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did not answer. He agreed only too fully that all was

humbug in the world in which he had lived and to which he was now

returning.

 

‘How is Lukashka? You’ve been to see him?’ he asked.

 

‘He just lies as if he were dead. He does not eat nor drink. Vodka

is the only thing his soul accepts. But as long as he drinks vodka

it’s well. I’d be sorry to lose the lad. A fine lad—a brave, like

me. I too lay dying like that once. The old women were already

wailing. My head was burning. They had already laid me out under

the holy icons. So I lay there, and above me on the oven little

drummers, no bigger than this, beat the tattoo. I shout at them

and they drum all the harder.’ (The old man laughed.) ‘The women

brought our church elder. They were getting ready to bury me. They

said, “He defiled himself with worldly unbelievers; he made merry

with women; he ruined people; he did not fast, and he played the

balalayka. Confess,” they said. So I began to confess. “I’ve

sinned!” I said. Whatever the priest said, I always answered “I’ve

sinned.” He began to ask me about the balalayka. “Where is the

accursed thing,” he says. “Show it me and smash it.” But I say,

“I’ve not got it.” I’d hidden it myself in a net in the outhouse.

I knew they could not find it. So they left me. Yet after all I

recovered. When I went for my BALALAYKA—What was I saying?’ he

continued. ‘Listen to me, and keep farther away from the other men

or you’ll get killed foolishly. I feel for you, truly: you are a

drinker—I love you! And fellows like you like riding up the

mounds. There was one who lived here who had come from Russia, he

always would ride up the mounds (he called the mounds so funnily,

“hillocks”). Whenever he saw a mound, off he’d gallop. Once he

galloped off that way and rode to the top quite pleased, but a

Chechen fired at him and killed him! Ah, how well they shoot from

their gun-rests, those Chechens! Some of them shoot even better

than I do. I don’t like it when a fellow gets killed so foolishly!

Sometimes I used to look at your soldiers and wonder at them.

There’s foolishness for you! They go, the poor fellows, all in a

clump, and even sew red collars to their coats! How can they help

being hit! One gets killed, they drag him away and another takes

his place! What foolishness!’ the old man repeated, shaking his

head. ‘Why not scatter, and go one by one? So you just go like

that and they won’t notice you. That’s what you must do.’

 

‘Well, thank you! Good-bye, Daddy. God willing we may meet again,’

said Olenin, getting up and moving towards the passage.

 

The old man, who was sitting on the floor, did not rise.

 

‘Is that the way one says “Good-bye”? Fool, fool!’ he began. ‘Oh

dear, what has come to people? We’ve kept company, kept company

for well-nigh a year, and now “Good-bye!” and off he goes! Why, I

love you, and how I pity you! You are so forlorn, always alone,

always alone. You’re somehow so unsociable. At times I can’t sleep

for thinking about you. I am so sorry for you. As the song has it:

 

“It is very hard, dear brother, In a foreign land to live.”

 

So it is with you.’

 

‘Well, good-bye,’ said Olenin again.

 

The old man rose and held out his hand. Olenin pressed it and

turned to go.

 

‘Give us your mug, your mug!’

 

And the old man took Olenin by the head with both hands and kissed

him three times with wet moustaches and lips, and began to cry.

 

‘I love you, good-bye!’

 

Olenin got into the cart.

 

‘Well, is that how you’re going? You might give me something for a

remembrance. Give me a gun! What do you want two for?’ said the

old man, sobbing quite sincerely.

 

Olenin got out a musket and gave it to him.

 

‘What a lot you’ve given the old fellow,’ murmured Vanyusha,

‘he’ll never have enough! A regular old beggar. They are all such

irregular people,’ he remarked, as he wrapped himself in his

overcoat and took his seat on the box.

 

‘Hold your tongue, swine!’ exclaimed the old man, laughing. ‘What

a stingy fellow!’

 

Maryanka came out of the cowshed, glanced indifferently at the

cart, bowed and went towards the hut.

 

‘LA FILLE!’ said Vanyusha, with a wink, and burst out into a silly

laugh.

 

‘Drive on!’ shouted Olenin, angrily.

 

‘Good-bye, my lad! Good-bye. I won’t forget you!’ shouted Eroshka.

 

Olenin turned round. Daddy Eroshka was talking to Maryanka,

evidently about his own affairs, and neither the old man nor the

girl looked at Olenin.

 

The End

 

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