Orlóff and His Wife: Tales of the Barefoot Brigade. Maksim Gorky

at that moment, the door opened, and Doctor Yáshtchenko made his appearance on the threshold.

      "Wha-at's the meaning of this? Where are you, hey? What sort of a performance are you going through with?"

      His face was stem and astounded. Orlóff was not in the slightest degree abashed at the sight of him, and he even bowed to him, saying:

      "It's—.. disinfection between husband and wife."

      And he laughed convulsively in the doctor's face.

      "Why didn't you present yourself for duty?"—shouted the doctor sharply, incensed by the laugh.

      Gríshka shrugged his shoulders, and calmly declared:

      "I was busy … about my own affairs. … "

      "So … yes! And who was making that row here last night?"

      "We. … "

      "You? Very good. … You behave yourselves in domestic fashion … you prowl about without leave. … "

      "We're not serfs, so. … "

      "Silence! You've turned this into a dram-shop … you beasts! I'll show you where you are!"

      A flood of wild daring, of passionate longing to overturn everything, to tear the confusion out of his hunted soul, overwhelmed Gríshka, in a burning tide. It seemed to him that he would now do something unusual, and, at the same time, deliver his dark soul from the entanglements which now held it in bondage. He shuddered, felt an agreeable sensation of cold in his heart, and turning to the doctor with a sort of cat-like grimace, he said:

      "Don't you bother your gullet, don't yell. … I know where I am—in the exterminating house!"

      "Wha-at? What did you say?"—the astonished doctor bent toward him.

      Gríshka understood that he had uttered a savage word, but he did not cool down, for all that, but waxed all the hotter.

      "Never mind, it will pass off! Digest that! … Matréna! Get ready to go!"

      "No, my dear fellow, stop! You must answer me. … " uttered the doctor, with ominous composure.—"You scoundrel, I'll give it to you for this. … "

      Gríshka stared point-blank at him, and began to talk, with the sensation that he was leaping off somewhere, and with every leap he breathed more and more freely.

      "Don't you shout, Andréi Stepánovitch … don't swear. … You think that, because there's cholera, you can order me about. 'Tis a vain dream. … That you cure people, nobody needs to be told.—And what I said about extermination was, of course, an idle word, and I was angry. … But don't you yell so much, all the same. … "

      "No, you lie!"—said the doctor calmly. … "I'll give you a lesson … hey, there, come hither!"

      People were already standing in the corridor. … Gríshka screwed up his eyes, and set his teeth.

      "No, I'm not lying, and I'm not afraid … but if you want to give me a lesson, I'll tell you for your convenience."

      "We-ell? Say it. … "

      "I'll go to the town, and I'll spread the news: 'My lads! Do you know how they cure the cholera?'"

      "Wha-at?"—and the doctor opened his eyes widely.

      "So when we had that disinfection there with limination. … "

      "What are you saying, devil take you!"—cried the doctor in a dull tone.—Irritation had given way in him to amazement in the presence of that young fellow whom he had known as an industrious, far from unintelligent workman, and who now, no one knew why, was foolishly and stupidly running his neck into the noose. …

      "What nonsense are you chattering, you fool?"

      "Fool!"—rang like an echo through Gríshka's whole being. He understood that this verdict was just, and he became all the more angry.

      "What am I saying? I know … I don't care. … " he said, with wildly flashing eyes. … —"Now I understand why the like of me never cares … and it's utterly useless for us to restrain ourselves in our feelings. … Matréna, get ready!"

      "I won't go!" announced Matréna firmly.

      The doctor stared at them with round eyes, and rubbed his brow, comprehending nothing.

      "You're … either a drunken man or a crazy man! Do you understand what you are doing?" Gríshka would not, could not yield. In reply to the doctor, he said, ironically:

      "And how do you understand it? What are you doing? Disinfection, ha, ha! You heal the sick … while the well people die with the narrowness of their life. … Matréna! I'll smash your pate! Go. … "

      "I won't go with you!"

      She was pale, and unnaturally motionless, but her eyes gazed firmly and coldly into her husband's face … Gríshka, despite all his heroic courage, turned away from her, and hanging his head, made no reply.

      "Faugh!" and the doctor spat.—"The devil himself couldn't make out the meaning of this. … Here you! Begone! Take yourself off, and be thankful that I haven't been severe with you … you ought to be arrested … you blockhead! Get out!"

      Grigóry glanced, in silence, at the doctor, and then dropped his head again. He would have felt better if they had thrashed him, or even sent him to the police-station. … But the doctor was a kind man, and perceived that Orlóff was almost irresponsible.

      "For the last time, I ask you, will you go?" Gríshka hoarsely asked his wife.

      "No, I will not go,"—she answered, and bent down a little, as though in expectation of a blow.

      Gríshka waved his hand.

      "Well … the devil take the whole lot of you!—And what the devil do I want you for, anyway?"

      "You're a savage blockhead," began the doctor, argumentatively.

      "Don't you bark!" shouted Gríshka.—"Well, you cursed trollop, I'm going! I think we shall never see each other again … but perhaps we shall … that will be as I choose! But if we do meet again—it won't be good for you, I warn you!"

      And Orlóff moved toward the door.

      "Good-bye … tragedian! … " said the doctor sardonically, when Gríshka came on a level with him.

      Grigóry halted, and raising his mournful flashing eyes to him, he said in a repressed, low tone:

      "Don't you touch me … don't wind the spring up tight … it has unwound, and hasn't hit anybody … so let it go at that."

      He picked up his cap from the floor, stuck it on his head, bristled up, and went out, without even glancing at his wife.

      The doctor gazed searchingly at her. She stood before him pale, with an insensible sort of face.—The doctor nodded his head in the direction of Grigóry, and asked her:

      "What is the matter with him?"

      "I don't know. … "

      "Hm. … And where will he go now?"

      "On a drunken spree!"—replied Mrs. Orlóff firmly.

      The doctor frowned and went away.

      Matréna looked out of the window. The figure of a man was moving swiftly along, in the evening twilight, through wind and rain, from the barracks to the town. The figure was alone, in the midst of the wet, gray plain … The face of Matréna Orlóff turned still paler, she went into a corner, fell on her knees, and began to pray, zealously executing ground-reverences,[18] sighing out her petitions in a passionate whisper, and rubbing her breast and her throat with hands which trembled with emotion.