THE twilight1 of evening. Big flakes2 of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses’ backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge3-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent4 as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off.... His little mare5 is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough6, full of monstrous7 lights, of unceasing uproar8 and hurrying people, is bound to think.
It is a long time since Iona and his nag9 have budged10. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle11 of the street grows noisier.
“Sledge to Vyborgskaya!” Iona hears. “Sledge!”
Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood12 over his head.
“To Vyborgskaya,” repeats the officer. “Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!”
In token of assent13 Iona gives a tug14 at the reins15 which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse’s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes16 his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks17 her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of....
“Where are you shoving, you devil?” Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. “Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!”
“You don’t know how to drive! Keep to the right,” says the officer angrily.
A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse’s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed18 as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.
“What rascals19 they all are!” says the officer jocosely20. “They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse’s feet. They must be doing it on purpose.”
Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips.... Apparently21 he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff22.
“What?” inquires the officer.
Iona gives a wry23 smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: “My son... er... my son died this week, sir.”
“H’m! What did he die of?”
Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:
“Who can tell! It must have been from fever.... He lay three days in the hospital and then he died.... God’s will.”
“Turn round, you devil!” comes out of the darkness. “Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!”
“Drive on! drive on!...” says the officer. “We shan’t get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!”
The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled24 up on the box.... Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another....
Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their goloshes.
“Cabby, to the Police Bridge!” the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. “The three of us,... twenty kopecks!”
Iona tugs25 at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare.... The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains26 to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation27, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.
“Well, drive on,” says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona’s neck. “Cut along! What a cap you’ve got, my friend! You wouldn’t find a worse one in all Petersburg....”
“He-he!... he-he!...” laughs Iona. “It’s nothing to boast of!”
“Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?”
“My head aches,” says one of the tall ones. “At the Dukmasovs’ yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.”
“I can’t make out why you talk such stuff,” says the other tall one angrily. “You lie like a brute28.”
“Strike me dead, it’s the truth!...”
“It’s about as true as that a louse coughs.”
“He-he!” grins Iona. “Me-er-ry gentlemen!”
“Tfoo! the devil take you!” cries the hunchback indignantly. “Will you get on, you old plague, or won’t you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.”
Iona feels behind his back the jolting29 person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets30 and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:
“This week... er... my... er... son died!”
“We shall all die,...” says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. “Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?”
“Well, you give him a little encouragement... one in the neck!”
“Do you hear, you old plague? I’ll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don’t you care a hang what we say?”
And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.
“He-he!...” he laughs. “Merry gentlemen.... God give you health!”
“Cabman, are you married?” asks one of the tall ones.
“I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth.... He-ho-ho!.... The grave that is!... Here my son’s dead and I am alive.... It’s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door.... Instead of coming for me it went for my son....”
And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him.... The misery31 which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona’s eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery.... His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona’s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant32 shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight....
Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.
“What time will it be, friend?” he asks.
“Going on for ten.... Why have you stopped here? Drive on!”
Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.... He can bear it no longer.
“Back to the yard!” he thinks. “To the yard!”
And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting33. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness34. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early....
“I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,” he thinks. “That’s why I am so miserable35. A man who knows how to do his work,... who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease....”
In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.
“Want a drink?” Iona asks him.
“Seems so.”
“May it do you good.... But my son is dead, mate.... Do you hear? This week in the hospital.... It’s a queer business....”
Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself.... Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet.... He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation.... He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.... He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son’s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country.... And he wants to talk about her too.... Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament36.... It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.
“Let’s go out and have a look at the mare,” Iona thinks. “There is always time for sleep.... You’ll have sleep enough, no fear....”
He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing37. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.... He cannot think about his son when he is alone.... To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish38....
“Are you munching40?” Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. “There, munch39 away, munch away.... Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay.... Yes,... I have grown too old to drive.... My son ought to be driving, not I.... He was a real cabman.... He ought to have lived....”
Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:
“That’s how it is, old girl.... Kuzma Ionitch is gone.... He said good-by to me.... He went and died for no reason.... Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. ... And all at once that same little colt went and died.... You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?...”
The little mare munches41, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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2
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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3
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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4
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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5
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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6
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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7
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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8
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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9
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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10
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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11
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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12
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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13
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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14
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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15
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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16
brandishes
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| v.挥舞( brandish的第三人称单数 )；炫耀 | |
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17
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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19
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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20
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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21
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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22
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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23
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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24
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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25
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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27
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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28
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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29
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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30
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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31
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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32
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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33
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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34
stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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35
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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36
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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37
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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38
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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39
munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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40
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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41
munches
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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