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Updated: June 17, 2025
Tyapa, as a rule, spoke in a hoarse and hardly audible voice, and that is why he spoke very little, and loved to be alone. But whenever a stranger, compelled to leave the village, appeared in the dosshouse, Tyapa seemed sadder and angrier, and followed the unfortunate about with biting jeers and a wicked chuckling in his throat.
Aristid Fomich asked him very softly. "Have you heard about our teacher?" Martyanoff lazily got up from the ground, looked at the line of light coming out of the dosshouse, shook his head and silently sat down beside the Captain. "Nothing particular . . . The man is dying remarked the Captain, shortly. "Have they been beating him?" asked Abyedok, with great interest. The Captain gave no answer.
The Captain stopped and thought. "And what is right on this earth? Go to the Devil!" And he pushed Tyapa aside. On the walls of the dosshouse the shadows were creeping, seeming to chase each other. The teacher lay on the board at full length and snored.
The Doctor and the Coroner smiled too, and at the door of the dosshouse the group of figures was increasing ... sleepy figures, with swollen faces, red, inflamed eyes, and dishevelled hair, staring rudely at the Doctor, the Coroner, and the Inspector. "Where are you going?" said the policeman on guard at the door, catching hold of their tatters and pushing them aside.
And from that day, a year and a half ago, there has been keen competition among the inhabitants of the dosshouse as to which can swear the hardest at the merchant. And last night there was a "slight skirmish with hot words," as the Captain called it, between Petunikoff and himself. Having dismissed the architect the merchant approached the Captain.
"You had better take it away to-day, sir, I want to pull down this hole. Go away! or else I shall apply to the police!" The policeman's whistle echoed through the courtyard. At the door of the dosshouse its inhabitants stood in a group, yawning, and scratching themselves. "And so you do not wish to be introduced? That is rude of you!" laughed Aristid Fomich.
If the great communistic society is bent on producing art and the society that does not produce live art is damned there is one thing, and one only, that it can do. Guarantee to every citizen, whether he works or whether he loafs, a bare minimum of existence say sixpence a day and a bed in the common dosshouse. Let the artist be a beggar living on public charity.
And from that day, a year and a half ago, there has been keen competition among the inhabitants of the dosshouse as to which can swear the hardest at the merchant. And last night there was a "slight skirmish with hot words," as the Captain called it, between Petunikoff and himself. Having dismissed the architect the merchant approached the Captain.
In the depths of this yard stood a low, iron-roofed, smoke-begrimed building. The house itself was of course unoccupied, but this shed, formerly a blacksmith's forge, was now turned into a "dosshouse," kept by a retired Captain named Aristid Fomich Kuvalda. In the interior of the dosshouse was a long, wide and grimy board, measuring some 28 by 70 feet.
The teacher mentioned by the Captain was another of those customers who were thus reformed only in order that they should sin again. Thanks to his intellect, he was the nearest in rank to the Captain, and this was probably the cause of his falling so low as dosshouse life, and of his inability to rise again.
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