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    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)
    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)
    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)
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    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)

    By Anton Chekhov

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    About this ebook

    Anton Chekhov, who is often credited with inventing the modern short story, wrote many volumes worth of stories during his lifetime. Considered by many as one of the greatest short story writers of all time, Chekhov’s extraordinary storytelling gift is exemplified in this volume of twenty-three of his most popular stories. “Ward No. 6 and Other Stories” includes the following stories: “The Cook’s Wedding”, “The Witch”, “A Dead Body”, “Easter Eve”, “On the Road”, “The Dependents”, “Grisha”, “The Kiss”, “Typhus”, “The Pipe”, “The Princess”, “Neighbours”, “The Grasshopper”, “In Exile”, “Ward No. 6”, “Rothschild’s Fiddle”, “The Student”, “The Darling”, “A Doctor’s Visit”, “Gooseberries”, “The Lady with the Dog”, “In the Ravine”, and “The Bishop”. This edition follows the translations of Constance Garnett.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateDec 26, 2017
    ISBN9781420956788
    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)
    Author

    Anton Chekhov

    Anton Chekhov is one of Russia’s most highly regarded dramatists and short-story writers. Most famous for his plays The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, The Seagull, and Three Sisters, he also penned a remarkable number of short pieces, and his work has enjoyed considerable success both in Russia and beyond. Acclaimed by twentieth-century writers such as Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, and Samuel Beckett, Chekhov’s writing continues to have a profound influence on writers of all nationalities.

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    Reviews for Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett)

    4.5/5

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    • 5/5
      A sublime novella. Wrought like a brilliant miniature, it is a radiant reflection on human nature and the human condition. Chekhov gives us a beautiful definition of compassion, and what it means when it is absent. It is impossible to read it without crying.
    • 4/5
      Chekhov really doesn't bother himself with things like plot but he's the master of description. His language is just beautiful and he is able to set a mood so perfectly. My favorite stories from this collection are "Ward No. 6" and "The Lady With The Dog".
    • 4/5
      Wonderful, of course. Read a number of these, but not all of them. Will revisit eventually.
    • 5/5
      A novella that probes the fluid barrier between the” sane” and “insane”, the story takes place in Russia during the 19th century at an asylum rampant with patient abuse and disregard; primarily at the hands of its chief orderly Nikita. One of my favorite novellas, it contemplates the nature of sanity. Not only that, but if you are to humanely grant legitimacy to the ideas of those labeled “insane”, does that make you also “insane” in the eyes of society? In the story this conundrum lies with a doctor that does just that, personally pondering the philosophy of a patient (Ivan Dmitrich)—spending many hours with the man. The doctor (Andrew Ephimich) risks his own “sanity” to grant a patient—whom he finds brilliant—humaneness and sincere social discourse.I found this book to be enlightening in regards to mental illness from the side of those that treat the infirm. Although this story takes place during a time when methods were barbaric, the general principle is something for modern medical students to ponder: is emotional distance and solely analytical interaction the most beneficial method of treatment? This book also touches on the idea that hospitalization is often only used as a form of social control; that is to say that a person is hospitalized when their own eccentricities are viewed as upsetting, not dangerous or illegal, to the social order. This takes a more aggravated role, given the setting of authoritarian government and strict social structure, but is an axiom (hospitalization as arbitrary incapacitation) that I feel deserves some thought.The Characters in this novella are well developed given its brevity and the plot is simple and well defined (simple is not a pejorative). The writing is concise and descriptive to the point of almost being tangible and its message can be applied to contemporary life. It is a fluid read without many esoteric words, although there are a few Russian nouns that weren’t translatable. It is difficult for me to find fault in much of this novella, although I found the ending to be without resolution and halted abruptly. There were a few ancillary characters that joined the story without much explanation and their presence may have been unnecessary. Other than these few negative aspects, the work was truly original and insightful. I’ve seen no movie or read any book that touches on some of the issues in this work.
    • 5/5
      GO READ THIS.stories happen between their latitudes. thought envoking.
    • 5/5
      This is collection of short stories about doctors, academics, intellectuals, and the other characters with which they interact. The stories all have some kind of melancholy about them, either due to the ennui, infatuations, or quotidian boredom that the characters experience. While much of literature avoids describing this as its main purpose due to the fact that it is difficult to write well about, Chekhov turns the tragedy of the mundane into the aesthetic - perhaps inspiring the philosophy that Camus instructs in his Myth of Sisyphus, as a way of dealing with life. But these stories are also tempered by a palpable joy in places, and are worth reading alone for the heavy and convincing atmosphere of historical Russia.These stories are likely to appeal far more to those who can identify with the characters, and probably to a greater degree than is usual.
    • 3/5
      How can I compose a review about a writer who is considered one of history’s greatest literary phenomenons? I don’t know. All I can say is how as a person in the 21st century reading his works today feels. Underwhelmed is probably correct but I feel too guilty saying that. Let me just declare that his story Ward No. 6 is a fantastic and erudite tale which captures a grim and horrific snapshot of Russian life and times. Chekhov’s ability to capture the common and the mundane is truly magnificent…in this story. The others I could leave.
    • 4/5
      I picked this up because I hadn't really read any Russian literature prior to this. (I feel my reading habits have been much biased toward American and British literature and occasionally I try to rectify this.) Chekov sounded promising to me as a start. It's hard to review an entire collection of short stories like this because some stories I enjoyed much more than others. Chekov is incredible writer with very evocative language. My only issue with this collection is my usual issue with short stories -- I always feel like they end too suddenly for my liking and I'm left wanting more.

