the witch and other stories-第8节

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the　student's　portmanteau；　and　one　of　the　mail　bags。

〃Stop；　you　rascal！　Sto…op！〃　they　heard　him　shout　from　the　forest。
〃You　damned　blackguard！〃　he　shouted；　running　up　to　the　cart；　and
there　was　a　note　of　pain　and　fury　in　his　tearful　voice。　〃You
anathema；　plague　take　you！〃　he　roared；　dashing　up　to　the　driver
and　shaking　his　fist　at　him。

〃What　a　to…do！　Lord　have　mercy　on　us！〃　muttered　the　driver　in　a
conscience…stricken　voice；　setting　right　something　in　the　harness
at　the　horses'　heads。　〃It's　all　that　devil　of　a　tracehorse。
Cursed　filly；　it　is　only　a　week　since　she　has　run　in　harness。　She
goes　all　right；　but　as　soon　as　we　go　down　hill　there　is　trouble！
She　wants　a　touch　or　two　on　the　nose；　then　she　wouldn't　play
about　like　this。　。　。　Stea…eady！　Damn！〃

While　the　driver　was　setting　the　horses　to　rights　and　looking　for
the　portmanteau；　the　mail　bag；　and　the　sword　on　the　road；　the
postman　in　a　plaintive　voice　shrill　with　anger　ejaculated　oaths。
After　replacing　the　luggage　the　driver　for　no　reason　whatever　led
the　horses　for　a　hundred　paces；　grumbled　at　the　restless
tracehorse；　and　jumped　up　on　the　box。

When　his　fright　was　over　the　student　felt　amused　and
good…humoured。　It　was　the　first　time　in　his　life　that　he　had
driven　by　night　in　a　mail　cart；　and　the　shaking　he　had　just　been
through；　the　postman's　having　been　thrown　out；　and　the　pain　in
his　own　back　struck　him　as　interesting　adventures。　He　lighted　a
cigarette　and　said　with　a　laugh：

〃Why　you　know；　you　might　break　your　neck　like　that！　I　very　nearly
flew　out；　and　I　didn't　even　notice　you　had　been　thrown　out。　I　can
fancy　what　it　is　like　driving　in　autumn！〃

The　postman　did　not　speak。

〃Have　you　been　going　with　the　post　for　long？〃　the　student　asked。

〃Eleven　years。〃

〃Oho；　every　day？〃

〃Yes；　every　day。　I　take　this　post　and　drive　back　again　at　once。
Why？〃

Making　the　journey　every　day；　he　must　have　had　a　good　many
interesting　adventures　in　eleven　years。　On　bright　summer　and
gloomy　autumn　nights；　or　in　winter　when　a　ferocious　snowstorm
whirled　howling　round　the　mail　cart；　it　must　have　been　hard　to
avoid　feeling　frightened　and　uncanny。　No　doubt　more　than　once　the
horses　had　bolted；　the　mail　cart　had　stuck　in　the　mud；　they　had
been　attacked　by　highwaymen；　or　had　lost　their　　way　i　n　the
blizzard。　。　。　。

〃I　can　fancy　what　adventures　you　must　have　had　in　eleven　years！〃
said　the　student。　〃I　expect　it　must　be　terrible　driving？〃

He　said　this　and　expected　that　the　postman　would　tell　him
something；　but　the　latter　preserved　a　sullen　silence　and
retreated　into　his　collar。　Meanwhile　it　began　to　get　light。　The
sky　changed　colour　imperceptibly；　it　still　seemed　dark；　but　by
now　the　horses　and　the　driver　and　the　road　could　be　seen。　The
crescent　moon　looked　bigger　and　bigger；　and　the　cloud　that
stretched　below　it；　shaped　like　a　cannon　in　a　gun…carriage；
showed　a　faint　yellow　on　its　lower　edge。　Soon　the　postman's　face
was　visible。　It　was　wet　with　dew；　grey　and　rigid　as　the　face　of　a
corpse。　An　expression　of　dull；　sullen　anger　was　set　upon　it；　as
though　the　postman　were　still　in　pain　and　still　angry　with　the
driver。

