Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories eBook

His arms and legs had grown feeble, but he had not lost the use of them, and his brain indeed worked perfectly; but his speech was muddled and instead of one word he would pronounce another:  one had to guess what it was he wanted to say....  “Tchoo—­tchoo—­tchoo,” he would stammer with an effort—­he began every sentence with “Tchoo—­tchoo—­tchoo, some scissors, some scissors,” ... and the word scissors meant bread....  My father, he hated with all the strength left him—­he attributed all his misfortunes to my father’s curse and called him alternately the butcher and the diamond-merchant.  “Tchoo, tchoo, don’t you dare to go to the butcher’s, Vassilyevna.”  This was what he called his daughter though his own name was Martinyan.  Every day he became more exacting; his needs increased....  And how were those needs to be satisfied?  Where could the money be found?  Sorrow soon makes one old:  but it was horrible to hear some words on the lips of a girl of seventeen.

XIII

I remember I happened to be present at a conversation with David over the fence, on the very day of her mother’s death.

“Mother died this morning at daybreak,” she said, first looking round with her dark expressive eyes and then fixing them on the ground.

“Cook undertook to get a coffin cheap but she’s not to be trusted; she may spend the money on drink, even.  You might come and look after her, Davidushka, she’s afraid of you.”

“I will come,” answered David.  “I will see to it.  And how’s your father?”

“He cries; he says:  ‘you must spoil me, too.’  Spoil must mean bury.  Now he has gone to sleep.”  Raissa suddenly gave a deep sigh.  “Oh, Davidushka, Davidushka!” She passed her half-clenched fist over her forehead and her eyebrows, and the action was so bitter ... and as sincere and beautiful as all her actions.

“You must take care of yourself, though,” David observed; “you haven’t slept at all, I expect....  And what’s the use of crying?  It doesn’t help trouble.”

“I have no time for crying,” answered Raissa.

“That’s a luxury for the rich, crying,” observed David.

Raissa was going, but she turned back.

“The yellow shawl’s being sold, you know; part of mother’s dowry.  They are giving us twelve roubles; I think that is not much.”

“It certainly is not much.”

“We shouldn’t sell it,” Raissa said after a brief pause, “but you see we must have money for the funeral.”

“Of course you must.  Only you mustn’t spend money at random.  Those priests are awful!  But I say, wait a minute.  I’ll come.  Are you going?  I’ll be with you soon.  Goodbye, darling.”

“Good-bye, Davidushka, darling.”

“Mind now, don’t cry!”

“As though I should cry!  It’s either cooking the dinner or crying.  One or the other.”

“What! does she cook the dinner?” I said to David, as soon as Raissa was out of hearing, “does she do the cooking herself?”