    Book preview

    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories (Translated by Constance Garnett) - Anton Chekhov

    cover.jpg

    WARD NO. 6

    AND OTHER STORIES

    By ANTON CHEKHOV

    Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT

    Ward No. 6 and Other Stories

    By Anton Chekhov

    Translated By Constance Garnett

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5677-1

    eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5678-8

    This edition copyright © 2017. Digireads.com Publishing.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

    Cover Image: a detail of The Madhouse, c. 1865, by Telemaco Signorini (1836-1901) / Museo d’Arte Moderna di Ca’ Pesaro, Venice, Italy / Bridgeman Images.

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    THE COOK’S WEDDING

    THE WITCH

    A DEAD BODY

    EASTER EVE

    ON THE ROAD

    THE DEPENDENTS

    GRISHA

    THE KISS

    TYPHUS

    THE PIPE

    THE PRINCESS

    NEIGHBOURS

    THE GRASSHOPPER

    IN EXILE

    WARD NO. 6

    ROTHSCHILD’S FIDDLE

    THE STUDENT

    THE DARLING

    A DOCTOR’S VISIT

    GOOSEBERRIES

    THE LADY WITH THE DOG

    IN THE RAVINE

    THE BISHOP

    BIOGRAPHICAL AFTERWORD

    The Cook’s Wedding

    Grisha, a fat, solemn little person of seven, was standing by the kitchen door listening and peeping through the keyhole. In the kitchen something extraordinary, and in his opinion never seen before, was taking place. A big, thick-set, red-haired peasant, with a beard, and a drop of perspiration on his nose, wearing a cabman’s full coat, was sitting at the kitchen table on which they chopped the meat and sliced the onions. He was balancing a saucer on the five fingers of his right hand and drinking tea out of it, and crunching sugar so loudly that it sent a shiver down Grisha’s back. Aksinya Stepanovna, the old nurse, was sitting on the dirty stool facing him, and she, too, was drinking tea. Her face was grave, though at the same time it beamed with a kind of triumph. Pelageya, the cook, was busy at the stove, and was apparently trying to hide her face. And on her face Grisha saw a regular illumination: it was burning and shifting through every shade of colour, beginning with a crimson purple and ending with a deathly white. She was continually catching hold of knives, forks, bits of wood, and rags with trembling hands, moving, grumbling to herself, making a clatter, but in reality doing nothing. She did not once glance at the table at which they were drinking tea, and to the questions put to her by the nurse she gave jerky, sullen answers without turning her face.

    Help yourself, Danilo Semyonitch, the nurse urged him hospitably. Why do you keep on with tea and nothing but tea? You should have a drop of vodka!

    And nurse put before the visitor a bottle of vodka and a wine-glass, while her face wore a very wily expression.

    I never touch it.... No... said the cabman, declining. Don’t press me, Aksinya Stepanovna.

    What a man!... A cabman and not drink!... A bachelor can’t get on without drinking. Help yourself!

    The cabman looked askance at the bottle, then at nurse’s wily face, and his own face assumed an expression no less cunning, as much as to say, You won’t catch me, you old witch!

    I don’t drink; please excuse me. Such a weakness does not do in our calling. A man who works at a trade may drink, for he sits at home, but we cabmen are always in view of the public. Aren’t we? If one goes into a pothouse one finds one’s horse gone; if one takes a drop too much it is worse still; before you know where you are you will fall asleep or slip off the box. That’s where it is.

    And how much do you make a day, Danilo Semyonitch?

    That’s according. One day you will have a fare for three roubles, and another day you will come back to the yard without a farthing. The days are very different. Nowadays our business is no good. There are lots and lots of cabmen as you know, hay is dear, and folks are paltry nowadays and always contriving to go by tram. And yet, thank God, I have nothing to complain of. I have plenty to eat and good clothes to wear, and... we could even provide well for another... (the cabman stole a glance at Pelageya) if it were to their liking....

