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Updated: May 13, 2025
The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks together over some apparently simple undertaking, and again he would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which one would fancy would bring him to ruin.... But it would be sure to turn out all right; everything would go smoothly. He was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens.
He got it spoken out; if not well and clearly, then ill and dimly, as clearly as he could. Nay what are all errors and perversities of his, even those stealings of ribbons, aimless confused miseries and vagabondisms, if we will interpret them kindly, but the blinkard dazzlement and staggerings to and fro of a man sent on an errand he is too weak for, by a path he cannot yet find?
They all, it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check. The Blinkard was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nickname, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking than other people; it is a well-known fact, that the Russian peasants have a talent for finding good nicknames.
'Begin, begin, chimed in Nikolai Ivanitch approvingly. 'Let's begin, by all means, observed the booth-keeper coolly, with a self-confident smile; 'I'm ready. 'And I'm ready, Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with excitement. 'Well, begin, lads, whined the Blinkard.
Yashka's got a bet on with the booth-keeper: the stake's a pot of beer for the one that does best, sings the best, I mean... do you see? 'Is Yashka going to sing? said the man addressed as Blinkard, with lively interest. 'But isn't it your humbug, Gabbler? 'I'm not humbugging, answered the Gabbler, with dignity; 'it's you are crazy.
Yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang more sweetly, more melodiously than ever; Nikolai Ivanitch looked down; the Blinkard turned away; the Gabbler, quite touched, stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peasant was sobbing softly in the corner, and shaking his head with a plaintive murmur; and on the iron visage of the Wild Master, from under his overhanging brows there slowly rolled a heavy tear; the booth-keeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and did not stir.... I don't know how the general emotion would have ended, if Yakov had not suddenly come to a full stop on a high, exceptionally shrill note as though his voice had broken.
The pity that proves so possible and plentiful without that basis, is mere ignavia and cowardly effeminacy; maudlin laxity of heart, grounded on blinkard dimness of head contemptible as a drunkard's tears. To see our Supreme Scoundrel hung upon the gallows, alas, that is far from us just now!
'There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of you'... said the Blinkard with vexation; 'let him sit down on the bench; he's tired, see... You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for... 'Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health, said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar.
The Gabbler held out his dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped his halfpenny in, and the booth-keeper his. 'You must pick out one, said the Wild Master, turning to the Blinkard. The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it. For an instant a profound silence reigned; the halfpennies clinked faintly, jingling against each other.
The Gabbler bounded up and down, stammered and brandished his arms like mill-sails; the Blinkard limped up to Yakov and began kissing him; Nikolai Ivanitch got up and solemnly announced that he would add a second pot of beer from himself.
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