“…and being in a state of inebriation, slipped and fell under the horse of the cabby Ivan Drotov, a peasant from the village of Durykino, Yukhnovsky District. The frightened horse, having stepped over Kuldarov and dragged the sleigh over him, with Stepan Lukov, a Moscow merchant of the second guild, sitting in it, rushed off down the street and was stopped by the sweepers. Kuldarov, at first being in a state of unconsciousness, was taken to the police precinct and examined by a doctor. The blow which he had received on the back of the head…”
“I was hit by the shaft, Papa. Go on! Go on reading!”
“…which he had received on the back of the head, was classified as slight. The protocol of the incident was drawn up. The victim was given first aid…”
“They told me to put cold compresses on my head. So you’ve read it now? Eh? Really something! Now it’ll spread all over Russia! Give it here!”
Mitya grabbed the newspaper, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“I’ll run to the Makarovs and show them…I’ve also got to show it to the Ivanitskys, Natalya Ivanovna, Anisim Vassilyich…I’m off! Goodbye!”
Mitya put on a peaked cap with a cockade and, triumphant, joyful, dashed out of the house.
1883
FAT AND SKINNY
TWO FRIENDS ran into each other at the Nikolaevsky train station:1 one fat, the other skinny. The fat one had just had dinner in the station, and his butter-smeared lips glistened like ripe cherries. He smelled of sherry and fleur d’oranger. The skinny one had just gotten off a train and was loaded down with suitcases, bundles, and boxes. He smelled of ham and coffee grounds. From behind his back peeked a thin woman with a long chin—his wife—and a tall schoolboy with a screwed-up eye—his son.
“Porfiry!” exclaimed the fat one, seeing the skinny one. “Is it you? My dear fellow! Long time no see!”
“Good heavens!” the skinny one said in amazement. “Misha! My childhood friend! Where did you pop up from?”
The friends kissed three times and fixed their tear-filled eyes on each other. Both were pleasantly astonished.
“Dear friend!” the skinny one began after the kissing. “How unexpected! What a surprise! Let me have a good look at you! As handsome as ever! A dear soul and a dandy! Oh, Lord God! So, how are you? Rich? Married? I’m already married, as you can see…This is my wife, Louisa, born Wanzenbach…a Lutheran…And this is my son Nathaniel, a third-grader. Nathaniel, this is my childhood friend! We were in school together!”
Nathaniel pondered a little and took off his cap.
“In school together!” the skinny one went on. “Remember how they nicknamed you? They called you Herostratus, because you burned a schoolbook with a cigarette, and me Ephialtes, because I liked snitching.2 Ha-ha…We were kids! Don’t be afraid, Nathaniel. Come closer to us…And this is my wife, born Wanzenbach…a Lutheran.”
Nathaniel pondered a little and hid behind his father’s back.
“So, how’s life, my friend?” the fat one asked, gazing rapturously at his friend. “You’re in government service somewhere? Worked your way up?”
“That I have, my dear! Been a collegiate assessor for two years now and got myself a Stanislas.3 Poor salary…but never mind! My wife gives music lessons, I make wooden cigarette cases on the side. Excellent cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble apiece. Anybody who takes ten or more gets a discount, you see. We manage somehow. I used to work in headquarters, you know, but now I’ve been transferred here as chief clerk in the same department…I’ll be working here. Well, and what about you? Already a state councillor I’ll bet? Eh?”
“No, my dear, aim higher,” said the fat one. “I’m already a privy councillor…I’ve got two stars.”4
The skinny one suddenly turned pale, froze, but his face quickly spread in all directions into the broadest smile; sparks seemed to fly from his face and eyes. He himself shriveled, shrank, subsided…His suitcases, bundles, and boxes shriveled, cringed…His wife’s long chin grew longer; Nathaniel stood to attention and buttoned his school uniform…
“I, Your Excellency…Very pleased, sir! A friend, one might say, from childhood…suddenly turns out to be such a dignitary! Hee-hee, sir.”
“Enough, now!” The fat one winced. “Why this tone? You and I are friends from childhood—no need to go bowing to rank!”
“For pity’s sake…It’s not that, sir…” The skinny one started to giggle, shriveling still more. “Your Excellency’s gracious attention…like life-giving water…This, Your Excellency, is my son Nathaniel…my wife Louisa, a Lutheran, in some sense…”
The fat one was about to protest, but written on the skinny one’s face was such veneration, sweetness, and respectful twinging that the privy councillor felt sick. He turned away from the skinny one and gave him his hand in farewell.
The skinny one squeezed three fingers, bowed with his whole body, and giggled like a Chinaman: “Hee-hee-hee.” His wife smiled. Nathaniel bowed, scraped with his foot, and dropped his cap. All three were pleasantly astonished.
1883
AT THE POST OFFICE
A FEW DAYS AGO we buried the young wife of our old postmaster Sweetpepper. Having interred the beauty, we, following the custom of our forebears, went to the post office to “commemorate.”
As the blini1 were served, the old widower wept bitterly and said:
“These blini are as glowing as my late wife’s cheeks. Beauties just like her! Exactly!”
“Yes,” the commemorators agreed, “you had yourself a real beauty…A top-notch woman!”
“Yes, sir…Everybody was astonished looking at her…But I didn’t love her for her beauty, gentlemen, nor for her good nature. Those two qualities are inherent in all womankind and are quite often met with in the sublunary realm. I loved her for another quality of the soul. Namely, sirs: I loved my late wife—may she rest in peace—because, for all the pertness and playfulness of her character, she was faithful to her husband. She was faithful to me, though she was only twenty and I will soon hit sixty! She was faithful to me, old as I am!”
The deacon, sharing the communal meal with us, grunted and coughed eloquently to express his doubts.
“So you don’t believe it?” The widower turned to him.
“It’s not that I don’t believe it”—the deacon became embarrassed—“it’s just…young wives these days are much too…rendevous, sauce provençale…”
“You doubt it, but I’ll prove it to you, sir! I kept her faithful by various means of a strategic sort, so to speak, something like fortifications. With my behavior and my cunning character, there was no way she could betray me. I used cunning to protect my marital bed. I know certain words, a sort of password. I say these same words and—basta, I can sleep peacefully as regards her faithfulness.”
“What are those words?”
“Simple as could be. I spread a wicked rumor around town. This rumor is well known to you. I told everybody: ‘My wife Alyona is cohabiting with our police chief, Ivan Alexeich Swashbuckle.’ These words were enough. Not a single man dared to court Alyona, for fear of the police chief’s wrath. It used to be they’d just run away at the sight of her, so that Swashbuckle wouldn’t get any ideas. Heh, heh, heh. Once you got mixed up with that mustachioed idol, you’d really regret it, he could slap five fines on you over sanitary conditions. For instance, he’d see your cat on the street and slap a fine on you as if it was a stray cow.”
“So that means your wife didn’t live with Ivan Alexeich?” we all drawled in surprise.
“No, that was my cunning…Heh, heh…So I really hoodwinked you, eh, boys? Well, there you have it.”
Three minutes passed in silence. We sat and said nothing, feeling offended and ashamed that this fat, red-nosed old man had led us on so cunningly.