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Chapter 8: Arrays and Strings

TRUE/FALSE

1. All components of an array are of the same data type.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 507

2. The array index can be any integer less than the array size.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

3. The statement int list[25]; declares list to be an array of 26 components, since the array
index starts at 0.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

4. Given the declaration int list[20]; the statement list[12] = list[5] + list[7];
updates the content of the twelfth component of the array list.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

5. Suppose list is a one dimensional array of size 25, wherein each component is of type int. Further,
suppose that sum is an int variable. The following for loop correctly finds the sum of the elements
of list.

sum = 0;

for (int i = 0; i < 25; i++)

sum = sum + list;

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 512

6. If an array index goes out of bounds, the program always terminates in an error.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 515

7. Arrays can be passed as parameters to a function by value, but it is faster to pass them by reference.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 518

8. When you pass an array as a parameter, the base address of the actual array is passed to the formal
parameter.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 523

9. The one place where C++ allows aggregate operations on arrays is the input and output of C-strings.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 539

10. In a two-dimensional array, the elements are arranged in a table form.

 ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 557

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. Which of the following statements declares alpha to be an array of 25 components of the type int?
a. int alpha[25]; c. int alpha[2][5];
b. int array alpha[25]; d. int array alpha[25][25];
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 507-508

2. Assume you have the following declaration char nameList[100];. Which of the following
ranges is valid for the index of the array nameList?
a. 0 through 99 c. 1 through 100
b. 0 through 100 d. 1 through 101
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 509

3. Assume you have the following declaration int beta[50];. Which of the following is a valid
element of beta?
a. beta['2'] c. beta[0]
b. beta['50'] d. beta[50]
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 509

4. Assume you have the following declaration double salesData[1000];. Which of the following
ranges is valid for the index of the array salesData?
a. 0 through 999 c. 1 through 1001
b. 0 through 1000 d. 1 through 1000
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 509

5. Suppose that sales is an array of 50 components of type double. Which of the following correctly
initializes the array sales?
a. for (int 1 = 1; j <= 49; j++)
sales[j] = 0;
b. for (int j = 1; j <= 50; j++)
sales[j] = 0;
c. for (int j = 0; j <= 49; j++)
sales[j] = 0.0;
d. for (int j = 0; j <= 50; j++)
sales[j] = 0.0;
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

6. Suppose that list is an array of 10 components of type int. Which of the following codes correctly
outputs all the elements of list?

a. for (int j = 1; j < 10; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

b. for (int j = 0; j <= 9; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;
 c. for (int j = 1; j < 11; j++)
cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

d. for (int j = 1; j <= 10; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 512

7. What is the output of the following C++ code?

int list[5] = {0, 5, 10, 15, 20};

int j;

for (j = 0; j < 5; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 0 1 2 3 4 c. 0 5 10 15 20
b. 0 5 10 15 d. 5 10 15 20
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

8. What is the value of alpha[2] after the following code executes?

int alpha[5];
int j;

for (j = 0; j < 5; j++)

alpha[j] = 2 * j + 1;

a. 1 c. 5
b. 4 d. 6
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

9. What is the output of the following C++ code?

int alpha[5] = {2, 4, 6, 8, 10};

int j;

for (j = 4; j >= 0; j--)

cout << alpha[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 2 4 6 8 10 c. 8 6 4 2 0
b. 4 3 2 1 0 d. 10 8 6 4 2
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 512

10. What is the output of the following C++ code?

 int list[5] = {0, 5, 10, 15, 20};
int j;

for (j = 1; j <= 5; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 0 5 10 15 20 c. 5 10 15 20 20
b. 5 10 15 20 0 d. Code results in index out-of-bounds
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 515-516

11. Suppose that gamma is an array of 50 components of type int and j is an int variable. Which of the
following for loops sets the index of gamma out of bounds?
a. for (j = 0; j <= 49; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
b. for (j = 1; j < 50; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
c. for (j = 0; j <= 50; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
d. for (j = 0; j <= 48; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 515-516

12. Consider the following declaration: int alpha[5] = {3, 5, 7, 9, 11};. Which of the
following is equivalent to this statement?
a. int alpha[] = {3, 5, 7, 9, 11};
b. int alpha[] = {3 5 7 9 11};
c. int alpha[5] = [3, 5, 7, 9, 11];
d. int alpha[] = (3, 5, 7, 9, 11);
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 516

13. In C++, the null character is represented as ____.

a. '\0' c. '0'
b. "\0" d. "0"
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 535

14. Which of the following correctly declares name to be a character array and stores "William" in it?
a. char name[6] = "William";
b. char name[7] = "William";
c. char name[8] = "William";
d. char name[8] = 'William';
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 536

15. Consider the following declaration: char str[15];. Which of the following statements stores
"Blue Sky" into str?
a. str = "Blue Sky";
b. str[15] = "Blue Sky";
c. strcpy(str, "Blue Sky");
d. strcpy("Blue Sky");
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 537
16. Consider the following declaration:
char charArray[51];
char discard;

Assume that the input is:

Hello There!
How are you?

What is the value of discard after the following statements execute?

cin.get(charArray, 51);
cin.get(discard);

a. discard = ' ' (Space) c. discard = '\n'

b. discard = '!' d. discard = '\0'
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 540

17. Consider the following statement: double alpha[10][5];. The number of components of
alpha is ____.
a. 15 c. 100
b. 50 d. 150
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 544

18. Consider the statement int list[10][8];. Which of the following about list is true?
a. list has 10 rows and 8 columns.
b. list has 8 rows and 10 columns.
c. list has a total of 18 components.
d. list has a total of 108 components.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 544

19. Consider the following statement: int alpha[25][10];. Which of the following statements about
alpha is true?
a. Rows of alpha are numbered 0...24 and columns are numbered 0...9.
b. Rows of alpha are numbered 0...24 and columns are numbered 1...10.
c. Rows of alpha are numbered 1...24 and columns are numbered 0...9.
d. Rows of alpha are numbered 1...25 and columns are numbered 1...10.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 544

20. Which of the following correctly declares and initializes alpha to be an array of four rows and three
columns with the component type int?
a. int alpha[4][3] = {{0,1,2} {1,2,3} {2,3,4} {3,4,5}};
b. int alpha[4][3] = {0,1,2; 1,2,3; 2,3,4; 3,4,5};
c. int alpha[4][3] = {0,1,2: 1,2,3: 2,3,4: 3,4,5};
d. int alpha[4][3] = {{0,1,2}, {1,2,3}, {2,3,4}, {3,4,5}};
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 546

21. After the following statements execute, what are the contents of matrix?
 int matrix[3][2];
int j, k;

for (j = 0; j < 3; j++)

for (k = 0; k < 2; k++)
matrix[j][k] = j + k;

a. 0 0 c. 0 1
1 1 1 2
2 2 2 3
b. 0 1 d. 1 1
2 3 2 2
4 5 3 3
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 548-550

22. Given the following declaration:

int j;
int sum;
double sale[10][7];

which of the following correctly finds the sum of the elements of the fifth row of sale?
a. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[5][j];
b. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[4][j];
c. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[5][j];
d. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[4][j];
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 550

23. Given the following declaration:

int j;
int sum;
double sale[10][7];

which of the following correctly finds the sum of the elements of the fourth column of sale?
a. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][3];
b. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][4];
c. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][4];
d. sum = 0;
 for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][3];
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 551

24. In row order form, the ____.

a. first row is stored first c. first column is stored first
b. first row is stored last d. first column is stored last
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 552

25. A collection of a fixed number of elements (called components) arranged in n dimensions (n>=1) is
called a(n) ____.
a. matrix c. n-dimensional array
b. vector d. parallel array
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 557

COMPLETION

1. A data type is called ____________________ if variables of that type can store only one value at a
time.

ANS: simple

PTS: 1 REF: 506

2. In a(n) ____________________ data type, each data item is a collection of other data items.

ANS: structured

PTS: 1 REF: 506

3. Complete the following statement so that it outputs the array sales.

double sales[10];
int index;

for (index = 0; index < 10; index++)

cout << ____________________ << " ";

ANS: sales[index]

PTS: 1 REF: 512

4. The word ____________________ is used before the array declaration in a function heading to
prevent the function from modifying the array.

