our universal, righteous, incorruptible Judge, the
Supreme Being, the Being of infinitely greater consequence even than
Your Excellency, and I am going to meet him in undress, in my
great-coat, and even without a cravat round my neck.»
Oh, what a painful and unpleasant impression that phrase made upon me,
with every word, every letter of it, carefully written in the dead
man’s childish handwriting! Was it worth while, I asked myself, to
invent such rubbish at such a moment? But Tyeglev had evidently been
pleased with the phrase: he had made use in it of the accumulation of
epithets and amplifications à la Marlinsky, at that time in
fashion. Further on he had alluded to destiny, to persecution, to his
vocation which had remained unfulfilled, to a mystery which he would
bear with him to the grave, to people who had not cared to understand
him; he had even quoted lines from some poet who had said of the crowd
that it wore life «like a dog-collar» and clung to vice «like a
burdock»—and it was not free from mistakes in spelling. To tell the
truth, this last letter of poor Tyeglev was somewhat vulgar; and I can
fancy the contemptuous surprise of the great personage to whom it was
addressed—I can imagine the tone in which he would pronounce «a
worthless officer! ill weeds are cleared out of the field!»
Only at the very end of the letter there was a sincere note from
Tyeglev’s heart. «Ah, Your Excellency,» he concluded his epistle, «I
am an orphan, I had no one to love me as a child—and all held aloof
from me … and I myself destroyed the only heart that gave itself to
me!»
Semyon found in the pocket of Tyeglev’s great-coat a little album from
which his master was never separated. But almost all the pages had
been torn out; only one was left on which there was the following
calculation:
Napoleon was born Ilya Tyeglev was born
on August 15th, 1769. on January 7th, 1811.
1769 1811
15 7
8* 1+
—— ——
Total 1792 Total 1819
* August—the 8th month + January—the 1st month
of the year. of the year.
1 1
7 8
9 1
2 9
— —
Total 19! Total 19!
Napoleon died on May Ilya Tyeglev died on
5th, 1825. April 21st, 1834.
1825 1834
5 21
5* 7+
—— ——
Total 1835 Total 1862
* May—the 5th month + July—the 7th month
of the year. of the year.
1 1
8 8
3 6
5 23
— —
Total 17! Total 17!
Poor fellow! Was not this perhaps why he became an artillery officer?
As a suicide he was buried outside the cemetery—and he was
immediately forgotten.
XVIII
The day after Tyeglev’s burial (I was still in the village waiting for
my brother) Semyon came into the hut and announced that Ilya wanted to
see me.
«What Ilya?» I asked.
«Our pedlar.»
I told Semyon to call him.
He made his appearance. He expressed some regret at the death of the
lieutenant; wondered what could have possessed him….
«Was he in debt to you?» I asked.
«No, sir. He always paid punctually for everything he had. But I tell
you what,» here the pedlar grinned, «you have got something of mine.»
«What is it?»
«Why, that,» he pointed to the brass comb lying on the little toilet
table. «A thing of little value,» the fellow went on, «but as it was a
present…»
All at once I raised my head. Something dawned upon me.
«Your name is Ilya?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Was it you, then, I saw under the willow tree the other night?»
The pedlar winked, and grinned more broadly than ever.
«Yes, sir.»
«And it was your name that was called?»
«Yes, sir,» the pedlar repeated with playful modesty. «There is a
young girl here,» he went on in a high falsetto, «who, owing to the
great strictness of her parents—-»
«Very good, very good,» I interrupted him, handed him the comb and
dismissed him.
«So that was the ‘Ilyusha,'» I thought, and I sank into philosophic
reflections which I will not, however, intrude upon you as I don’t
want to prevent anyone from believing in fate, predestination and such
like.
When I was back in Petersburg I made inquiries about Masha. I even
discovered the doctor who had treated her. To my amazement I heard
from him that she had died not through poisoning but of cholera! I
told him what I had heard from Tyeglev.
«Eh! Eh!» cried the doctor all at once. «Is that Tyeglev an artillery
officer, a man of middle height and with a stoop, speaks with a lisp?»
«Yes.»
«Well, I thought so. That gentleman came to me—I had never seen him
before—and began insisting that the girl had poisoned herself. ‘It
was cholera,’ I told him. ‘Poison,’ he said. ‘It was cholera, I tell
you,’ I said. ‘No, it was poison,’ he declared. I saw that the fellow
was a sort of lunatic, with a broad base to his head—a sign of
obstinacy, he would not give over easily…. Well, it doesn’t matter,
I thought, the patient is dead…. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘she poisoned
herself if you prefer it.’ He thanked me, even shook hands with
me—and departed.»