    Grisha did not hear what was said further. His mamma came to the door and sent him to the nursery to learn his lessons.

    Go and learn your lesson. It’s not your business to listen here!

    When Grisha reached the nursery, he put My Own Book in front of him, but he did not get on with his reading. All that he had just seen and heard aroused a multitude of questions in his mind.

    The cook’s going to be married, he thought. Strange—I don’t understand what people get married for. Mamma was married to papa, Cousin Verotchka to Pavel Andreyitch. But one might be married to papa and Pavel Andreyitch after all: they have gold watch-chains and nice suits, their boots are always polished; but to marry that dreadful cabman with a red nose and felt boots.... Fi! And why is it nurse wants poor Pelageya to be married?

    When the visitor had gone out of the kitchen, Pelageya appeared and began clearing away. Her agitation still persisted. Her face was red and looked scared. She scarcely touched the floor with the broom, and swept every corner five times over. She lingered for a long time in the room where mamma was sitting. She was evidently oppressed by her isolation, and she was longing to express herself, to share her impressions with some one, to open her heart.

    He’s gone, she muttered, seeing that mamma would not begin the conversation.

    One can see he is a good man, said mamma, not taking her eyes off her sewing. Sober and steady.

    I declare I won’t marry him, mistress! Pelageya cried suddenly, flushing crimson. I declare I won’t!

    Don’t be silly; you are not a child. It’s a serious step; you must think it over thoroughly, it’s no use talking nonsense. Do you like him?

    What an idea, mistress! cried Pelageya, abashed. They say such things that... my goodness....

    She should say she doesn’t like him! thought Grisha.

    What an affected creature you are.... Do you like him?

    But he is old, mistress!

    Think of something else, nurse flew out at her from the next room. He has not reached his fortieth year; and what do you want a young man for? Handsome is as handsome does.... Marry him and that’s all about it!

    I swear I won’t, squealed Pelageya.

    You are talking nonsense. What sort of rascal do you want? Anyone else would have bowed down to his feet, and you declare you won’t marry him. You want to be always winking at the postmen and tutors. That tutor that used to come to Grishenka, mistress... she was never tired of making eyes at him. O—o, the shameless hussy!

    Have you seen this Danilo before? mamma asked Pelageya.

    How could I have seen him? I set eyes on him to-day for the first time. Aksinya picked him up and brought him along... the accursed devil.... And where has he come from for my undoing!

    At dinner, when Pelageya was handing the dishes, everyone looked into her face and teased her about the cabman. She turned fearfully red, and went off into a forced giggle.

    It must be shameful to get married, thought Grisha. Terribly shameful.

    All the dishes were too salt, and blood oozed from the half-raw chickens, and, to cap it all, plates and knives kept dropping out of Pelageya’s hands during dinner, as though from a shelf that had given way; but no one said a word of blame to her, as they all understood the state of her feelings. Only once papa flicked his table-napkin angrily and said to mamma:

    What do you want to be getting them all married for? What business is it of yours? Let them get married of themselves if they want to.

    After dinner, neighbouring cooks and maidservants kept flitting into the kitchen, and there was the sound of whispering till late evening. How they had scented out the matchmaking, God knows. When Grisha woke in the night he heard his nurse and the cook whispering together in the nursery. Nurse was talking persuasively, while the cook alternately sobbed and giggled. When he fell asleep after this, Grisha dreamed of Pelageya being carried off by Tchernomor and a witch.

    Next day there was a calm. The life of the kitchen went on its accustomed way as though the cabman did not exist. Only from time to time nurse put on her new shawl, assumed a solemn and austere air, and went off somewhere for an hour or two, obviously to conduct negotiations.... Pelageya did not see the cabman, and when his name was mentioned she flushed up and cried:

    May he be thrice damned! As though I should be thinking of him! Tfoo!

    In the evening mamma went into the kitchen, while nurse and Pelageya were zealously mincing something, and said:

    You can marry him, of course—that’s your business—but I must tell you, Pelageya, that he cannot live here.... You know I don’t like to have anyone sitting in the kitchen. Mind now, remember.... And I can’t let you sleep out.

    Goodness knows! What an idea, mistress! shrieked the cook. Why do you keep throwing him up at me? Plague take him! He’s a regular curse, confound him!...

    Glancing one Sunday morning into the kitchen, Grisha was struck dumb with amazement. The kitchen was crammed full of people. Here were cooks from the whole courtyard, the porter, two policemen, a non-commissioned officer with good-conduct stripes, and the boy Filka.... This Filka was generally hanging about the laundry playing with the dogs; now he was combed and washed, and was holding an ikon in a tinfoil setting. Pelageya was standing in the middle of the kitchen in a new cotton dress, with a flower on her head. Beside her stood the cabman. The happy pair were red in the face and perspiring and blinking with embarrassment.

