The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov. Anton Chekhov

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СКАЧАТЬ joins the carpenters and all three, shoving each other with their knees and their elbows, puffing and swearing at one another, bustle about the same spot. Lubim, the hunchback, gets a mouthful of water, and the air rings with his hard spasmodic coughing.

      “Where’s the shepherd?” comes a shout from the bank. “Yefim! Shepherd! Where are you? The cattle are in the garden! Drive them out, drive them out of the garden! Where is he, the old brigand?”

      First men’s voices are heard, then a woman’s. The master himself, Andrey Andreitch, wearing a dressing-gown made of a Persian shawl and carrying a newspaper in his hand, appears from behind the garden fence. He looks inquiringly towards the shouts which come from the river, and then trips rapidly towards the bathing shed.

      “What’s this? Who’s shouting?” he asks sternly, seeing through the branches of the willow the three wet heads of the fishermen. “What are you so busy about there?”

      “Catching a fish,” mutters Yefim, without raising his head.

      “I’ll give it to you! The beasts are in the garden and he is fishing!… When will that bathing shed be done, you devils? You’ve been at work two days, and what is there to show for it?”

      “It… will soon be done,” grunts Gerassim; summer is long, you’ll have plenty of time to wash, your honour…. Pfrrr!… We can’t manage this eelpout here anyhow…. He’s got under a root and sits there as if he were in a hole and won’t budge one way or another… .”

      “An eelpout?” says the master, and his eyes begin to glisten. “Get him out quickly then.”

      “You’ll give us half a rouble for it presently if we oblige you…. A huge eelpout, as fat as a merchant’s wife…. It’s worth half a rouble, your honour, for the trouble…. Don’t squeeze him, Lubim, don’t squeeze him, you’ll spoil him! Push him up from below! Pull the root upwards, my good man… what’s your name? Upwards, not downwards, you brute! Don’t swing your legs!”

      Five minutes pass, ten…. The master loses all patience.

      “Vassily!” he shouts, turning towards the garden. “Vaska! Call Vassily to me!”

      The coachman Vassily runs up. He is chewing something and breathing hard.

      “Go into the water,” the master orders him. “Help them to pull out that eelpout. They can’t get him out.”

      Vassily rapidly undresses and gets into the water.

      “In a minute…. I’ll get him in a minute,” he mutters. “Where’s the eelpout? We’ll have him out in a trice! You’d better go, Yefim. An old man like you ought to be minding his own business instead of being here. Where’s that eelpout? I’ll have him in a minute…. Here he is! Let go.”

      “What’s the good of saying that? We know all about that! You get it out!”

      But there is no getting it out like this! One must get hold of it by the head.”

      “And the head is under the root! We know that, you fool!”

      “Now then, don’t talk or you’ll catch it! You dirty cur!”

      “Before the master to use such language,” mutters Yefim. “You won’t get him out, lads! He’s fixed himself much too cleverly!”

      “Wait a minute, I’ll come directly,” says the master, and he begins hurriedly undressing. “Four fools, and can’t get an eelpout!”

      When he is undressed, Andrey Andreitch gives himself time to cool and gets into the water. But even his interference leads to nothing.

      “We must chop the root off,” Lubim decides at last. “Gerassim, go and get an axe! Give me an axe!”

      “Don’t chop your fingers off,” says the master, when the blows of the axe on the root under water are heard. “Yefim, get out of this! Stay, I’ll get the eelpout…. You’ll never do it.”

      The root is hacked a little. They partly break it off, and Andrey Andreitch, to his immense satisfaction, feels his fingers under the gills of the fish.

      “I’m pulling him out, lads! Don’t crowd round… stand still…. I am pulling him out!”

      The head of a big eelpout, and behind it its long black body, nearly a yard long, appears on the surface of the water. The fish flaps its tail heavily and tries to tear itself away.

      “None of your nonsense, my boy! Fiddlesticks! I’ve got you! Aha!”

      A honied smile overspreads all the faces. A minute passes in silent contemplation.

      “A famous eelpout,” mutters Yefim, scratching under his shoulder-blades. “I’ll be bound it weighs ten pounds.”

      “Mm!… Yes,” the master assents. “The liver is fairly swollen! It seems to stand out! A-ach!”

      The fish makes a sudden, unexpected upward movement with its tail and the fishermen hear a loud splash… they all put out their hands, but it is too late; they have seen the last of the eelpout.

       A HORSEY NAME [trans. by Marian Fell]

       Table of Contents

      MAJOR-GENERAL BULDEEFF was suffering from toothache. He had rinsed his mouth with vodka and cognac; applied tobacco ashes, opium, turpentine, and kerosene to the aching tooth; rubbed his cheek with iodine, and put cotton wool soaked with alcohol into his ears, but all these remedies had either failed to relieve him or else had made him sick. The dentist was sent for. He picked at his tooth and prescribed quinine, but this did not help the general. Buldeeff met the suggestion that the tooth should be pulled with refusal. Every one in the house, his wife, his children, the servants, even Petka, the scullery boy, suggested some remedy. Among others his steward, Ivan Evceitch came to him, and advised him to try a conjuror.

      "Your Excellency," said he, "Ten years ago an exciseman lived in this county whose name was Jacob. He was a first-class conjurer for the toothache. He used simply to turn toward the window and spit, and the pain would go in a minute. That was his gift."

      "Where is he now?"

      "After he was dismissed from the revenue service, he went to live in Saratoff with his mother-in-law. He makes his living off nothing but teeth now. If any one has a toothache, he sends for him to cure it. The Saratoff people have him come to their houses, but he cures people in other cities by telegraph. Send him a telegram, your Excellency, say: 'I, God's servant Alexei, have the toothache. I want you to cure me.' You can send him his fee by mail."

      "Stuff and nonsense! Humbug!"

      "Just try it, your Excellency! He is fond of vodka, it is true, and is living with some German woman instead of his wife, and he uses terrible language, but he is a remarkable wonder worker."

      "Do send him a telegram, Alexei!" begged the general's wife. "You don't believe in conjuring, I know, but I have tried it. Why not send him the message, СКАЧАТЬ