menu_book Chapter 18

Chapter 18 of A Sportsman's Sketches For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Tvarish A Sportsman's Sketches by Ivan Turgenev, translated by Konstantin Gaanat Pyotr Petrovich Karatayev

One autumn, five years ago, I chanced when on the road from Moscow to Tula to spend almost a whole day at a posting station for want of horses. I was on the way back from a shooting expedition and had been so incautious as to send my three horses on in front of me. The man in charge of the station, a surly elderly man with hair hanging over his brows to his very nose, with little sleepy eyes, answered all my complaints and requests with disconnected grumbling,

slammed the door angrily as though he were cursing his calling in life, and going out on the steps abused the pastillians who were sauntering in a leisurely way through the mud with the weighty wooden yokes on their arms, or sat yawning and scratching themselves on a bench, and paid no special attention to the wrathful exclamations of their superior.

I had already sat myself down three times to tea, had several times tried in vain to sleep, and had read all the inscriptions on the walls and windows. I was overpowered by fearful boredom. In chill and helpless despair I was staring at the upturned shafts of my carriage and suddenly I heard the tinkling of a bell,

and a small trap drawn by three jaded horses drew up at the steps. The new arrival leaped out of the trap and shouting, Horses and look sharp! He went into the room. While he was listening with a strange wonder, customary in such cases to their overseers' answer,

that there were no horses, I had time to scan my new companion from top to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He appeared to be nearly thirty. Smallpox had left indelible traces on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge.

His long blue-black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty curls in front. His small swollen eyes were quite expressionless, a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman,

given to frequenting horse fairs, in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk tie, a waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels,

from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be discerned. He smelled strongly of tobacco and spirits. On his fat red hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and tula rings. Such figures are met in Russia, not by dozens, but by hundreds.

An acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure. But in spite of the prejudice with which I looked at the newcomer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly good-natured and passionate expression of his face. This gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here too, observed the overseer, indicating me.

More than an hour? The rascal was making fun of me. But perhaps he doesn't need them as I do, answered the newcomer. I know nothing about that, said the overseer sulkily. Then is it really impossible? Are there positively no horses? Impossible. There's not a single horse.

Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I'll wait a little. There's nothing else to be done. The newcomer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his hair. Have you had tea already? he inquired of me. Yes. But won't you have a little more for company? I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table.

I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. His name was Pyotr Petrovich Korotaev. We got into a conversation. In less than half an hour after his arrival he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness.

I'm on my way to Moscow now, he told me as he sipped his fourth glass. There is nothing for me to do now in the country. How so? Well, it's come to that. My property is in disorder. I've ruined my peasants, I must confess.

There have been bad years, bad harvests, and all sorts of ill-luck, you know. Though indeed, he added looking away dejectedly, how could I manage an estate? Why is that? But no, he interrupted me, there are people like me who make good managers. You see, he went on screwing his head on one side and sucking his pipe assiduously. Looking at me I dare say you think I'm not much, but you see, I must confess, I've had a very middling education.

I wasn't well off, I beg your pardon. I'm an open man, and if you come to that... He did not complete his sentence but broke off with a wave of the hand. I began to assure him that he was mistaken, that I was highly delighted to meet him and so on, and then observed that I should have thought a very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of property.

Agreed, he responded, I agree with you, but still a special sort of disposition's essential. There are some, may do anything they like, and it's all right. But I allow me to ask, are you from Petersburg or from Moscow? I'm from Petersburg. He blew a long coil of smoke from his nostrils.

And I am going in to Moscow to be an official. What department do you mean to enter? I don't know, that's as it happens. I'll own to you, I'm afraid of official life. Once under responsibility at once.

I've always lived in the country, I'm used to it, you know, but now there's no help for it. It's through poverty. Oh, poverty, how I hate it. But then you will be living in the capital. In the capital, well, I don't know what there is that's pleasant in the capital.

We shall see. Maybe it's pleasant too. Though nothing I fancy could be better than the country. Then it is really impossible for you to live at your country place? He gave a sigh.

