Forty Stories (12 page)

The sexton Vonmiglasov
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entered the waiting room. He was an old man, tall and thickset, and wore a cinnamon-colored cassock with a wide leather belt. He had a cataract in his right eye, and there was a wart on his nose which from a distance resembled a large fly. For about a second the sexton searched for an icon, and not finding one, he crossed himself in front of a bottle of carbolic acid, and then removed the communion bread from his red handkerchief and with a deep bow laid it before the medical orderly.

“Ah-ha … Well, how are you?” the orderly yawned. “What brings you here, eh?”

“May the Lord be upon you, Sergey Kuzmich. I’ve come because I have need of you. Verily hath the Psalmist said: ‘Thou givest them tears to drink in good measure.’ The other day I sat down to drink tea with my old woman, and dear God, not a drop, not a swallow could I take, though I lay me down and die.… Not even for one little sip did I have the strength!
And not just the tooth alone, but the whole side of the face. And how it aches! How it aches! Excuse me, it goes right into my ear, as though a nail or something like that was being driven in! Such pain, I could die! I have sinned and transgressed against the law of God.… Such sins have I committed, my soul is like unto ice, and all the days of my life have been passed in slothfulness. It’s because of my sins, Sergey Kuzmich, because of my sins! The priest rebuked me after the liturgy: ‘You are tongue-tied, Yefim,’ he said. ‘You warble through your nose. You sing, and no one can understand a word you utter!’ Tell me, please, how can I sing, how can I open my mouth which is all swollen, and not having had any sleep last night?…”

“M’yes … Sit down.… Open your mouth!”

Vonmiglasov sat down and opened his mouth.

Kuryatin knit his brows, peered into the mouth, found among all those teeth yellowed by age and tobacco one which was ornamented with a yawning cavity.

“Father deacon recommended an application of vodka and horse-radish, but it didn’t help. Glyceria Anasimovna, God grant her health, gave me a little thread from Mount Athos to wear and recommended rinsing the tooth in warm milk, and I must confess I wore the little thread, but as for the milk there was a difference of opinion—I’m a God-fearing man, and I keep the fast.…”

“Such superstition,” said the orderly, and there was a considerable pause. “We’ll have to pull it out, Yefim Mikheich.”

“You know best, Sergey Kuzmich. You are properly trained, and you understand what has to be done: whether to pull it out, or use drops, or something else.… You are my benefactor, and this is your situation in life, and so God grant you health, so that day and night, until we drop into our graves, we should pray for you, our father.…”

“A mere bagatelle,” said the orderly modestly, going to a cupboard and rummaging among the instruments. “Surgery is
a mere nothing.… The important thing is a steady hand.… Quick as you can spit!… A few days ago the landowner Alexander Ivanich Yegipetskv came to the clinic, just like you … also about a tooth.… He’s a cultivated man, asks all kinds of questions, goes into everything, is concerned with the how and the what. He shook me by the hand and addressed me in the proper manner.… He lived in Petersburg for seven years and went around with all the professors.… I spent a long time with him.… He said: ‘For God’s sake, pull it out for me, Sergey Kuzmich!’ Well, why not? It can be pulled. Only you have to understand this business, and nothing happens without this understanding and knowledge. There are all kinds of teeth. Some are pulled with pincers, some with forceps, and others with monkey wrenches.… To each according …”

The orderly took up the pincers, looked at them for a moment dubiously, then put them down and took up the forceps.

“Now, open your mouth wide!” he said, advancing on the sexton with the forceps. “We’ll get rid of him … quick as you can spit! We’ll have to cut underneath the gum a bit … to acquire leverage on the vertical axis.” He cut under the gum. “That will be all.”

“You are our benefactor. As for us, we are fools and poor idiots, while the Lord has enlightened you …”

“Don’t start a conversation just because you have your mouth open.… We’ll pull this one easily, it’s not like those which are all roots.… This one will be quick as you can spit.…” Here he put down the forceps. “Don’t tremble! Keep still! In the twinkling of an eye.…” Here he acquired leverage. “The important thing is a very strong grip”—here he pulled at the tooth—“in order not to break the crown.”