    Well... I fancy it is time, said the non-commissioned officer, after a prolonged silence.

    Pelageya’s face worked all over and she began blubbering....

    The soldier took a big loaf from the table, stood beside nurse, and began blessing the couple. The cabman went up to the soldier, flopped down on his knees, and gave a smacking kiss on his hand. He did the same before nurse. Pelageya followed him mechanically, and she too bowed down to the ground. At last the outer door was opened, there was a whiff of white mist, and the whole party flocked noisily out of the kitchen into the yard.

    Poor thing, poor thing, thought Grisha, hearing the sobs of the cook. Where have they taken her? Why don’t papa and mamma protect her?

    After the wedding there was singing and concertina-playing in the laundry till late evening. Mamma was cross all the evening because nurse smelt of vodka, and owing to the wedding there was no one to heat the samovar. Pelageya had not come back by the time Grisha went to bed.

    The poor thing is crying somewhere in the dark! he thought. While the cabman is saying to her ‘shut up!’

    Next morning the cook was in the kitchen again. The cabman came in for a minute. He thanked mamma, and glancing sternly at Pelageya, said:

    Will you look after her, madam? Be a father and a mother to her. And you, too, Aksinya Stepanovna, do not forsake her, see that everything is as it should be... without any nonsense.... And also, madam, if you would kindly advance me five roubles of her wages. I have got to buy a new horse-collar.

    Again a problem for Grisha: Pelageya was living in freedom, doing as she liked, and not having to account to anyone for her actions, and all at once, for no sort of reason, a stranger turns up, who has somehow acquired rights over her conduct and her property! Grisha was distressed. He longed passionately, almost to tears, to comfort this victim, as he supposed, of man’s injustice. Picking out the very biggest apple in the storeroom he stole into the kitchen, slipped it into Pelageya’s hand, and darted headlong away.

    The Witch

    It was approaching nightfall. The sexton, Savély Gykin, was lying in his huge bed in the hut adjoining the church. He was not asleep, though it was his habit to go to sleep at the same time as the hens. His coarse red hair peeped from under one end of the greasy patchwork quilt, made up of coloured rags, while his big unwashed feet stuck out from the other. He was listening. His hut adjoined the wall that encircled the church and the solitary window in it looked out upon the open country. And out there a regular battle was going on. It was hard to say who was being wiped off the face of the earth, and for the sake of whose destruction nature was being churned up into such a ferment; but, judging from the unceasing malignant roar, someone was getting it very hot. A victorious force was in full chase over the fields, storming in the forest and on the church roof, battering spitefully with its fists upon the windows, raging and tearing, while something vanquished was howling and wailing.... A plaintive lament sobbed at the window, on the roof, or in the stove. It sounded not like a call for help, but like a cry of misery, a consciousness that it was too late, that there was no salvation. The snowdrifts were covered with a thin coating of ice; tears quivered on them and on the trees; a dark slush of mud and melting snow flowed along the roads and paths. In short, it was thawing, but through the dark night the heavens failed to see it, and flung flakes of fresh snow upon the melting earth at a terrific rate. And the wind staggered like a drunkard. It would not let the snow settle on the ground, and whirled it round in the darkness at random.

    Savély listened to all this din and frowned. The fact was that he knew, or at any rate suspected, what all this racket outside the window was tending to and whose handiwork it was.

    I know! he muttered, shaking his finger menacingly under the bedclothes; I know all about it.

    On a stool by the window sat the sexton’s wife, Raïssa Nilovna. A tin lamp standing on another stool, as though timid and distrustful of its powers, shed a dim and flickering light on her broad shoulders, on the handsome, tempting-looking contours of her person, and on her thick plait, which reached to the floor. She was making sacks out of coarse hempen stuff. Her hands moved nimbly, while her whole body, her eyes, her eyebrows, her full lips, her white neck were as still as though they were asleep, absorbed in the monotonous, mechanical toil. Only from time to time she raised her head to rest her weary neck, glanced for a moment towards the window, beyond which the snowstorm was raging, and bent again over her sacking. No desire, no joy, no grief, nothing was expressed by her handsome face with its turned-up nose and its dimples. So a beautiful fountain expresses nothing when it is not playing.

    But at last she had finished a sack. She flung it aside, and, stretching luxuriously, rested her motionless, lack-lustre eyes on the window. The panes were swimming with drops like tears, and white with short-lived snowflakes which fell on the window, glanced at Raïssa, and melted....