ANS: const

PTS: 1 REF: 519

5. The ____________________ of an array is the address (that is, the memory location) of the first array
component.
 ANS: base address

PTS: 1 REF: 521

6. The ____________________ sort algorithm finds the location of the smallest element in the unsorted
portion of the list and moves it to the top of the unsorted portion of the list.

ANS: selection

PTS: 1 REF: 530-531

7. For a list of length n, the ____________________ sort makes exactly (n(n - 1))/2 key
comparisons and 3(n-1) item assignments.

ANS: selection

PTS: 1 REF: 535

8. The declaration char str[] = "Hello there"; declares str to be a string of

____________________ characters.

ANS:
12
twelve

PTS: 1 REF: 535-536

9. The function ____________________ returns the length of the string s, excluding the null character.

ANS: strlen(s)

PTS: 1 REF: 537

10. The statement strlen("Marylin Stewart"); returns ____________________.

ANS: 15

PTS: 1 REF: 537-538

11. The following statements store the value ____________________ into len.

int len;
len = strlen("Sunny California");

ANS: 16

PTS: 1 REF: 537-538

12. The header file string contains the function ____________________,which converts a value of type
string to a null-terminated character array.

ANS: c_str
 PTS: 1 REF: 541

13. Two (or more) arrays are called ____________________ if their corresponding components hold
related information.

ANS: parallel

PTS: 1 REF: 542

14. The following statement creates alpha to be a two-dimensional array with

____________________ rows.

int alpha[10][25];

ANS:
10
ten

PTS: 1 REF: 544

15. In the following declaration, the array gamma has ____________________ components.

int gamma[5][6][10];

