Part 10

“‘Exploiters, bloodsuckers ...’” they mimicked. “How does it strike you now? Scamp, you! Devil take you.... ‘Exploiters, bloodsuckers, cut-purses’” ... the workingmen taunted as they left.

And these words cut him to the quick. They were his own words. He could say nothing in retort. He felt that he himself was not yet an exploiter or a bloodsucker, but he could not for the life of him bring the words to his tongue at that moment. And something vexed him so keenly. He was filled with a desire to understand, to grasp just what ailed him: he was, it seemed, the same Drabkin as yesterday and the day before, and yet not the same. The old time in which he had been a workingman seemed to be veiled as by a cloud; it was far, far in the past. And before the approaching future he felt ashamed—yet under his bosom there was a strange warmth, and as soon as he felt that warmth he forgot everything else: old times, the disappointed workingmen, their gibes and all evil, troublesome thoughts.

IX

He returned home in a calm frame of mind. He convinced himself that he was innocent in the matter of the dismissal of the workingmen—that is, as far as he was concerned they might be working for him now, as at first agreed, only Chyenke and her brood of relatives.... No, he was not to blame. Yet he felt a strong friendship for Chyenke such as he had not felt since the wedding.

“I sent your workingmen off,” greeted Chyenke, preparing the samovar. “It’s all over now!... You won’t put on any lordly airs round here any more!... Hereafter _I’ll_ do the hiring and the firing!”

“Then _you_ do the hiring,” he replied weakly. He was content that he should no longer have to haggle with the new hands, and that his conscience would be clear.

But he was careful not to betray his contentment.

“A fine statesman for you!” scoffed Chyenke with cutting sarcasm, looking into the chimney of the samovar.

He made no reply and got busy upon his work.

From his bench he cast frequent glances toward Chyenke, who was occupied with household duties. She was angry, and did not deign to look in his direction. So he, too, pretended not to look at her.

“She’s good looking, Chyenke is ... a beautiful woman,” he thought, stealing a glimpse at her. “A fine figure—and what a bust!”... It suddenly occurred to him that he had never thought of “such things”.... And try as he might, he could not explain to himself what had come over him. Something was drawing him to Chyenke. At that very moment he would gladly have cast his work aside and run over to her.... He could not imagine himself kissing her, but he would most certainly do it if he were to run over to her at that very moment. He was ashamed of the feeling, which made him arise from his place, and he began to look for something upon the table, then about the room, finally edging up to Chyenke.

“How about the samovar?” he asked, sullenly, although he had meant to say something far different and much more friendly.

“Touch it and see,” replied Chyenke ill-humouredly, wiping the tea-glasses.

“Touch it and see!” he mocked, good-naturedly, smiling and placing a hand against the samovar. He was at a loss for something nice to say,—something that would conciliate her.

“Whom are you thinking of giving the jobs to?”

“You’ll find out!”

She felt that he was trying to make up with her, and that it was now _her_ time to take revenge for yesterday’s episode. She would have him at her feet yet!

“You’ll find out!” he mimicked again with a smile. But her attitude was beginning to anger him.

Really, why shouldn’t he fly into a fury, give her a terrible scolding, thump his fist on the table and show that he was the ruler of the house?

He clinched his teeth, assumed an angry countenance and returned to his work.

She, however, took no heed. She knew for certain that she held the upper hand; just let him try to start something and she’d give it to him so hot and heavy that he wouldn’t know where it came from!

He sat there, working away, and felt that he was not at all angry with Chyenke,—that he was merely making a cross face to frighten her into a more tender mood. He glanced at her furtively and knew that he loved her, that a little while later he would be holding her in his arms, on his lap, and would caress her, kiss her, squeeze her. And the thought brought such a tenderness, such a warmth to his heart that he worked with renewed enthusiasm, stealing countless glances at Chyenke.

“Here’s your tea. Drink it!” she ordered, caustically.

He remained seated. This was to signify that he was angry and did not care to know her or her tea.

“Will you take it or not? If you don’t, I’ll spill your tea into the slop-pail!”

