Fifty-Two Stories

Savely twitched his leg impatiently and moved closer to the wall. The postman got up from the table, stretched, and sat on the mail pouch. Having thought a little, he felt the pouches with his hand, moved the sword to another place, and stretched out, one leg hanging on the floor.

“A dog’s life…,” he muttered, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. “I wouldn’t wish such a life even on a wicked Tartar.”

Soon silence fell. Only Savely could be heard puffing and the now sleeping postman breathing rhythmically and slowly, emitting at each exhalation a thick, prolonged “k-kh-kh-kh…” From time to time some little wheel squeaked in his throat and a twitching leg brushed against the pouch.

Savely stirred under the blanket and slowly turned over. His wife sat on the stool, her cheeks pressed between her palms, and gazed at the postman’s face. Her gaze was fixed, as of someone surprised or frightened.

“Well, what are you staring for?” Savely whispered angrily.

“What is it to you? Lie there!” replied his wife, not taking her eyes from the blond head.

Savely angrily exhaled all the air from his chest and turned abruptly to the wall. After some three minutes, he again stirred restlessly, knelt on his bed, and, propping himself on the pillow, looked sidelong at his wife. She was still unmoving and gazed at the guest. Her cheeks were pale, and her gaze was now lit with some strange fire. The sexton grunted, slid off the bed on his stomach, went up to the postman, and covered his face with a handkerchief.

“Why did you do that?” asked his wife.

“So the light doesn’t shine in his eyes.”

“Just put it out, then!”

Savely looked mistrustfully at his wife, thrust his lips towards the lamp, but at once thought better of it and clasped his hands.

“Well, isn’t that the devil’s own cunning?” he exclaimed. “Eh? Well, is there any creature more cunning than womankind?”

“Ah, you long-skirted satan!” his wife hissed, wincing with vexation. “Just you wait!” And, settling herself more comfortably, she again stared at the postman. Never mind that his face was covered. She was interested not so much in the face as in the general look, the novelty of the man. His chest was broad, powerful, his hands handsome, fine, and his muscular, shapely legs were more handsome and masculine than Savely’s two “stubs.” There was even no comparison.

“Maybe I am a long-skirted satan,” Savely said, after standing there a little while, “but they have no business sleeping here. Yes…They’re on official business, we’ll be answerable if we keep them here. You deliver mail, so go and deliver it, don’t sleep…Hey, you!” Savely shouted into the entryway. “You, coachman, what’s your name? Shall I show you the way out? Get up, you can’t sleep on the job!” And coming unhinged, Savely jumped over to the postman and pulled him by the sleeve.

“Hey, your honor! If it’s go, it’s go; if not, then…It’s no good sleeping.”

The postman gave a start, sat up, passed a dull gaze around the cottage, and lay back down.

“When are you going to go?” Savely rattled on, pulling him by the sleeve. “The mail’s got to be delivered in good time, that’s what it’s for, do you hear? I’ll see you off.”

The postman opened his eyes. Warmed up and listless from the first sweet sleep, not yet fully awake, he saw as in a fog the sexton’s wife’s white neck and her fixed, unctuous gaze, closed his eyes and smiled as if for him it was all a dream.

“Well, where can you go in such weather!” He heard a soft feminine voice. “You might as well go on sleeping to your heart’s content.”

“And the mail?” Savely became alarmed. “Who’ll deliver the mail? Or maybe you’re going to deliver it? You?”

The postman opened his eyes again, saw the dimples moving on the woman’s cheeks, remembered where he was, and understood Savely. The thought that he was faced with driving through the cold darkness sent chills from his head all over his body, and he scrunched up.

“We could sleep five little minutes more,” he yawned. “We’re late anyway.”

“And maybe we’ll get there just in time!” a voice came from the entryway. “With any luck the train will also be late.”

The postman got up and, stretching sweetly, began to put his coat on. Savely, seeing that the visitors were getting ready to leave, even snickered with pleasure.

“Help me, will you!” the coachman shouted to him, lifting the pouch from the floor. The sexton ran over, and together they carried the load of mail outside. The postman began to disentangle the knot of his bashlyk. And the sexton’s wife peered into his eyes as if she were about to get into his soul.

“You could have some tea…,” she said.

“I wouldn’t mind…,” he agreed, “but they’re all ready. We’re late as it is.”

“Why don’t you stay!” she whispered, lowering her eyes and touching his sleeve.

The postman finally undid the knot and hesitantly threw the bashlyk over his elbow. He felt warm standing next to the sexton’s wife.