Twenty-six and One | Page 9

into his pockets, and his
moustache was stirring.
A rain was falling, and we saw the drops fall into plashes, and the
plashes were wrinkling under their blows. It was a damp, gray day--a
very dreary day. The snow still lay on the roofs, while on the ground,

here and there, were dark spots of mud. And the snow on the roofs, too,
was covered with a brownish, muddy coating. The rain trickled slowly,
producing a mournful sound. We felt cold and disagreeable.
The soldier came first out of the cellar; he crossed the yard slowly,
Stirring his moustache, his hands in his pockets--the same as always.
Then Tanya came out. Her eyes . . . her eyes were radiant with joy and
happiness, and her lips were smiling. And she walked as though in
sleep, staggering, with uncertain steps. We could not stand this calmly.
We all rushed toward the door, jumped out into the yard, and began to
hiss and bawl at her angrily and wildly. On noticing us she trembled
and stopped short as if petrified in the mud under her feet. We
surrounded her and malignantly abused her in the most obscene
language. We told her shameless things.
We did this not loud but slowly, seeing that she could not get away,
that she was surrounded by us and we could mock her as much as we
pleased. I don't know why, but we did not beat her. She stood among us,
turning her head one way and another, listening to our abuses. And we
kept on throwing at her more of the mire and poison of our words.
The color left her face. Her blue eyes, so happy a moment ago, opened
wide, her breast breathed heavily and her lips were trembling.
And we, surrounding her, avenged ourselves upon her, for she had
robbed us. She had belonged to us, we had spent on her all that was
best in us, though that best was the crusts of beggars, but we were
twenty-six, while she was one, and therefore there was no suffering
painful enough to punish her for her crime! How we abused her! She
was silent, looked at us wild-eyed, and trembling in every limb. We
were laughing, roaring, growling. Some more people ran up to us.
Some one of us pulled Tanya by the sleeve of her waist. . . .
Suddenly her eyes began to flash; slowly she lifted her hands to her
head, and, adjusting her hair, said loudly, but calmly, looking straight
into our eyes:

"Miserable prisoners!"
And she came directly toward us, she walked, too, as though we were
not in front of her, as though we were not in her way. Therefore none of
us were in her way, and coming out of our circle, without turning to us,
she said aloud, and with indescribable contempt:
"Rascals! . . . Rabble!" . . .
Then she went away.
We remained standing in the centre of the yard, in the mud, under the
rain and the gray, sunless sky. . . .
Then we all went back silently to our damp, stony ditch. As before, the
sun never peeped in through our windows, and Tanya never came there
again! . . . .

Tchelkache
The sky is clouded by the dark smoke rising from the harbor. The
ardent sun gazes at the green sea through a thin veil. It is unable to see
its reflection in the water so agitated is the latter by the oars, the
steamer screws and the sharp keels of the Turkish feluccas, or sail boats,
that plough the narrow harbor in every direction. The waves imprisoned
by stone walls, crushed under the enormous weights that they carry,
beat against the sides of the vessels and the quays; beat and murmur,
foaming and muddy.
The noise of chains, the rolling of wagons laden with merchandise, the
metallic groan of iron falling on the pavements, the creaking of
windlasses, the whistling of steamboats, now in piercing shrieks, now
in muffled roars, the cries of haulers, sailors and custom-house
officers--all these diverse sounds blend in a single tone, that of work,
and vibrate and linger in the air as though they feared to rise and
disappear. And still the earth continues to give forth new sounds; heavy,
rumbling, they set in motion everything about them, or, piercing, rend

the hot and smoky air.
Stone, iron, wood, vessels and men, all, breathe forth a furious and
passionate hymn to the god of Traffic. But the voices of the men,
scarcely distinguishable, appear feeble and ridiculous, as do also the
men, in the midst of all this tumult. Covered with grimy rags, bent
under their burdens, they move through clouds of dust in the hot and
noisy atmosphere, dwarfed to