Leisurely he laid his work aside and arose with a smile. This was to signify that he was not at all angry, and that he had not intended to play with her and spite her, but that he had been exceedingly engrossed in his work and could not have abandoned it any sooner. He thrust his arms into the air, stretching himself, yawned and smiled.

“My! But you’re hot-tempered!” he laughed.

He really meant it. He wished her to forget her grievance, to be kind once again, to fondle him as before.

He approached the table and pinched her cheek.

She thrust his hand aside.

“Away from me!”

“Psh, psh, psh! What an angry lady!”... He sat down nearby and placed his arms about her waist.

“Better go away before I get angry!” she cried, tearing herself from his grasp.

He pressed her close to him, bent her head toward his and began to kiss her, stifling her outcries with his lips. She seized the glass of hot tea, but he snatched it away from her grasp. Only with the greatest effort did she tear herself free.

“I’ll break your head for you!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. He laughed with a passionate, repulsive laughter.

The shadow of his repulsive, passionate laughter still lay upon his lips when he went back to his work. He still felt the kisses upon his lips and felt, too, that he was sated and that his heart was eased. He attacked his work with a happy will and knew that, in the end, to-morrow or the day after, Chyenke would be won over. He forgot the whole world.

X

That evening Chashke and her old mother came for a visit. They were curious to know the state of affairs in Drabkin’s household and how the matter had turned out.

“Ah, Chashke!” cried Drabkin with forced gaiety. He had not at all wished her to come. She brought back to him memories of the olden days, of things he no longer wished to recall. She made him feel, moreover, a keen sense of his present subjection. He was ashamed and remained working at his bench.

Chyenke, however, was glad to see them. She wanted to show them that _she_ was the boss, and that he lay meekly at her feet. And let his former sweetheart see how he loved his wife, how he fawned upon her. And let Chashke burst with vexation and jealousy!

“Well, how are things with you?” inquired the old woman.

Chashke did not care to ask. Already she sensed everything and felt superfluous in Drabkin’s home.

“How should things be?” replied Chyenke, in a triumphant voice. “Not so bad. He’s changed his mind, my wise man, my know-it-all. Oho! Now, it seems he would like to....”

She did not say what he would like to do, but nodded her head in Drabkin’s direction with a glance and with an expression on her face that spoke far more plainly than words.

He did not raise his head and feigned deep absorption in his work. Chashke blushed for him. The room began to feel too narrow for her. She must run away, run away—she sat there as if on burning coals.

The old woman, on the other hand, was soon engrossed in chatter.

“I told him from the very first that you were as clever a woman as I knew, upon my soul, and my Chashke told him, too, that it couldn’t be otherwise, and that he’d be foolish to attempt it.”

At these words Drabkin was strongly impelled to raise his head. Chashke herself had really said that it couldn’t be otherwise. But at once he recalled what else she had said, and again he felt ashamed and remained seated, his head closely applied to his task, dumb.

Chyenke began to tell how she had sent off the workingmen, and how Drabkin had disappeared from home early that same morning——“He simply didn’t have the heart to witness it.”

“And now,” she concluded, “I alone hire help and settle things as _I_ see fit.”

She looked triumphantly at Chashke. Drabkin said nothing.

“Come, mamma. Let’s be going home!” urged Chashke, rising.

“What’s your hurry?” asked Drabkin.

Chashke would have been delighted to spit square into his face. The old woman answered that their boarder would come and the door was locked.

They left.

Drabkin felt that Chashke had been there for the last time, and the thought was somewhat disquieting. But this unpleasantness was soon lost in the great contentment that overwhelmed him. He felt more free, more independent; a yoke fell from his neck; there would be no one before his eyes as a continual reminder of his former years and his former talk.

Gone forever,—gone—and forgotten.

Now he would really work,—work honestly. Here God was helping him to become a man among men,—then why shouldn’t he do it? And, naturally, he wouldn’t be like those dogs, his former employers. He would know that a workingman was a human being, too, and would treat his men altogether differently. They would be to him like his own people, like brothers. Chashke really was a fool.

