Short Stories by Chekhov
He's afraid of a mouse, the idiot! Look! It's a mouse! Look! Well? Look,
I tell you!"
Pyotr Demyanitch took the kitten by the scruff of the neck and pushed
him with his nose against the mouse-trap.
"Look, you carrion! Take him and hold him, Praskovya. . . . Hold him
opposite the door of the trap. . . . When I let the mouse out, you let
him go instantly. . . . Do you hear? . . . Instantly let go! Now!"
My uncle assumed a mysterious expression and lifted the door of the
trap. . . . The mouse came out irresolutely, sniffed the air, and flew
like an arrow under the sofa. . . . The kitten on being released darted
under the table with his tail in the air.
"It has got away! got away!" cried Pyotr Demyanitch, looking ferocious.
"Where is he, the scoundrel? Under the table? You wait. . ."
My uncle dragged the kitten from under the table and shook him in the
air.
"Wretched little beast," he muttered, smacking him on the ear. "Take
that, take that! Will you shirk it next time? Wr-r-r-etch. . . ."
Next day Praskovya heard again the summons.
"Praskovya, there is a mouse caught! Bring the kitten here!"
After the outrage of the previous day the kitten had taken refuge under
the stove and had not come out all night. When Praskovya pulled him out
and, carrying him by the scruff of the neck into the study, set him down
before the mouse-trap, he trembled all over and mewed piteously.
"Come, let him feel at home first," Pyotr Demyanitch commanded. "Let him
look and sniff. Look and learn! Stop, plague take you!" he shouted,
noticing that the kitten was backing away from the mouse-trap. "I'll
thrash you! Hold him by the ear! That's it. . . . Well now, set him down
before the trap. . . ."
My uncle slowly lifted the door of the trap . . . the mouse whisked
under the very nose of the kitten, flung itself against Praskovya's hand
and fled under the cupboard; the kitten, feeling himself free, took a
desperate bound and retreated under the sofa.
"He's let another mouse go!" bawled Pyotr Demyanitch. "Do you call that
a cat? Nasty little beast! Thrash him! thrash him by the mousetrap!"
When the third mouse had been caught, the kitten shivered all over at
the sight of the mousetrap and its inmate, and scratched Praskovya's
hand. . . . After the fourth mouse my uncle flew into a rage, kicked the
kitten, and said:
"Take the nasty thing away! Get rid of it! Chuck it away! It's no
earthly use!"
A year passed, the thin, frail kitten had turned into a solid and
sagacious tom-cat. One day he was on his way by the back yards to an
amatory interview. He had just reached his destination when he suddenly
heard a rustle, and thereupon caught sight of a mouse which ran from a
water-trough towards a stable; my hero's hair stood on end, he arched
his back, hissed, and trembling all over, took to ignominious flight.
Alas! sometimes I feel myself in the ludicrous position of the flying
cat. Like the kitten, I had in my day the honour of being taught Latin
by my uncle. Now, whenever I chance to see some work of classical
antiquity, instead of being moved to eager enthusiasm, I begin
recalling, ut consecutivum, the irregular verbs, the sallow grey face of
my uncle, the ablative absolute. . . . I turn pale, my hair stands up on
my head, and, like the cat, I take to ignominious flight.
THE BIRD MARKET
THERE is a small square near the monastery of the Holy Birth which is
called Trubnoy, or simply Truboy; there is a market there on Sundays.
Hundreds of sheepskins, wadded coats, fur caps, and chimneypot hats
swarm there, like crabs in a sieve. There is the sound of the twitter of
birds in all sorts of keys, recalling the spring. If the sun is shining,
and there are no clouds in the sky, the singing of the birds and the
smell of hay make a more vivid impression, and this reminder of spring
sets one thinking and carries one's fancy far, far away. Along one side
of the square there stands a string of waggons. The waggons are loaded,
not with hay, not with cabbages, nor with beans, but with goldfinches,
siskins, larks, blackbirds and thrushes, bluetits, bullfinches. All of
them are hopping about in rough, home-made cages, twittering and looking
with envy at the free sparrows. The goldfinches cost five kopecks, the
siskins are rather more expensive, while the value of the other birds is
quite indeterminate.
"How much is a lark?"
The seller himself does not know the value of a lark. He scratches his
head and asks whatever comes into it, a rouble, or three kopecks,
according to the purchaser. There are expensive birds too. A faded old
blackbird, with most of its feathers plucked out of its tail, sits on a
dirty perch. He is dignified, grave, and motionless as a retired
general. He has waved his claw in resignation to his captivity long ago,
and looks at the blue sky with indifference. Probably, owing to this
indifference, he is considered a sagacious bird. He is not to be bought
for less than forty kopecks. Schoolboys, workmen, young men in stylish
greatcoats, and bird-fanciers in incredibly shabby caps, in ragged
trousers that are turned up at the ankles, and look as though they had
been gnawed by mice, crowd round the birds, splashing through the mud.
The young people and the workmen are sold hens for cocks, young birds
for old ones. . . . They know very little about birds. But there is no
deceiving the bird-fancier. He sees and understands his bird from a
distance.
"There is no relying on that bird," a fancier will say, looking into a
siskin's beak, and counting the feathers on its tail. "He sings now,
it's true, but what of that? I sing in company too. No, my boy, shout,
sing to me without company; sing in solitude, if you can. . . . You give
me that one yonder that sits and holds its tongue! Give me the quiet
one! That one says nothing, so he thinks the more. . . ."
