Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

Having had a drink of vodka and something to eat, they were about to take tea, and the samovar standing on the floor beside the brick oven was already humming. The children could be seen in the top bunks and on the top of the oven. A woman sat on a lower bunk with a cradle beside her. The old housewife, her face covered with wrinkles which wrinkled even her lips, was waiting on Vasíli Andréevich.

As Nikíta entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.

“Don’t refuse, Vasíli Andréevich, you mustn’t! Wish us a merry feast. Drink it, dear!” she said.

The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through and tired out, much disturbed Nikíta’s mind. He frowned, and having shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in front of the icons as if not seeing anyone, crossed himself three times, and bowed to the icons. Then, turning to the old master of the house and bowing first to him, then to all those at table, then to the women who stood by the oven, and muttering: “A merry holiday!” he began taking off his outer things without looking at the table.

“Why, you’re all covered with hoarfrost, old fellow!” said the eldest brother, looking at Nikíta’s snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.

Nikíta took off his coat, shook it again, hung it up beside the oven, and came up to the table. He too was offered vodka. He went through a moment of painful hesitation and nearly took up the glass and emptied the clear fragrant liquid down his throat, but he glanced at Vasíli Andréevich, remembered his oath and the boots that he had sold for drink, recalled the cooper, remembered his son for whom he had promised to buy a horse by spring, sighed, and declined it.

“I don’t drink, thank you kindly,” he said frowning, and sat down on a bench near the second window.

“How’s that?” asked the eldest brother.

“I just don’t drink,” replied Nikíta without lifting his eyes but looking askance at his scanty beard and moustache and getting the icicles out of them.

“It’s not good for him,” said Vasíli Andréevich, munching a cracknel after emptying his glass.

“Well, then, have some tea,” said the kindly old hostess. “You must be chilled through, good soul. Why are you women dawdling so with the samovar?”

“It is ready,” said one of the young women, and after flicking with her apron the top of the samovar which was now boiling over, she carried it with an effort to the table, raised it, and set it down with a thud.

Meanwhile Vasíli Andréevich was telling how he had lost his way, how they had come back twice to this same village, and how they had gone astray and had met some drunken peasants. Their hosts were surprised, explained where and why they had missed their way, said who the tipsy people they had met were, and told them how they ought to go.

“A little child could find the way to Molchánovka from here. All you have to do is to take the right turning from the high road. There’s a bush you can see just there. But you didn’t even get that far!” said the neighbour.

“You’d better stay the night. The women will make up beds for you,” said the old woman persuasively.

“You could go on in the morning and it would be pleasanter,” said the old man, confirming what his wife had said.

“I can’t, friend. Business!” said Vasíli Andréevich. “Lose an hour and you can’t catch it up in a year,” he added, remembering the grove and the dealers who might snatch that deal from him. “We shall get there, shan’t we?” he said, turning to Nikíta.

Nikíta did not answer for some time, apparently still intent on thawing out his beard and moustache.

“If only we don’t go astray again,” he replied gloomily. He was gloomy because he passionately longed for some vodka, and the only thing that could assuage that longing was tea and he had not yet been offered any.

“But we have only to reach the turning and then we shan’t go wrong. The road will be through the forest the whole way,” said Vasíli Andréevich.

“It’s just as you please, Vasíli Andréevich. If we’re to go, let us go,” said Nikíta, taking the glass of tea he was offered.

“We’ll drink our tea and be off.”

Nikíta said nothing but only shook his head, and carefully pouring some tea into his saucer began warming his hands, the fingers of which were always swollen with hard work, over the steam. Then, biting off a tiny bit of sugar, he bowed to his hosts, said, “Your health!” and drew in the steaming liquid.

“If somebody would see us as far as the turning,” said Vasíli Andréevich.

“Well, we can do that,” said the eldest son. “Petrúshka will harness and go that far with you.”

“Well, then, put in the horse, lad, and I shall be thankful to you for it.”

“Oh, what for, dear man?” said the kindly old woman. “We are heartily glad to do it.”

“Petrúshka, go and put in the mare,” said the eldest brother.

“All right,” replied Petrúshka with a smile, and promptly snatching his cap down from a nail he ran away to harness.

While the horse was being harnessed the talk returned to the point at which it had stopped when Vasíli Andréevich drove up to the window. The old man had been complaining to his neighbour, the village elder, about his third son who had not sent him anything for the holiday though he had sent a French shawl to his wife.

“The young people are getting out of hand,” said the old man.

“And how they do!” said the neighbour. “There’s no managing them! They know too much. There’s Demóchkin now, who broke his father’s arm. It’s all from being too clever, it seems.”

Nikíta listened, watched their faces, and evidently would have liked to share