“Did you see in what a rage your Chashke left?” asked Chyenke, interrupting his thoughts.

“Why are you always saying ‘your’ Chashke?” he queried, with a smile.

“I know. You still run to her house.”

“Pah! Better come and sit down here, right beside me. So!”

He slapped his knee and stretched his arms out to her.

* * * * *

Chashke’s heart was heavy. So heavy, indeed, that she would gladly have wept. Her throat contracted with sorrow. She walked rapidly, and her mother could scarcely keep pace with her.

“Just mark my word,” gasped the old woman, running after her daughter, “in a few years Drabkin will be rich,—worth several thousand roubles. _She_ has a smart head on her shoulders. If you had only half her brains I wouldn’t have to worry about you! Oh! Oh! Ah!...”

It was the old mother’s disappointment that spoke in her,—disappointment that nothing had come of the intimacy between Drabkin and her daughter.

“What do you want of me, mamma? Please don’t say any more,” entreated Chashke with a quivering voice, turning her pale countenance toward her mother.

The little old woman was frightened by the quivering voice and the pale countenance. Waving her hand, she shook her head.

“There! I mustn’t say a word!” she sighed.

She spoke no more that night.

Chashke felt as if she had just returned from a cemetery, where she had buried her dearest treasure.

Drabkin, Drabkin!... And he had been _her_ Drabkin!...

Ah, and up to that very day she had dreamed and imagined!

Oh, to weep, to weep——

That night she had a dream. No, not a dream, for she could not fall asleep, and lay with eyes wide open, staring into the impenetrable darkness.

She beheld how Drabkin was becoming a pot-bellied boss; all his thoughts were centred only upon how to enlarge his shop and fill his purse. Everything else was forgotten—every human impulse, every tinge of sympathy for the poor worker, every spark of compassion for the under-dog. Workingmen to him were hired slaves—and “Ephraim is supposed to work till nine o’clock at night and works till half-past ten; when he came to work this morning at half-past seven, they fell upon him like a mad dog....”

And in the silent darkness it seemed to her that Drabkin struck a cruel blow upon the face of a little child who was apprenticed to him.

A shudder ran through her whole body, and she began to weep hysterically.

A heart-breaking, bitter weeping——

THE BLACK CAT

THE BLACK CAT

It has been raining for already two days,—a soft, leisurely drizzle, but an endless one. Often it increases in vehemence. It begins to patter upon my roof with rapid fury. Then it seems that at last it is over. Now the dense grey clouds will empty themselves and the downpour will cease. The great fury abates, the racket upon the roof becomes gradually quiet, yet the rain continues to fall, softly and leisurely. Often so softly that it seems to have stopped. Then I look out of the window with just a ray of hope that I shall see a clear sky. But by the wheels that roll incessantly across the pavement I recognise the eternal rain. The eternal rain. The eternal....

I lower the shades and turn on the electric light. Let it be night. I’ll seat myself upon the armchair before my desk and pursue my thoughts, and think and think of——

Of my fortune—or of my misfortune?

It has come upon me so suddenly that I don’t know how to take it. The day before yesterday I was so happy, and to-day my heart is so heavy, so heavy.... I know that this is the effect of the ceaseless rain,—of the weeping, lamenting, grey, dark-grey outdoors. Still, I am so restless. My feeling comes from within,—comes over me from the depths of my heart and my soul. It seems to me that I _must_ be moody, and I cannot understand how I could have been so high-spirited the day before yesterday. I am vexed that I can no longer be so merry.

So suddenly. So suddenly....

Can it have happened only ten days ago?

Only ten days ago.

* * * * *

_She_ brought me a manuscript, which I was to read and appraise for her.

Young—perhaps twenty, and maybe only eighteen.

And beautiful—beautiful? Yes, even strikingly beautiful. Scarcely had I opened the door and beheld her, when a strange sensation clutched at my heart.