Among the waggons of birds there are some full of other live creatures.
Here you see hares, rabbits, hedgehogs, guinea-pigs, polecats. A hare
sits sorrowfully nibbling the straw. The guinea-pigs shiver with cold,
while the hedgehogs look out with curiosity from under their prickles at
the public.
"I have read somewhere," says a post-office official in a faded
overcoat, looking lovingly at the hare, and addressing no one in
particular, "I have read that some learned man had a cat and a mouse and
a falcon and a sparrow, who all ate out of one bowl."
"That's very possible, sir. The cat must have been beaten, and the
falcon, I dare say, had all its tail pulled out. There's no great
cleverness in that, sir. A friend of mine had a cat who, saving your
presence, used to eat his cucumbers. He thrashed her with a big whip for
a fortnight, till he taught her not to. A hare can learn to light
matches if you beat it. Does that surprise you? It's very simple! It
takes the match in its mouth and strikes it. An animal is like a man. A
man's made wiser by beating, and it's the same with a beast."
Men in long, full-skirted coats move backwards and forwards in the crowd
with cocks and ducks under their arms. The fowls are all lean and
hungry. Chickens poke their ugly, mangy-looking heads out of their cages
and peck at something in the mud. Boys with pigeons stare into your face
and try to detect in you a pigeon-fancier.
"Yes, indeed! It's no use talking to you," someone shouts angrily. "You
should look before you speak! Do you call this a pigeon? It is an eagle,
not a pigeon!"
A tall thin man, with a shaven upper lip and side whiskers, who looks
like a sick and drunken footman, is selling a snow-white lap-dog. The
old lap-dog whines.
"She told me to sell the nasty thing," says the footman, with a
contemptuous snigger. "She is bankrupt in her old age, has nothing to
eat, and here now is selling her dogs and cats. She cries, and kisses
them on their filthy snouts. And then she is so hard up that she sells
them. 'Pon my soul, it is a fact! Buy it, gentlemen! The money is wanted
for coffee."
But no one laughs. A boy who is standing by screws up one eye and looks
at him gravely with compassion.
The most interesting of all is the fish section. Some dozen peasants are
sitting in a row. Before each of them is a pail, and in each pail there
is a veritable little hell. There, in the thick, greenish water are
swarms of little carp, eels, small fry, water-snails, frogs, and newts.
Big water-beetles with broken legs scurry over the small surface,
clambering on the carp, and jumping over the frogs. The creatures have a
strong hold on life. The frogs climb on the beetles, the newts on the
frogs. The dark green tench, as more expensive fish, enjoy an
exceptional position; they are kept in a special jar where they can't
swim, but still they are not so cramped. . . .
"The carp is a grand fish! The carp's the fish to keep, your honour,
plague take him! You can keep him for a year in a pail and he'll live!
It's a week since I caught these very fish. I caught them, sir, in
Pererva, and have come from there on foot. The carp are two kopecks
each, the eels are three, and the minnows are ten kopecks the dozen,
plague take them! Five kopecks' worth of minnows, sir? Won't you take
some worms?"
The seller thrusts his coarse rough fingers into the pail and pulls out
of it a soft minnow, or a little carp, the size of a nail. Fishing
lines, hooks, and tackle are laid out near the pails, and pond-worms
glow with a crimson light in the sun.
An old fancier in a fur cap, iron-rimmed spectacles, and goloshes that
look like two dread-noughts, walks about by the waggons of birds and
pails of fish. He is, as they call him here, "a type." He hasn't a
farthing to bless himself with, but in spite of that he haggles, gets
excited, and pesters purchasers with advice. He has thoroughly examined
all the hares, pigeons, and fish; examined them in every detail, fixed
the kind, the age, and the price of each one of them a good hour ago. He
is as interested as a child in the goldfinches, the carp, and the
minnows. Talk to him, for instance, about thrushes, and the queer old
fellow will tell you things you could not find in any book. He will tell
you them with enthusiasm, with passion, and will scold you too for your
ignorance. Of goldfinches and bullfinches he is ready to talk endlessly,
opening his eyes wide and gesticulating violently with his hands. He is
only to be met here at the market in the cold weather; in the summer he
is somewhere in the country, catching quails with a bird-call and
angling for fish.
And here is another "type," a very tall, very thin, close-shaven
gentleman in dark spectacles, wearing a cap with a cockade, and looking
like a scrivener of by-gone days. He is a fancier; he is a man of decent
position, a teacher in a high school, and that is well known to the
habitués of the market, and they treat him with respect, greet him with
bows, and have even invented for him a special title: "Your
Scholarship." At Suharev market he rummages among the books, and at
Trubnoy looks out for good pigeons.
"Please, sir!" the pigeon-sellers shout to him, "Mr. Schoolmaster, your
Scholarship, take notice of my tumblers! your Scholarship!"
"Your Scholarship!" is shouted at him from every side.
"Your Scholarship!" an urchin repeats somewhere on the boulevard.
And his "Scholarship," apparently quite accustomed to his title, grave
and severe, takes a pigeon in both hands, and lifting it above his head,
begins examining it, and as he does so frowns and looks graver than
ever, like a conspirator.
And Trubnoy Square, that little bit of Moscow where animals are so
tenderly loved, and where they are so tortured, lives its little life,
grows noisy and excited, and the business-like or pious people who pass