〃Thank　God　it　is　daylight！〃　said　the　student；　looking　at　his
chilled　and　angry　face。　〃I　am　quite　frozen。　The　nights　are　cold
in　September；　but　as　soon　as　the　sun　rises　it　isn't　cold。　Shall
we　soon　reach　the　station？〃

The　postman　frowned　and　made　a　wry　face。

〃How　fond　you　are　of　talking；　upon　my　word！〃　he　said。　〃Can't　you
keep　quiet　when　you　are　travelling？〃

The　student　was　confused；　and　did　not　approach　him　again　all　the
journey。　The　morning　came　on　rapidly。　The　moon　turned　pale　and
melted　away　into　the　dull　grey　sky；　the　cloud　turned　yellow　all
over；　the　stars　grew　dim；　but　the　east　was　still　cold…looking　and
the　same　colour　as　the　rest　of　the　sky；　so　that　one　could　hardly
believe　the　sun　was　hidden　in　it。

The　chill　of　the　morning　and　the　surliness　of　the　postman
gradually　infected　the　student。　He　looked　apathetically　at　the
country　around　him；　waited　for　the　warmth　of　the　sun；　and　thought
of　nothing　but　how　dreadful　and　horrible　it　must　be　for　the　poor
trees　and　the　grass　to　endure　the　cold　nights。　The　sun　rose　dim；
drowsy；　and　cold。　The　tree…tops　were　not　gilded　by　the　rays　of
the　rising　sun；　as　usually　described；　the　sunbeams　did　not　creep
over　the　earth　and　there　was　no　sign　of　joy　in　the　flight　of　the
sleepy　birds。　The　cold　remained　just　the　same　now　that　the　sun
was　up　as　it　had　been　in　the　night。

The　student　looked　drowsily　and　ill…humouredly　at　the　curtained
windows　of　a　mansion　by　which　the　mail　cart　drove。　Behind　those
windows；　he　thought；　people　were　most　likely　enjoying　their
soundest　morning　sleep　not　hearing　the　bells；　nor　feeling　the
cold；　nor　seeing　the　postman's　angry　face；　and　if　the　bell　did
wake　some　young　lady；　she　would　turn　over　on　the　other　side；
smile　in　the　fulness　of　her　warmth　and　comfort；　and；　drawing　up
her　feet　and　putting　her　hand　under　her　cheek；　would　go　off　to
sleep　more　soundly　than　ever。

The　student　looked　at　the　pond　which　gleamed　near　the　house　and
thought　of　the　carp　and　the　pike　which　find　it　possible　to　live
in　cold　water。　。　。　。

〃It's　against　the　regulations　to　take　anyone　with　the　post。　。　。
。〃　the　postman　said　unexpectedly。　〃It's　not　allowed！　And　since　it
is　not　allowed；　people　have　no　business　。　。　。　to　get　in。　。　。　。
Yes。　It　makes　no　difference　to　me；　it's　true；　only　I　don't　like
it；　and　I　don't　wish　it。〃

〃Why　didn't　you　say　so　before；　if　you　don't　like　it？〃

The　postman　made　no　answer　but　still　had　an　unfriendly；　angry
expression。　When；　a　little　later；　the　horses　stopped　at　the
entrance　of　the　station　the　student　thanked　him　and　got　out　of
the　cart。　The　mail　train　had　not　yet　come　in。　A　long　goods　train
stood　in　a　siding；　in　the　tender　the　engine　driver　and　his
assistant；　with　faces　wet　with　dew；　were　drinking　tea　from　a
dirty　tin　teapot。　The　carriages；　the　platforms；　the　seats　were
all　wet　and　cold。　Until　the　train　came　in　the　student　stood　at
the　buffet　drinking　tea　while　the　postman；　with　his　hands　thrust
up　his　sleeves　and　the　same　look　of　anger　still　on　his　face；
paced　up　and　down　the　platform　in　solitude；　staring　at　the　ground
under　his　feet。

