammed nine tons. Vasilyevna, get ready! Summian called to her. They set off, and again they went at a walking pace. A little while back, they were building a school here in their Nizhnya, Gordoditcha, said Summian, turning around. It was a wicked thing that was done. Why, what? They say the president put a thousand in his pocket, and the school guardian another thousand in his, and the teacher five hundred. The whole school only cost a thousand. It's wrong to slander people, grandfather. That's all nonsense. I don't know. I only tell you what folks say. But it was clear that Summian did not believe the school mistress. The peasants did not believe her. They always thought she received two largest salary, twenty-one roubles a month. Five would have been enough. And that of the money that she collected from the children from the firewood and the watchman, the greater part she kept for herself. The guardian thought the same as the peasants, and he himself made a profit off the firewood and received payments from the peasants for being a guardian without the knowledge of the authorities. The forest, thank God, was behind them, and now it would be flat open ground all the way to Vyazovia. And there was not far to go now. They had to cross the river, and then the railway line, and then Vyazovia was in sight. Where are you driving? Maria Vasilyevna asked Summian. Take the road to the right, to the bridge. Why, we can go this way as well. It's not deep enough to matter. Mind you don't drown the horse. What? Look, Hanoff is driving to the bridge, said Maria Vasilyevna, seeing the four horses far away to the right. It is he, I think. It is. So he didn't find Bakfist at home. What a pig-headed fellow he is. Lord have mercy upon us. He's driven over there, and what for? It's fully two miles nearer this way. They reached the river. They reached the river. In the summer it was a little stream easily crossed by wading. It usually dried up in August. But now, after the spring floods, it was a river, 40 feet in breadth, rapid, muddy, and cold. And on the bank, and right up to the water, there were fresh tracks of wheels, so it had been crossed here. Go on! shouted Semyon angrily and anxiously, tugging violently at the reins and jerking his elbows as the bird does its wings. Go on! The horse went on into the water, up to his belly, and stopped. But it once went on again with an effort. Maria Vasilyevna was aware of a keen shilliness in her feet. Go on! she too shouted, getting up. Go on! They got out on the bank. Nice mess it is! Lord have mercy upon us, muttered Semyon, setting straight the harness. It's a perfect play with this zents, whoa! Her shoes and galoshes were full of water. Below her part of her dress and of her coat and one sleeve were wet and gripping. The sugar and flour had got wet, and that was the worst of all. And Maria Vasilyevna could only clasp her hands in despair and say, oh Semyon, Semyon, how tiresome you are, really. The barrier was down at the railway crossing. A train was coming out of the station. Maria Vasilyevna stood at the crossing, waiting till it should pass, and shivering all over with cold. Voyezovia was in sight now, in the school with the green roof, in the church with its crosses flashing in the evening sun. And the station windows flashed too, and a pink smoke rose from the engine. And it seemed to her that everything was trembling with cold. Here was the train. The windows reflected the gleaming light like the crosses on the church. It made her eyes ache to look at them. On the little platform between the two first class carriages, a lady was standing, and Maria Vasilyevna glanced at her as she passed. Her mother. What a resemblance. Her mother had had just such luxuriant hair, just such a brow and bend of the head. And with amazing distinctness, for the first time in those 13 years, there rose before her mind a vivid picture of her mother, her father, her brother, their flat in Moscow, the aquarium with little fish, everything through the tiniest detail. She heard the sound of the piano, her father's voice. She felt as she had been then, young, good-looking, well-dressed, in a bright warm room among her own people. The feeling of joy and happiness suddenly came over her. She pressed her hands to her temples in an ecstasy and called, softly, beseechingly, mother. And she began crying. She did not know why. Just at that instant, Hanoff drove up with his team of four horses. And seeing him, she imagined happiness such as she had never had, and smiled and nodded to him as an equal and a friend. And it seemed to her that her happiness, her triumph, was glowing in the sky and on all sides, in the windows and on the trees. The father and mother had never died. She had never been a schoolmistress. It was a long, tedious, strange dream. And now she had awakened. Vasilyevna, get in! And it once it all vanished. The barrier was slowly raised. Maria Vasilyevna, shivering and numb with cold, got into the cart. The carriage with the four horses crossed the railway line. Semyon followed it. The signalman took off his cap. And here is Vaizovia. Here we are, end of the schoolmistress.