" 'Inform him? Go, make your report and be damned to you!'
"Kovalenko seized him from behind by the collar and gave him a shove, and Belikov rolled noisily do^stairs, rubbers and all. The staircase was high and steep, but he arrived at the bottom safely, got up, and felt his nose to see whether his spectacles were intact. But just as he was rolling do^ the stairs, Varenka came in, ac- companied by two ladies; they stood below, staring, and this was more dreadful to Belikov than anything else. I believe he would rather have broken his neck or both legs than have been an object of ridicule. Why, now the whole town would hear of it; it would come to the principal's ears, it would reach the Trustee. Oh, there was no telling what might come of it! There would be another caricature, and it would all end in his being ordered to retire from his post.
"When he got up, Varenka recognized him and, look- ing at his ludicrous face, his crumpled overcoat, and his rubbers, not grasping the situation and supposing
that he had fallen by accident, could not restrain herself
and burst into laughter that resounded throughout the
house:
" 'Ha-ha-ha!'
"And this reverberant, ringing 'Ha-ha-hal' put an end to everything: to the expected match and to Belikov's earthly existence. He did not hear what Varenka was saying; he saw nothing. On reaching home, the first thing he did was to remove Varenka's portrait from the table; then he went to bed, and he never got up again.
"Two or three days later Afanasy came to me and asked whether the doctor should not be sent for, as there was something wrong with his master. I went in to see Belikov. He lay silent behind the curtains, cov- ered with a quilt; when you questioned him, he an- swered 'yes' and 'no' and nothing more. He lay there while Afanasy, gloomy and scowling, hovered about him, sighing heavily and reeking of vodka like a tavern.
"A month later Belikov died. We all went to his funeral—that is, all connected with both high schools and with the theological seminary. Now when he was lying in his coffin his expression was mild, pleasant, even cheerful, as though he were glad that he had at last been put into a case that he would never leave again. Yes, he had attained his ideal! And as though in his honor, it was cloudy, rainy weather on the day of his funeral, and we all wore rubbers and carried umbrellas. Varenka, too, was at the funeral, and when the coffin was lowered into the grave, she dropped a tear. I have noticed that Ukrainian women always laugh or cry— there is no intermediate state for them.
"I confess, it is a great pleasure to bury people like Belikov. As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet Lenten faces; no one wanted to display this feeling of pleasure—a feeling like that we had ex- perienced long, long ago as children when the grown- ups had gone out and we ran about the garden for an hour or two, enjoying complete freedom. Ah, freedom, freedom! A mere hint, the faintest hope of its possibility, gives wings to the soul, isn't that true?
"We returned from the cemetery in good humor. But not more than a week had passed before life dropped into its old rut, and was as gloomy, tiresome, and stupid as before, the sort of life that is not explicitly forbidden, but on the other hand is not fully permitted; things were no better. And, indeed, though we had buried Belikov, how many such men in shells were left, how many more of them there will be!"
"That's the way it is," said Ivan Ivanych, and lit his
Pipe'
"How many more of them there will bel" repeated Burkin.
The high school teacher came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man, completely bald, with a black beard that nearly reached his waist; two dogs came out with him.
"What a moon!" he said, looking up.
It was already midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a long street stretching far away for some three miles. Everything was sunk in deep, silent slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe that nature could be so still. When on a moon- light night you see a wide village street, with its cot- tages, its haystacks, and its willows that have dropped off to sleep, a feeling of serenity comes over the soul; as it rests thus, hidden fiom toil, care, and sorrow by the nocturnal shadows, the street is gentle, sad, beauti- ful, and it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and tenderly, and as if there were no more evil on earth, and all were well. On the left, where the vil- lage ended, the open country began; the fields could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and there was no movement, no sound in that whole expanse drenched with moonlight.
"Yes, that's the way it is," repeated Ivan lvanych; "and isn't our living in the airless, crowded town, our writing useless papers, our playing vint—isn't all that a sort of shell for us? And this spending our lives among pettifogging, idle men and silly, unoccupied women, our talking and our listening to all sorts of poppycock— isn't that a shell, too? If you like, I wiU tell you a very instructive story."
"No; it's time to turn in," said Burkin. "Tomorrow's another day."
They went into the barn and lay do^ on the hay. And they were both covered up and had dozed off when suddenly there was the sound of light footsteps— tap, tap. Someone was walking near the barn, walking a little and stopping, and a minute later, tap, tap again. The dogs began to growl.
"That's Mavra," said Burkin.
The footsteps died away.
"To see and hear them lie," said Ivan lvanych, turn- ing over on the other side, "and to be called a fool for putting up with their lies; to endure insult and humili- ation, and not dare say openly that you are on the side of the honest and the free, and to lie and smile yourself, and all for the sake of a crust of bread, for the sake of a warm nook, for the sake of a mean, worthless rank in the service—no, one cannot go on living like that!"
"Come, now, that's a horse of another color, Ivan lvanych," said the teacher. "Let's go to sleep."
And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan
Ivanych kept sighing and turning from one side to the other; then he got up, went outside again, and seating himself near the door, lighted his pipe.
1898
Gooseberries
was a still day, not hot, but tedious, as it usually is when the weather is gray and dull, when clouds have been hanging over the fields for a long time, and you wait for the rain that does not come. Ivan Ivanych, a veterinary, and Burkin, a high school teacher, were al- ready tired with walking, and the plain seemed endless to them. Far ahead were the scarcely visible windmills of the village of Mironositzkoe; to the right lay a range of hills that disappeared in the distance beyond the vil- lage, and both of them knew that over there were the river, and fields, green willows, homesteads, and if you stood on one of the hills, you could see from there an- other vast plain, telegraph poles, and a train that from afar looked like a caterpillar crawling, and in clear weather you could even see the town. Now, when it was still and when nature seemed mild and pensive, Ivan Ivanych and Burkin were filled with love for this plain, and both of them thought what a beautiful land it was.
"Last time when we were in Elder Prokofy's barn," said Burkin, "you were going to tell me a story."
"Yes; I wanted to tell you about my brother."
HE sky had been overcast since early morning; it
Ivan Ivanych heaved a slow sigh and lit his pipe be- fore beginning his story, but just then it began to rain.
And five minutes later there was a downpour, and it was hard to tell when it would be over. The two men halted, at a loss; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them feelingly.