The Witch, and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

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СКАЧАТЬ curled himself up like a cat,” she said, sobbing and laughing with tenderness and sorrow… “Poor motherless mite!”

      Kuzka started and opened his eyes. He saw before him an ugly, wrinkled, tear-stained face, and beside it another, aged and toothless, with a sharp chin and hooked nose, and high above them the infinite sky with the flying clouds and the moon. He cried out in fright, and Sofya, too, uttered a cry; both were answered by the echo, and a faint stir passed over the stifling air; a watchman tapped somewhere near, a dog barked. Matvey Savitch muttered something in his sleep and turned over on the other side.

      Late at night when Dyudya and the old woman and the neighbouring watchman were all asleep, Sofya went out to the gate and sat down on the bench. She felt stifled and her head ached from weeping. The street was a wide and long one; it stretched for nearly two miles to the right and as far to the left, and the end of it was out of sight. The moon was now not over the yard, but behind the church. One side of the street was flooded with moonlight, while the other side lay in black shadow. The long shadows of the poplars and the starling-cotes stretched right across the street, while the church cast a broad shadow, black and terrible that enfolded Dyudya’s gates and half his house. The street was still and deserted. From time to time the strains of music floated faintly from the end of the street – Alyoshka, most likely, playing his concertina.

      Someone moved in the shadow near the church enclosure, and Sofya could not make out whether it were a man or a cow, or perhaps merely a big bird rustling in the trees. But then a figure stepped out of the shadow, halted, and said something in a man’s voice, then vanished down the turning by the church. A little later, not three yards from the gate, another figure came into sight; it walked straight from the church to the gate and stopped short, seeing Sofya on the bench.

      “Varvara, is that you?” said Sofya.

      “And if it were?”

      It was Varvara. She stood still a minute, then came up to the bench and sat down.

      “Where have you been?” asked Sofya.

      Varvara made no answer.

      “You’d better mind you don’t get into trouble with such goings-on, my girl,” said Sofya. “Did you hear how Mashenka was kicked and lashed with the reins? You’d better look out, or they’ll treat you the same.”

      “Well, let them!”

      Varvara laughed into her kerchief and whispered:

      “I have just been with the priest’s son.”

      “Nonsense!”

      “I have!”

      “It’s a sin!” whispered Sofya.

      “Well, let it be… What do I care? If it’s a sin, then it is a sin, but better be struck dead by thunder than live like this. I’m young and strong, and I’ve a filthy crooked hunchback for a husband, worse than Dyudya himself, curse him! When I was a girl, I hadn’t bread to eat, or a shoe to my foot, and to get away from that wretchedness I was tempted by Alyoshka’s money, and got caught like a fish in a net, and I’d rather have a viper for my bedfellow than that scurvy Alyoshka. And what’s your life? It makes me sick to look at it. Your Fyodor sent you packing from the factory and he’s taken up with another woman. They have robbed you of your boy and made a slave of him. You work like a horse, and never hear a kind word. I’d rather pine all my days an old maid, I’d rather get half a rouble from the priest’s son, I’d rather beg my bread, or throw myself into the well…

      “It’s a sin!” whispered Sofya again.

      “Well, let it be.”

      Somewhere behind the church the same three voices, two tenors and a bass, began singing again a mournful song. And again the words could not be distinguished.

      “They are not early to bed,” Varvara said, laughing.

      And she began telling in a whisper of her midnight walks with the priest’s son, and of the stories he had told her, and of his comrades, and of the fun she had with the travellers who stayed in the house. The mournful song stirred a longing for life and freedom. Sofya began to laugh; she thought it sinful and terrible and sweet to hear about, and she felt envious and sorry that she, too, had not been a sinner when she was young and pretty.

      In the churchyard they heard twelve strokes beaten on the watchman’s board.

      “It’s time we were asleep,” said Sofya, getting up, “or, maybe, we shall catch it from Dyudya.”

      They both went softly into the yard.

      “I went away without hearing what he was telling about Mashenka,” said Varvara, making herself a bed under the window.

      “She died in prison, he said. She poisoned her husband.”

      Varvara lay down beside Sofya a while, and said softly:

      “I’d make away with my Alyoshka and never regret it.”

      “You talk nonsense; God forgive you.”

      When Sofya was just dropping asleep, Varvara, coming close, whispered in her ear:

      “Let us get rid of Dyudya and Alyoshka!”

      Sofya started and said nothing. Then she opened her eyes and gazed a long while steadily at the sky.

      “People would find out,” she said.

      “No, they wouldn’t. Dyudya’s an old man, it’s time he did die; and they’d say Alyoshka died of drink.”

      “I’m afraid… God would chastise us.”

      “Well, let Him…”

      Both lay awake thinking in silence.

      “It’s cold,” said Sofya, beginning to shiver all over. “It will soon be morning… Are you asleep?”

      “No… Don’t you mind what I say, dear,” whispered Varvara; “I get so mad with the damned brutes, I don’t know what I do say. Go to sleep, or it will be daylight directly… Go to sleep.”

      Both were quiet and soon they fell asleep.

      Earlier than all woke the old woman. She waked up Sofya and they went together into the cowshed to milk the cows. The hunchback Alyoshka came in hopelessly drunk without his concertina; his breast and knees had been in the dust and straw – he must have fallen down in the road. Staggering, he went into the cowshed, and without undressing he rolled into a sledge and began to snore at once. When first the crosses on the church and then the windows were flashing in the light of the rising sun, and shadows stretched across the yard over the dewy grass from the trees and the top of the well, Matvey Savitch jumped up and began hurrying about:

      “Kuzka! get up!” he shouted. “It’s time to put in the horses! Look sharp!”

      The bustle of morning was beginning. A young Jewess in a brown gown with flounces led a horse into the yard to drink. The pulley of the well creaked plaintively, the bucket knocked as it went down…

      Kuzka, sleepy, tired, covered with dew, sat up in the cart, lazily putting on his little overcoat, and listening to the drip of the water from the bucket into the well as he shivered with the cold.

      “Auntie!” СКАЧАТЬ