Quite impossible. It's, so to say, not my own now. Why, how so? Well, a good fellow there, a neighbour, is in possession. A bill of exchange.

Poor Piotr Petrovich passed his hand over his face, thought a minute and shook his head. Well, I must own though, he added after a brief silence. I can't blame anybody, it's my own fault. I was fond of cutting a dash. I'm fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul.

You had a jolly life in the country? I asked him. I had, sir, he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face. Twelve hairiers. Hairiers, I can tell you, such as you don't very often see.

The last words he uttered in a droll with great significance. A grey hair they'd double upon in no time. After the Red Forks they were devils, regular serpents. And I could boast of my greyhounds too. It's all a thing of the past now, I've no reason to lie.

I used to go out shooting too. I had a dog called the Countess. A wonderful setter. With a first rate scent she took everything. Sometimes I'd go to a marsh and call Sieg.

If she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs and you'd find nothing. But when she was after anything it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well bred. If you gave her bread with your left hand and said, A Jew's tasted it.

She wouldn't touch it, but give it with your right and say, The young ladies had some. And she'd take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of her, capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow,

but a friend asked me for him together with a gun. He said, In Moscow you'll have other things to think of. I gave him the pup and the gun. And so, you know, it stayed there. But you might go shooting in Moscow?

No, what would be the use? I didn't know when to pull myself up, so now I must grin and bear it. But there, kindly tell me rather about the living in Moscow. Is it dear? No, not very.

Not very? And tell me please, are there any gypsies in Moscow? What sort of gypsies? Why, such as hangabout fairs? Yes, there are in Moscow. Well, that's good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul, I like them.

And there was a gleam of reckless mirament in Pyotr Petrovich's eyes. But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me. Give me some of your rum, he said. But the tea is all finished.

Never mind, as it is without tea. Ah, Korotayev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears, of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head I was, I must own,

impressed by the profoundly mournful expression of his face. What's wrong with you? Nothing. I was thinking of all times an anecdote that I would tell it you, but I am ashamed to trouble you. What nonsense?

Yes, he went on with a sigh, there are cases. Like mine, for instance, well, if you like, I will tell you, though really I don't know. Do tell me, dear Pyotr Petrovich. Very well, though it's a… Well, do you see, he began.

But upon my word, I don't know. Come, that's enough, dear Pyotr Petrovich. All right. This, then, was what befell me, so to say. I used to live in the country.

All of a sudden I took a fancy to a girl. Ah, what a girl she was! Handsome, clever, and so good and sweet. Her name was Matryona. But she wasn't a lady, that is, you understand, she was a serf, simply a serf girl.

And not my girl. She belonged to someone else. That was the trouble. Well, so I loved her. It's really an incident that one can hardly…

Well, and she loved me too. And so Matryona began begging me to buy her off from her mistress. And indeed, the thought had crossed my mind too. But her mistress was a rich, dreadful old buddy. She lived about twelve miles from me.

Well, so one fine day, as the saying is, I ordered my team of three horses to be harnessed abreast to the Droshki. In the centre I had a first-rate gaur, an extraordinarily Asiatic horse, for that reason called Lampurdos. I dressed myself in my best and went off to Matryona's mistress. I arrived. It was a big house with wings and a garden.

Matryona was waiting for me at the bend of the road. She tried to say a word to me, but she could only kiss her hand and turn away. Well, so I went into the hall and asked if the mistress were at home. And a tall footman said to me, What name shall I say?

I answered, Say, brother, Squire Karatayev has called on a matter of business. The footman walked away. I waited by myself and thought, I wonder how it'll be. I dare say the old beast'll screw out a fearful price for all she's so rich. Five hundred rubles, she'll ask.

I shouldn't be surprised. Well, at last the footman returned, saying, If you please, walk up. I followed him into the drawing room. A little yellowish old woman sat in an armchair blinking. What do you want?

To begin with, you know, I thought it necessary to say how glad I was to make her acquaintance. You are making a mistake. I'm not the mistress here. I'm a relation of hers. What do you want? I remarked upon that I had to speak to the mistress herself. Maria Ilyenishna is not receiving today. She is unwell.