“Our Fathers … Blessed Mother!… Oh-oh-oh!”

“Don’t do that! What’s come over you? Don’t hold my hands!” Here he pulled again. “Coming now—now! I suppose you think it is easy?”

“Fathers! Blessed saints!” the sexton screamed. “Angels in heaven! Oh-oh! Pull! Pull! Why do you have to take five years to pull a tooth?”

“You must understand … surgery is required.… Can’t be done quickly!… Now, now—”

The sexton jerked his knees up to his elbows, his fingers twitched, his eyes bulged, his breath came in spasms. Perspiration broke out on his purple face, and tears filled his eyes. Kuryatin made loud breathing noises, wavered in front of the sexton, and pulled. There passed an agonizing half minute—and the forceps slipped off the tooth. The sexton jumped off the chair, and his fingers flew to his mouth. And feeling around in his mouth, he discovered that the tooth was in the same place.

“So you really pulled it!” he exclaimed, and his voice was complaining and at the same time full of derision. “Let’s hope they pull you like that in the world to come! Our most humble thanks! If you don’t know how to pull a tooth, then you shouldn’t try! I can’t see anything …”

“You shouldn’t have grabbed me!” the orderly said angrily. “I was pulling, and at the same time you were pushing me away and saying stupid things! You’re a fool!”

“You’re a fool yourself!”

“I suppose you think, peasant, that it is an easy thing to pull a tooth? Well, it’s not like going up in the bell tower and ringing bells!” Here he teased the sexton. “ ‘You don’t know how to do it!’ So an expert has come on the scene? Who is the expert? You? When I pulled for Mr. Yegipetsky—Alexander Ivanich Yegipetsky—he didn’t utter a single word.… He’s a better man than you are … didn’t grab hold of me.… Sit down! Sit down, I’m telling you!”

“I can’t see anything.… Let me catch my breath.… Oh!” The sexton sat down. “Don’t take a long time, get it out quick! Just get it out—pull it right out!”

“Teaching the teacher, eh? Oh Lord, how ignorant can you get? Live with people like that, and you’re fit for the madhouse!
Open your mouth!” At this point he inserted the forceps. “Surgery is no joke, brother.… It’s not like reading the Scriptures from the pulpit.” Here he acquired leverage. “Don’t jerk your head back.… That tooth has been neglected for a long time and has deep roots.…” Here he pulled. “Don’t tremble so much!… There … there.… Don’t move.… Now—” A crunching sound was heard. “I knew it!”

For a brief moment Vonmiglasov sat motionless, as though all feeling had gone from him. He was stunned.… His eyes gazed blankly into space, and his face became pale and covered with sweat.

“Perhaps I should have used the pincers,” the orderly murmured. “What a horrible mess!”

Coming to himself, the sexton explored his mouth with his fingers, and in the place of the diseased tooth he found two sharp stumps.

“You rotten devil!” he exploded. “You Satan, sent on earth to destroy us!”

“Curse as much as you like!” the orderly murmured, putting the forceps back in the cupboard. “Poor little innocent lamb! They should have given you more strokes of the birch rod in the seminary!… Mr. Yegipetsky—Alexander Ivanich Yegipetsky—spent seven years in Petersburg … a cultured man … he didn’t mind spending a hundred rubles on a suit of clothes … and he didn’t swear.… What a little peacock you are! Nothing to worry about! You won’t die!”

The sexton took up the communion bread from the table, and holding his hand to his cheek, he went on his way.

August 1884

“GENTLEMEN, the wind is rising, and it is growing dark. Wouldn’t it be better all round if we left now?”

The wind was playing among the yellow leaves of the ancient birch trees, and from the leaves heavy raindrops came showering down on us. One of us slipped in the mud, and to prevent himself from falling he grabbed at a large gray cross.