    Come to bed! growled the sexton. Raïssa remained mute. But suddenly her eyelashes flickered and there was a gleam of attention in her eye. Savély, all the time watching her expression from under the quilt, put out his head and asked:

    What is it?

    Nothing.... I fancy someone’s coming, she answered quietly.

    The sexton flung the quilt off with his arms and legs, knelt up in bed, and looked blankly at his wife. The timid light of the lamp illuminated his hirsute, pock-marked countenance and glided over his rough matted hair.

    Do you hear? asked his wife.

    Through the monotonous roar of the storm he caught a scarcely audible thin and jingling monotone like the shrill note of a gnat when it wants to settle on one’s cheek and is angry at being prevented.

    It’s the post, muttered Savély, squatting on his heels.

    Two miles from the church ran the posting road. In windy weather, when the wind was blowing from the road to the church, the inmates of the hut caught the sound of bells.

    Lord! fancy people wanting to drive about in such weather, sighed Raïssa.

    It’s government work. You’ve to go whether you like or not.

    The murmur hung in the air and died away.

    It has driven by, said Savély, getting into bed.

    But before he had time to cover himself up with the bedclothes he heard a distinct sound of the bell. The sexton looked anxiously at his wife, leapt out of bed and walked, waddling, to and fro by the stove. The bell went on ringing for a little, then died away again as though it had ceased.

    I don’t hear it, said the sexton, stopping and looking at his wife with his eyes screwed up.

    But at that moment the wind rapped on the window and with it floated a shrill jingling note. Savély turned pale, cleared his throat, and flopped about the floor with his bare feet again.

    The postman is lost in the storm, he wheezed out glancing malignantly at his wife. Do you hear? The postman has lost his way!... I... I know! Do you suppose I... don’t understand? he muttered. I know all about it, curse you!

    What do you know? Raïssa asked quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the window.

    I know that it’s all your doing, you she-devil! Your doing, damn you! This snowstorm and the post going wrong, you’ve done it all—you!

    You’re mad, you silly, his wife answered calmly.

    I’ve been watching you for a long time past and I’ve seen it. From the first day I married you I noticed that you’d bitch’s blood in you!

    Tfoo! said Raïssa, surprised, shrugging her shoulders and crossing herself. Cross yourself, you fool!

    A witch is a witch, Savély pronounced in a hollow, tearful voice, hurriedly blowing his nose on the hem of his shirt; though you are my wife, though you are of a clerical family, I’d say what you are even at confession.... Why, God have mercy upon us! Last year on the Eve of the Prophet Daniel and the Three Young Men there was a snowstorm, and what happened then? The mechanic came in to warm himself. Then on St. Alexey’s Day the ice broke on the river and the district policeman turned up, and he was chatting with you all night... the damned brute! And when he came out in the morning and I looked at him, he had rings under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow! Eh? During the August fast there were two storms and each time the huntsman turned up. I saw it all, damn him! Oh, she is redder than a crab now, aha!

    You didn’t see anything.

    Didn’t I! And this winter before Christmas on the Day of the Ten Martyrs of Crete, when the storm lasted for a whole day and night—do you remember?—the marshal’s clerk was lost, and turned up here, the hound.... Tfoo! To be tempted by the clerk! It was worth upsetting God’s weather for him! A drivelling scribbler, not a foot from the ground, pimples all over his mug and his neck awry! If he were good-looking, anyway—but he, tfoo! he is as ugly as Satan!

    The sexton took breath, wiped his lips and listened. The bell was not to be heard, but the wind banged on the roof, and again there came a tinkle in the darkness.

    And it’s the same thing now! Savély went on. It’s not for nothing the postman is lost! Blast my eyes if the postman isn’t looking for you! Oh, the devil is a good hand at his work; he is a fine one to help! He will turn him round and round and bring him here. I know, I see! You can’t conceal it, you devil’s bauble, you heathen wanton! As soon as the storm began I knew what you were up to.

    Here’s a fool! smiled his wife. Why, do you suppose, you thick-head, that I make the storm?

    H’m!... Grin away! Whether it’s your doing or not, I only know that when your blood’s on fire there’s sure to be bad weather, and when there’s bad weather there’s bound to be some crazy fellow turning up here. It happens so every time! So it must be you!

    To be more impressive the sexton put his finger to his forehead, closed his left eye, and said in a sing-song voice:

    Oh, the madness! oh, the unclean Judas! If you really are a human being and not a witch, you ought to think what if he is not the mechanic, or the clerk, or the huntsman, but the devil in their form! Ah! You’d better think of that!

    Why, you are stupid, Savély, said his wife, looking at him compassionately. When father was alive and living here, all sorts of people used to come to him to be cured of the ague: from the village, and the hamlets, and the Armenian settlement. They came almost every day, and no one called them devils. But if anyone once a year comes in bad weather to warm himself, you wonder at it, you silly, and take all sorts of notions into your head at once.