ANS:
300
three hundred

PTS: 1 REF: 558

Other documents randomly have
different content
Alexéi Maxímovitch! Pour! Ready? Co-ome on, first platoon ... fire!"
They drank, grunted, and began to eat.
"And the teacher isn't here ... this is the third day that I haven't seen
him. Has anybody seen him?"—inquired Kuválda.
"Nobody...."
"That's not like him! Well, no matter. Let's have another drink!...
Let's drink to the health of Aristíd Kuválda, my only friend, who, all
my life long, has never left me alone for a minute. Although, devil
take him, I should have been the gainer if he had deprived me of his
society for a while!"
"That's witty,"—said The Gnawed Bone, and coughed.
The captain, with a consciousness of his superiority, gazed at his
comrade, but said nothing, for he was eating.
After taking two drinks, the company grew lively all of a sudden—the
portions were inspiring. Tarás-and-a-Half expressed a desire to listen
to a story, but the deacon had got into a dispute with The Peg-top
about the advantages of thin women over fat ones, and paid no
attention to the other man's words, but demonstrated his views to
The Peg-top with the obduracy and heat of a man who is profoundly
convinced of the justice of his views. The ingenuous face of The
Meteor, who was lying on his stomach beside him, expressed
emotion, as he relished the heady little words of the deacon.
Martyánoff, clasping his knees with his huge hands, overgrown with
black hair, stared silently and gloomily at a bottle of vódka, and
fished for his mustache with his tongue, in the endeavor to bite it
with his teeth. The Gnawed Bone was teasing Tyápa.
"I've already observed, you sorcerer, where you hide your money!"
"You're lucky...." said Tyápa hoarsely.
"I'm going to snatch it away ..."
"Take it...."
These people bored Kuválda: there was not among them a single
companion worthy to listen to his eloquence and capable of
comprehending him.
"Where can the teacher be?"—he meditated aloud.
Martyánoff looked at him, and said:
"He'll come ..."
"I'm convinced that he'll come—but he won't drive up in a carriage.
Future convict, let's drink to your future. If you murder a man with
money, share it with me.... Then, my dear fellow, I'll go to America,
to those ... what's their name? Lampas?... Pampas! I'll go there, and
I'll wind up as president of the states. Then I'll declare war on all
Europe, and give it a sound drubbing. I'll buy an army ... in Europe,
also ... I'll invite the French, the Germans, the Turks, and so forth,
and with them I'll beat their own relatives ... as Ilyá of Muróm beat
the Tatár with a Tatár.... With money, one can be an Ilyá also ... and
annihilate Europe, and hire Judas Petúnnikoff as a lackey.... He'll do
it ... give him a hundred rubles a month, and he'll do it! But he'll
make a bad lackey, for he'll begin to steal...."
"And a thin woman is better than a fat one in this respect also, she
comes cheaper,"—said the deacon argumentatively. "My first wife
used to buy twelve arshíns for a dress, the second bought ten....
And so it was with the food, also...."
Tarás-and-a-Half laughed apologetically, turned his head toward the
deacon, fixed his eyes on the latter's face, and said, in confusion:
"I, also, had a wife...."
"That may happen to anybody,"—remarked Kuválda.—"Continue
your lies...."
"She was thin, but she ate a great deal.... And she even died of
that...."
"You poisoned her, cock-eye!"—said The Gnawed Bone, with
conviction.
"No, by God I didn't! She overate herself on sturgeon,"—said Tarás-
and-a-Half.
"And I tell you—that you poisoned her!"—reiterated The Gnawed
Bone, decisively.
It often happened thus with him: when he had once uttered some
piece of folly, he began to reiterate it, without quoting any grounds
in confirmation, and though he talked, at first, in a capriciously-
childish tone, he gradually worked up almost to a state of frenzy.
The deacon stood up for his friend.
"No, he is incapable of poisoning ... there was no cause...."
"And I say that he did poison her!"—squealed The Gnawed Bone.
"Hold your tongues!"—shouted the captain menacingly. His ill-humor
had been converted into morose wrath. He stared at his friends with
savage eyes, and not descrying in their ugly physiognomies, already
half-drunk, anything which could supply further food for his wrath,
he hung his head on his breast, sat thus for a few minutes, and then
lay down on the ground, face upward. The Meteor was nibbling at a
cucumber. He had taken the cucumber into his hand, without looking
at it, thrust it up to the middle in his mouth, and immediately began
to chew it with his large, yellow teeth, so that the brine from the
cucumber spattered in all directions, bedewing his cheeks. Evidently,
he was not hungry, but this process of eating diverted him.
Martyánoff sat motionless as a statue, in the same attitude in which
he had seated himself on the ground, and he, also, was staring in a
concentrated, gloomy way, at a six-quart bottle of vódka, which was
already half empty. Tyápa was staring at the ground, and noisily
chewing meat, which did not yield to his aged teeth. The Gnawed
Bone lay on his stomach, and coughed, with his whole tiny body
curled up in a ball. The rest—all taciturn, obscure figures—were
sitting and lying in various attitudes, and all these men together, clad
in their rags and the evening twilight, were hardly distinguishable
from the heaps of rubbish scattered over the courtyard and
overgrown with tall grass. Their ungainly attitudes and their rags
made them resemble deformed animals, created by a rough,
fantastic power, as a travesty on man.
"There lived and dwelt in Súzdal town
A gentlewoman of no account.
And she was seized with a fit of cramps,
Of mo-st unpleasant cramps!"
the deacon began to hum, in an undertone, as he embraced Alexéi
Maxímovitch, smiling beatifically into the latter's face. Tarás-and-a-
Half giggled voluptuously.
Night was at hand. In the sky, the stars were quietly kindling—up on
the hill, in the town, the lights in the street-lamps. The mournful
whistles of the steamers were wafted from the river, the door of
Vavíloff's tavern opened with a creaking and crashing of glass. Two
dark figures entered the courtyard, approached the group of men
gathered round the bottle, and one of them asked, hoarsely:
"Are you drinking?"
And the other, in an undertone, with envy and joy, said:
"Oh, what devils!"
Then a hand was extended across the head of the deacon, and
grasped the bottle, and the characteristic gurgling of vódka became
audible, as it was poured from the bottle into a cup. Then there was
a loud grunting noise ...
"Well, this is melancholy!"—ejaculated the deacon.—"Cock-eye! Let's
call to mind days of yore, let's sing 'By the rivers of Babylon!'"
"Does he know how?" inquired Símtzoff.
"He? He used to be a soloist in the Bishop's choir, my good fellow....
Come on, Cock-eye.... O-on-the-e-ri-i-iv-ers ...."
The deacon's voice was wild, hoarse, cracked, and his friend sang in
a squeaking falsetto.
Enveloped in the gloom, the empty house seemed to have increased
in size, or to have moved its whole mass of half-decayed wood
nearer to these men, who were awaking in it a dull echo by their
wild singing. A cloud, magnificent and dark, was slowly floating
across the sky above it. Some one of the men with pasts was
snoring, the rest, still not sufficiently intoxicated, were either eating
and drinking in silence, or chatting in an undertone, broken with
prolonged pauses. None of them were accustomed to this dejected
mood at a banquet, which was rare as to the abundance of vódka
and of viands. For some reason or other, the boisterous animation
characteristic of the lodging-house's inhabitants over a bottle did not
flare up for a long time.
"You're ... dogs! Stop your howling," said the captain to the singers,
raising his head from the ground, and listening.—"Someone is
driving in this direction ... in a drozhky...."
A drozhky at that hour in Vyézhaya Street could not fail to arouse
general attention. Who from the town would run the risk of driving
over the ruts and pit-holes of the street—who was it, and why? All
raised their heads and listened. In the nocturnal silence the rumbling
of the wheels, as they came in contact with the splashers, was
plainly audible. It grew nearer and nearer. A voice rang out, roughly
inquiring:
"Well, where is it?"
Someone answered:
"It must be that house, yonder."
"I won't go any further...."
"They're coming here!" exclaimed the captain.
"The police!" a tremulous murmur ran round.
"In a carriage! The fool!"—said Martyánoff in a dull tone.
Kuválda rose, and went to the gate.
The Gnawed Bone, stretching his head after him, began to listen.
"Is this the night lodging-house?" inquired someone, in a shaking
voice.
"Yes, Aristíd Kuválda's.. boomed the dissatisfied bass voice of the
captain.
"There, there now ... has Títoff the reporter been living here?"
"Aha! Have you brought him?"
"Yes...."
"Drunk?"
"Ill!"
"That means, that he's very drunk. Hey there, teacher! get up!"
"Wait! I'll help you ... he's very ill. He has been lying ill in my house
for two days. Grasp him under the arm-pits.... The doctor has been.
He's in a very bad way...."
Tyápa rose, and slowly walked to the gate, but The Gnawed Bone
grinned and took a drink.
"Light up, there!" shouted the captain.
The Meteor went into the lodging-house and lighted the lamp. Then
from the door of the house a broad streak of light streamed across
