Fifty-Two Stories

Somewhere outside there was a knocking at a gate, and the pig grunted in the shed. Auntie whined, stretched her front paws out, and put her head on them. In the knocking at the gate, in the grunting of the pig, who for some reason was not asleep, in the darkness and silence, she imagined something as anguished and terrifying as Ivan Ivanych’s scream. Everything was uneasy and anxious, but why? Who was this stranger who could not be seen? Now next to Auntie two dull green sparks lit up. It was Fyodor Timofeyich, who approached her for the first time in their acquaintance. What did he want? Auntie licked his paw and, not asking why he had come, howled softly in different tones.

“Ka-ghee!” cried Ivan Ivanych. “Ka-ghee-ghee!”

The door opened again, and the master came in with the candle. The goose was still in the same position, with his beak open and his wings spread. His eyes were shut.

“Ivan Ivanych!” the master called.

The goose did not move. The master sat down on the floor in front of him, looked at him silently for a moment, and said, “Ivan Ivanych, what’s the matter? Are you dying or something? Ah, now I remember, I remember!” he cried, clutching his head. “I know what it is! It’s because that horse stepped on you today! My God! My God!”

Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but from the look on his face she saw that he, too, was expecting something terrible. She stretched her muzzle towards the dark window, through which it seemed to her some stranger was looking, and howled.

“He’s dying, Auntie!” her master said, clasping his hands. “Yes, yes, dying! Death has come to your room! What are we to do?”

Pale and disturbed, the master went back to his bedroom, sighing and shaking his head. Auntie dreaded being left in the dark, so she followed him. He sat down on his bed and said several times, “My God! What are we going to do?”

Auntie walked around his feet and, not understanding what was causing him such anguish and where all this agitation came from, but trying to understand, she watched his every movement. Fyodor Timofeyich, who rarely left his mat, also came into the master’s bedroom and began rubbing against his legs. He shook his head, as if he wanted to shake the painful thoughts out of it, and looked suspiciously under the bed.

The master took a saucer, poured some water into it from a washstand, and went back to the goose.

“Drink, Ivan Ivanych,” he said tenderly, setting the saucer down in front of him. “Drink, my dear.”

But Ivan Ivanych did not move or open his eyes. The master brought his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak in the water, but the goose did not drink, he only spread his wings wider and let his head lie in the saucer.

“No, there’s nothing we can do!” the master sighed. “It’s all over. Ivan Ivanych is done for!”

And glittering drops, such as one sees on windowpanes when it rains, ran down his cheeks. Not understanding what was wrong, Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyich huddled close to him, staring in horror at the goose.

“Poor Ivan Ivanych!” said the master, sighing mournfully. “And I was dreaming of how I’d take you to the country in the spring, and we’d go for a walk in the green grass. Dear animal, my good comrade, you’re no more! How can I manage now without you?”

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing was going to happen to her, that she, too, for some unknown reason, would close her eyes, stretch out her paws, open her mouth, and everybody would look at her with horror. Apparently, similar thoughts were wandering through Fyodor Timofeyich’s head. Never before had the old cat been so sullen and gloomy as now.

Dawn was breaking, and the invisible stranger who had frightened Auntie so much was no longer in the room. When it was already quite light, the janitor came, picked the goose up by the legs, and carried him out. Later the old woman came and took away the trough.

Auntie went to the living room and looked behind the cupboard. The master hadn’t eaten her chicken leg; it was still there, covered with dust and cobwebs. But Auntie felt dull, sad, and wanted to cry. She didn’t even sniff the leg. She got under the sofa, lay down, and began to whine softly in a thin voice:

“Hnnn…hnnn…hnnn…”

CHAPTER SEVEN / AN UNSUCCESSFUL DEBUT

One fine evening the master walked into the room with the dirty wallpaper and, rubbing his hands, said:

“Well…”

He wanted to say something more, but did not say it and left. Auntie had made a close study of his face and voice during her lessons, and she could tell that he was disturbed, worried, maybe even angry. A little later he came back and said:

“Today I’ll take Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyich with me. Today, in the Egyptian Pyramid, you, Auntie, will replace the late Ivan Ivanych. Devil knows what will come of it! Nothing’s ready, nothing’s been learned by heart, we haven’t rehearsed enough! It’ll be a disgrace, a flop!”