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Chapter 43 Peter Petrovich Karataev (3)
"Well, of course, it's business," I replied, "well, of course . Matryina Fedorova, I don't know."

"Well," he said, "the girl is indeed here, Pyotr Petrovich, and we don't live in Switzerland, you know... But it would be worth thinking about exchanging my horse for your Rumble Daus; It's okay."

This time I managed to get away with it.But the old woman was even more persistent, and said that it was worth ten thousand rubles.You know, when she saw me for the first time, she had the idea that I should marry that maid in green—I didn't know that until later, and that's why she was so angry.These ladies are beyond imagination! ...Probably because it was too boring.My situation is getting worse, I am not stingy with money, and I hide Matrona - but no!They kept pestering me like a hound chasing a rabbit.I was in debt, getting thinner and thinner every day...One night, I lay in bed thinking, "My God, why did I end up like this? What am I supposed to do, since I can't leave her behind?"...Oh , can't, absolutely can't!"

Suddenly Materina came beside me.At that time she was already hidden in a farm two versts from our house.I am surprised. "What? Did they find out where you are?"

"No, Pyotr Petrovich," she said, "I am safe in Bubnovo, but how long will this matter last? I am very distressed, Pyotr Petrovich. I pity you, my dear, I will always remember your kindness, Pyotr Petrovich, and now I am leaving."

"What's wrong with you, why do you say that, silly girl?... How to say goodbye? How to say goodbye?"

"I think I should... I'll turn myself in." "I'm going to lock you idiot in the attic... Are you trying to destroy me? You're going to kill me, aren't you?" The girl didn't say a word , lowered his head, his eyes fell on the ground. "Hey, go on, go on!" "I don't want to embarrass you any more, Pyotr Petrovitch." Well, I have nothing to say to her... "But you know, fool, you understand me , idiot... idiot girl..." Pyotr Petrovich wept bitterly. "Guess what happened in the end?" He knocked on the table with his fist and insisted, while trying to frown, but the tears still flowed down his fiery cheeks, "This girl really surrendered, she really left... . . . " "The horse is ready!" cried the postmaster triumphantly as he entered from outside.

We both stood up. "What happened to Materina?" I asked.Karatayev waved his hand.

A year after I met Karataev, I came to Moscow by chance.One day, just before lunch, I stopped by a coffee shop behind the Hunter's Market - a different coffee shop in Moscow.In the billiard room, through the smoke fog, red cheeks, mustaches, bangs, old-fashioned Hungarian overcoats and new-style Slavic overcoats can be seen faintly.A thin old man in a plain frock coat was reading a Russian newspaper.The servants carried the trays, stepped briskly on the green carpet, and shuttled nimbly among them.Merchants were drinking tea with painfully tense faces.Suddenly, a man with disheveled hair and trembling steps came out of the billiard room.He put his hands in his trouser pockets, lowered his head, and looked around expressionlessly.

"Ah, ah, ah! Pyotr Petrovitch! . . . Are you all right now?"

Pyotr Petrovich almost threw himself on my chest and hugged my neck. He grabbed me, swayed slightly, and led me into a small cell.

"Here," he said, drawing me courteously into an easy-chair, "you'll be very comfortable here. Waiter, bring me beer! No, bring me champagne! Ah, I didn't expect that, I didn't expect...have you been here for a long time? How long do you plan to stay? This is really fate..."

"Yes, do you remember..."

"Why don't you remember, why don't you remember," he hastily interrupted me, "This is a thing of the past... It's a thing of the past..."

"And what are you doing here every day, my dear Pyotr Petrovitch?"

"It's just living like this. Life here is good, and the people here are very gentle. I am very satisfied here."

He took a breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Are you employed?"

"No, not yet, but I was planning to be soon. But what? . . . Making friends is the main thing. I've got so many good people here! . . . "

A boy came in from outside with a bottle of champagne on a black tray.

"Look, this is also a good man... isn't it, Huaxia, right? I wish you health!"

The boy stood there for a while, shook his head politely, smiled, and went out.

"Yes, the people here are very nice," continued Pyotr Petrovich, "feelings, souls... Shall I introduce you? Such excellent friends... They will certainly like to associate with you. I tell you What a pity that Pobrov is dead."

"Who?"

"Sergey Pobrov. A great character, he used to take care of me, a yokel who didn't know anything. Sure enough, Nostaev Ponteley was dead too. All dead, asleep !"

"Have you been living in Moscow? Haven't been back to your village?"

"To the village...my village was sold."

"Sold?"

"It's auctioned... It's a pity that the buyer is not you!"

"How will you live from now on, Pyotr Petrovich?"

"I shall not starve, God bless! I have friends without money. What is money?—Dung! Gold is dung!"

He squinted his eyes, rummaged in his pocket, took out two fifteen-kopeck pieces and a ten-kopeck piece, and showed me in the palm of his hand.

"What is this? Dust! (The money is scattered on the floor.) I wish to know, have you read Polechayev?"

"Yes."

"Ever seen Mocharov play Hamlet?"

"No, it's not."

"I haven't seen it, I haven't seen it... (Karatayev turns pale, his eyes move anxiously, he turns his face away, a slight convulsion appears on his lips.) Ah, Mocharov, Mocharov! 'Dead, asleep.'" he said in a slow, low voice.

It is all over, and if in this sleep the wounds of our hearts, and countless other shocks from which flesh and blood cannot avoid, could be extinguished, that would be the end we would have wished for.Dead, asleep... "Asleep, asleep!" he repeated in a low voice. "Excuse me," I said, but he went on reading enthusiastically:

Who would bear the whips and scorns of this world, The oppressor's insult, the haughty man's contempt, The pangs of despised love, the delay of laws, The insolence of office, and the scorns of hard-earned villains, if he had but to use Can a small knife liquidate his own life? ... In your prayers, do not forget to confess my sins for me.

So he lay his head limply on the table.He began to speak gibberish.

"It's been a month!" He cheered up and said:
A short month ago she sent my poor father to burial weeping like a man; and before the shoes she wore at the funeral were worn out, she was, she was—God!An irrational beast needs to be sad for a longer period of time... He put the glass of champagne to his mouth, didn't drink it, and continued to read:
For Hecuba!What did Hecuba have to do with him, and what did he have to do with Hecuba, that he should weep for her? ...but I, a utterly confused fellow... Am I a coward?Who called me a villain? ...Who accuses me of nonsense in person? . . . I should suffer such insults, because I am a heartless, submissive coward... Karataev dropped the glass from his hand and grabbed his hair.I feel like I'm starting to get to know him.

"Well, come on," he said at last, "let's not bring up the old things... will you? (He laughs.) I wish you health!"

"Are you going to live in Moscow permanently?" I asked him. "I'm going to stay in Moscow until I die!"

"Karatayev!" cried someone from the next room. "Karatayev, where are you? Come here, my dear!"

"Someone is calling me," he said, struggling to get up from his seat, "Goodbye, if you are free, please come to my place to play, I live in ×××."

But I had to leave Moscow the next day because I had other business to do, and I didn't see Pyotr Petrovich Karataev again.

(End of this chapter)