the courtyard, and the captain, in company with a small man, led
the teacher along it to the lodging-house. His head hung flabbily on
his breast, his legs dragged along the ground, and his arms dangled
in the air, as though they were broken. With the aid of Tyápa, they
laid him in a heap on the sleeping-shelf, and he, trembling all over,
stretched himself out on it, with a quiet groan.
"He and I have been working on the same newspaper.... He's very
unfortunate. I said:—'Pray lie at my house, you will not incommode
me ...' But he entreated me—'Take me home!' He got excited.... I
thought that was injurious to him, and so I have brought him ...
home! He really belongs here, does he?"
"And, in your opinion, has he a home somewhere else?" asked
Kuválda roughly, as he stared intently at his friend. "Tyápa, go and
fetch some cold water!"
"So now...." hesitated the little man.... "I suppose ... he does not
need me?"
"You?"—and the captain examined him critically.
The little man was dressed in a sack-coat, much the worse for wear,
and carefully buttoned clear up to the chin. There was fringe on the
edges of his trousers, his hat was red with age and crumpled, as
was also his gaunt, hungry face.
"No, he doesn't need you ... there are a great many of your sort
here...." said the captain, turning away from the little man.
"Farewell for the present, then!"—The little man went to the door,
and from that spot he quietly asked:
"If anything should happen ... please give notice at the editorial
office.... My name is Rýzhoff. I should like to write a brief obituary ...
for, after all, you know, he was a worker on the press...."
"Hm! An obituary, you say? Twenty lines—twenty kopéks? I'll do
better: when he dies, I'll cut off one of his legs and send it to the
editorial office, addressed to you. That will be more profitable to you
than an obituary, It'll last you for two or three days ... his legs are
thick.... You've all been devouring him alive, surely you will eat him
when he's dead ... also,...."
The man gave a queer sort of snort, and vanished. The captain sat
down on the sleeping-shelf beside the teacher, felt the latter's brow
and breast with his hand, and called him by name:
"Philip!"
The dull sound re-echoed from the dirty walls of the night lodging-
house, and died away.
"This is awkward, brother!"—said the captain, softly smoothing the
dishevelled hair of the teacher with his hand. Then the captain
listened to his breathing, which was hot and spasmodic, scrutinized
his face, which was sunken and earthy in hue, sighed, and frowning
harshly, glanced around. The lamp was a bad one: its flame
flickered, and black shadows danced silently over the walls of the
lodging-house. The captain began to stare stubbornly at their silent
play, and to stroke his beard.
Tyápa arrived with a bucket of water, set it on the sleeping-shelf by
the teacher's head, and, taking his hand, he raised it on his own
hand, as though weighing it.
"The water is not needed," and the captain waved his hand.
"The priest is needed," announced the old rag-picker confidently.
"Nothing is needed," decided the captain.
They fell silent, gazing at the teacher.
"Let's go and have a drink, you old devil!"
"And he?"
"Can you help him?"
Tyápa turned his back on the teacher, and both of them went out
into the courtyard, to their company.
"What's going on there?"—inquired The Gnawed Bone, turning his
sharp face to the captain.
"Nothing in particular.... The man is dying ...." the captain curtly
informed him.
"Have they been beating him?" asked The Gnawed Bone, with
interest.
The captain made no reply, for he was drinking vódka at the
moment.
"It seems as though he knew that we have something wherewith to
hold a feast in commemoration of him," said The Gnawed Bone, as
he lighted a cigarette.
Someone laughed, someone else sighed deeply. But, on the whole,
the conversation between the captain and The Gnawed Bone did not
produce upon these men any perceptible impression; at all events, it
could not be seen that it had disturbed anyone, interested anyone,
or set anyone to thinking. All of them had treated the teacher as
though he were a remarkable man, but now many were already
drunk, while others still remained calm outwardly. The deacon alone
suddenly straightened himself up, made a noise with his lips, rubbed
his forehead, and howled wildly:
"Whe-ere the just re-po-o-ose!"[8]
"Here, you!"—hissed The Gnawed Bone,—"what's that you're
roaring?"
"Give him a whack in his ugly face!"—counselled the captain.
[8] A quotation from the Funeral and Requiem Services.—
Translator.
"Fool!" rang out Tyápa's hoarse voice. "When a man is dyings one
should hold his tongue ... there should be quiet...."
It was quiet enough: both in heaven, which was covered with storm-
clouds and threatened rain, and on earth, enveloped in the gloomy
darkness of the autumnal night. From time to time the snores of
those who had fallen asleep, the gurgling of the vódka as it was
poured out, and munching were audible. The deacon kept muttering
something. The storm-clouds floated low, as though they were on
the point of striking the roof of the old house and overturning it on
top of the group of men.
"Ah ... one's soul feels badly when a man whom he knows is dying,"
remarked the captain, with a hiccough, and bowed his head upon his
breast.
No one answered him.
"He was the best ... among us ... the cleverest,... the most decent....
I'm sorry for him...."
"Gi-i-ive re-est wi-i-ith the Sa-a-aints[9] ... sing, you cock-eyed
rogue!"—blustered the deacon, punching the ribs of his friend who
was slumbering by his side.
"Shut up!... you!"—exclaimed The Gnawed Bone in a whisper, as he
sprang to his feet.
[9] From the Funeral and Requiem Services.—Translator.
"I'll hit him over the noddle,"—suggested Martyánoff, raising his
head from the ground.
"Aren't you asleep?"—said Aristíd Fómitch, with unusual amiability.
—" Did you hear? The teacher's here...."
Martyánoff fidgeted heavily about on the ground, rose, looked at the
strip of light which proceeded from the door and windows of the
lodging-house, waggled his head, and sat down in silence by the
captain's side.
"Shall we take a drink?" suggested the latter.
Having found some glasses by the sense of feeling, they took a
drink.
"I'll go and take a look.. said Tyápa; "perhaps he needs
something...."
"He needs a coffin...." grinned the captain.
"Don't you talk about that," entreated The Gnawed Bone, in a low
voice.
After Tyápa, The Meteor rose from the ground. The deacon, also,
attempted to rise, but rolled over on his side, and swore loudly.
When Tyápa went away the captain slapped Martyánoff on the
shoulder, and said in a low voice:
"So now, Martyánoff.... You ought to feel it more than the others....
You were ... however, devil take it. Are you sorry for Philip?"
"No,"—replied the former jail-warden, after a pause.—"I don't feel
anything of that sort, brother.... I've got out of the habit.... It's
abominable to live so. I'm speaking seriously when I say that I'll
murder somebody...."
"Yes?"—said the captain vaguely. "Well ... what of that? Let's have
another drink!"
"W-we are in-in-sig-ni-fi-cant fo-olks. I've had a drink—but I'll take
ano-therrr!"
Símtzoff now awoke, and began to sing in a blissful voice.
"Brethren! Who's there? Pour out a cupful for the old man!"
They poured it and handed it to him. After drinking it, he again
rolled over in a heap, knocking his head against someone's side.
The silence lasted for a couple of minutes—a silence as gloomy and
painful as the autumnal night. Then someone whispered....
"What?" the question rang out.
"I say, that he was a splendid fellow. Such a quiet head...." they said
in an undertone.
"And he had money, too,... and he didn't spare it for the fellows...."
and again silence reigned.
"He's dying!" Tyápa's shout resounded over the captain's head.
Aristíd Fómitch rose, and moving his feet with forced steadiness, he
went to the lodging-house.
"What are you going for?" Tyápa stopped him.—"Don't go. For you're
drunk ... and it isn't a good thing...."
The captain halted and meditated.
"What is good on this earth? Go to the devil!" And he gave Tyápa a
shove.
The shadows were still leaping along the walls of the night lodging-
house, as though engaged in mute conflict with one another. On the
sleeping-shelf, stretched out at full length[10] lay the teacher,
rattling in the throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare chest
heaved violently, froth was oozing from the comers of his mouth,
and on his face there was a strained expression, as though he were
making an effort to say something great, difficult—and was not able,
and was suffering inexpressibly in consequence.
The captain stood in front of him, with his hands clasped behind his
back, and stared at him for about a minute. Then he began to
speak, painfully contracting his brows:
"Philip! Say something to me ... throw a word of comfort to your
friend!... I love you, brother.... All men are beasts, but you were for
me—a man ... although you were a drunkard. Akh, how you did
drink vódka! Philip! It was exactly that which has ruined you.... And
why? You ought to have known how to control yourself ... and listen
to me. D-didn't I use to tell you...."
The mysterious, all-annihilating power called Death, as though
insulted by the presence of this intoxicated man at the gloomy and
solemn scene of its conflict with life, decided to make as speedy an
