The Witch, and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

a sin!” whispered Sofya again.

      “Well, let it be.”

      Somewhere behind the church the same three voices, two tenors and a bass, began singing again a mournful song. And again the words could not be distinguished.

      “They are not early to bed,” Varvara said, laughing.

      And she began telling in a whisper of her midnight walks with the priest’s son, and of the stories he had told her, and of his comrades, and of the fun she had with the travellers who stayed in the house. The mournful song stirred a longing for life and freedom. Sofya began to laugh; she thought it sinful and terrible and sweet to hear about, and she felt envious and sorry that she, too, had not been a sinner when she was young and pretty.

      In the churchyard they heard twelve strokes beaten on the watchman’s board.

      “It’s time we were asleep,” said Sofya, getting up, “or, maybe, we shall catch it from Dyudya.”

      They both went softly into the yard.

      “I went away without hearing what he was telling about Mashenka,” said Varvara, making herself a bed under the window.

      “She died in prison, he said. She poisoned her husband.”

      Varvara lay down beside Sofya a while, and said softly:

      “I’d make away with my Alyoshka and never regret it.”

      “You talk nonsense; God forgive you.”

      When Sofya was just dropping asleep, Varvara, coming close, whispered in her ear:

      “Let us get rid of Dyudya and Alyoshka!”

      Sofya started and said nothing. Then she opened her eyes and gazed a long while steadily at the sky.

      “People would find out,” she said.

      “No, they wouldn’t. Dyudya’s an old man, it’s time he did die; and they’d say Alyoshka died of drink.”

      “I’m afraid… God would chastise us.”

      “Well, let Him…”

      Both lay awake thinking in silence.

      “It’s cold,” said Sofya, beginning to shiver all over. “It will soon be morning… Are you asleep?”

      “No… Don’t you mind what I say, dear,” whispered Varvara; “I get so mad with the damned brutes, I don’t know what I do say. Go to sleep, or it will be daylight directly… Go to sleep.”

      Both were quiet and soon they fell asleep.

      Earlier than all woke the old woman. She waked up Sofya and they went together into the cowshed to milk the cows. The hunchback Alyoshka came in hopelessly drunk without his concertina; his breast and knees had been in the dust and straw – he must have fallen down in the road. Staggering, he went into the cowshed, and without undressing he rolled into a sledge and began to snore at once. When first the crosses on the church and then the windows were flashing in the light of the rising sun, and shadows stretched across the yard over the dewy grass from the trees and the top of the well, Matvey Savitch jumped up and began hurrying about:

      “Kuzka! get up!” he shouted. “It’s time to put in the horses! Look sharp!”

      The bustle of morning was beginning. A young Jewess in a brown gown with flounces led a horse into the yard to drink. The pulley of the well creaked plaintively, the bucket knocked as it went down…

      Kuzka, sleepy, tired, covered with dew, sat up in the cart, lazily putting on his little overcoat, and listening to the drip of the water from the bucket into the well as he shivered with the cold.

      “Auntie!” shouted Matvey Savitch to Sofya, “tell my lad to hurry up and to harness the horses!”

      And Dyudya at the same instant shouted from the window:

      “Sofya, take a farthing from the Jewess for the horse’s drink! They’re always in here, the mangy creatures!”

      In the street sheep were running up and down, baaing; the peasant women were shouting at the shepherd, while he played his pipes, cracked his whip, or answered them in a thick sleepy bass. Three sheep strayed into the yard, and not finding the gate again, pushed at the fence.

      Varvara was waked by the noise, and bundling her bedding up in her arms, she went into the house.

      “You might at least drive the sheep out!” the old woman bawled after her, “my lady!”

      “I dare say! As if I were going to slave for you Herods!” muttered Varvara, going into the house.

      Dyudya came out of the house with his accounts in his hands, sat down on the step, and began reckoning how much the traveller owed him for the night’s lodging, oats, and watering his horses.

      “You charge pretty heavily for the oats, my good man,” said Matvey Savitch.

      “If it’s too much, don’t take them. There’s no compulsion, merchant.”

      When the travellers were ready to start, they were detained for a minute. Kuzka had lost his cap.

      “Little swine, where did you put it?” Matvey Savitch roared angrily. “Where is it?”

      Kuzka’s face was working with terror; he ran up and down near the cart, and not finding it there, ran to the gate and then to the shed. The old woman and Sofya helped him look.

      “I’ll pull your ears off!” yelled Matvey Savitch. “Dirty brat!”

      The cap was found at the bottom of the cart.

      Kuzka brushed the hay off it with his sleeve, put it on, and timidly he crawled into the cart, still with an expression of terror on his face as though he were afraid of a blow from behind.

      Matvey Savitch crossed himself. The driver gave a tug at the reins and the cart rolled out of the yard.

      THE POST

      IT was three o’clock in the night. The postman, ready to set off, in his cap and his coat, with a rusty sword in his hand, was standing near the door, waiting for the driver to finish putting the mail bags into the cart which had just been brought round with three horses. The sleepy postmaster sat at his table, which was like a counter; he was filling up a form and saying:

      “My nephew, the student, wants to go to the station at once. So look here, Ignatyev, let him get into the mail cart and take him with you to the station: though it is against the regulations to take people with the mail, what’s one to do? It’s better for him to drive with you free than for me to hire horses for him.”

      “Ready!” they heard a shout from the yard.

      “Well, go then, and God be with you,” said the postmaster. “Which driver is going?”

      “Semyon Glazov.”

      “Come, sign the receipt.”

      The postman signed the receipt and went out. At the entrance of the post-office there was the dark outline of a cart and three horses. The horses were standing still except that one of the tracehorses kept uneasily shifting from one leg to the other and tossing its head, making the bell clang from time to time. The cart with the mail bags looked like a patch of darkness. Two silhouettes were moving lazily beside it: the student with a portmanteau in his hand and a driver. The latter was smoking a short pipe; the light of the pipe moved about in the darkness, dying away and flaring up again; for an instant it lighted up a bit of a sleeve, then a shaggy moustache and big copper-red nose, then stern-looking, overhanging eyebrows. The postman pressed down the mail bags with his hands, laid his sword on them and jumped into the cart. The student clambered irresolutely in after him, and accidentally touching him with his elbow, said timidly and politely: “I beg your pardon.”

      The pipe went out. The postmaster came out of the post-office just as he was, in his waistcoat and slippers; shrinking from the night dampness and clearing his throat, he walked beside the cart and said:

      “Well, God speed! Give my love to your mother, Mihailo. Give my love