Then they spent a long time taking counsel together, they talked of how to avoid the necessity for secrecy, for deception, for living in different cities, and not seeing one another for long stretches of time. How could they free themselves from these intolerable fetters?
"How? How?" he asked, clutching his head. "How?"
And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found, and then a new and glorious life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that what was to be most complicated and difficult for them was only just beginning.
1899
At Christmas Time
7 HAT'LL I write?" asked Yegor, and dipped his pen in the ink.
Vasilisa had not seen her daughter for four years. After the wedding her daughter Yefimya had gone to Petersburg with her husband, sent two letters home, and then disappeared without leaving a trace. She was neither seen nor heard from. And whether the old woman was milking the cow at dawn, or lighting the stove, or dozing at night, she was always thinking of one thing: how was Yefimya getting on out there, was she alive at all? A letter should have gone off, but the old man did not know how to write, and there was no one to turn to.
But now it was Christmas time, and Vasilisa could bear it no longer, and went to the teahouse to see Yegor, the proprietor's brother-in-law, who had been staying there, doing nothing, ever since he came back from the army; it was said that he could write a fine letter if he were properly paid. At the teahouse Vasilisa had a talk with the cook, then with the proprietress, and then with Yegor himself. Fifteen kopecks was the price agreed on.
And now—this took place in the teahouse kitchen on the second day of the holidays—Yegor was sitting at the table, pen in hand. Vasilisa was standing before him, thoughtful, an expression of care and grief on her face. Pyotr, her husband, a tall, gaunt old man with a brown bald spot, had come with her; he stood staring fixedly ahead of him like a blind man. On the range a piece of pork was being fried in a saucepan; it sizzled and hissed, and seemed actually to be saying: "Flu-flu- flu." It was stifling.
"What'll I write?" Yegor asked again.
"What?" asked Vasilisa, looking at him angrily and suspiciously. "Don't rush me! You're not writing for nothing; you'll get money for it. Well, write: 'To our dear son-in-law, Andrey Hrisanfych, and to our only beloved daughter, Yefimya Petrovna, our love, a low bow, and our parental blessing enduring forever and ever.'"
"Done; keep going."
" 'And we also send wishes for a merry Christmas, we are alive and well, hoping you are the s^e, please God, the Heavenly King.' "
Vasilisa thought for a moment and exchanged glances with the old man.
" 'Hoping you are the same, please God, the Heav- enly King,' " she repeated, and burst into tears.
She could say nothing further. And yet before, when she had lain awake at night thinking of it, it had seemed to her that she could not get all she had to say into ten letters. Since the time when her daughter had gone away with her husband much water had flowed under the bridges, the old people had lived like orphans, and sighed heavily at night as though they had buried their daughter. And during all that time how many events had occurred in the village, how many wed^ngs and funerals! What long winters! What long nights!
"It's hot," said Yegor, unbuttoning his vest. "Must be a hundred and fifty degrees. What else?" he asked.
The old couple were silent.
"What does your son-in-law do there?" asked Yegor.
"He used to be a soldier, son, you know," the old man answered in a weak voice. "He came back from the service the same time you did. He used to be a soldier, and now, to be sure, he is in Petersburg at a hyderpathic establishment. The doctor treats sick people with water. So, he works as a doorman, to be sure, at the doctor's."
"It's written down here," said the old woman, taking a letter out of a kerchief. "We got it from Yefimya, goodness knows when. Maybe they're no longer in this world."
Yegor thought a little and then began writing rap- idly:
"At the present time," he wrote, "as your fate has of itself assined you to a Militery Carere, we advise you to look into the Statutes on Disiplinery Fines and Crimi- nal Laws of the War Department and you will discover in that Law the Sivelisation of the Officials of the War Department."
He was writing and reading aloud what he had writ- ten, while Vasilisa kept thinking that the letter should tell about how needy they had been the previous year, how the flour had not lasted even till Christmas, and they had had to sell the cow. She ought to ask for money, ought to say that the old man was often ailing and would soon no doubt give up his soul to God . . . but how to put it in words? What should be said first and what next?
"Observe," Yegor went on writing, "in volume five of Militery Regulashuns. Soldier is a common name and an honorable one. The Topmost General and the lowest Private is both called soldier . . ."
The old man moved his lips and said quietly:
"To have a look at the grandchildren, that wouldn't be bad."
'What grandchildren?" asked the old woman, and she gave him a cross look; "maybe there ain't any."
"Grandchildren? Maybe there are some. Who knows?"
"And thereby you can judge," Yegor hurried on, "what a Foreign enemy is and what an Internal enemy. Our foremost Internal Enemy is Bacchus."
The pen creaked, forming flourishes on the paper that looked like fish-hooks. Yegor wrote hurriedly, read- ing every line over several times. He sat on a stool, his feet spread wide apart under the table, a well-fed, lusty fellow, with a coarse snout and a red nape. He was vulgarity itself: coarse, arrogant, invincible, proud of having been born and bred in a teahouse; and Vasilisa knew perfectly well that here was vulgarity but she could not put it into words, and only looked at Yegor angrily and suspiciously. The sound of his voice and the incomprehensible words, the heat and the stuffiness, made her head ache and threw her thoughts into con- fusion, and she said nothing further, stopped thinking, and simply waited for him to cease scratching away. But the old man looked on with full confi.dence. He had faith in his old woman, who had brought him there, and in Yegor; and when he had mentioned the hydropathic establishment earlier it was clear from his expression that he had faith in the establishment and in the heal- ing virtues of water.
Having finished writing, Yegor got up, and read the entire letter from the beginning. The old man did not understand it, but he nodded his head trustfully.
"That's all right; it's smooth . . ." he said. "God give you health. That's all right . . ."
They laid three five-kopeck pieces on the table and went out of the teahouse; the old man stared fixedly before him as though he were blind, and his counte- nance showed perfect trustfulness; but as Vasilisa went out of the teahouse she made an angry pass at the dog, and said crossly:
438 the portable chekhov
"Ugh, the pest!"
The old woman, disturbed by her thoughts, did not sleep all night, and at daybreak she got up, said her prayers, and went to the station to send off the letter.
It was some seven miles to the station.
Dr. B. O. Moselweiser's hydropathic establishment was open on New Year's Day just as on ordinary days; but the doorman, Andrey Hrisanfych, wore a uniform with new braid, his boots had an extra polish, and he greeted every visitor with a "Happy New Year!"
Andrey Hrisanfych was standing at the door in the morning, reading the newspaper. Precisely at ten o'clock a general arrived, one of the regular patients, and di- rectly after him came the postman; Andrey Hrisanfych helped the general off with his overcoat and said:
"Happy New Year, Your Excellency!"