Fifty-Two Stories

Iona and his nag have not budged from their place for a long time now. They set out from the stable before lunch, and there were still no passengers. Now evening darkness is descending on the city. The paleness of the lamps’ flames gives way to bright colors, and the street commotion becomes noisier.

“Cabby, to Vyborgskaya!” Iona hears. “Cabby!”

Iona gives a start and sees through his snow-crusted eyelashes an officer in a greatcoat with a hood.

“To Vyborgskaya!” the officer repeats. “Are you asleep, or what? To Vyborgskaya!”

As a sign of agreement Iona gives a tug at the reins, which makes layers of snow pour down from the horse’s back and his own shoulders…The officer gets into the sledge. The cabby smacks his lips, stretches his neck like a swan, rises a little, and, more from habit than from need, brandishes his whip. The little nag also stretches her neck, bends her stick-like legs, and hesitantly sets off…

“Watch out, you spook!” Iona at once hears a shout from the dark swaying mass behind him. “Where the hell are you going? Keep r-r-right!”

“You don’t know how to drive! Keep right!” the officer says angrily. A carriage driver curses; a passerby, who was crossing the street and bumped into the nag’s muzzle with his shoulder, glares spitefully and brushes the snow from his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box, as if on pins and needles, his elbows stick out in all directions, and he rolls his eyes crazily, as if he does not understand where he is or why.

“What scoundrels they all are!” the officer jokes. “They try so hard to bump into you or fall under the horse. It’s a conspiracy.”

Iona turns to look at his passenger and moves his lips…He apparently wants to say something, but nothing comes from his throat except some wheezing.

“What?” asks the officer.

Iona’s mouth twists into a smile; he strains his throat and says hoarsely:

“You see, sir, it’s…my son died this week.”

“Hm!…What did he die of?”

Iona turns his whole body around to the passenger and says:

“Who knows? Must have been a fever…He lay in the hospital for three days and died…God’s will.”

“Turn, damn it!” comes out of the dark. “Are you cracked or something, you old dog? Keep your eyes open!”

“Drive on, drive on…,” says the passenger. “Like this it’ll be tomorrow before we get there. Speed it up!”

Again the cabby stretches his neck, rises a little, and with heavy grace brandishes the whip. Several times later he turns to look at his passenger, but the man has closed his eyes and apparently is not in the mood to listen. After letting him off at Vyborgskaya, he stops by a tavern, bends over on the box, and again does not stir…Wet snow again paints him and his little nag white. An hour goes by, another…

Down the sidewalk, stomping their galoshes and arguing loudly, come three young men: two of them are tall and thin, the third is short and hunchbacked.

“Cabby, to the Police Bridge!” the hunchback shouts in a croaking voice. “Three of us…twenty kopecks!”

Iona gives a tug at the reins and clucks his tongue. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he does not care about the price…A rouble, five kopecks—it is all the same to him now, as long as there are passengers…The young men, jostling and foul-mouthed, come up to the sledge and all three try to get in at once. A discussion begins on the question: Which two will sit while the third one stands? After much arguing, fussing, and reproaching, they come to the decision that the hunchback should stand, being the shortest of them.

“Well, get moving!” the hunchback croaks, taking his place and breathing down Iona’s neck. “Whip her up! Some hat you’ve got there, brother! Couldn’t find a worse one in all Petersburg…”

“Haw-haw…haw-haw…” Iona guffaws. “So it is…”

“Well, Mister ‘So-it-is,’ get moving! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Yes? How about getting it in the neck?…”

“My head’s splitting…” one of the tall ones says. “Yesterday at the Dukmasovs’ Vaska and me together drank four bottles of cognac.”

“I don’t get all this lying!” the other tall one says angrily. “He lies like a trooper.”

“God punish me, it’s true…”

“It’s as true as a louse can cough.”

“Haw-haw!” Iona grins. “Such mer-r-ry gentlemen!”

“Pah, devil take you!…” The hunchback is indignant. “Will you get moving, or not, you old cholera? Is this any way to drive? Beat her with the whip! Go on, damn it! Go on! Whip her up!”

Behind him Iona feels the fidgeting body and quavering voice of the hunchback. He hears the abuse aimed at him, sees people, and the feeling of solitude slowly begins to lift from his chest. The hunchback keeps pouring out abuse until he chokes on a whimsical six-story curse and goes off into a coughing fit. The tall ones start talking about some Nadezhda Petrovna. Iona turns to look at them. Seizing on a brief pause, he turns once again and mutters:

“This week…it’s…my son died on me!”