Fifty-Two Stories

The door flew open, and a bearded peasant, all plastered with snow from head to foot, appeared on the threshold, in a coachman’s kaftan and with a big suitcase on his shoulder. After him came a woman’s figure, short, almost half the size of the coachman, with no face or hands, all wrapped up, muffled, looking like a bundle, and also covered with snow. Dampness wafted over the girl from the coachman and the bundle, as if from a cellar, and the candle’s flame wavered.

“What stupidity!” the bundle said angrily. “We could have driven perfectly well! There are only eight miles left to go, all through forest, and we wouldn’t get lost…”

“Lost, no, not lost, but the horses refused to go, miss,” the coachman replied. “And it’s Thy will, Lord—as if I’d have done it on purpose!”

“God knows where you’ve brought us…But be quiet…People seem to be sleeping here. Go now…”

The coachman set down the suitcase, which caused whole layers of snow to fall from his shoulders, produced a sobbing sound with his nose, and left. Then the girl saw two small hands come out from inside the bundle, reach upwards, and angrily begin to untangle the tangle of shawls, kerchiefs, and scarves. First a big shawl fell on the floor, then a bashlyk, followed by a white knitted kerchief. Having freed her head, the visitor took off her overcoat and at once became twice narrower. She was now wearing a long gray coat with big buttons and bulging pockets. From one pocket she took something wrapped in paper, from the other a bunch of big, heavy keys, which she set down so carelessly that the sleeping man gave a start and opened his eyes. For some time he looked around dully, as if not understanding where he was, then shook his head, went to the corner, and sat down…The traveler took off her coat, which again made her twice narrower, pulled off her velvet boots, and also sat down.

Now she no longer looked like a bundle. She was a small, thin brunette of about twenty, slender as a little snake, with an elongated white face and wavy hair. Her nose was long, sharp, her chin also long and sharp, her eyelashes long, the corners of her mouth sharp, and, thanks to this overall sharpness, the expression of her face seemed prickly. Drawn tightly into a black dress, with masses of lace at the neck and sleeves, with sharp elbows and long pink fingers, she resembled the portraits of medieval English ladies. The serious, concentrated expression of her face increased this resemblance still more…

The brunette looked around the room, glanced sidelong at the man and the girl, and, shrugging her shoulders, went to sit by the window. The dark windows were trembling from the damp west wind. Big flakes of snow, sparkling white, settled on the window glass, but disappeared at once, carried off by the wind. The wild music was becoming ever louder…

After a long silence, the little girl suddenly stirred and said, angrily rapping out each word:

“Lord! Lord! I’m so unhappy! Unhappier than anybody!”

The man got up and, with a guilty step not at all suited to his enormous height and big beard, went mincing over to the girl.

“You’re not asleep, sweetie?” he said in an apologetic voice. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything! My shoulder hurts! You’re a bad man, Papa, and God will punish you! You’ll see, he’ll punish you!”

“My darling, I know your shoulder hurts, but what can I do, sweetie?” the man said, in the tone in which drunken men apologize to their stern spouses. “Your shoulder hurts from traveling, Sasha. Tomorrow we’ll arrive, get some rest, and it will go away…”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow…You say ‘tomorrow’ every day. We’ll be traveling for another twenty days!”

“But, sweetie, a father’s word of honor, we’ll arrive tomorrow. I never lie, and it’s not my fault if we’ve been held up by a blizzard!”

“I can’t take any more! I can’t, I can’t!”

Sasha sharply kicked her foot and filled the room with unpleasant, high-pitched crying. Her father waved his hand and gave the brunette a lost look. She shrugged her shoulders and hesitantly went over to Sasha.

“Listen, my dear,” she said, “why cry? True, it’s not nice that your shoulder hurts, but what can be done?”

“You see, madam,” the man began quickly, as if apologizing, “we haven’t slept for two nights, and we’ve been traveling in disgusting conditions. So, of course, she’s sick and languishing…And then, too, you know, we happened to have a drunken coachman, and our suitcase was stolen…a blizzard all the time, but why cry, madam? Then again, this sleeping sitting up has tired me, and it’s as if I’m drunk. By God, Sasha, it’s sickening even without you, and then you go crying!”

The man shook his head, waved his hand, and sat down.

“Of course, you shouldn’t cry,” said the brunette. “Only nursing babies cry. If you’re sick, my dear, you should get undressed and go to sleep…Let’s get undressed!”