    His wife’s logic touched Savély. He stood with his bare feet wide apart, bent his head, and pondered. He was not firmly convinced yet of the truth of his suspicions, and his wife’s genuine and unconcerned tone quite disconcerted him. Yet after a moment’s thought he wagged his head and said:

    It’s not as though they were old men or bandy-legged cripples; it’s always young men who want to come for the night.... Why is that? And if they only wanted to warm themselves——But they are up to mischief. No, woman; there’s no creature in this world as cunning as your female sort! Of real brains you’ve not an ounce, less than a starling, but for devilish slyness—oo-oo-oo! The Queen of Heaven protect us! There is the postman’s bell! When the storm was only beginning I knew all that was in your mind. That’s your witchery, you spider!

    Why do you keep on at me, you heathen? His wife lost her patience at last. Why do you keep sticking to it like pitch?

    I stick to it because if anything—God forbid—happens to-night... do you hear?... if anything happens to-night, I’ll go straight off to-morrow morning to Father Nikodim and tell him all about it. ‘Father Nikodim,’ I shall say, ‘graciously excuse me, but she is a witch.’ ‘Why so?’ ‘H’m! do you want to know why?’ ‘Certainly...’ And I shall tell him. And woe to you, woman! Not only at the dread Seat of Judgment, but in your earthly life you’ll be punished, too! It’s not for nothing there are prayers in the breviary against your kind!

    Suddenly there was a knock at the window, so loud and unusual that Savély turned pale and almost dropped backwards with fright. His wife jumped up, and she, too, turned pale.

    For God’s sake, let us come in and get warm! they heard in a trembling deep bass. Who lives here? For mercy’s sake! We’ve lost our way.

    Who are you? asked Raïssa, afraid to look at the window.

    The post, answered a second voice.

    You’ve succeeded with your devil’s tricks, said Savély with a wave of his hand. No mistake; I am right! Well, you’d better look out!

    The sexton jumped on to the bed in two skips, stretched himself on the feather mattress, and sniffing angrily, turned with his face to the wall. Soon he felt a draught of cold air on his back. The door creaked and the tall figure of a man, plastered over with snow from head to foot, appeared in the doorway. Behind him could be seen a second figure as white.

    Am I to bring in the bags? asked the second in a hoarse bass voice.

    You can’t leave them there. Saying this, the first figure began untying his hood, but gave it up, and pulling it off impatiently with his cap, angrily flung it near the stove. Then taking off his greatcoat, he threw that down beside it, and, without saying good-evening, began pacing up and down the hut.

    He was a fair-haired, young postman wearing a shabby uniform and black rusty-looking high boots. After warming himself by walking to and fro, he sat down at the table, stretched out his muddy feet towards the sacks and leaned his chin on his fist. His pale face, reddened in places by the cold, still bore vivid traces of the pain and terror he had just been through. Though distorted by anger and bearing traces of recent suffering, physical and moral, it was handsome in spite of the melting snow on the eyebrows, moustaches, and short beard.

    It’s a dog’s life! muttered the postman, looking round the walls and seeming hardly able to believe that he was in the warmth. We were nearly lost! If it had not been for your light, I don’t know what would have happened. Goodness only knows when it will all be over! There’s no end to this dog’s life! Where have we come? he asked, dropping his voice and raising his eyes to the sexton’s wife.

    To the Gulyaevsky Hill on General Kalinovsky’s estate, she answered, startled and blushing.

    Do you hear, Stepan? The postman turned to the driver, who was wedged in the doorway with a huge mail-bag on his shoulders. We’ve got to Gulyaevsky Hill.

    Yes... we’re a long way out. Jerking out these words like a hoarse sigh, the driver went out and soon after returned with another bag, then went out once more and this time brought the postman’s sword on a big belt, of the pattern of that long flat blade with which Judith is portrayed by the bedside of Holofernes in cheap woodcuts. Laying the bags along the wall, he went out into the outer room, sat down there and lighted his pipe.

    Perhaps you’d like some tea after your journey? Raïssa inquired.

    How can we sit drinking tea? said the postman, frowning. We must make haste and get warm, and then set off, or we shall be late for the mail train. We’ll stay ten minutes and then get on our way. Only be so good as to show us the way.

    What an infliction it is, this weather! sighed Raïssa.

    H’m, yes.... Who may you be?

    We? We live here, by the church.... We belong to the clergy.... There lies my husband. Savély, get up and say good-evening! This used to be a separate parish till eighteen months ago. Of course, when the gentry lived here there were more people, and it was worth while to have the services. But now the gentry have gone, and I need not tell you there’s nothing for the clergy to live on. The nearest village is Markovka, and that’s over three miles away. Savély is on the retired list now, and has got the watchman’s job; he has to look after the church....