end as possible of its business, and the teacher, heaving a deep
sigh, moaned softly, shuddered, stretched himself out, and died.
The captain reeled on his legs, as he continued his speech.
"What's the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some
vódka? But better not drink it, Philip.... Restrain yourself, conquer
yourself.... If you can't—drink! Why restrain yourself, to speak
plainly.... For whose sake, Philip? Isn't that so? For whose sake?..."
He grasped his foot, and drew him toward him.
"Ah, you are asleep, Philip? Well ... sleep on.... A quiet night to you
... to-morrow I'll explain it all to you, and you'll be convinced that it
isn't necessary to deny yourself anything.... But now—sleep ... if you
are not dead...."
He went out, accompanied by silence, and when he came to his men
he announced:
"He's asleep ... or dead ... I don't know ... I'm a l-lit-tle drunk...."
Tyápa bent over still further, making the sign of the cross on his
breast. Martyánoff writhed quietly, and lay down on the ground. The
Meteor, that stupid lad, began to whimper, softly and plaintively, like
an affronted woman. The Gnawed Bone began to wriggle swiftly
over the ground, saying in a low, spiteful, and sorrowful tone:
"The devil take the whole lot of you! Tormentors.... Well, he's dead!
Come, what of that? I ... why need I know that? Why must I be told
about that? The time will come ... when I shall die myself ... just as
much as he ... I, as much as the rest."
"That's true!" said the captain loudly, dropping heavily to the
ground.—"The time will come, and we shall all die, like the rest ...
ha-ha! How we pass our lives ... is a trifling matter! But we shall die
—like everybody. Therein lies the goal of life, believe my words. For
a man lives in order that he may die.... And he dies.... And if that is
so, what difference does it make why and how he dies, and how he
has lived? Am I right, Martyánoff? Let's have another drink ... and
another, as long as we are alive...."
The rain began to fall. Dense, stifling gloom covered the forms of
the men, as they wallowed on the earth, curled up in slumber or
intoxication. The streak of light proceeding from the lodging-house
paled, flickered, and suddenly vanished. Evidently, the wind had
blown out the lamp or the kerosene in it had burned down. The
raindrops tapped timidly, irresolutely, as they fell upon the iron roof
of the lodging-house. From the town, at the top of the hill,
melancholy, occasional strokes of a bell were wafted—it was the
churches being guarded.
The brazen sound, floating from the belfry, floated softly through the
darkness, and slowly died away in it, but before the darkness could
engulf its last, tremulously-sobbing note, another stroke began, and
again, through the silence of the night, the melancholy sigh of the
metal was borne forth.
*
Tyápa was the first to awaken in the morning.
Turning over on his back, he stared at the sky—only in this posture
did his deformed neck permit him to see the heaven overhead.
On that morning the sky was uniformly gray. There, on high, the
dark, cold gloom had thickened, it had extinguished the sun, and
covering the blue infinity, poured forth melancholy upon the earth.
Tyápa crossed himself, and raised himself on his elbow, in order to
see whether any of the vódka anywhere remained. The bottle was
there, but it was empty. Crawling across his comrades, Tyápa began
to inspect the cups from which they had drunk. He found one of
them almost full, drank it down, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and
began to shake the captain by the shoulder.
"Get up ... hey there! Do you hear?"
The captain raised his head, gazing at him with dim eyes.
"We must inform the police ... come, then, get up!"
"What's the matter?"—asked the captain, sleepily and angrily.
"The matter is, that he's dead...."
"Who's dead?"
"The learned man...."
"Philip? Ye-es!"
"And you've forgotten—ekhma!"—grunted Tyápa reproachfully.
The captain rose to his feet, yawned with a whizzing noise, and
stretched himself so hard that his bones creaked.
"Then, you go and report...."
"I won't go ... I don't like them,"—said Tyápa in a surly tone.
"Well, then, wake up the deacon yonder.... And I'll go and see about
things...."
"All right ... get up, deacon!"
The captain went into the lodging-house, and stood at the teacher's
feet. The dead man was lying stretched out at full length: his left
hand was on his breast, his right was flung back in such a manner
as though he had been flourishing it preparatory to dealing someone
a blow. The captain reflected, that if the teacher were to rise now,
he would be as tall as Tarás-and-a-Half. Then he seated himself on
the sleeping-shelf, at the feet of his friend, and calling to mind that
they had lived together for three years, he sighed. Tyápa entered,
holding his head, as a goat does, when he is about to butt. He sat
down on the other side of the teacher's feet, gazed at the latter's
dark, calm, serious face, with its tightly closed eyes, and said
hoarsely:
"Yes ... there he is dead.... I shall die soon...."
"It's time you did,"—said the captain morosely.
"It is time!"—assented Tyápa.—"And you must die also.... Anyhow,
it's better than...."
"Perhaps it's worse? How do you know?"
"It can't be worse. You'll die, you'll have to deal with God.... But with
the people here.... But what do people signify?"
"Well, all right, don't rattle in your throat like that ..." Kuválda angrily
interrupted him.
And in the gloom which filled the night lodging-house an impressive
silence reigned.
For a long time they sat there in silence, at the feet of their dead
comrade, and glanced at him, now and then, both absorbed in
thought. Then Tyápa inquired:
"Shall you bury him?"
"I? No! Let the police bury him."
"Well! You'd better bury him, I think ... you know, you took his
money from Vavíloff for writing that petition.... I'll contribute, if there
isn't enough...."
"I have his money ... but I won't bury him."
"That's not well. You're robbing a corpse. I'll just tell everybody that
you want to devour his money...." menaced Tyápa.
"You're stupid, you old devil!"—said Kuválda scornfully.
"I'm not stupid.... Only, that isn't good, I say, not a friendly thing to
do."
"Well, it's all right, anyway. Get away with you!"
"You don't say so! And how much money is there?"
"Four rubles...." said Kuválda abstractedly.
"There, now! You might give me five rubles...."
"What a rascally old fellow you are ..." and the captain swore at
Tyápa, looking him indifferently in the face.
"What of that? Really, now, give it...."
"Go to the devil!... I'm going to build him a monument with the
money."
"What's the good of that to him?"
"I'll buy a mill-stone and an anchor. I'll put the millstone on the
grave, and I'll fasten the anchor to it with a chain.... It will be very
heavy...."
"What for? You're getting whimsical...."
"Well ... it's no business of yours."
"I'll tell, see if I don't...." threatened Tyápa again.
Aristíd Fómitch gazed dully at him and made no reply. And again, for
a long time, they sat in silence, which always assumes an impressive
and mysterious coloring in the presence of the dead.
"Hark, there ... somebody's driving up!"—said Tyápa, as he rose, and
left the lodging-house.
The police captain of the district, the coroner, and the doctor soon
made their appearance at the door. All three, one after the other,
approached the teacher, and after taking a look at him went out,
rewarding Kuválda with sidelong and suspicious glances. He sat
there, paying no attention to them, until the police captain asked
him, nodding toward the teacher:
"What did he die of?"
"Ask him ... I think, from lack of practice...."
"What's that you say?"—inquired the police captain.
"I say—he died, in my opinion, from lack of practice, because he
wasn't used to the illness that seized upon him...."
"Hm ... yes! And was he ill long?"
"We might drag him out here, we can't see anything in there,"
suggested the doctor, in a bored tone.—"Perhaps there are traces...."
"Here, you, there, call someone to carry him out,"—the police
captain ordered Kuválda.
"Call them yourself.... He doesn't bother me where he is...." retorted
Kuválda indifferently.
"Get along, there!"—shouted the policeman, with a savage face.
"Whoa!" parried Kuválda, not stirring from the spot and calmly
disclosing his teeth in a vicious snarl.
"I'll give it to you, devil take you!"—shouted the police captain,
enraged to such a degree that his face became suffused with blood.
—"I won't overlook this!..."
"A very good-morning, honored sirs!"—said merchant Petúnnikoff, in
a sweet voice, as he made his appearance in the doorway.
Taking them all in with one sharp glance, he shuddered, retreated a
pace, and removing his cap, began to cross himself vehemently.
Then a smile of malevolent triumph flitted across his countenance,
and staring point-blank at Kuválda he inquired respectfully:
"What's this here?—Can they have murdered the man?"
"Why, something of that sort," the coroner replied.
Petúnnikoff heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself again, and
said, in a tone of distress:
"Ah, Lord my God! This is just what I was afraid of! Every time I
dropped in here to take a look ... áï, áï, áï! And when I got home, I
kept having such visions—God preserve everyone from such an
experience!—Many a time I have felt like turning that gentleman
yonder ... the commander-in-chief of the golden horde, out of his
