Page:Dostoyevsky - The House of the Dead, Collected Edition, 1915.djvu/117

 writing and writing and at last he’d written something and it was my ruin!’ Give me some thread, Vassya, the damned stuff is rotten.”

“It’s from the market,” said Vassya, giving him some thread.

“Ours in the tailoring shop is better. The other day we sent our veteran for some and I don’t know what wretched woman he buys it from,” Lutchka went on threading his needle by the light.

“A crony of his no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

“Well, but what about the major?” asked Kobylin, who had been quite forgotten.

This was all Lutchka wanted. But he did not go on with his story at once; apparently he did not deign to notice Kobylin. He calmly pulled out his thread, calmly and lazily drew up his legs under him and at last began to speak.

“I worked up my Little Russians at last and they asked for the major. And I borrowed a knife from my neighbour that morning, I took it and hid it to be ready for anything. The major flew into a rage and he drove up. ‘Come,’ said I, ‘don’t funk it, you chaps.’ But their hearts failed them, they were all of a tremble! The major ran in, drunk. ‘Who is here? What’s here? I am Tsar, I am God, too.’ As he said that I stepped forward,” Lutchka proceeded, “my knife in my sleeve.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘your honour,’ and little by little I got closer. ‘No, how can it be, your honour,’ said I, ‘that you are our Tsar and God too?’

“‘Ah, that’s you, that’s you,’ shouted the major. ‘You mutinous fellow!’

“‘No,’ I said, and I got closer and closer. ‘No,’ I said, ‘your honour, as may be well known to yourself, our God the Almighty and All Present is the only One. And there is only one Tsar set over us by God himself. He, your honour, is called a monarch,’ says I. ‘And you,’ says I, ‘your honour, are only a major, our commander by the grace of the Tsar and your merits,’ says I. ‘What, what, what, what!’ he fairly cackled, he choked and couldn’t speak. He was awfully astonished. ‘Why, this,’ says I, and I just pounced on him and plunged the whole knife into his stomach. It did the trick. He rolled over and did not move except for his legs kicking. I threw down the knife. ‘Look, you fellows, pick him up now!’ says I.”