    And the postman was immediately informed that if Savély were to go to the General’s lady and ask her for a letter to the bishop, he would be given a good berth. But he doesn’t go to the General’s lady because he is lazy and afraid of people. We belong to the clergy all the same... added Raïssa.

    What do you live on? asked the postman.

    There’s a kitchen garden and a meadow belonging to the church. Only we don’t get much from that, sighed Raïssa. The old skinflint, Father Nikodim, from the next village celebrates here on St. Nicolas’ Day in the winter and on St. Nicolas’ Day in the summer, and for that he takes almost all the crops for himself. There’s no one to stick up for us!

    You are lying, Savély growled hoarsely. Father Nikodim is a saintly soul, a luminary of the Church; and if he does take it, it’s the regulation!

    You’ve a cross one! said the postman, with a grin. Have you been married long?

    It was three years ago the last Sunday before Lent. My father was sexton here in the old days, and when the time came for him to die, he went to the Consistory and asked them to send some unmarried man to marry me that I might keep the place. So I married him.

    Aha, so you killed two birds with one stone! said the postman, looking at Savély’s back. Got wife and job together.

    Savély wriggled his leg impatiently and moved closer to the wall. The postman moved away from the table, stretched, and sat down on the mail-bag. After a moment’s thought he squeezed the bags with his hands, shifted his sword to the other side, and lay down with one foot touching the floor.

    It’s a dog’s life, he muttered, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. I wouldn’t wish a wild Tatar such a life.

    Soon everything was still. Nothing was audible except the sniffing of Savély and the slow, even breathing of the sleeping postman, who uttered a deep prolonged h-h-h at every breath. From time to time there was a sound like a creaking wheel in his throat, and his twitching foot rustled against the bag.

    Savély fidgeted under the quilt and looked round slowly. His wife was sitting on the stool, and with her hands pressed against her cheeks was gazing at the postman’s face. Her face was immovable, like the face of some one frightened and astonished.

    Well, what are you gaping at? Savély whispered angrily.

    What is it to you? Lie down! answered his wife without taking her eyes off the flaxen head.

    Savély angrily puffed all the air out of his chest and turned abruptly to the wall. Three minutes later he turned over restlessly again, knelt up on the bed, and with his hands on the pillow looked askance at his wife. She was still sitting motionless, staring at the visitor. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes were glowing with a strange fire. The sexton cleared his throat, crawled on his stomach off the bed, and going up to the postman, put a handkerchief over his face.

    What’s that for? asked his wife.

    To keep the light out of his eyes.

    Then put out the light!

    Savély looked distrustfully at his wife, put out his lips towards the lamp, but at once thought better of it and clasped his hands.

    Isn’t that devilish cunning? he exclaimed. Ah! Is there any creature slyer than women-kind?

    Ah, you long-skirted devil! hissed his wife, frowning with vexation. You wait a bit!

    And settling herself more comfortably, she stared at the postman again.

    It did not matter to her that his face was covered. She was not so much interested in his face as in his whole appearance, in the novelty of this man. His chest was broad and powerful, his hands were slender and well formed, and his graceful, muscular legs were much comelier than Savély’s stumps. There could be no comparison, in fact.

    Though I am a long-skirted devil, Savély said after a brief interval, they’ve no business to sleep here.... It’s government work; we shall have to answer for keeping them. If you carry the letters, carry them, you can’t go to sleep.... Hey! you! Savély shouted into the outer room. You, driver. What’s your name? Shall I show you the way? Get up; postmen mustn’t sleep!

    And Savély, thoroughly roused, ran up to the postman and tugged him by the sleeve.

    Hey, your honour, if you must go, go; and if you don’t, it’s not the thing.... Sleeping won’t do.

    The postman jumped up, sat down, looked with blank eyes round the hut, and lay down again.

    But when are you going? Savély pattered away. That’s what the post is for—to get there in good time, do you hear? I’ll take you.

    The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and relaxed by his first sweet sleep, and not yet quite awake, he saw as through a mist the white neck and the immovable, alluring eyes of the sexton’s wife. He closed his eyes and smiled as though he had been dreaming it all.

    Come, how can you go in such weather! he heard a soft feminine voice; you ought to have a sound sleep and it would do you good!

    And what about the post? said Savély anxiously. Who’s going to take the post? Are you going to take it, pray, you?

    The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the play of the dimples on Raïssa’s face, remembered where he was, and understood Savély. The thought that he had to go out into the cold darkness sent a chill shudder all down him, and he winced.

    I might sleep another five minutes, he said, yawning. I shall be late, anyway....

