Selected Stories of Anton Chekov - By Anton Chekhov Page 0,178

came,” he said. “So, in that case, I’ll have to go now … It’s three miles to town, there’s a blizzard, a terrible lot of snow has piled up, I may not make it before midnight. Listen to that howling.”

“I don’t need the headman,” said Lyzhin. “There’s nothing for him to do here.”

He gave the old man a curious glance and asked:

“Tell me, grandpa, how many years have you been going around as a beadle?”

“How many? Thirty years now. I started about five years after the freeing,2 so you can count it up. Since then I’ve gone around every day. People have holidays, and I go around. It’s Easter, the bells are ringing, Christ is risen, and I’m there with my bag. To the treasury, to the post office, to the police chief’s house, to a zemstvo member, to the tax inspector, to the council, to the gentry, to the peasants, to all Orthodox Christians. I carry packages, summonses, writs, letters, various forms, reports, and nowadays, my good sir, Your Honor, they’ve started having these forms for putting down numbers—yellow, white, red—and every landowner, or priest, or rich peasant has to report without fail some ten times a year on how much he sowed and reaped, how many bushels or sacks of rye, how much oats and hay, and what the weather was like, and what kinds of bugs there were. They can write whatever they want, of course, it’s just a formality, but I have to go and hand out the papers, and then go again and collect them. There’s no point, for instance, in gutting this gentleman here, you know yourself it’s useless, you’re just getting your hands dirty, but you took the trouble and came, Your Honor, because it’s a formality; there’s no help for it. For thirty years I’ve been going around on formalities. In summer it’s all right, warm, dry, but in winter or autumn it’s no good. I’ve drowned, frozen—everything’s happened. And bad people took my bag from me in the woods, and beat me up, and I was put on trial …”

“For what?”

“Swindling.”

“What kind of swindling?”

“The clerk Khrisanf Grigoryev sold somebody else’s lumber to a contractor—cheated him, that is. I was there when the deal was made, they sent me to the tavern for vodka; well, the clerk didn’t share with me, didn’t even offer me a glass, but since, poor as I am, I was seen as an unreliable, worthless man, we both went to trial; he was put in jail, but I, thank God, was justified in all my rights. They read some paper in court. And they were all in uniforms. There in the court. I’ll tell you what, Your Honor, for a man who’s not used to it, this work is a sheer disaster—God forbid—but for me it’s all right. My legs even hurt when I don’t walk. And it’s worse for me to stay home. In the office in my village it’s nothing but light the clerk’s fire, fetch the clerk’s water, polish the clerk’s boots.”

“And how much are you paid?” asked Lyzhin.

“Eighty-four roubles a year.”

“You probably make a little something on the side, don’t you?”

“What little something? Gentlemen rarely give tips nowadays. Gentlemen are strict these days, they keep getting offended. You bring him a paper—he gets offended. You take your hat off before him—he gets offended. ‘You came in by the wrong entrance,’ he says, ‘you’re a drunkard,’ he says, ‘you stink of onions, you’re a blockhead, a son of a bitch.’ Some are kind, of course, but you can’t expect anything from them, they just make fun of you with all sorts of nicknames. Mr. Altukhin, for instance. He’s kind and sober, and sensible enough, but when he sees me he shouts, and doesn’t know what himself. He’s given me this nickname. Hey, he says, you …”

The beadle mumbled some word, but so softly that it was impossible to make it out.

“How’s that?” asked Lyzhin. “Repeat it.”

“Administration!” the beadle repeated loudly. “He’s been calling me that for a long time, some six years. Greetings, administration! But let him, I don’t mind, God bless him. Some lady may happen to send me out a glass of vodka and a piece of pie, so then I drink to her health. It’s mostly peasants that tip me; peasants have heart, they’re more god-fearing; they give me bread, or cabbage soup, or sometimes even a drink. The elders treat me to tea in the tavern. Right now the witnesses