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

I promised to come and see, not so much the calf as the old woman, and again inquired where the soldier’s wife lived. The widow pointed to the next hut but one, and hastened to add that no doubt they were poor, but her brother-in-law “does drink dreadfully!”

Following her instructions, I went to the next house but one.

Miserable as are the huts of all the poor in our villages, it is long since I saw one so dilapidated as that. Not only the whole roof, but the walls were so crooked that the windows were aslant.

Inside, it was no better than outside. The brick oven took up one-third of the black, dirty little hut, which to my surprise was full of people. I thought I should find the widow alone with her children; but here was a sister-in-law (a young woman with children) and an old mother-in-law. The soldier’s wife herself had just returned from her visit to me, and was warming herself on the top of the oven. While she was getting down, her mother-in-law began telling me of their life. Her two sons had lived together at first, and they all managed to feed themselves.

“But who remain together nowadays? All separate,” the garrulous old woman went on. “The wives began quarrelling, so the brothers separated, and life became still harder. We had little land, and only managed to live by their wage-labour; and now they have taken Peter as a soldier! So where is she to turn to with her children? She’s living with us now, but we can’t manage to feed them all! We can’t think what we are to do. They say he may be got back.”

The soldier’s wife, having climbed down from the oven, continued to implore me to take steps to get her husband back. I told her it was impossible, and asked what property her husband had left behind with his brother, to keep her and the children. There was none. He had handed over his land to his brother, that he might feed her and the children. They had had three sheep; but two had been sold to pay the expenses of getting her husband off, and there was only some old rubbish left, she said, besides a sheep and two fowls. That was all she had. Her mother-in-law confirmed her words.

I asked the soldier’s wife where she had come from. She came from Sergíevskoe. Sergíevskoe is a large, well-to-do village some thirty miles off. I asked if her parents were alive. She said they were alive, and living comfortably.

“Why should you not go to them?” I asked.

“I thought of that myself, but am afraid they won’t have the four of us.”

“Perhaps they will. Why not write to them? Shall I write for you?”

The woman agreed, and I noted down her parents’ address.

While I was talking to the woman, the eldest child⁠—a fat-bellied girl⁠—came up to her mother, and, pulling at her sleeve, began asking for something, probably food. The woman went on talking to me, and paid no attention to the girl, who again pulled and muttered something.

“There’s no getting rid of you!” exclaimed the woman, and with a swing of her arm struck her on the head. The girl burst into a howl.

Having finished my business there, I left the hut and went back to the widow.

She was outside her house, waiting for me, and again asked me to come and look at her calf. I went in, and in the passage there really was a calf. The widow asked me to look at it. I did so, feeling that she was so engrossed in her calf that she could not imagine that anyone could help being interested in seeing it.

Having looked at the calf, I stepped inside, and asked:

“Where is the old woman?”

“The old woman?” the widow repeated, evidently surprised that after having seen the calf, I could still be interested in the old woman. “Why, on the top of the oven! Where else should she be?”

I went up to the oven, and greeted the old woman.

“Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh!” answered a hoarse, feeble voice. “Who is it?”

I told her, and asked how she was getting on.

“What’s my life worth?”

“Are you in pain?”

“Everything aches! Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh!”

“The doctor is here with me; shall I call him in?”

“Doctor!⁠ ⁠… Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh! What do I want with your doctor?⁠ ⁠… My doctor is up there.⁠ ⁠… Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh!”

“She’s old, you know,” said the widow.

“Not older than I am,” replied I.

“Not older? Much older! People say she is ninety,” said the widow. “All her hair has come out. I cut it all off the other day.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Why, it had nearly all come out, so I cut it off!”

“Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh!” moaned the old woman; “oh! God has forgotten me! He does not take my soul. If the Lord won’t take it, it can’t go of itself! Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh! It must be for my sins!⁠ ⁠… I’ve nothing to moisten my throat.⁠ ⁠… If only I had a drop of tea to drink before I die.⁠ ⁠… Oh!⁠ ⁠… oh!”

The doctor entered the hut, and I said goodbye and went out into the street.

We got into the sledge, and drove to a small neighbouring village to see the doctor’s last patient, who had sent for him the day before. We went into the hut together.

The room was small, but clean; in the middle of it a cradle hung from the ceiling, and a woman stood rocking it energetically. At the table sat a girl of about eight, who gazed at us with surprised and frightened eyes.

“Where is he?” the doctor asked.

“On the oven,” replied the woman, not ceasing to rock the cradle.

The doctor climbed up, and, leaning over the patient, did something to him.

I drew nearer, and asked about the sick man’s condition.

The doctor gave me no answer. I climbed up, too, and gazing through the darkness gradually began to discern the hairy head of the man on the oven-top. Heavy, stifling air hung about