Short Fiction

My dear boy, when you grow up will you remember how, one winter evening, you came into the dining room, stopped on the threshold, for it was after one of our quarrels, and lowered your eyes with such a sad expression on your face?

I must tell you that you were dreadfully mischievous at that age. You never knew when to stop once you became excited over something. Sometimes you would give us no rest with your incessant running about the house. And yet I know of nothing that would be more touching than the sight of you, when, weary with your racing about, you would become quiet, walk around a little, and then come to me and put your little head against my shoulder, an expression of complete loneliness on your face! And if it happened to be right after a quarrel, did I say but one caressing word to you, what didn’t you do with my heart? How you threw yourself on my neck, how you kissed me, full of that absolute loyalty, of that passionate tenderness, of which only children are capable!

But this time it was too great a quarrel.

Do you remember that on that evening you did not even approach me?

“Good night, uncle,” you said quietly, and made a very ceremonious bow.

Of course, after all your misdeeds you wished to appear particularly well-bred and polite. Your old nurse had taught you that ceremonious bow as the only sign of politeness and good manners known to her.

“Well, now, I just knew it was that,” concurred Pashka, gaily and self-assuredly, lighting his cigarette, which was rolled somewhat in the form of a pipe; it was gripped in one corner of his mouth between his teeth, and he lit it with a stinking sulphur match flaming within his cupped hands. “Just exactly at this time last year I killed a man.”

And the schoolboy at once straightened up, letting his hands drop⁠—and he seemed to be turned to stone during all the time that the others talked. At rare intervals he would put in a word, but it was as though it were not he, but some other who was talking in his stead.

There was a fire that Spring at Semyon Novikov’s, who lived with his thin-armed brother, Nikon, at Ovsiany Brod. Then the brothers decided to divide their property, and Semyon was to build a new house for himself, farther down on the high road.

On the night before St. Elijah’s day, the carpenters asked permission to go home. So Semyon himself had to spend the night in the unfinished building. He had his supper with his brother’s large family, in the little room full of flies and noise, lit his pipe, threw a coat over his shoulders, and said to his wife:

“It’s too stuffy here. I guess I’ll go to the new house and spend the night there. Somebody might steal the tools.”

“Take the dogs with you, at least,” said his wife.

“Nonsense,” answered Semyon, and went out.

The moon was shining that night. Thinking about his new house, Semyon did not notice how rapidly he covered the distance from the village to the high road, going up hill all the time through a broad field, and then a verst up the road, coming, at last, to his unfinished new home, roofless as yet, but covered with ceiling-boards. The house stood on the edge of a large field planted with oats, all by itself. Its frameless windows looked like black holes; moonlight played dully on the edges of freshly cut beams, on tow, stuffed into joints, and on shavings, scattered all over the threshold. The golden July moon rose far beyond the gulches of the Brod, and seemed to be very low and very dull. Its warm light appeared to be diffused. Ripe ears of oats shone gloomy and greyish, like sea sand.

When he had been a young man, everybody used to call Alexander Romanov Shasha; at that time he was living in the settlement of Limovo, in an iron-roofed house that stood facing the common, and his beatings were administered to him by his father, Roman.

Roman deemed himself the first man in all that district⁠—he used to shove his hand out to all the gentry and the squires whenever he would meet them. He had a store in the settlement, and a mill beyond it; but the way he got richer and richer was by buying up groves from the landowners and then cutting them down. Makar, his own brother, had nothing to eat; all in tatters, he might be hobbling over the common, and, doffing his hat meekly, would say: “Greetings, brother.” But Roman, well-fed, looking like a deacon, would answer him from his stoop: “Don’t you brother me, you dolt. You’ve made your bow, so just keep on going on your way.” What, then, must have been the feelings of the sole heir of such a man? He used to stroll through the village in a cap that had come from the city; in a sleeveless overcoat of the finest broadcloth, in boots with patent-leather tops. He was all the time cracking polly-seeds, and playing polkas on an expensive accordion. Whenever he met any wenches or young lads⁠—all his relatives, all consanguine, every one of them⁠—he would be followed by that sort of gaze from which celebrities feel a chill run down their back.

“Woe to thee, Babylon, that mighty city!”

Apocalypse

The gentleman from San Francisco⁠—nobody either in Capri or Naples ever remembered his name⁠—was setting out with his wife and daughter for the Old World, to spend there two years of pleasure.

He was fully convinced of his right to rest, to enjoy long and comfortable travels, and so forth. Because, in the first place he was rich, and in the second place, notwithstanding his fifty-eight years, he was just starting to live. Up to the present he had not lived, but only existed; quite well, it is true, yet with all his hopes on the future. He had worked incessantly⁠—and the Chinamen whom he employed by the thousand in his factories knew what that meant. Now at last he realized that a great deal had been accomplished, and that he had almost reached the level of those whom he had taken as his ideals, so he made up his mind to pause for a breathing space. Men of his class usually began their enjoyments with a trip to Europe, India, Egypt. He decided to do the same. He wished naturally to reward himself in the first place for all his years of toil, but he was quite glad that his wife and daughter should also share in his pleasures. True, his wife was not distinguished by any marked susceptibilities, but then elderly American women are all passionate travellers. As for his daughter, a girl no longer young and somewhat delicate, travel was really necessary for her: apart from the question of health, do not happy meetings often take place in the course of travel?