The Cattle-dealers Page #4

"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.

								

might make him a little present...."

Malahin gives something to the mate too. The troop train goes quickly
and the waits at the stations are comparatively short. The old man is
pleased. The pleasant impression made by the young man in the rough
overcoat has gone deep, the vodka he has drunk slightly clouds his
brain, the weather is magnificent, and everything seems to be going
well. He talks without ceasing, and at every stopping place runs to the
refreshment bar. Feeling the need of a listener, he takes with him first
the guard, and then the engine-driver, and does not simply drink, but
makes a long business of it, with suitable remarks and clinking of
glasses.

"You have your job and we have ours," he says with an affable smile.
"May God prosper us and you, and not our will but His be done."

The vodka gradually excites him and he is worked up to a great pitch of
energy. He wants to bestir himself, to fuss about, to make inquiries, to
talk incessantly. At one minute he fumbles in his pockets and bundles
and looks for some form. Then he thinks of something and cannot remember
it; then takes out his pocketbook, and with no sort of object counts
over his money. He bustles about, sighs and groans, clasps his hands....
Laying out before him the letters and telegrams from the meat salesmen
in the city, bills, post office and telegraphic receipt forms, and his
note book, he reflects aloud and insists on Yasha's listening.

And when he is tired of reading over forms and talking about prices, he
gets out at the stopping places, runs to the vans where his cattle are,
does nothing, but simply clasps his hands and exclaims in horror.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" he says in a complaining voice. "Holy Martyr
Vlassy! Though they are bullocks, though they are beasts, yet they want
to eat and drink as men do.... It's four days and nights since they have
drunk or eaten. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Yasha follows him and does what he is told like an obedient son. He does
not like the old man's frequent visits to the refreshment bar. Though he
is afraid of his father, he cannot refrain from remarking on it.

"So you have begun already!" he says, looking sternly at the old man.
"What are you rejoicing at? Is it your name-day or what?"

"Don't you dare teach your father."

"Fine goings on!"

When he has not to follow his father along the other vans Yasha sits on
the cape and strums on the accordion. Occasionally he gets out and walks
lazily beside the train; he stands by the engine and turns a prolonged,
unmoving stare on the wheels or on the workmen tossing blocks of wood
into the tender; the hot engine wheezes, the falling blocks come down
with the mellow, hearty thud of fresh wood; the engine-driver and his
assistant, very phlegmatic and imperturbable persons, perform
incomprehensible movements and don't hurry themselves. After standing
for a while by the engine, Yasha saunters lazily to the station; here he
looks at the eatables in the refreshment bar, reads aloud some quite
uninteresting notice, and goes back slowly to the cattle van. His face
expresses neither boredom nor desire; apparently he does not care where
he is, at home, in the van, or by the engine.

Towards evening the train stops near a big station. The lamps have only
just been lighted along the line; against the blue background in the
fresh limpid air the lights are bright and pale like stars; they are
only red and glowing under the station roof, where it is already dark.
All the lines are loaded up with carriages, and it seems that if another
train came in there would be no place for it. Yasha runs to the station
for boiling water to make the evening tea. Well-dressed ladies and high-
school boys are walking on the platform. If one looks into the distance
from the platform there are far-away lights twinkling in the evening
dusk on both sides of the station--that is the town. What town? Yasha
does not care to know. He sees only the dim lights and wretched
buildings beyond the station, hears the cabmen shouting, feels a sharp,
cold wind on his face, and imagines that the town is probably
disagreeable, uncomfortable, and dull.

While they are having tea, when it is quite dark and a lantern is
hanging on the wall again as on the previous evening, the train quivers
from a slight shock and begins moving backwards. After going a little
way it stops; they hear indistinct shouts, someone sets the chains
clanking near the buffers and shouts, "Ready!" The train moves and goes
forward. Ten minutes later it is dragged back again.

Getting out of the van, Malahin does not recognize his train. His eight
vans of bullocks are standing in the same row with some trolleys which
were not a part of the train before. Two or three of these are loaded
with rubble and the others are empty. The guards running to and fro on
the platform are strangers. They give unwilling and indistinct answers
to his questions. They have no thoughts to spare for Malahin; they are
in a hurry to get the train together so as to finish as soon as possible
and be back in the warmth.

"What number is this?" asks Malahin

"Number eighteen."

"And where is the troop train? Why have you taken me off the troop
train?"

Getting no answer, the old man goes to the station. He looks first for
the familiar figure of the head guard and, not finding him, goes to the
station-master. The station-master is sitting at a table in his own
room, turning over a bundle of forms. He is busy, and affects not to see
the newcomer. His appearance is impressive: a cropped black head,
prominent ears, a long hooked nose, a swarthy face; he has a forbidding
and, as it were, offended expression. Malahin begins making his
complaint at great length.

"What?" queries the station-master. "How is this?" He leans against the
back of his chair and goes on, growing indignant: "What is it? and why
shouldn't you go by number eighteen? Speak more clearly, I don't
understand! How is it? Do you want me to be everywhere at once?"

He showers questions on him, and for no apparent reason grows sterner
and sterner. Malahin is already feeling in his pocket for his
pocketbook, but in the end the station-master, aggrieved and indignant,
for some unknown reason jumps up from his seat and runs out of the room.
Malahin shrugs his shoulders, and goes out to look for someone else to
speak to.

From boredom or from a desire to put the finishing stroke to a busy day,
or simply that a window with the inscription "Telegraph!" on it catches
his eye, he goes to the window and expresses a desire to send off a
telegram. Taking up a pen, he thinks for a moment, and writes on a blue
form: "Urgent. Traffic Manager. Eight vans of live stock. Delayed at
every station. Kindly send an express number. Reply paid. Malahin."
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