quarters, but I was always afraid to ... you know ... it's better to
yield to that sort of people ... I said to myself,... otherwise...."
He made an easy gesture with his hand in the air, then drew it
across his face, gathered his beard in his fist, and sighed again.
"Dangerous people. And that gentleman there is a sort of
commander over them ... a regular bandit chieftain."
"And we're going to examine him," said the police captain in an
extremely significant tone, as he gazed at the cavalry captain with
revengeful eyes. "He is well known to me!..."
"Yes, brother, you and I are old acquaintances...." assented Kuválda,
in a familiar tone.—"What a lot of bribes I've paid to you and to your
sprouts of under-officials to hold your tongues!"
"Gentlemen!"—cried the police captain,—"you hear him? I request
that you will bear this in mind! I won't overlook this.... Ah ... ah! So
that's it? Well, I'll give you cause to remember me! I'll ... put an end
to you, my friend!"
"Don't brag when you set out for the wars ... my friend,"—said
Aristíd Fómitch coolly.
The doctor, a young man in spectacles, stared at him with curiosity,
the coroner with ominous attention, Petúnnikoff with triumph, but
the police captain shouted and dashed about, as he flung himself on
him.
The sinister form of Martyánoff made its appearance in the doorway
of the lodging-house. He stepped up quietly and stood behind
Petúnnikoff, so that his chin was just over the merchant's crown. On
one side, from behind him, peered the deacon, his small, swollen,
red eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Come on, let's do something, gentlemen," suggested the doctor.
Martyánoff made a terrible grimace, and suddenly sneezed straight
on Petúnnikoff's head. Hie latter shrieked, squatted down, and
sprang to one side, almost knocking the police captain off his feet,
as the latter supported him, having opened his arms wide to receive
him.
"You see?"—said the merchant, pointing at Martyánoff. "That's the
sort of people they are! Hey?"
Kuválda broke out into a roar of laughter. The doctor and the
coroner laughed, and new forms kept constantly approaching the
door of the night lodging-house. The half-awake, bloated
physiognomies, with red, swollen eyes, with dishevelled heads,
unceremoniously scrutinized the doctor, the coroner, and the police
captain.
"Where are you crawling to!"—the policeman exhorted them,
tugging at their rags and pushing them away from the door. But he
was one, and they were many, and paying no heed to him, silent
and threatening they continued to advance, exhaling an odor of stale
vódka. Kuválda looked at them, then at the authorities, who were
somewhat disconcerted by the size of this ugly audience, and, with a
grin, he remarked to the authorities:
"Gentlemen! Perhaps you would like to make the acquaintance of my
lodgers and friends? You would? Never mind ... sooner or later, you'll
be forced to make acquaintance with them, in the discharge of your
duties...."
The doctor laughed in an embarrassed way. The coroner pressed his
lips tightly together, and the police captain saw what it was
necessary to do, and shouted outside:
"Sídoroff! Whistle ... when the men arrive, tell them to get a cart ..."
"Well, I must be going!"—said Petúnnikoff, moving forward from
somewhere in the corner.—"You will vacate my quarters to-day, sir....
I'm going to have this old shanty torn down.... Look out, or I'll apply
to the police ..."
The shrill whistle of the policeman rang out in the courtyard. At the
door of the night lodging-house its denizens stood in a dense mass,
yawning and scratching their heads.
"So, you don't want to make acquaintance?... That's impolite!..."
laughed Aristíd Kuválda.
Petúnnikoff took his purse out of his pocket, fumbled in it, pulled out
two five-kopék pieces, and, crossing himself, laid them at the feet of
the corpse.
"Bless, oh Lord ... for the burial of the sinner's dust...."
"Wha-at!" bawled the cavalry captain.—"You? For his burial? Take it
away! Take it away, I tell you ... you scou-oundrel! You dare to
contribute your stolen pennies to the burial of an honest man.... I'll
tear you to bits!"
"Your Well-Born!" shouted the merchant in alarm, seizing the police
captain by the elbow. The doctor and the coroner rushed out, the
police captain shouted loudly:
"Sídoroff, come here!"
The men with pasts formed a wall across the door, and with interest
lighting up their rumpled faces they watched and listened.
Kuválda shook his fist over Petúnnikoff's head, and roared, rolling his
blood-shot eyes ferociously. "Scoundrel and thief! Take your money!
You dirty creature ... take it, I say ... if you don't, I'll ram those five-
kopék pieces into your eyeballs—take it!"
Petúnnikoff stretched out a trembling hand toward his mite, and
fending off Kuválda's fist with the other hand, he said:
"Bear witness, Mr. Police Captain, and you, my good people."
"We're bad people, merchant," rang out The Gnawed Bone's
trembling voice.
The police captain, puffing out his face like a bladder, whistled
desperately, and held his other hand in the air over the head of
Petúnnikoff, who was wriggling about in front of him exactly as
though he were about to jump upon his body.
"If you like, Ill make you kiss the feet of this corpse, you base viper?
D-do you want to?"
And grasping Petúnnikoff by the collar, Kuválda hurled him to the
door, as though he had been a kitten. The men with pasts hastily
stepped aside, to make room for Petúnnikoff to fall. And he sprawled
at their feet, howling in rage and terror:
"Murder! Police ... I'm killed!"
Martyánoff slowly raised his foot, and took aim with it at the
merchant's head. The Gnawed Bone, with a voluptuous expression
on his countenance, spat in Petúnnikoff's face. The merchant
contracted himself into a small ball, and rolled, on all fours, into the
courtyard, encouraged by a roar of laughter. But two policemen had
already made their appearance in the courtyard, and the police
captain, pointing at Kuválda, shouted triumphantly:
"Arrest him! Bind him!"
"Bind him, my dear men!"—entreated Petúnnikoff.
"Don't you dare! I won't run away ... I'll go of myself, wherever it's
necessary...." said Kuválda, waving aside the policemen, who had
run up to him.
The men with pasts vanished, one by one. A cart drove into the
courtyard. Several dejected tatterdemalions had already carried the
teacher out of the lodging-house.
"I'll g-give it to you, my dear fellow ... just wait!"—the police captain
menaced Kuválda.
"Well, you bandit chief!"—inquired Petúnnikoff venomously, excited
and happy at the sight of his enemy, whose hands had been bound.
"Lead him off!" said the police captain, pointing at the cavalry
captain.
Kuválda, making no protest, silent and with knitted brows, moved
from the yard, and as he passed the teacher he bowed his head, but
did not look at him. Martyánoff, with his stony face, followed him.
Merchant Petúnnikoff's courtyard was speedily emptied.
"Go on, now!" and the cab-driver shook his reins over his horse's
crupper.
The cart moved off, jolting over the uneven ground of the courtyard.
The teacher, covered with some rag or other, lay stretched out in it,
face upward, and his belly quivered. It seemed as though the
teacher were laughing, in a quiet, satisfied way, delighted that, at
last, he was to leave the night lodging-house, never to return there
again.... Petúnnikoff, as he accompanied him with a glance, crossed
himself piously, and then began with his cap to beat off the dust and
rubbish which had clung to his clothing. And, in proportion as the
dust disappeared from his coat, a calm expression of satisfaction
with himself and confidence in himself made its appearance on his
countenance. From the courtyard he could see Aristíd Fómitch
Kuválda walking along the street, up the hill, with his hands bound
behind him, tall, gray-haired, in a cap with a red band, which
resembled a streak of blood.
Petúnnikoff smiled the smile of the conqueror, and went into the
night lodging-house, but suddenly halted, shuddering. In the door,
facing him, with a stick in his hand and a huge sack on his shoulder,
stood a terrible old man, bristling like a hedgehog with the rags
which covered his long body, bent beneath the weight of his burden,
and with his head bowed upon his breast exactly as though he were
about to hurl himself at the merchant.
"What do you want?" shouted Petúnnikoff.—"Who are you?"
"A man..." rang out a dull, hoarse voice.
This hoarse rattle rejoiced and reassured Petúnnikoff. He even
smiled.
"A man! Akh, you queer fellow ... do such men exist?"
And stepping aside, he let the old man pass him, as the latter
marched straight at him, and muttered dully: "There are various
sorts of men ... as God wills.... There are worse men than I ... worse
than I ... yes!"
The overcast sky gazed silently into the dirty courtyard, and at the
clean man, with the small, pointed, gray beard, who was walking
over the ground, measuring something with his footsteps and with
his sharp little eyes. On the roof of the old house a crow sat and
croaked triumphantly, as it stretched out its neck, and rocked to and
fro. In the stern, gray storm-clouds, which thickly covered the sky,
there was something strained and implacable, as though they, in
preparing to discharge a downpour of rain, were firmly resolved to
wash away all the filth from this unhappy, tortured, melancholy
earth.