Her eyes! Those deep, black eyes under the long black lashes! They pierced me at once. I could not tear myself away from them. And thus overwhelmed, only half conscious, I received the impression that those eyes were set in a rather long, dark-complexioned, youthful countenance, and that around a low, alluring forehead played several black curls mischievously, and that her whole figure was very svelte and supple,—almost that of a child.

And her voice! Like her eyes. Deep, and of a dark quality, and so warm. No sooner had she asked, “Does Mr. So-and-so live here, and are you not he?” than my eyes and my ears were so completely filled with her that I forgot I must not keep her standing at the door, and that I must invite her in.

She invited herself, however. She entered my room, far beyond the threshold, and I closed the door slowly, without removing my glance from her. And remained standing as if hypnotised, without knowing whether to make inquiry or to wait until she would tell me who she was and what she wished of me.

She laughed. Deep, warm, ringing laughter. Why did I not ask her to be seated?

Oh, yes. Pardon. And I, the father of a daughter almost as old as she, turned red with embarrassment, it seems. I hastened to fetch her a chair, but she had already chosen one and sat down.

* * * * *

She continues to speak, while I take my place in my armchair before the desk and gaze, gaze upon her, my ears thirstily and enchantedly drinking in the sound of her voice.

She tells me that she pictured me exactly as I am. She has read everything I have written. She knows all my writings well and has imagined a picture of me. And the picture is correct. But she did not think I possessed so many grey hairs. That makes no difference, however. For I am young. She is certain of that. But she still has no idea of how my voice sounds. She thus hints that I have said nothing as yet. And she laughs.

I join the laughter and am at a loss for words. I feel that I must say something _significant_,—that the maidenly vision with the beautiful childlike figure, who knows all my writings and has formed a perfect image of me, is now waiting for deep and notable words to issue from my lips. Nor do I desire to be insignificant. I don’t care to utter plain, ordinary, pedestrian words. So I smile and wait for her to speak further.

She looks about the room, resting her glance for a moment upon the paintings that hang upon my walls. And soon she transfers her eyes once more to me. Sharp, penetrating glances, with a great question in them. And now there rises in her eyes a smile of subtle irony.

Because I do not inquire, she explains in her deep voice, she is compelled to speak for herself. Why does one come to a famous author? Naturally, she has for a long time desired to know me, but without a special reason she would never have dared to come. Now, however, she comes as to a doctor or a lawyer, on a professional visit, for an opinion and for counsel. She has written something and wishes to enjoy the criticism of an authority. Will I not take the trouble?

I reply politely, very politely: “Certainly, with the greatest of pleasure.”

She laughs. Oh, she does not believe that her piece will afford me much pleasure. The very handwriting is impossible. Should I prefer, perhaps, to have her read it to me?

I desire to hear the sound of her voice. But if she reads she will look at the manuscript during the entire reading, and I’ll be unable to see her eyes.

Then she adds, “But I read very badly. My reading is even worse than my handwriting.” She laughs: she does not care to read, either. For if she reads it now, I’ll express my opinion at once, and she will have to arise, say “Good day,” and never call again. She would rather leave the manuscript with me, and then she will come,—yes, she will really _come_ and hear the answer. She does not wish it by mail. She will certainly have a number of questions to ask. She would prefer to come,—and since, naturally, I shall not have read her manuscript through, she will have to call again and again....

She deposits upon my desk a small manuscript. For the first time I see her hand. A wee little hand,—white, tender skin, through which the lines of the joints are visible.

I take the manuscript, glance at the title-page, peep at the beginning and at the middle, and feel her deep black eyes upon me. And as I raise my head I encounter her glances with the great question in them, and also the subtle irony.

* * * * *

Something taps at my window. And now it miaows. I know that a cat has taken refuge upon my window-sill from the endless downpour. I am certain of it, yet I arise from my chair and walk over to take a look. This furnishes some distraction from my thoughts. And an excuse for moving. My feet are like ice.