“Titular Councilor and Chevalier Yegor Gryaznorukov,”
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he read. “I knew that gentleman.… He loved his wife, wore the order of St. Stanislas, and never read a single word.… His stomach punctually digested his food.… Why is he dead? It would appear he had no reason to die, but—alas!—fate watched over him. The poor fellow fell a victim to curiosity. He happened to be listening behind a door when the door opened, and he received a blow on the head which caused a shock to his brain (he had a brain), and so he died. The man who lies beneath this monument abhorred verses and epigrams from the cradle, and so the monument is derisively dotted all over with verses.… Well, someone is coming!”

A man wearing a worn coat, and with a shaved bluish-purple face, came up to where we were standing. There was a bottle
under his arm and a sausage in its wrappings was sticking out of his pocket.

“Where is the tomb of the actor Mushkin?” he asked hoarsely.

We led him in the direction of Mushkin’s tomb. The actor died two years ago.

“Are you a government official?” we asked him.

“No, gentlemen, I am an actor. Nowadays it is hard to distinguish actors from ecclesiastical functionaries, as you rightly observed. Quite characteristic, of course, though not altogether flattering to the functionaries.”

We had some difficulty finding the tomb of the actor Mushkin. It had collapsed, weeds grew over it, and it no longer resembled a tomb. The little cheap cross, falling to pieces, coated with green moss and blackened by frost, gazed at us with an old man’s despondent look, and seemed to be ill.

We read: “… forgettable friend Mushkin.” Time had destroyed the “un,” and corrected the human lie.

“Some actors and journalists collected money to buy him a monument, but the dear fellows drank it all up,” the actor sighed, making a low bow, falling to his knees and bending so that his hat touched the damp earth.

“What do you mean—they drank it all up?”

“Very simple. They collected the money, put an announcement in the newspapers, and drank it all up. I’m not standing in judgment over them, but that’s how it was.… Angels, to your health! Here’s to your health, and eternal remembrance!”

“As for that, drinking is bad for the health, and eternal remembrance—there’s grief for you! God gives us temporary memories. Who wants an eternal accounting?”

“True, true! Mushkin was a celebrated man. A dozen wreaths followed his coffin, and already he is forgotten! Those he favored have forgotten him, and those who were ill served by him remember him. Myself, I shall never, never forget him, because I never received anything but harm from him. I have no love for the dead man.”

“What harm did he do you?”

“A great deal of harm,” sighed the actor, and an expression of bitterness and outrage spread over his face. “He was a man who sinned against me, a great malefactor, God have mercy on him! Looking at him and listening to him, I became an actor. His art enticed me from my parental home, seduced me with vain artifices, promised much, and left me in tears, sorrowing. An actor’s lot is a bitter one. I lost my youth, I lost sobriety, I lost the divine image. Without a penny in my pocket, down at heels, wearing trousers frayed and patched like a chessboard, and with a face which looked as though it had been gnawed by dogs … My head filled with wild thoughts and inanities … Yes, that robber robbed me of my faith! Maybe there was some talent in me, but I lost all for something not worth a cent. It is cold, gentlemen. You want none of it, eh? Well, there’s enough for everyone! Brrrr … Let us drink to the dear departed! Though I have no love for him, and though he is dead, he’s all I have left in the world. This is the last time I’ll ever pay him a visit. The doctors say I’ll soon be dead from alcoholism, and so I have come to bid him my last farewell. One should forgive one’s enemies!”

We left the actor holding converse with the dead Mushkin, and went on. A fine cold rain was beginning to fall.

At a turning in the main road through the cemetery, a road entirely strewn with rubbish, we encountered a funeral procession. Four pallbearers with white calico sashes round their waists, dead leaves glued to their muddy boots, were carrying a dark-brown coffin. It was growing dark, and they were hurrying and stumbling under the weight of the coffin.

“We have been walking about here for two hours, gentlemen, and already this is the third funeral we have seen. Shall we go now?”

October 1884