One fine autumn day towards evening old Tzybukin was sitting near the church gates, with the collar of his fur coat turned up and nothing of him could be seen but his nose and the peak of his cap. At the other end of the long bench sat Yelizarov the contractor, and beside him Yakov the school watchman, a toothless old man of seventy. Crutch and the watchman were talking.
"Children ought to give food and drink to the old. . . . Honor thy father and mother . . ." Yakov was saying with irritation, "while she, this woman, has turned her father-in-law out of his o^ house; the old man has neither food nor drink, where is he to go? He has not had a morsel these three days."
"Three days!" said Crutch, amazed.
"Here he sits and does not say a word. He has gro^ feeble. And why be silent? He ought to prosecute her, they wouldn't pat her on the back in court."
"Wouldn't pat whom on the back?" asked Crutch, not hearing.
"What?"
"The woman's all right, she does her best. In their line of business they can't get on without that . . . without sin, I mean. . . ."
"From his own house," Yakov went on with irritation. "Save up and buy your own house, then tum people out of it! She is a nice one, to be sure! A pla-ague!"
Tzybukin listened and did not stir.
"Whether it is your own house or others' it makes no diference so long as it is warm and the women don't scold . . ." said Crutch, and he laughed. "When I was young I was very fond of my Nastasya. She was a quiet woman. And she used to be always at it: 'Buy a house, Makarych! Buy a house, Makarych! Buy a horse, Ma- karych!' She was dying and yet she kept on saying, 'Buy yourself a racing droshky, Makarych, so that you don't have to walk.' And I bought her nothing but ginger- bread."
"Her husband's deaf and stupid," Yakov went on, not listening to Crutch; "a regular fool, just like a goose. He can't understand anything. Hit a goose on the head with a stick and even then it does not understand."
Crutch got up to go home. Yakov also got up, and both of them went off together, still talking. When they had gone fifty paces old Tzybukin got up, too, and walked after them, stepping uncertainly as though on slippery ice.
The village was already plunged in the dusk of eve- ning and the sun only gleamed on the upper part of the road which ran wriggling like a snake up the slope. Old women were coming back from the woods and children with them; they were bringing baskets of mushrooms. Peasant women and girls came in a crowd from the sta- tion where they had been loading the cars with bricks, and their noses and the skin under their eyes were cov- ered with red brick-dust. They were singing. Ahead of them all was Lipa, with her eyes turned towards the sky, she was singing in a high voice, breaking into trills as though exulting in the fact that at last the day was over and the time for rest had come. In the crowd walking with a bundle in her arms, breathless as usual, was her mother, Praskovya, who still went out to work by the day.
"Good evening, Makarych!" cried Lipa, seeing Crutch. "Good evening, dear!"
"Good evening, Lipinka," cried Crutch delighted. "Girls, women, love the rich carpenter! Ho-ho! My little children, my little children. (Crutch gave a sob.) My dear little hatchets!"
Crutch and Yakov went on farther and could still be heard talking. Then after them came old Tzybukin and there was a sudden hush in the crowd. Lipa and Pras- kovya had dropped a little behind, and when the old man was abreast of them Lipa bowed down low and said: "Good evening, Grigory Petrovich." Her mother, too, bowed. The old man stopped and, saying nothing, looked at the two; his lips were quiver- ing and his eyes full of tears. Lipa took out of her mother's bundle a piece of pie stuffed with buckwheat and gave it to him. He took it and began eating.
The sun had set by now: its glow died away on the upper part of the road too. It was getting dark and cool. Lipa and Praskovya walked on and for some time kept crossing themselves.
1900
PLAYS
The Boor
A JEST IN ONE ACT
Yelena Ivanovna Popova, a little widow with dim- pled cheeks, a landowner.
Grigory STEPANOVICH SMmNOv, a middle-aged gen- tleman farmer.
L^^, Mme. Popova's footman, an old man.
T
HE drawing room in Mme. Popova's manor house. Mme. Popova, in deep mourning, her eyes fixed on a photograph, and Luka.
L^^: It isn't right, madam. You're just killing your- self. The maid and the cook have gone berrying, every living thing rejoices, even the cat knows how to enjoy life and wanders through the courtyard catching birds, but you stay in the house as if it were a convent and take no pleasure at all. Yes, really! It's a whole year now, I figure, that you haven't left the house!
Mme. Popova: And I never will leave it . . . What for? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead.
L^^: There you go again! I oughtn't to listen to you, really. Nikolay Mihailovich is dead, well, there is nothing to do about it, it's the will of God; may the 514
kingdom of Heaven be his. You have grieved over it, and that's enough; there's a limit to everything. One can't cry and wear mourning forever. The time came when my old woman, too, died. Well? I grieved over it, I cried for a month, and that was enough for her, but to go on wailing all my life, why, the old woman isn't worth it. Sighs. You've forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you won't receive anyone. We live, excuse me, like spiders—we never see the light of day. The mice have eaten the livery. And it isn't as if there were no nice people around—the county is full of gentlemen. A regiment is quartered at Ryblov and every officer is a good-looker, you can't take your eyes off them. And every Friday there's a ball at the camp, and 'most every day the military band is playing. Eh, my dear lady, you're young and pretty, just peaches and cream, and you could lead a life of pleasure. Beauty doesn't last forever, you know. In ten years' time you'll find yourself wanting to strut like a pea-hen and dazzle the officers, but it will be too late.
Mme. Popova, resolutely: I beg you never to mention this to me again! You know that since Nikolay Mihail- ovich died, life has been worth nothing to me. You think that I am alive, but it only seems so to you! I vowed to myself that never to the day of my death would I take off my mourning or see the light. Do you hear me? Let his shade see how I love him! Yes, I know, it is no secret to you that he was often unjust to me, cruel, and . . . even unfaithful, but I shall be true to the end, and prove to him how I can love. There, in the other world, he will find me just the same as I was before he died . . •
L^^: Instead of talking like that, you ought to go and take a walk in the garden, or have Toby or Giant put in the shafts and drive out to pay calls on the neighbors.
Mme. Popova: Oh! Weeps.
LuKA: Madam! Dear madam! What's wrong? Bless you!
Mme. Popova: He was so fond of Toby! When he drove out to the Korchagins and the Vlasovs it was always with Toby. What a wonderful driver he was! How grace- ful he was, when he pulled at the reins with all his might! Do you remember? Toby, Toby! Tell them to give him an extra measure of oats today.
L^^.: Very well, madam. The doorbell rings sharply.