I told the doctor how the officer had shot himself the same day.
The doctor did not turn a hair—and only observed that there were all
sorts of queer fellows in the world.
«There are indeed,» I assented.
Yes, someone has said truly of suicides: until they carry out their
design, no one believes them; and when they do, no one regrets them.
Baden, 1870.
THE INN
On the high road to B., at an equal distance from the two towns
through which it runs, there stood not long ago a roomy inn, very well
known to the drivers of troikas, peasants with trains of waggons,
merchants, clerks, pedlars and the numerous travellers of all sorts
who journey upon our roads at all times of the year. Everyone used to
call at the inn; only perhaps a landowner’s coach, drawn by six
home-bred horses, would roll majestically by, which did not prevent
either the coachman or the groom on the footboard from looking with
peculiar feeling and attention at the little porch so familiar to them;
or some poor devil in a wretched little cart and with three five-kopeck
pieces in the bag in his bosom would urge on his weary nag when he
reached the prosperous inn, and would hasten on to some night’s lodging
in the hamlets that lie by the high road in a peasant’s hut, where he
would find nothing but bread and hay, but, on the other hand, would not
have to pay an extra kopeck. Apart from its favourable situation, the
inn with which our story deals had many attractions: excellent water in
two deep wells with creaking wheels and iron buckets on a chain; a
spacious yard with a tiled roof on posts; abundant stores of oats in
the cellar; a warm outer room with a very huge Russian stove with long
horizontal flues attached that looked like titanic shoulders, and
lastly two fairly clean rooms with the walls covered with reddish
lilac paper somewhat frayed at the lower edge with a painted wooden
sofa, chairs to match and two pots of geraniums in the windows, which
were, however, never cleaned—and were dingy with the dust of years.
The inn had other advantages: the blacksmith’s was close by, the mill
was just at hand; and, lastly, one could get a good meal in it, thanks
to the cook, a fat and red-faced peasant woman, who prepared rich and
appetizing dishes and dealt out provisions without stint; the nearest
tavern was reckoned not half a mile away; the host kept snuff which
though mixed with wood-ash, was extremely pungent and pleasantly
irritated the nose; in fact there were many reasons why visitors of
all sorts were never lacking in that inn. It was liked by those who
used it—and that is the chief thing; without which nothing, of course,
would succeed and it was liked principally as it was said in the
district, because the host himself was very fortunate and successful
in all his undertakings, though he did not much deserve his good
fortune; but it seems if a man is lucky, he is lucky.
The innkeeper was a man of the working class called Naum Ivanov. He
was a man of middle height with broad, stooping shoulders; he had a
big round head and curly hair already grey, though he did not look
more than forty; a full and fresh face, a low but white and smooth
forehead and little bright blue eyes, out of which he looked in a very
queer way from under his brows and yet with an insolent expression, a
combination not often met with. He always held his head down and
seemed to turn it with difficulty, perhaps because his neck was very
short. He walked at a trot and did not swing his arms, but slowly
moved them with his fists clenched as he walked. When he smiled, and
he smiled often without laughing, as it were smiling to himself, his
thick lips parted unpleasantly and displayed a row of close-set,
brilliant teeth. He spoke jerkily and with a surly note in his voice.
He shaved his beard, but dressed in Russian style. His costume
consisted of a long, always threadbare, full coat, full breeches and
shoes on his bare feet. He was often away from home on business and he
had a great deal of business—he was a horse-dealer, he rented land,
had a market garden, bought up orchards and traded in various ways—but
his absences never lasted long; like a kite, to which he had
considerable resemblance, especially in the expression of his eyes, he
used to return to his nest. He knew how to keep that nest in order. He
was everywhere, he listened to everything and gave orders, served out
stores, sent things out and made up his accounts himself, and never
knocked off a farthing from anyone’s account, but never asked more
than his due.
The visitors did not talk to him, and, indeed, he did not care to
waste words. «I want your money and you want my victuals,» he used to
say, as it were, jerking out each word: «We have not met for a
christening; the traveller has eaten, has fed his beasts, no need to
sit on. If he is tired, let him sleep without chattering.» The
labourers he kept were healthy grown-up men,
