Fifty-Two Stories

Having driven the herd to the edge of the forest, the shepherd leaned on the birch tree, looked at the sky, unhurriedly took the pipe from his bosom, and began to play. He played mechanically, as before, no more than five or six notes; as if he were holding the pipe for the first time, the sounds flew out of it irresolutely, in disorder, not merging into a melody, but Meliton, thinking about the world perishing, heard something very anguished and repugnant in his playing, which he would prefer not to listen to. The highest squeaky notes trembled and broke off and seemed to weep inconsolably, as if the pipe were sick and frightened, and the lowest notes for some reason were reminiscent of the mist, the dreary trees, the gray sky. Such music seemed suited to the weather, and the old man, and his talk.

Meliton felt like complaining. He went up to the old man and, looking at his sad, mocking face, and at his pipe, began to mutter:

“Life’s grown worse, too, grandpa. It’s totally unbearable to live. Bad harvests, poverty…cattle plague time and again, diseases…Overwhelmed by need.”

The manager’s plump face turned purple and acquired an anguished, womanish expression. He moved his fingers, as if searching for words to convey his indefinite feeling, and went on:

“Eight children, a wife…a mother still living, and a salary of a mere ten roubles a month without grub. My wife’s gone frenzied from poverty…and me, I drink. I’m a sensible, staid man, I’ve got education. I’d like to sit at home, in peace and quiet, but I’m out all day like a dog, with my rifle, because I just can’t do it: I hate my home!”

Sensing that what his tongue was muttering was not at all what he meant to express, the manager waved his hand and said bitterly:

“If the world is to perish, then let it be soon! There’s no use dragging it out and making people suffer uselessly…”

The old man took the pipe from his lips and, narrowing one eye, looked into its small mouth hole. His face was sad and covered with big drops like tears. He smiled and said:

“It’s a pity, dear brother! God, such a pity! The earth, the forest, the sky…every creature—all of it was created, arranged, there’s reasonableness in it all. It will all perish for nothing. And it’s a pity about people most of all.”

From a distance, moving towards the edge of the forest, came the sound of heavy rain. Meliton glanced in the direction of the sound, buttoned up his coat, and said:

“I’ll head for the village. Goodbye, grandpa. What’s your name?”

“Luka the Poor.”

“Well, goodbye, Luka! Thanks for your kind words. Damka, ici!”

Having taken leave of the shepherd, Meliton trudged along the edge of the forest, then down across the meadow, which gradually turned into a swamp. Water squelched under his feet, and rusty sedge, still green and lush, bent towards the ground, as if in fear of being trampled underfoot. Beyond the swamp, on the bank of the Peschanka, of which the old man had spoken, stood willows, and beyond the willows a threshing barn showed blue in the mist. One could sense the nearness of that miserable, in no way avertable time when the fields become dark, the earth dirty and cold, when the weeping willow looks still more sorrowful and tears flow down its trunk, and only cranes escape the general disaster, and even they, as if fearing to offend dreary nature by expressing their happiness, fill the sky with their sad, melancholy song.

Meliton trudged towards the river and listened to the sounds of the pipe gradually dying away behind him. He still felt like complaining. He glanced sorrowfully around and felt an unbearable pity for the sky, and the earth, and the sun, and the forest, and his Damka, and when the highest drawn-out note of the pipe swept through the air and trembled like the voice of a weeping man, he felt extremely bitter and upset at the disorder he observed in nature.

The high note trembled, broke off, and the pipe fell silent.

1887

COSTLY LESSONS

FOR AN EDUCATED MAN an ignorance of foreign languages amounts to a great inconvenience. Vorotov felt it strongly when, having graduated from the university with an advanced degree, he began a small scholarly work.

“It’s terrible!” he said breathlessly (despite his twenty-six years, he was plump, heavy, and suffered from shortness of breath). “It’s terrible! Without languages I’m like a bird without wings. I might just as well drop my work.”

And he decided at all costs to overcome his innate laziness and learn French and German, and he started looking for tutors.

One winter noon, when Vorotov was sitting in his study working, his valet told him that a young lady was asking to see him.

“Show her in,” said Vorotov.

A young woman, elegantly dressed in the latest fashion, came into the study. She introduced herself as Alisa Osipovna Enquête, a teacher of French,¹ and said that she had been sent to Vorotov by one of his friends.