    We might be just in time, came a voice from the outer room. All days are not alike; the train may be late for a bit of luck.

    The postman got up, and stretching lazily began putting on his coat.

    Savély positively neighed with delight when he saw his visitors were getting ready to go.

    Give us a hand, the driver shouted to him as he lifted up a mail-bag.

    The sexton ran out and helped him drag the post-bags into the yard. The postman began undoing the knot in his hood. The sexton’s wife gazed into his eyes, and seemed trying to look right into his soul.

    You ought to have a cup of tea... she said.

    I wouldn’t say no... but, you see, they’re getting ready, he assented. We are late, anyway.

    Do stay, she whispered, dropping her eyes and touching him by the sleeve.

    The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raïssa.

    What a... neck you’ve got!... And he touched her neck with two fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and shoulders.

    I say, you are...

    You’d better stay... have some tea.

    Where are you putting it? The driver’s voice could be heard outside. Lay it crossways.

    You’d better stay.... Hark how the wind howls.

    And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet quite able to shake off the intoxicating sleep of youth and fatigue, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire for the sake of which mail-bags, postal trains... and all things in the world, are forgotten. He glanced at the door in a frightened way, as though he wanted to escape or hide himself, seized Raïssa round the waist, and was just bending over the lamp to put out the light, when he heard the tramp of boots in the outer room, and the driver appeared in the doorway. Savély peeped in over his shoulder. The postman dropped his hands quickly and stood still as though irresolute.

    It’s all ready, said the driver. The postman stood still for a moment, resolutely threw up his head as though waking up completely, and followed the driver out. Raïssa was left alone.

    Come, get in and show us the way! she heard.

    One bell sounded languidly, then another, and the jingling notes in a long delicate chain floated away from the hut.

    When little by little they had died away, Raïssa got up and nervously paced to and fro. At first she was pale, then she flushed all over. Her face was contorted with hate, her breathing was tremulous, her eyes gleamed with wild, savage anger, and, pacing up and down as in a cage, she looked like a tigress menaced with red-hot iron. For a moment she stood still and looked at her abode. Almost half of the room was filled up by the bed, which stretched the length of the whole wall and consisted of a dirty feather-bed, coarse grey pillows, a quilt, and nameless rags of various sorts. The bed was a shapeless ugly mass which suggested the shock of hair that always stood up on Savély’s head whenever it occurred to him to oil it. From the bed to the door that led into the cold outer room stretched the dark stove surrounded by pots and hanging clouts. Everything, including the absent Savély himself, was dirty, greasy, and smutty to the last degree, so that it was strange to see a woman’s white neck and delicate skin in such surroundings.

    Raïssa ran up to the bed, stretched out her hands as though she wanted to fling it all about, stamp it underfoot, and tear it to shreds. But then, as though frightened by contact with the dirt, she leapt back and began pacing up and down again.

    When Savély returned two hours later, worn out and covered with snow, she was undressed and in bed. Her eyes were closed, but from the slight tremor that ran over her face he guessed that she was not asleep. On his way home he had vowed inwardly to wait till next day and not to touch her, but he could not resist a biting taunt at her.

    Your witchery was all in vain: he’s gone off, he said, grinning with malignant joy.

    His wife remained mute, but her chin quivered. Savély undressed slowly, clambered over his wife, and lay down next to the wall.

    To-morrow I’ll let Father Nikodim know what sort of wife you are! he muttered, curling himself up.

    Raïssa turned her face to him and her eyes gleamed.

    The job’s enough for you, and you can look for a wife in the forest, blast you! she said. I am no wife for you, a clumsy lout, a slug-a-bed, God forgive me!

    Come, come... go to sleep!

    How miserable I am! sobbed his wife. If it weren’t for you, I might have married a merchant or some gentleman! If it weren’t for you, I should love my husband now! And you haven’t been buried in the snow, you haven’t been frozen on the highroad, you Herod!

    Raïssa cried for a long time. At last she drew a deep sigh and was still. The storm still raged without. Something wailed in the stove, in the chimney, outside the walls, and it seemed to Savély that the wailing was within him, in his ears. This evening had completely confirmed him in his suspicions about his wife. He no longer doubted that his wife, with the aid of the Evil One, controlled the winds and the post sledges. But to add to his grief, this mysteriousness, this supernatural, weird power gave the woman beside him a peculiar, incomprehensible charm of which he had not been conscious before. The fact that in his stupidity he unconsciously threw a poetic glamour over her made her seem, as it were, whiter, sleeker, more unapproachable.

    Witch! he muttered indignantly. Tfoo, horrid creature!

    Yet, waiting till she was quiet and began breathing evenly, he touched her head with his finger... held her thick plait in his hand for a minute. She did

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