With　whom　was　he　angry？　Was　it　with　people；　with　poverty；　with
the　autmn　nights？


THE　NEW　VILLA

I

Two　miles　from　the　village　of　Obrutchanovo　a　huge　bridge　was
being　built。　From　the　village；　which　stood　up　high　on　the　steep
river…bank；　its　trellis…like　skeleton　could　be　seen；　and　in　foggy
weather　and　on　still　winter　days；　when　its　delicate　iron　girders
and　all　the　scaffolding　around　was　covered　with　hoar　frost；　it
presented　a　picturesque　and　even　fantastic　spectacle。　Kutcherov；
the　engineer　who　was　building　the　bridge；　a　stout；
broad…shouldered；　bearded　man　in　a　soft　crumpled　cap　drove
through　the　village　in　his　racing　droshky　or　his　open　carriage。
Now　and　then　on　holidays　navvies　working　on　the　bridge　would　come
to　the　village；　they　begged　for　alms；　laughed　at　the　women；　and
sometimes　carried　off　something。　But　that　was　rare；　as　a　rule　the
days　passed　quietly　and　peacefully　as　though　no　bridge…building
were　going　on；　and　only　in　the　evening；　when　camp　fires　gleamed
near　the　bridge；　the　wind　faintly　wafted　the　songs　of　the
navvies。　And　by　day　there　was　sometimes　the　mournful　clang　of
metal；　don…don…don。

It　happened　that　the　engineer's　wife　came　to　see　him。　She　was
pleased　with　the　river…banks　and　the　gorgeous　view　over　the　green
valley　with　trees；　churches；　flocks；　and　she　began　begging　her
husband　to　buy　a　small　piece　of　ground　and　to　build　them　a
cottage　on　it。　Her　husband　agreed。　They　bought　sixty　acres　of
land；　and　on　the　high　bank　in　a　field；　where　in　earlier　days　the
cows　of　Obrutchanovo　used　to　wander；　they　built　a　pretty　house　of
two　storeys　with　a　terrace　and　a　verandah；　with　a　tower　and　a
flagstaff　on　which　a　flag　fluttered　on　Sundays　　they　built　it
in　about　three　months；　and　then　all　the　winter　they　were　planting
big　trees；　and　when　spring　came　and　everything　began　to　be　green
there　were　already　avenues　to　the　new　house；　a　gardener　and　two
labourers　in　white　aprons　were　digging　near　it；　there　was　a
little　fountain；　and　a　globe　of　looking…glass　flashed　so
brilliantly　that　it　was　painful　to　look　at。　The　house　had　already
been　named　the　New　Villa。

On　a　bright；　warm　morning　at　the　end　of　May　two　horses　were
brought　to　Obrutchanovo　to　the　village　blacksmith；　Rodion　Petrov。
They　came　from　the　New　Villa。　The　horses　were　sleek；　graceful
beasts；　as　white　as　snow；　and　strikingly　alike。

〃Perfect　swans！〃　said　Rodion；　gazing　at　them　with　reverent
admiration。

His　wife　Stepanida；　his　children　and　grandchildren　came　out　into
the　street　to　look　at　them。　By　degrees　a　crowd　collected。　The
Lytchkovs；　father　and　son；　both　men　with　swollen　faces　and
entirely　beardless；　came　up　bareheaded。　Kozov；　a　tall；　thin　old
man　with　a　long；　narrow　beard；　came　up　leaning　on　a　stick　with　a
crook　handle：　he　kept　winking　with　his　crafty　eyes　and　smiling
ironically　as　though　he　knew　something。

〃It's　only　that　they　are　white；　what　is　there　in　them？〃　he　said。
〃Put　mine　on　oats；　and　they　will　be　just　as　sleek。　They　ought　to
be　in　a　plou