The Witch, and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

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СКАЧАТЬ Dyudya at the same instant shouted from the window:

      “Sofya, take a farthing from the Jewess for the horse’s drink! They’re always in here, the mangy creatures!”

      In the street sheep were running up and down, baaing; the peasant women were shouting at the shepherd, while he played his pipes, cracked his whip, or answered them in a thick sleepy bass. Three sheep strayed into the yard, and not finding the gate again, pushed at the fence.

      Varvara was waked by the noise, and bundling her bedding up in her arms, she went into the house.

      “You might at least drive the sheep out!” the old woman bawled after her, “my lady!”

      “I dare say! As if I were going to slave for you Herods!” muttered Varvara, going into the house.

      Dyudya came out of the house with his accounts in his hands, sat down on the step, and began reckoning how much the traveller owed him for the night’s lodging, oats, and watering his horses.

      “You charge pretty heavily for the oats, my good man,” said Matvey Savitch.

      “If it’s too much, don’t take them. There’s no compulsion, merchant.”

      When the travellers were ready to start, they were detained for a minute. Kuzka had lost his cap.

      “Little swine, where did you put it?” Matvey Savitch roared angrily. “Where is it?”

      Kuzka’s face was working with terror; he ran up and down near the cart, and not finding it there, ran to the gate and then to the shed. The old woman and Sofya helped him look.

      “I’ll pull your ears off!” yelled Matvey Savitch. “Dirty brat!”

      The cap was found at the bottom of the cart.

      Kuzka brushed the hay off it with his sleeve, put it on, and timidly he crawled into the cart, still with an expression of terror on his face as though he were afraid of a blow from behind.

      Matvey Savitch crossed himself. The driver gave a tug at the reins and the cart rolled out of the yard.

      THE POST

      IT was three o’clock in the night. The postman, ready to set off, in his cap and his coat, with a rusty sword in his hand, was standing near the door, waiting for the driver to finish putting the mail bags into the cart which had just been brought round with three horses. The sleepy postmaster sat at his table, which was like a counter; he was filling up a form and saying:

      “My nephew, the student, wants to go to the station at once. So look here, Ignatyev, let him get into the mail cart and take him with you to the station: though it is against the regulations to take people with the mail, what’s one to do? It’s better for him to drive with you free than for me to hire horses for him.”

      “Ready!” they heard a shout from the yard.

      “Well, go then, and God be with you,” said the postmaster. “Which driver is going?”

      “Semyon Glazov.”

      “Come, sign the receipt.”

      The postman signed the receipt and went out. At the entrance of the post-office there was the dark outline of a cart and three horses. The horses were standing still except that one of the tracehorses kept uneasily shifting from one leg to the other and tossing its head, making the bell clang from time to time. The cart with the mail bags looked like a patch of darkness. Two silhouettes were moving lazily beside it: the student with a portmanteau in his hand and a driver. The latter was smoking a short pipe; the light of the pipe moved about in the darkness, dying away and flaring up again; for an instant it lighted up a bit of a sleeve, then a shaggy moustache and big copper-red nose, then stern-looking, overhanging eyebrows. The postman pressed down the mail bags with his hands, laid his sword on them and jumped into the cart. The student clambered irresolutely in after him, and accidentally touching him with his elbow, said timidly and politely: “I beg your pardon.”

      The pipe went out. The postmaster came out of the post-office just as he was, in his waistcoat and slippers; shrinking from the night dampness and clearing his throat, he walked beside the cart and said:

      “Well, God speed! Give my love to your mother, Mihailo. Give my love to them all. And you, Ignatyev, mind you don’t forget to give the parcel to Bystretsov… Off!”

      The driver took the reins in one hand, blew his nose, and, arranging the seat under himself, clicked to the horses.

      “Give them my love,” the postmaster repeated.

      The big bell clanged something to the little bells, the little bells gave it a friendly answer. The cart squeaked, moved. The big bell lamented, the little bells laughed. Standing up in his seat the driver lashed the restless tracehorse twice, and the cart rumbled with a hollow sound along the dusty road. The little town was asleep. Houses and trees stood black on each side of the broad street, and not a light was to be seen. Narrow clouds stretched here and there over the star-spangled sky, and where the dawn would soon be coming there was a narrow crescent moon; but neither the stars, of which there were many, nor the half-moon, which looked white, lighted up the night air. It was cold and damp, and there was a smell of autumn.

      The student, who thought that politeness required him to talk affably to a man who had not refused to let him accompany him, began:

      “In summer it would be light at this time, but now there is not even a sign of the dawn. Summer is over!”

      The student looked at the sky and went on:

      “Even from the sky one can see that it is autumn. Look to the right. Do you see three stars side by side in a straight line? That is the constellation of Orion, which, in our hemisphere, only becomes visible in September.”

      The postman, thrusting his hands into his sleeves and retreating up to his ears into his coat collar, did not stir and did not glance at the sky. Apparently the constellation of Orion did not interest him. He was accustomed to see the stars, and probably he had long grown weary of them. The student paused for a while and then said:

      “It’s cold! It’s time for the dawn to begin. Do you know what time the sun rises?”

      “What?”

      “What time does the sun rise now?”

      “Between five and six,” said the driver.

      The mail cart drove out of the town. Now nothing could be seen on either side of the road but the fences of kitchen gardens and here and there a solitary willow-tree; everything in front of them was shrouded in darkness. Here in the open country the half-moon looked bigger and the stars shone more brightly. Then came a scent of dampness; the postman shrank further into his collar, the student felt an unpleasant chill first creeping about his feet, then over the mail bags, over his hands and his face. The horses moved more slowly; the bell was mute as though it were frozen. There was the sound of the splash of water, and stars reflected in the water danced under the horses’ feet and round the wheels.

      But ten minutes later it became so dark that neither the stars nor the moon could be seen. The mail cart had entered the forest. Prickly pine branches were continually hitting the student on his cap and a spider’s web settled on his face. Wheels and hoofs knocked against huge roots, and the mail cart swayed from side to side as though it were drunk.

      “Keep СКАЧАТЬ