What do you want? There's nothing for it. I thought to myself, so I explained my position to her. The old lady heard me out. Matreona? What Matreona? Matreona Fedorovna, Kulik's daughter.

Fedor Kulik's daughter? But how did you come to know her? By chance. And is she aware of your intention? Yes. The old lady was silent for a minute. Then...

Ah, I'll let her know it. The worthless hussy, she said. I was astounded, I must confess. Whatever for? Upon my word, I'm ready to pay a good sum, if you will be so good as to name it. The old hag positively hissed at me. A surprising idea you've concocted there, as though we needed your money.

I'll teach her, I'll show her, I'll beat the folly out of her. The old lady choked with spitefulness. Wasn't she well off with us, pray? Ah, she's a little devil, God forgive my transgressions. I fired up, I'll confess. What are you threatening the poor girl for? How is she to blame?

The old lady crossed herself. Ah, Lord have mercy on me, do you suppose I'd... But she's not yours, you know. Well, Maria Elienishna knows best about that. It's not your business, my good sir. But I'll show that chit over Matriona, whose serf she is.

I'll confess, I almost fell on the damned old woman, but I thought of Matriona. And my hands dropped. I was more frightened than I can tell you. I began entreating the old lady. Take what you like, I said. But what use is she to you?

I like her, good ma'am. Put yourself in my possession. Allow me to kiss your little hand. And I positively kissed the wretch's hand. Well, mumbled the old witch, I'll tell Maria Elienishna, it's for her to decide. You come back in a couple of days. I went home in great uneasiness. I began to suspect that I'd managed the thing badly.

That I'd been wrong in letting her notice my state of mind, but I thought of that too late. Two days after I went to see the mistress, I was shown into a boudoir. There were heaps of flowers and splendid furniture. The lady herself was sitting in a wonderful easy chair with her head lolling back on a cushion. And the same relation was sitting there too, and some young lady with white eyebrows and a mouth all awry in a green gown.

A companion, most likely. The old lady said through her nose, Please be seated. I sat down. She began questioning me as to how old I was and where I'd been in the service and what I meant to do and all that very condescendingly and solemnly. I answered minutely.

The old lady took a handkerchief off the table, flourished it fanning herself. Katerina Karpovna informed me, says she, of your scheme. She informed me of it. But I make it my rule, says she, not to allow my people to leave my service. It is improper and quite unsuitable in a well-ordered house.

It is not good order. I have already given my orders, says she. There will be no need for you to trouble yourself further, says she. Oh, no trouble, really? But can it be, Materina Fyodorovna, is so necessary to you?

No, says she. She is not necessary. Then why won't you part with her to me? Because I don't choose to. I don't choose and that's all about it. I've already, says she, given my orders. She is being sent to a village in the steppes.

I was thunderstruck. The old lady said a couple of words in French to the young lady in green. She went out. I am, says she, a woman of strict principles and my health is delicate. I can't stand being worried.

You are still young and I am an old woman and entitled to give you advice. Wouldn't it be better for you to settle down, get married, to look out a good match, wealthy brides a few, but a poor girl of the highest moral character could be found? I stared, do you know, at the old lady and didn't understand what she was driving at.

I could hear she was talking about marriage, but the village in the steppes was ringing in my ears all the while. Get married? What the devil? Here he suddenly stopped in his story and looked at me. You're not married, I suppose?

No. There, of course, I could see it. I couldn't stand it. But upon my word, ma'am, what on earth are you talking about? How does marriage come in? I simply want to know from you whether you will part with yourself, girl Matrona, or not.

The old lady began sighing and groaning. Ah, he's worrying me. Ah, send him away. Ah. The relation flew to her and began scolding me while the lady kept on moaning. What have I done to deserve it? I suppose I'm not mistress in my own house. Ah. Ah. I snatched my hat and ran out of the house like a madman.

