So, then, one day I hired such a cabman.... He
was a youth of twenty years, tall, well-built, a fine,
dashing young fellow; he had blue eyes and rosy cheeks;
his red-gold hair curled in rings beneath a wretched
little patched cap, which was pulled down over his
very eyebrows. And how in the world was that
tattered little coat ever got upon those shoulders
of heroic mould!
But the cabman’s handsome, beardless face seemed
sad and lowering.
I entered into conversation with him. Sadness
was discernible in his voice also.
“What is it, brother?” I asked him.—“Why
art not thou cheerful? Hast thou any grief?”
The young fellow did not reply to me at once.
“I have, master, I have,” he said at last.—“And
such a grief that it would be better if I were not
alive. My wife is dead.”
“Didst thou love her ... thy wife?”
The young fellow turned toward me; only he bent his
head a little.
“I did, master. This is the eighth month
since ... but I cannot forget. It is eating away
my heart ... so it is! And why must she die?
She was young! Healthy!... In one day the
cholera settled her.”
“And was she of a good disposition?”
“Akh, master!” sighed the poor fellow,
heavily.—“And on what friendly terms
she and I lived together! She died in my absence.
When I heard here that they had already buried her,
I hurried immediately to the village, home. It
was already after midnight when I arrived. I entered
my cottage, stopped short in the middle of it, and
said so softly: ‘Masha! hey, Masha!’
Only a cricket shrilled.—Then I fell to
weeping, and sat down on the cottage floor, and how
I did beat my palm against the ground!—’Thy
bowels are insatiable!’ I said.... ’Thou
hast devoured her ... devour me also!’—Akh,
Masha!”
“Masha,” he added in a suddenly lowered
voice. And without letting his rope reins out
of his hands, he squeezed a tear out of his eye with
his mitten, shook it off, flung it to one side, shrugged
his shoulders—and did not utter another
word.
As I alighted from the sledge I gave him an extra
fifteen kopeks. He made me a low obeisance, grasping
his cap in both hands, and drove off at a foot-pace
over the snowy expanse of empty street, flooded with
the grey mist of the January frost.
April, 1878.
Once upon a time a fool lived in the world.
For a long time he lived in clover; but gradually
rumours began to reach him to the effect that he bore
the reputation everywhere of a brainless ninny.
The fool was disconcerted and began to fret over the
question how he was to put an end to those unpleasant
rumours.
A sudden idea at last illumined his dark little brain....
And without the slightest delay he put it into execution.
An acquaintance met him on the street and began to
praise a well-known artist.... “Good gracious!”
exclaimed the fool, “that artist was relegated
to the archives long ago.... Don’t you know
that?—I did not expect that of you....
You are behind the times.”
