first light. If the blizzard has stopped, we’ll get there in an hour and a half. If I give them vaccine-2 eight hours later, nothing terrible will happen. That’s acceptable. I’ll write an explanatory note…”
“Nothing terrible will happen if you get there tomorrow,” said the miller’s wife, as though she’d read his mind. “Have some more vodka.”
Deep in thought, the doctor bit his lower lip and glanced at the numbers glowing in the air.
“So we’re staying?” Crouper asked, no longer chewing.
“Very well.” Platon Ilich sighed with disappointment. “We’re staying.”
“Thank God!” Crouper nodded.
“Yes, thank God,” the miller’s wife almost sang, as she filled the glasses.
“What about me? What about me?” The miller tottered and swayed on her chest.
She dripped a few drops from the bottle into the thimble and handed it to the miller.
“May you be healthy!” She raised her glass.
The doctor, Crouper, and the miller all drank.
Taking a bite of ham, the doctor now looked at the room not just as a stopping place but as the night’s lodging: “Where will she put us? In another izba ? We had to end up here for the night. Damn this blizzard…”
Crouper took a deep breath and relaxed. He warmed up right away and was glad that he wouldn’t have to go out into the dark now, glad not to get lost looking for the road, torturing himself and his horses; glad that his horses would spend the night in the warmth of the miller’s stable, that he would give them some oats—he always had a bag of oats stored under the seat—and that he himself would sleep here, most likely on top of the stove, in the warmth, and that the nasty miller couldn’t touch him; glad that they’d leave early the next morning, and that when he’d delivered the doctor to Dolgoye, he’d get five rubles and drive back home.
“Oh well, perhaps it’s for the best,” said the doctor, reassuring himself.
“It’s for the best.” The miller’s wife smiled at him. “I’ll put you upstairs, and Kozma—on the stove. It’s quiet and warm upstairs.”
“Ow, what the … Got a leg cramp…,” the miller squeaked, grabbing his right leg, his drunken face grimacing.
“Time for bed.” The miller’s wife picked him up to take him off her chest, but at that moment the miller dropped the thimble. It rolled down his wife’s large body and fell under the table.
“Now look what you’ve done, Semyon Markich, gone and lost your cup.” Lovingly, as though he were a child, the miller’s wife placed him in front of her on the edge of the table.
“Huh? Whass, how’s … the … what?” muttered the thoroughly drunk miller.
“That’s what,” she replied. Standing, she lifted her husband with two hands, carried him over to the bed, set him down on it, and drew the curtains.
“Lie down, time to go night-night.” She rustled the pillows and blanket, tucking her husband in.
“Wake me up early tomorrow,” the doctor told Crouper.
“The crack of dawn, first light,” the driver replied, nodding his reddish magpie-shaped head.
It was obvious that the vodka, warmth, and food had made Crouper tipsy, and that he was ready to sleep.
“Let ’em all … all o’ them…’em all…” The miller’s drunken squeak could be heard behind the curtain.
“Sorta like a cricket … chirp chirp,” Crouper thought, smiling his birdlike smile.
“Taa-iiii-sssia … Taiss … Let’s cuddle and have a roll in the hay,” the miller peeped.
“We will, we will. Sleep tight.”
Taisia Markovna emerged from behind the curtains, walked over to the guests, squatted, and looked under the table.
“It’s somewhere…”
“A handsome woman,” the doctor thought all of a sudden.
Squatting and looking under the table with her marvelous, cloudy eyes, she awoke his desire. She wasn’t pretty, that was particularly noticeable now, when the doctor saw her face from above. Her brow was a bit low; her chin heavy and
“Nothing terrible will happen if you get there tomorrow,” said the miller’s wife, as though she’d read his mind. “Have some more vodka.”
Deep in thought, the doctor bit his lower lip and glanced at the numbers glowing in the air.
“So we’re staying?” Crouper asked, no longer chewing.
“Very well.” Platon Ilich sighed with disappointment. “We’re staying.”
“Thank God!” Crouper nodded.
“Yes, thank God,” the miller’s wife almost sang, as she filled the glasses.
“What about me? What about me?” The miller tottered and swayed on her chest.
She dripped a few drops from the bottle into the thimble and handed it to the miller.
“May you be healthy!” She raised her glass.
The doctor, Crouper, and the miller all drank.
Taking a bite of ham, the doctor now looked at the room not just as a stopping place but as the night’s lodging: “Where will she put us? In another izba ? We had to end up here for the night. Damn this blizzard…”
Crouper took a deep breath and relaxed. He warmed up right away and was glad that he wouldn’t have to go out into the dark now, glad not to get lost looking for the road, torturing himself and his horses; glad that his horses would spend the night in the warmth of the miller’s stable, that he would give them some oats—he always had a bag of oats stored under the seat—and that he himself would sleep here, most likely on top of the stove, in the warmth, and that the nasty miller couldn’t touch him; glad that they’d leave early the next morning, and that when he’d delivered the doctor to Dolgoye, he’d get five rubles and drive back home.
“Oh well, perhaps it’s for the best,” said the doctor, reassuring himself.
“It’s for the best.” The miller’s wife smiled at him. “I’ll put you upstairs, and Kozma—on the stove. It’s quiet and warm upstairs.”
“Ow, what the … Got a leg cramp…,” the miller squeaked, grabbing his right leg, his drunken face grimacing.
“Time for bed.” The miller’s wife picked him up to take him off her chest, but at that moment the miller dropped the thimble. It rolled down his wife’s large body and fell under the table.
“Now look what you’ve done, Semyon Markich, gone and lost your cup.” Lovingly, as though he were a child, the miller’s wife placed him in front of her on the edge of the table.
“Huh? Whass, how’s … the … what?” muttered the thoroughly drunk miller.
“That’s what,” she replied. Standing, she lifted her husband with two hands, carried him over to the bed, set him down on it, and drew the curtains.
“Lie down, time to go night-night.” She rustled the pillows and blanket, tucking her husband in.
“Wake me up early tomorrow,” the doctor told Crouper.
“The crack of dawn, first light,” the driver replied, nodding his reddish magpie-shaped head.
It was obvious that the vodka, warmth, and food had made Crouper tipsy, and that he was ready to sleep.
“Let ’em all … all o’ them…’em all…” The miller’s drunken squeak could be heard behind the curtain.
“Sorta like a cricket … chirp chirp,” Crouper thought, smiling his birdlike smile.
“Taa-iiii-sssia … Taiss … Let’s cuddle and have a roll in the hay,” the miller peeped.
“We will, we will. Sleep tight.”
Taisia Markovna emerged from behind the curtains, walked over to the guests, squatted, and looked under the table.
“It’s somewhere…”
“A handsome woman,” the doctor thought all of a sudden.
Squatting and looking under the table with her marvelous, cloudy eyes, she awoke his desire. She wasn’t pretty, that was particularly noticeable now, when the doctor saw her face from above. Her brow was a bit low; her chin heavy and
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