THE INSOLENT MAN

The irritated, angry editor was running to and fro in the large, light
editorial office of the "N—— Gazette," crumpling in his hand a copy
of the publication, spasmodically shouting and swearing. It was a
tiny figure, with a sharp, thin face, decorated with a little beard and
gold eyeglasses. Stamping loudly with his thin legs, encased in gray
trousers, he fairly whirled about the long table, which stood in the
middle of the room, and was loaded down with crumpled
newspapers, galley-proofs, and fragments of manuscript. At the
table, with one hand resting upon it, while with the other he wiped
his brow, stood the publisher—a tall, stout, fair-haired man, of
middle age, and with a faint grin on his white, well-fed face, he
watched the editor with merry, brilliant eyes. The maker-up, an
angular man, with a yellow face and a sunken chest, in a light-brown
coat, which was very dirty and far too long for him, was shrinking
closely against the wall. He raised his brows, and gazed at the
ceiling with staring eyes, as though trying to recall something, or in
meditation, but a moment later, wrinkled up his nose in a
disenchanted way, and dropped his head dejectedly on his breast. In
the doorway stood the form of the office boy; men with anxious,
dissatisfied countenances kept entering and disappearing, jostling
him on their way. The voice of the editor, cross, irritated, and
ringing, sometimes rose to a squeal, and made the publisher frown
and the maker-up shudder in affright.
"No ... this is such a rascally piece of business! I'll start a criminal
suit against this scoundrel.... Has the proof-reader arrived? Devil
take it,—I ask—has the proof-reader arrived? Call all the compositors
here! Have you told them? No, just imagine, what will happen now!
All the newspapers will take it up.... Dis-grrrace! All Russia will hear
of it.... I won't let that scoundrel off!"
And raising his hands which held the newspaper to his head, the
editor stood rooted to the spot, as though endeavoring to wrap his
head in the paper, and thus protect it from the anticipated disgrace.
"Find him first,..." advised the publisher, with a dry laugh.
"I'll f-find him, sir! I'll f-find him!"—the editor's eyes blazed, and
starting on his gallop once more, and pressing the newspaper to his
breast, he began to tousle it fiercely.—"I'll find him, and I'll roast
him.... And where's that proof-reader?... Aha!... Here.... Now, sir, I
beg that you will favor me with your company, my dear sirs! Hm!...
'The peaceful commanders of the leaden armies ...' ha, ha! Pass in
... there, that's it!"
One after another the compositors entered the room. They already
knew what the trouble was, and each one of them had prepared
himself to play the part of the culprit, in view of which fact, they all
unanimously expressed in their grimy faces, impregnated with lead
dust, complete immobility and a sort of wooden composure. They
huddled together, in the corner of the room, in a dense group. The
editor halted in front of them, with his hands, clutching the
newspaper, thrown behind his back. He was shorter in stature than
they, and he was obliged to hold back his head, in order to look
them in the face. He made this movement too quickly, and his
spectacles flew up on his forehead; thinking that they were about to
fall, he flung his hand into the air to catch them, but, at that
moment, they fell back again on the bridge of his nose.
"Devil take you..." he gritted his teeth.
Happy smiles beamed on the grimy countenances of the
compositors. Someone uttered a suppressed laugh.
"I have not summoned you hither that you may show your teeth at
me!"—shouted the editor viciously, turning livid.—"I should think you
had disgraced the newspaper enough already.... If there be an
honest man among you, who understands what a newspaper is,
what the press is, let him tell who was the author of this.... In the
leading article...." The editor began nervously to unfold the paper.
"But what's it all about?" said a voice, in which nothing but simple
curiosity was audible.
"Ah! You don't know? Well, then ... here ... 'Our factory legislation
has always served the press as a subject for hot discussion ... that is
to say, for the talking of stupid trash and nonsense!...' There, now!
Are you satisfied? Will the man who added that 'talking' be pleased
... and, particularly—the word 'talking'! how grammatical and witty!
—well, sirs, which of you is the author of that 'stupid trash and non-
sense'?"
"Whose article is it? Yours? Well, and you are the author of all the
nonsense that is said in it,"—rang out the same calm voice which
had previously put the question to the editor.
This was insolent, and all involuntarily assumed that the person who
was to blame for the affair had been found. A movement took place
in the hall: the publisher drew nearer to the group, the editor raised
himself on tiptoe, in the endeavor to see over the heads of the
compositors into the face of the speaker. The compositors separated.
Before the editor stood a stoutly-built young fellow, in a blue blouse,
with a pock-marked face, and curling locks of hair which stood up in
a crest above his left temple. He stood with his hands thrust deeply
into the pockets of his trousers, and, indifferently riveting his gray,
mischievous eyes on the editor, he smiled faintly from out of his
curling, light-brown beard. Everybody looked at him:—the publisher,
with brows contracted in a scowl, the editor with amazement and
wrath, the maker-up with a suppressed smile. The faces of the
compositors expressed both badly-concealed satisfaction and alarm
and curiosity.
"So ... it's you?"—inquired the editor, at last, pointing at the pock-
marked compositor with his finger and compressing his lips in a
highly significant manner.
"Yes ... it's I...." replied the latter, grinning in a particularly simple
and offensive manner.
"A-ah!... Very glad to know it! So it's you? Why did you put it in,
permit me to inquire?"
"But have I said that I did put it in?"—and the compositor glanced at
his comrades.
"It certainly was he, Mítry[1] Pávlovitch," the maker-up remarked to
the editor.
[1] Mítry—colloquial abbreviation of Dmítry.—Translator.

"Well, if I did, I did,"—assented the compositor, not without a certain

good-nature, and waving his hand he smiled again.
Again all remained silent. No one had expected so prompt and calm
a confession, and it acted upon them all as a surprise. Even the
editor's wrath was converted, for a moment, into amazement. The
space around the pock-marked man grew wider, the maker-up went
off quickly to the table, the compositors stepped aside ...
"Then you did it deliberately, intentionally?" inquired the publisher,
smiling, and staring at the pock-marked man with eyes round with
astonishment.
"Be so good as to answer!"—shouted the editor, flourishing the
crumpled newspaper.
"Don't shout ... I'm not afraid. A great many people have yelled at
me, and all without any cause! ..." and in the compositor's eyes
sparkled a daring, impudent light.... "Exactly so ..." he went on,
shifting from foot to foot, and now addressing the publisher,—"I put
in the words deliberately...."
"You hear?"—the editor appealed to the audience.
"Well, as a matter of fact, what did you mean by it, you devil's
doll!"—the publisher suddenly flared up.—"Do you understand how
much harm you have done me?"
"It's nothing to you.... I think it must even have increased the retail
sales. But here's the editor ... really, that bit didn't exactly suit his
taste."
The editor was fairly petrified with indignation; he stood in front of
that cool, malicious man, and flashed his eyes in silence, finding no
words wherewith to express his agitated feelings.
"Well, it will be the worse for you, brother, on account of this!"—
drawled the publisher malevolently, and, suddenly softening, he
slapped his knee with his hand.
In reality, he was pleased with what had happened, and with the
workman's insolent reply: the editor had always treated him rather
patronizingly, making no effort to conceal his consciousness of his
own mental superiority, and now he, that same conceited, self-
confident man, was thrown prostrate in the dust ... and by whom?
"I'll pay you off for your insolence to me, my dear soul!" he added.
"Why, you certainly won't overlook it so!" assented the compositor.
This tone and these words again produced a sensation. The
compositors exchanged glances with one another, the maker-up
elevated his eyebrows, and seemed to shrivel up, the editor
retreated to the table, and supporting himself on it with his hands,
more disconcerted and offended than angry, he stared intently at his
foe.
"What's your name?" inquired the publisher, taking his notebook
from his pocket.
"Nikólka[2] Gvózdeff, Vasíly Ivánovitch!" the maker-up promptly
stated.
[2] Colloquial for Nikolái.—Translator.
"And you, you lackey of Judas the Traitor, hold your tongue when
you're not spoken to,"—said the compositor, with a surly glance at
the maker-up.—"I have a tongue of my own,... I answer for
myself.... My name is Nikoláï Semyónovitch Gvózdeff. My residence
...."
"We'll find that out!"—promised the publisher.—"And now, take
yourself off to the devil! Get out, all of you!..."
With a heavy shuffling of feet, the compositors departed. Gvózdeff
followed them.
"Stop ... if you please...." said the editor softly, but distinctly, and
stretched out his hand after Gvózdeff.
Gvózdeff turned toward him, with an indolent movement leaned
against the door-jamb, and, as he twisted his beard, he riveted his
insolent eyes upon the editor's face.
"I want to ask you about something,"—began the editor. He tried to
maintain his composure, but this he did not succeed in doing: his
voice broke, and rose to a shriek.—"You have confessed ... that in
creating this scandal ... you had me in view. Yes? What is the
meaning of that? revenge on me? I ask you—what did you do it for?
Do you understand me? Can you answer me?"
Gvózdeff twitched his shoulders, curled his lips, and dropping his
head, remained silent for a minute. The publisher tapped his foot
impatiently, the maker-up stretched his neck forward, and the editor
bit his lips, and nervously cracked his fingers. All waited.
"I'll tell you, if you like.... Only, as I'm an uneducated man, perhaps
it won't be intelligible to you ... Well, in that case, pray excuse me!...
Now, here's the way the matter stands. You write various articles,
and inculcate on everybody philanthropy and all that sort of thing....
I can't tell you all this in detail—I'm not much of a hand at reading
and writing.... I think you know yourself, what you discourse about
every day.... Well, and so I read your articles. You make comments
on us workingmen ... and I read it all.... And it disgusts me to read
it, for it's nothing but nonsense. Mere shameless words, Mítry
Pávlovitch!... because you write—don't steal, but what goes on in
your own printing-office? Last week, Kiryákoff worked three days
and a half, earned three rubles and eighty kopéks[3] and fell ill. His
wife comes to the counting-room for the money, but the manager
tells her, that he won't give it to her, and that she owes one ruble
and twenty kopéks in fines. Now talk about not stealing! Why don't
you write about these ways of doing things? And about how the
manager yells, and thrashes the poor little boys for every trifle?...
You can't write about that, because you pursue the same policy
yourself.... You write that life in the world is hard for folks—and I'll
just tell you, that the reason you write all that, is because you don't
know how to do anything else. That's the whole truth of the
matter.... And that's why you don't see any of the brutal things that
go on right under your nose, but you narrate very well about the
brutalities of the Turks. So aren't they nonsense—those articles of
yours? I've been wanting this long time to put some words into your
articles, just to shame you. And it oughtn't to be needed again!"
[3] About $1.90.—Translator.
Gvózdeff felt himself a hero. He puffed out his chest proudly, held
his head very high, and without attempting to conceal his triumph,
he looked the editor straight in the face. But the editor shrank close
against the table, clutched it with his hands, flung himself back,
paling and flushing by turns, and smiling persistently in a scornful,
confused, vicious, and suffering manner. His widely-opened eyes
winked fast.
"A socialist?"—inquired the publisher, with apprehension and
interest, in a low voice, addressing the editor. The latter smiled a
sickly smile, but made no reply, and hung his head.
The maker-up went off to the window, where stood a tub in which
grew a huge filodendron, that cast upon the floor a pattern of shade,
took up his post behind the tub, and thence watched them all, with
eyes which were as small, black, and shifty as those of a mouse.
They expressed a certain impatient expectation, and now and then a
little flash of joy lighted them up. The publisher stared at the editor.
The latter was conscious of this, raised his head, and with an uneasy
gleam in his eyes, and a nervous quiver in his face, he shouted after
the departing Gvózdeff:
"Stop ... if you please! You have insulted me. But you are not in the
right—I hope you feel that? I am grateful to you for ... y-your ...
straightforwardness, with which you have spoken out, but, I
repeat...."
He tried to speak ironically, but instead of irony, something wan and
false rang in his words, and he paused, in order to tune himself up
to a defence which should be worthy of himself and of this judge, as
to whose right to sit in judgment upon him, the editor, he had never
before entertained a thought.
"Of course!"—and Gvózdeff nodded his head.—"The only one who is
right is the one who can say a great deal."
And, as he stood in the doorway, he cast a glance around him, with
an expression on his face which plainly showed how impatient he
was to get away from there.
"No, excuse me!"—cried the editor, elevating his tone, and raising his
hand.—"You have brought forward an accusation against me, but
before that, you arbitrarily punished me for what you regard as a
fault toward you on my part.... I have a right to defend myself, and I
request that you will listen to me."
"But what business have you with me? Defend yourself to the
publisher, if necessary. But what have you to say to me? If I have
insulted you, drag me before the justice of the peace. But—defend
yourself—that's another matter! Good-bye!"—He turned sharply
about, and putting his hands behind his back, he left the room.
He had on his feet heavy boots with large heels, with which he
tramped noisily, and his footsteps echoed resoundingly in the vast,
shed-like editorial room.
"There you have history and geography—a detailed statement of the
case!"—exclaimed the publisher, when Gvózdeff had slammed the
door behind him.
"Vasíly Ivánovitch, I am not to blame in this matter ...." began the
maker-up, throwing his hands apart apologetically, as he approached
the publisher with short, cautious steps. "I make up the pages, and I
can't possibly tell what the man on duty has put into them. I'm on
my feet all night.... I'm here, while my wife lies ill at home, and my
children ... three of them ... have no one to look after them.... I may
say that I sell my blood, drop by drop, for thirty rubles a month....
And when Gvózdeff was hired, I said to Feódor Pávlovitch: 'Feódor
Pávlovitch,' says I, 'I've known Nikólka ever since he was a little boy,
and I'm bound to tell you, that Nikólka is an insolent fellow and a
thief, a man without conscience. He has already been tried in the
district court,' says I, 'and has even been in prison....'"
"What was he in prison for?"—inquired the editor thoughtfully,
without looking at the narrator.
"For pigeons, sir ... that is to say, not because of the pigeons, but for
smashing locks. He smashed the locks of seven dove-cotes in one
night, sir!... and set all the flocks at liberty—scattered all the birds,
sir! A pair of dark-gray ones belonging to me disappeared also,—one
fancy tumbler, and a pouter. They were very valuable birds."
"Did he steal them?"—inquired the publisher with curiosity.
"No, he doesn't pamper himself in that way. He was tried for theft,
but he was acquitted. So he's—an insolent fellow..... He released the
birds, and delighted in it, and jeered at us fanciers.... He has been
thrashed more than once already. Once he even had to go to the
hospital after the thrashing.... And when he came out, he bred devils
in my gossip's stove."[4]
[4] The word means "fellow sponsor" or intimate friend—the
precise sense does not always appear from the context. But it is
worth noting that a man and a woman who stand sponsors for a
child in baptism, in the Eastern Catholic Church, thereby place
themselves within the forbidden degrees of relationship, and can
never marry each other.—Translator.