I raise the shade and shudder with fright. A large black cat is looking up at me from the outer darkness, with her burning, phosphorescent eyes. I hate a black cat. Not that I am superstitious, yet in my memory and my nerves there is a residue of everything that superstition has created concerning black cats. I rap at the window to drive her away. But she pays little heed to my rapping. She turns around, selects a comfortable spot and lies down. I am on the point of opening the window and thrusting her into the street below, but I don’t care to touch her. I take pity on her, too. Outside the rain is still falling, falling. Let her lie and rest on a dry spot. Who cares?

I lower the shade and return to my writing table.

* * * * *

Just a moment to banish the black cat from my mind, and I’ll pursue my thoughts anew.

Now then—of my fortune and misfortune. But did I not previously think: _or_ my misfortune?

I answered her, Yes. She could leave the manuscript with me. I would read it over,—read it over very carefully, and tell her my opinion.

The whole truth?

Of course.

When would she come for the answer?

I’d tell her a few days later.

Why a few days later? Why not to-morrow? She would come to-morrow. The piece was such a short one. One could read it in less than half an hour.

So I yield to her. Very well. Let her come to-morrow.

My wife has meanwhile entered the room. I introduce her. My wife is affable and smiles, but _she_ is sullen, curt and unbending.

She arises from her place. Now she will leave.

My wife laughs. “Am I driving you away?”

She, somewhat aloof, replies, No. She has simply been sitting long enough.

And on the threshold she asks, insinuatingly, “You will read my manuscript personally?”

For a second I am strongly impelled to return her manuscript, thus wreaking vengeance upon her for my wife.

But she has already closed the door and is gone, without having waited for a reply. Perhaps she had noticed the spark of displeasure that shone in my eyes.

“What sort of impudent cat is that?” asks my wife.

I burst into laughter.

* * * * *

The next day she did not come. Nor the day after. But on both days I _thought_ that she had not come. I did not wish to give the matter thought, but it haunted me, made me uneasy. If she had promised to come, she should have kept her word.

I read her manuscript. A very wretched tale. It was supposed to depict the yearning of a solitary woman for an unknown man. But the words were weak and the colours false. And I could not get away from the idea that perhaps she had written them just to have a pretext for coming to me. “The impudent cat!”

On the third day she came. From the door she laughed to me with her deep, staccato laughter. “Kept you waiting?”

“Catch me telling you, you cat!”

I bid her enter the room. She advances to the centre, looks about, gazes toward the door by which my wife entered three days before, directs her deep look upon me, taking a chair, and speaks with her deep, velvety voice. “Have you read through my manuscript?”

I am about to tell her the truth, but I feel that I cannot dismiss her from me forever,—that I desire her to come to me again,—so I reply, “I’ve read it, but not read it through. You will have to forgive me.”

“Where did you leave off?”

Yes, where am I to tell her I left off?

“Perhaps you haven’t even started to read it yet?” she suggests, seeing that no answer to her previous question is forthcoming.

I assure her that I really have read her tale, commencing to relate the contents, and betraying myself by disclosing a knowledge of the end.

“Then you’ve read it all!” she laughs.

“Yes,” I confess. “But only superficially,—I merely thumbed the pages.”

And she, with her deep voice, declares, “Oh, my little story isn’t so deep that it requires a second reading. You may tell me your opinion. I will not cry if my little piece is valueless. I know myself that its worth is very small. And as to my coming to you again, you needn’t worry. I have brought another manuscript that I wrote in the past two days.”

* * * * *

Heavens, what is that? Fie! What a scare I got!

The black cat has sprung into the room.

I look at her in terror. And only gradually does my astonishment master my fear. How did she jump in? For the window is closed!

I go over to the window. The cat presses close to the wall underneath and gazes up at me, as if entreating me not to cast her out. I raise the shade. I examine the window. It is shut and fastened. I examine the panes. Ah, yes, down in the left-hand corner a small opening has been broken through. A small opening, forming together with the frame a triangle. And the glass bordering the hole glitters with many sharp, uneven, jagged edges.

When was the pane broken? How have I failed to notice it sooner? Why has nobody in the house noticed it?