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Updated: June 28, 2025
"Andriusha!" the mother called from the kitchen. "Come get the samovar. It's ready!" Andrey walked out of the room, and Vyesovshchikov, left alone, looked about, stretched out his foot sheathed in a coarse, heavy boot, looked at it, bent down, and felt the stout calf of his legs. Then he raised one hand to his face, carefully examined the palm, and turned it around.
"There will be enough breaking of our bones before we get to fighting!" the Little Russian put in merrily. It was already past midnight when the group began to break up. The first to go were Vyesovshchikov and the red-haired man which again displeased the mother. "Hm! How they hurry!" she thought, nodding them a not very friendly farewell. "Will you see me home, Nakhodka?" asked Natasha.
"Can you find the way?" "Yes. Good-by, then, dear comrades." He walked off, raising his shoulders high, thrusting out his chest, with his new hat cocked to one side, and his hands deep in his pockets in most dignified fashion. On his forehead and temples his bright, boyish curls danced gayly. "There, now, I have work, too," said Vyesovshchikov, going over to the mother quietly.
The mother experienced a strong desire to do something pleasant for him tell him about Vyesovshchikov, for instance. So, without changing her tone, she continued in the same voice in which she spoke of the needless and uninteresting things. "I saw your godchild." Pavel fixed a silent questioning look on her eyes.
"To the devil with your knife!" exclaimed the Little Russian and burst out laughing. "It's a good knife," Nikolay insisted. Pavel laughed, too. Vyesovshchikov stopped in the middle of the room and asked: "Are you laughing at me?" "Of course," replied the Little Russian, jumping out of bed. "I'll tell you what! Let's take a walk in the fields! The night is fine; there's bright moonshine. Let's go!"
"Why should you want to go home? What's there to attract you?" said the mother pensively. "It's empty, there's no fire burning, and it's chilly all over." Vyesovshchikov sat silent, his eyes screwed up. Taking a box of cigarettes from his pocket he leisurely lit one of them, and looking at the gray curl of smoke dissolve before him he grinned like a big, surly dog. "Yes, I guess it's cold.
It will be worse for you if I get well." He died in the morning at the moment when the whistle called the men to work. He lay in the coffin with open mouth, his eyebrows knit as if in a scowl. He was buried by his wife, his son, the dog, an old drunkard and thief, Daniel Vyesovshchikov, a discharged smelter, and a few beggars of the suburb.
"Well, go and live that way, if it pleases you," said the Little Russian, shrugging his shoulders. "Now?" asked Nikolay. He shook his head in negation and replied, striking his fist on his knee: "Now it's impossible!" "Who's in your way?" "The people!" Vyesovshchikov retorted brusquely. "I'm hitched to them even unto death.
"Yes!" answered Nikolay, moving forward. The Little Russian put out his hand, took him by the shoulder, and pulled him back. "He made a mistake; I am Andrey!" The officer raised his hand, and threatening Vyesovshchikov with his little finger, said: "Take care!" He began to search among his papers. From the street the bright, moonlit night looked on through the window with soulless eyes.
She laughed softly: "I can't help fearing; that's exactly what I can't help. But thank you for the good word, my dear son." "All right, mother; don't let's talk about it any more. Know that I love you; and I thank you most heartily." She walked into the kitchen in order not to annoy him with her tears. Several days later Vyesovshchikov came in, as shabby, untidy, and disgruntled as ever.
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