Perhaps, he continued, you will blame me for being so warmly attached to a girl of low position. I don't mean to justify myself exactly either, but so it came to pass. Would you believe it? I had no rest by day or by night. I was in torment. Besides, I thought I have ruined the poor girl. At times I thought that she was herding geese in a smock and being ill-treated by her mistress's orders,

and the bailiff a peasant in tarred boots reviling her with foul abuse. I positively fell into a cold sweat. Well, I could not stand it. I found out what village she had been sent to, mounted my horse and set off. I only got there the evening of the next day. Evidently they hadn't expected such a proceeding on my part and had given no order in regard to me.

I went straight to the bailiff as though I were a neighbour. I go into the yard and look around. There was Materiona sitting on the steps, leaning on her elbow. She wasn't the point of crying out, but I held up my finger and pointed outside towards the open country. I went into the hut. I chatted away a bit to the bailiff, told him ten thousand lies, seized the right moment and went out to Materiona.

She, poor girl, fairly hung round my neck. She was pale and thin, my poor darling. I kept saying to her, do you know? There, it's all right, Materiona, it's all right, don't cry. And my own tears simply flowed and flowed. Well, at last though I was ashamed, I said to her. Materiona, tears are no help in trouble, but we must act as they say resolutely.

You must run away with me. That's how we must act. Materiona fairly swooned away. How can it be? I shall be ruined. They will be the death of me altogether. You silly, who will find you? They will find me. They will be sure to find me.

Thank you, Piotr Petrovich, I shall never forget your kindness, but now you must leave me. Such is my fate, it seems. Ah, Materiona, Materiona, I thought you were a girl of character. And indeed she had a great deal of character. She had a heart, a heart of gold. Why should you be left here? It makes no difference, things can't be worse.

Come, tell me, you've felt the bayleaf's fist, eh? Materiona fairly crimson and her lips trembled, but there'll be no living for my family on my account. Why, your family now, will they send them for soldiers? Yes, they'll send my brother for a soldier. And your father?

Oh, they won't send father, he's the only good tailor among us. There you see, and it won't kill your brother. Would you believe it, I'd hard work to persuade her. She even brought forward a notion that I might have to answer for it. But that's not your affair, said I.

However, I did carry her off. Not that time, but another. One night I came with a light cart and carried her off. You carried her off? Yes, well so she lived in my house. It was a little house and I had few servants.

My people, I will tell you frankly, respected me. They wouldn't have betrayed me for any reward. I began to be as happy as a prince. Materiona rested and recovered and I grew devoted to her. And what a girl she was!

It seemed to come by nature. She could sing and dance and play the guitar. I didn't show her to my neighbours. I was afraid they'd gossip. But there was one fellow, my bosom friend, Grnostaev Pantelay.

You don't know him? He was simply crazy about her. He'd kiss her hand as though she were a lady. He would, really. And I must tell you, Grnostaev was not like me.

He was a cultivated man. He read all Pushkin. Sometimes he'd talk to Materiona and me so that we pricked up our ears to listen. He taught her to write. Such a queer chap he was.

And how I dressed her. Better than the governor's wife, really. I had a police maid her of crimson velvet, edged with fur. Ah, how that police suited her. It was made by a Moscow madame in a new fashion, with a waist.

And what a wonderful creature Materiona was. Sometimes she'd fall to musing and sit for hours together looking at the ground without stirring a muscle. And I'd sit, too, and look at her and could never gaze enough, just as if I were seeing her for the first time. Then she would smile and my heart would give a jump as though someone were tickling me.

Or else she'd suddenly fall to laughing, joking, dancing. She would embrace me so warmly, so passionately that my head went round. From morning to evening I thought of nothing but how I could please her. And would you believe it? I gave her presents simply to see how pleased she would be, the darling.

All blushing with delight. How she would try on my present. How she would come back with her new possession on and kiss me. Her father, Kulik, got wind of it somehow. The old man came to see us and how he wept.

In that way we lived for five months and I should have been glad to live with her forever. But for my cursed ill luck. Fyodor Petrovich stopped. What was it happened? I asked him sympathetically.

He waved his hand. Everything went to the devil. I was the ruin of her, too. My little Matryona was passionately fond of driving in sledges and she used to drive herself. She used to put on her pelisse and her embroidered torzok gloves and cry out with delight all the way.

We used to go out sledging always in the evening. So as not to meet anyone, you know. So once it was such a splendid day, you know, frosty and clear and no wind, we drove out. Matryona had the reins. I looked where she was driving.

Could it be to Kukuivka? Her mistress's village? Yes, it was to Kukuivka. I said to her, you mad girl, where are you going? She gave me a look over her shoulder and laughed.

Let me, she said, for a lark. Well, thought I, come what may. To drive past her mistress's house was nice, wasn't it? Tell me yourself, wasn't it nice? So we drove on.

The shaft horse seemed to float through the air and the trace horses went, I can tell you, like a regular whirlwind. We were already in sight of Kukuivka when suddenly I see an old green coach crawling along with a groom on the footboard up behind. It was the mistress, the mistress driving towards us. My heart failed me. But Matryona, how she latched the horses with the reins and flew straight towards the coach.

The coachman, he, you understand, sees us flying to meet him, meant, you know, to move on one side, turn too sharp and upset the coach in a snow drift. The window was broken, the mistress freaked, ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay. The companion wailed, help, help. While we flew by at the best speed we might, we galloped on, but I thought evil will come of it. I did wrong to let her drive to Kukuivka.

And what do you think? Why the mistress had recognized Matryona and me too, the old wretch, and made a complaint against me. My runaway surf girl, said she, is living at Mr. Karatayev's. And thereupon she made a suitable present. Lo and behold, the captain of police comes to me, and he was a man I knew, Stepan Sergeyevich Kuzovkin.

A good fellow, that's to say, really a regular bad lot. So he came up and said this and that, and how could you do so, Pater Petrovich? The liability is serious and the law is very distinct on the subject. I tell him, well, we'll have a talk about that of course, but come, you'll take a little something after your drive. He agreed to take something, but he said,

Justice has claims, Pater Petrovich, think for yourself. Justice to be sure, said I, of course, but I have heard say of a little black horse. Would you be willing to exchange it for my lampurdos? But there is no girl called Matryona Fedorovna in my keeping. Come, says he, Pater Petrovich, the girl's with you, we're not living in Switzerland, you know.

Though my little horse might be exchanged for lampurdos, I might, to be sure, accept it in that way. However, I managed to get rid of him somehow that time, but the old lady made a greater fuss than ever. Ten thousand rubles, she said, she wouldn't grudge over the business. You see, when she saw me, she suddenly took an idea into her head to marry me to her young lady companion in green. That I found out later.

That was why she was so spiteful. What ideas won't these great ladies take into their heads? It comes through being dull, I suppose. Things went badly with me. I didn't spare money and I kept Matryona in hiding.

No, they harassed me and turned me this way and that. I got into debt, I lost my health. So one night, as I lay in my bed thinking, My God, why should I suffer so? What am I to do since I can't get over loving her?

There I can't and that's all about it. Into the room walked Matryona. I had hidden her from the time at a farmhouse a mile and a half from my house. I was frightened. What? Have they discovered you even there?

No, Piotr Petrovich, said she. No one distoves me at Bubnova. But will that last long? My heart, she says, is torn, Piotr Petrovich. I'm sorry for you, my dear one.

Never shall I forget your goodness, Piotr Petrovich, but now I've come to say goodbye to you. What do you mean? What do you mean, you mad girl? Goodbye? How goodbye? Yes, I'm going to give myself up.

But I'll lock you up in a garret, mad girl. Do you mean to destroy me? Do you want to kill me or what? The girl was silent. She looked on the floor. Come, speak, speak.

I can't bear to cause you any more trouble, Piotr Petrovich. Well, one might talk to her as one pleased. But do you know, little fool, do you know, mad... And Piotr Petrovich sobbed bitterly. Well, what do you think?

He went on striking the table with his fist and trying to frown while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks. The girl gave herself up. She went and gave herself up. The horses are ready.

The overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room. We both stood up. What became of Matryona, I asked. Karatayev waved his hand. A year after my meeting with Karatayev, I happened to go to Moscow.

One day before dinner, for some reason or other, I went into a café on the Hotny Roo, an original Moscow café. In the billiard room across clouds of smoke I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, old-fashioned Hungarian coats and new-fangled Slavonic costumes.

Thin little old men in sober suit suits were reading the Russian newspapers. The waiters flitted early about with trays treading softly on the green carpets. Merchants with painful concentration were drinking tea. Suddenly a man came out of the billiard room, rather dishevelled and not quite steady on his legs.

He put his hands in his pockets, bent his head and looked aimlessly about. Ba, ba, ba! Pyotr Petrovich, how are you? Pyotr Petrovich almost fell on my neck and slightly staggering drew me into a small private room.

Come here, he said, carefully sitting me in an easy chair. Here you will be comfortable. Wait, beer? No, I mean champagne. There, I'll confess.

I didn't expect, I didn't expect. Have you been here long? Are you staying much longer? Well, God has brought us, as they say, together. Yes, do you remember?

To be sure I remember, to be sure I remember. I remember, he interrupted me hurriedly. It's a thing of the past. Well, what are you doing here, my dear Pyotr Petrovich? I'm living, as you can see, life's first rate here.

There are merry lot here. Here I've found peace. And he sighed and raised his eyes towards heaven. Are you in the service? No, I'm not in the service yet, but I think I shall enter.

But what's the service? People are the chief thing. What people I have got to know here? A boy came in with a bottle of champagne on a black tray. There, and this is a good fellow.

Is not true, Vasya, that you are a good fellow? To your health. The boy stood a minute, shook his head, decorously smiled and went out. Yes, there are capital people here, pursued Pyotr Petrovich. People of soul, of feeling.

Would you like me to introduce you? Such jolly chaps. They'll all be glad to know you. I say, Bobrov is dead. That's a sad thing.

What Bobrov? Sergei Bobrov. He was a capital fellow. He took me under his wing as an ignoramus from the wilds, and Pantelegar Nastaev is dead. All dead. All.

Have you been living all the time in Moscow? You haven't been away to the country. To the country? My country place is sold. Sold?

By auction. There, what a pity you didn't buy it. What are you going to live on, Pyotr Petrovich? I shan't die of hunger. God will provide when I've no money.

I shall have friends. And what is money? Dust and ashes. Gold is dust. He shut his eyes,

felt in his pocket and held out to me in the palm of his hand two sixpences and a penny. What's that? Isn't it dust and ashes? And the money flew on the floor. But you had better tell me, have you read Polizhaev?

Yes. Have you seen Machalov in Hamlet? No, I haven't. You've not seen him, not seen him. And Karatayev's face turned pale.

His eyes strayed uneasily. He turned away. A faint spasm passed over his lips. Ah, Machalov, Machalov! To die, to sleep, he said in a thick voice.

No more, and by a sleep we say we end, the heartache and a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, tis a consummation devoutly to be wished, to die, to sleep,

to sleep, to sleep. He muttered several times. Tell me, please, I began. But he went on with fire. Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

the oppressors wrong, the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of them worth it takes, when he himself might his creators make

with a bare-botkin nymph in thy horizons? Be all my sins remembered. And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at random. Within a month, he delivered with fresh fire,

a little month or ere those shoes were old, with which she followed my poor father's body, like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she, O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer.

He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on, For, Hecuba, what's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? But I'm a dull and muddy-medaled rascal,

who calls me coward, gives me the lie in throat. Why I should take it, for it cannot be, but I'm pigeon-livered and lack gall to make oppression bitter. Krotaev put down the glass and grabbed at his head.

I fancied I understood him. Well, well, he said at last, one must not rake up the past. Isn't that so? And he laughed.

To your health. Shall you stay in Moscow? I asked him. I shall die in Moscow. Krotaev!

called a voice in the next room. Krotaev, where are you? Come here, my dear fellow. They're calling me. He said getting up heavily from his seat.

Goodbye. Come and see me if you can. I live in... But next day, through unforeseen circumstances, I was obliged to leave Moscow.

And I never saw Pyotr Petrovich Krotaev again. End of Pyotr Petrovich Krotaev.