"Devils!" said the publisher in amazement.

"What twaddle!"—the editor shrugged his shoulders, knit his brows,
and again biting his lips, he relapsed into thought.
"It's perfectly true, only I didn't say it just right,"—said the maker-up
abashed.—"You see, he, Nikólka, is a stove-builder. He's a jack-of-all-
trades: he understands the lithographic trade, he has been an
engraver, and a plumber, also.... Well, then, my gossip—she has a
house of her own, and belongs to the ecclesiastical class—and she
hired him to rebuild her stove. Well, he rebuilt it all right; only, the
rascally fellow, he cemented into the wall a bottle filled with
quicksilver and needles ... and he put something else in, too. This
produced a sound—such a peculiar sound, you know, like a groan
and a sigh; and then folks began to say that devils had bred in the
house. When they heated the stove, the quicksilver in the bottle
warmed up, and began to roam about in it. And the needles
scratched against the glass, just as though somebody were gnashing
his teeth. Besides the needles, he had put various iron objects into
the bottle, and they made noises, too, after their own fashion,—the
needle after its fashion, the nail after its fashion, and the result was
a regular devil's music.... My gossip even tried to sell her house, but
nobody would buy it—who likes to have devils round, sir? She had
three prayer-services with blessing of holy water celebrated—it did
no good. The woman bawled; she had a daughter of marriageable
age, a hundred head of fowl, two cows, and a good farm ... and
these devils must needs spoil everything! She struggled and
struggled, so that it was pitiful to see. But I must say that Nikólka
rescued her. 'Give me fifty rubles,' says he, 'and I'll drive out the
devils!' She gave him four to start with,—and afterward, when he
had pulled out the bottle, and confessed what the matter was—well,
good-bye! She's a very clever woman, and she wanted to hand him
over to the police, but he persuaded her not to.... And he has a lot
of other artful dodges."
"And for one of those charming 'artful dodges' yesterday I shall have
to pay. I!"—ejaculated the editor nervously, and tearing himself from
his place, he again began to fling himself about the room.—"Oh my
God! How stupid, how coarse, how trivial it all is...."
"We-ell, you're making a great fuss over it!"—said the publisher
soothingly.—"Make a correction, explain how it happened.... He's a
very interesting young fellow, deuce take him! He put devils in the
stove, ha, ha! No, by heaven! We'll teach him a lesson, but he's a
rascal with a brain, and he arouses for himself some feeling of ...
you know!"—the publisher snapped his fingers over his head, and
cast a glance at the ceiling.
"Does it interest you?"—cried the editor sharply.
"Well, why not? Isn't it amusing? And he described you pretty
thoroughly. He's got wit, the beast!"—the publisher said, taking
revenge on the editor for his shout.—"How do you intend to pay him
off?"
The editor suddenly ran close up to the publisher.
"I shall not pay him off, sir! I can't, Vasíly Ivánovitch, because that
manufacturer of devils is in the right! The devil knows what goes on
in your printing-office, do you hear? But we!... but I have to play the
fool, thanks to you. He's in the right, a thousand times over!"
"And also in the addition which he made to your article?"—inquired
the publisher venomously, and pursed up his lips ironically.
"Well, and what if he was? And he was right, in that also, yes! You
must understand, Vasíly Ivánovitch, for, you know, we're a liberal
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