The Tales of Chekhov, vol 5 | Page 8

fools into the kitchen.
We were angry with them and at the same time ashamed to look at

them; they were peasants we knew, and were good fellows; we were
sorry for them. They were quite stupid with terror. One was crying and
begging our pardon, the second looked like a wild beast and kept
swearing, the third knelt down and began to pray. I said to Fedya:
'Don't bear them a grudge; let them go, the rascals!' He fed them, gave
them a bushel of flour each, and let them go: 'Get along with you,' he
said. So that's what he did.. . . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and
everlasting peace! He understood and did not bear them a grudge; but
there were some who did, and how many people they ruined! Yes. . .
Why, over the affair at the Klotchkovs' tavern eleven men were sent to
the disciplinary battalion. Yes. . . . And now, look, it's the same thing.
Anisyin, the investigating magistrate, stayed the night with me last
Thursday, and he told me about some landowner. . . . Yes. . . . They
took the wall of his barn to pieces at night and carried off twenty sacks
of rye. When the gentleman heard that such a crime had been
committed, he sent a telegram to the Governor and another to the police
captain, another to the investigating magistrate! . . . Of course, every
one is afraid of a man who is fond of litigation. The authorities were in
a flutter and there was a general hubbub. Two villages were searched."
"Excuse me, Ivan Ivanitch," I said. "Twenty sacks of rye were stolen
from me, and it was I who telegraphed to the Governor. I telegraphed to
Petersburg, too. But it was by no means out of love for litigation, as
you are pleased to express it, and not because I bore them a grudge. I
look at every subject from the point of view of principle. From the
point of view of the law, theft is the same whether a man is hungry or
not."
"Yes, yes. . ." muttered Ivan Ivanitch in confusion. "Of course. . . To be
sure, yes."
Natalya Gavrilovna blushed.
"There are people. . ." she said and stopped; she made an effort to seem
indifferent, but she could not keep it up, and looked into my eyes with
the hatred that I know so well. "There are people," she said, "for whom
famine and human suffering exist simply that they may vent their
hateful and despicable temperaments upon them."
I was confused and shrugged my shoulders.
"I meant to say generally," she went on, "that there are people who are
quite indifferent and completely devoid of all feeling of sympathy, yet

who do not pass human suffering by, but insist on meddling for fear
people should be able to do without them. Nothing is sacred for their
vanity."
"There are people," I said softly, "who have an angelic character, but
who express their glorious ideas in such a form that it is difficult to
distinguish the angel from an Odessa market-woman."
I must confess it was not happily expressed.
My wife looked at me as though it cost her a great effort to hold her
tongue. Her sudden outburst, and then her inappropriate eloquence on
the subject of my desire to help the famine-stricken peasants, were, to
say the least, out of place; when I had invited her to come upstairs I had
expected quite a different attitude to me and my intentions. I cannot say
definitely what I had expected, but I had been agreeably agitated by the
expectation. Now I saw that to go on speaking about the famine would
be difficult and perhaps stupid.
"Yes . . ." Ivan Ivanitch muttered inappropriately. "Burov, the merchant,
must have four hundred thousand at least. I said to him: 'Hand over one
or two thousand to the famine. You can't take it with you when you die,
anyway.' He was offended. But we all have to die, you know. Death is
not a potato."
A silence followed again.
"So there's nothing left for me but to reconcile myself to loneliness," I
sighed. "One cannot fight single-handed. Well, I will try single-handed.
Let us hope that my campaign against the famine will be more
successful than my campaign against indifference."
"I am expected downstairs," said Natalya Gavrilovna.
She got up from the table and turned to Ivan Ivanitch.
"So you will look in upon me downstairs for a minute? I won't say
good-bye to you."
And she went away.
Ivan Ivanitch was now drinking his seventh glass of tea, choking,
smacking his lips, and sucking sometimes his moustache, sometimes
the lemon. He was muttering something drowsily and