Fifty-Two Stories

“I could give you many other examples, but I suppose these are enough. Now I allow that I’m deluded about myself, that I’m giftless and a braggart, but, besides myself, I could point out to you many of my contemporaries, people remarkable for their talents and hard work, but who died in obscurity. All these Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanics, agronomists—are they popular? Are Russian painters, sculptors, men of letters known to our educated masses? Some old literary dog, hardworking and talented, wears out the publishers’ doorsteps for thirty-three years, uses up the devil knows how much paper, is taken to court twenty times for defamation, and still never steps further than his anthill! Name for me at least one coryphaeus of our literature who became a celebrity before the rumor spread in the world that he had been killed in a duel, gone mad, been exiled, or cheated at cards!”

The first-class passenger got so carried away that the cigar dropped from his mouth and he rose from his seat.

“Yes, sir,” he went on fiercely, “and parallel to these people I can cite you hundreds of little singers of all sorts, acrobats, and buffoons who are known even to nursing babies. Yes, sir!”

The door creaked, there was a gust of air, and a person of sullen appearance, wearing a greatcoat, a top hat, and blue spectacles, came into the car. The person examined the seats, frowned, and went on.

“Do you know who that is?” a timid whisper came from the far corner of the car. “That’s N. N., the famous Tula cardsharp, who was taken to court in the Y. bank affair.”

“There you are!” the first-class passenger laughed. “He knows the Tula cardsharp, but ask him if he knows Semiradsky, Tchaikovsky, or the philosopher Soloviev, he’ll just shake his head…Swinishness!”

Some three minutes passed in silence.

“Allow me to ask you in my turn,” the vis-à-vis coughed timidly, “is the name Pushkov known to you?”

“Pushkov? Hm!…Pushkov…No, I don’t know it.”

“It’s my name…” the vis-à-vis said shyly. “So you don’t know it? And I’ve been a professor at one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years…a member of the Academy of Science, sir…have published extensively…”

The first-class passenger and the vis-à-vis looked at each other and burst out laughing.

1886

DIFFICULT PEOPLE

SHIRYAEV, EVGRAF IVANOVICH, a petty landowner and priest’s son (his late parent, Father Ioann, had received 274 acres of land as a gift from General Kuvshinnikov’s wife), was standing in the corner in front of a copper washstand, washing his hands. As usual, he looked glum and preoccupied, and his beard was dishevelled.

“Well, some weather!” he said. “It’s not weather, it’s divine punishment. Raining again!”

He was grumbling, and his family was sitting at the table and waiting until he finished washing his hands so as to begin dinner. His wife, Fedosya Semyonovna; their son Pyotr, a student; their daughter Varvara; and the three little boys had long been sitting at the table and waiting. The boys—Kolka, Vanka, and Arkhipka—pug-nosed, grimy, with fleshy faces and coarse, long-untrimmed hair, fidgeted impatiently on their chairs, while the adults sat without stirring, and it seemed it was all the same to them whether they ate or waited…

As if testing their patience, Shiryaev slowly dried his hands, slowly said a prayer, and unhurriedly sat down at the table. Cabbage soup was served at once. From the yard came the rapping of carpenters’ axes (a new barn was being built at Shiryaev’s) and the laughter of the farmhand Fomka, who was teasing a turkey. Few but big drops of rain struck the window.

The student Pyotr, in spectacles and round-shouldered, was eating and exchanging glances with his mother. He set his spoon down several times and coughed, wishing to begin talking, but, taking a close look at his father, fell to eating again. Finally, when the kasha was served, he coughed resolutely and said:

“I should take the evening train tonight. It’s long been time, I’ve already missed two weeks. The lectures started on the first of September!”

“Go, then,” Shiryaev consented. “What are you waiting around here for? Just up and go with God!”

A minute passed in silence.

“He’ll need money for the road, Evgraf Ivanych,” the mother said softly.

“Money? Oh, well! You can’t travel without money. Take it right now, since you need it. Could have taken it long ago!”

The student sighed with relief and exchanged cheerful glances with his mother. Shiryaev unhurriedly took the wallet from his side pocket and put on his spectacles.

“How much?” he asked.

“In fact, the trip to Moscow costs eleven roubles forty-two…”

“Ah, money, money!” the father sighed (he always sighed when he saw money, even receiving it). “Here’s twelve for you. There’ll be some change, boy, it’ll come in handy during the trip.”

“Thank you.”

After a few moments, the student said: