The Cattle-dealers Page #3

"The Cattle-dealers" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores the lives of a group of cattle merchants in rural Russia. The narrative delves into the mundane yet revealing interactions among the characters, highlighting themes of greed, social dynamics, and the moral dilemmas faced in business dealings. Chekhov's keen observation of human behavior and his use of irony illuminate the complexities of rural life, making the story a poignant reflection on the economic and emotional connections that bind people in their daily existence.

								

rails and sleepers, leaving huge tracks in the feathery snow, and
pouring away yesterday's tea out of the teapot he runs to the
refreshment room and jingles his five-kopeck piece against his teapot.
From the van the bar-keeper can be seen pushing away the big teapot and
refusing to give half of his samovar for five kopecks, but Yasha turns
the tap himself and, spreading wide his elbows so as not to be
interfered with fills his teapot with boiling water.

"Damned blackguard!" the bar-keeper shouts after him as he runs back to
the railway van.

The scowling face of Malahin grows a little brighter over the tea.

"We know how to eat and drink, but we don't remember our work. Yesterday
we could do nothing all day but eat and drink, and I'll be bound we
forgot to put down what we spent. What a memory! Lord have mercy on us!"

The old man recalls aloud the expenditure of the day before, and writes
down in a tattered notebook where and how much he had given to guards,
engine-drivers, oilers....

Meanwhile the passenger train has long ago gone off, and an engine runs
backwards and forwards on the empty line, apparently without any
definite object, but simply enjoying its freedom. The sun has risen and
is playing on the snow; bright drops are falling from the station roof
and the tops of the vans.

Having finished his tea, the old man lazily saunters from the van to the
station. Here in the middle of the first-class waiting-room he sees the
familiar figure of the guard standing beside the station-master, a young
man with a handsome beard and in a magnificent rough woollen overcoat.
The young man, probably new to his position, stands in the same place,
gracefully shifting from one foot to the other like a good racehorse,
looks from side to side, salutes everyone that passes by, smiles and
screws up his eyes.... He is red-cheeked, sturdy, and good-humored; his
face is full of eagerness, and is as fresh as though he had just fallen
from the sky with the feathery snow. Seeing Malahin, the guard sighs
guiltily and throws up his hands.

"We can't go number fourteen," he says. "We are very much behind time.
Another train has gone with that number."

The station-master rapidly looks through some forms, then turns his
beaming blue eyes upon Malahin, and, his face radiant with smiles and
freshness, showers questions on him:

"You are Mr. Malahin? You have the cattle? Eight vanloads? What is to be
done now? You are late and I let number fourteen go in the night. What
are we to do now?"

The young man discreetly takes hold of the fur of Malahin's coat with
two pink fingers and, shifting from one foot to the other, explains
affably and convincingly that such and such numbers have gone already,
and that such and such are going, and that he is ready to do for Malahin
everything in his power. And from his face it is evident that he is
ready to do anything to please not only Malahin, but the whole world--he
is so happy, so pleased, and so delighted! The old man listens, and
though he can make absolutely nothing of the intricate system of
numbering the trains, he nods his head approvingly, and he, too, puts
two fingers on the soft wool of the rough coat. He enjoys seeing and
hearing the polite and genial young man. To show goodwill on his side
also, he takes out a ten-rouble note and, after a moment's thought, adds
a couple of rouble notes to it, and gives them to the station-master.
The latter takes them, puts his finger to his cap, and gracefully
thrusts them into his pocket.

"Well, gentlemen, can't we arrange it like this?" he says, kindled by a
new idea that has flashed on him. "The troop train is late,... as you
see, it is not here,... so why shouldn't you go as the troop train?**
And I will let the troop train go as twenty-eight. Eh?"

"If you like," agrees the guard.

"Excellent!" the station-master says, delighted. "In that case there is
no need for you to wait here; you can set off at once. I'll dispatch you
immediately. Excellent!"

He salutes Malahin and runs off to his room, reading forms as he goes.
The old man is very much pleased by the conversation that has just taken
place; he smiles and looks about the room as though looking for
something else agreeable.

"We'll have a drink, though," he says, taking the guard's arm.

"It seems a little early for drinking."

"No, you must let me treat you to a glass in a friendly way."

They both go to the refreshment bar. After having a drink the guard
spends a long time selecting something to eat.

He is a very stout, elderly man, with a puffy and discolored face. His
fatness is unpleasant, flabby-looking, and he is sallow as people are
who drink too much and sleep irregularly.

"And now we might have a second glass," says Malahin. "It's cold now,
it's no sin to drink. Please take some. So I can rely upon you, Mr.
Guard, that there will be no hindrance or unpleasantness for the rest of
the journey. For you know in moving cattle every hour is precious. To-
day meat is one price; and to-morrow, look you, it will be another. If
you are a day or two late and don't get your price, instead of a profit
you get home--excuse my saying it--without your breeches. Pray take a
little.... I rely on you, and as for standing you something or what you
like, I shall be pleased to show you my respect at any time."

After having fed the guard, Malahin goes back to the van.

"I have just got hold of the troop train," he says to his son. "We shall
go quickly. The guard says if we go all the way with that number we
shall arrive at eight o'clock to-morrow evening. If one does not bestir
oneself, my boy, one gets nothing.... That's so.... So you watch and
learn...."

After the first bell a man with a face black with soot, in a blouse and
filthy frayed trousers hanging very slack, comes to the door of the van.
This is the oiler, who had been creeping under the carriages and tapping
the wheels with a hammer.

"Are these your vans of cattle?" he asks.

"Yes. Why?"

"Why, because two of the vans are not safe. They can't go on, they must
stay here to be repaired."

"Oh, come, tell us another! You simply want a drink, to get something
out of me.... You should have said so."

"As you please, only it is my duty to report it at once."

Without indignation or protest, simply, almost mechanically, the old man
takes two twenty-kopeck pieces out of his pocket and gives them to the
oiler. He takes them very calmly, too, and looking good-naturedly at the
old man enters into conversation.

"You are going to sell your cattle, I suppose.... It's good business!"

Malahin sighs and, looking calmly at the oiler's black face, tells him
that trading in cattle used certainly to be profitable, but now it has
become a risky and losing business.

"I have a mate here," the oiler interrupts him. "You merchant gentlemen
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