Rothschild's Fiddle

Anton Chekhov

THE town was a little one, worse than a village, and it was inhabited by scarcely any but

old people who died with an infrequency that was really annoying. In the hospital and in the

prison fortress very few coffins were needed. In fact business was bad. If Yakov Ivanov had

been an undertaker in the chief town of the province he would certainly have had a house of

his own, and people would have addressed him as Yakov Matveyitch; here in this wretched

little town people called him simply Yakov; his nickname in the street was for some reason

Bronze, and he lived in a poor way like a humble peasant, in a little old hut in which there

was only one room, and in this room he and Marfa, the stove, a double bed, the coffins, his

and when he was paid for the work he always said:

"I must confess I don't like trumpery jobs."

Apart from his trade, playing the fiddle brought him in a small income.

The Jews' orchestra conducted by Moisey Ilyitch Shahkes, the tinsmith, who took more than

half their receipts for himself, played as a rule at weddings in the town. As Yakov played

very well on the fiddle, especially Russian songs, Shahkes sometimes invited him to join

the orchestra at a fee of half a rouble a day, in addition to tips from the visitors. When

Bronze sat in the orchestra first of all his face became crimson and perspiring; it was hot,

there was a suffocating smell of garlic, the fiddle squeaked, the double bass wheezed close

to his right ear, while the flute wailed at his left, played by a gaunt, red-haired Jew who had

"If it were not that I respect you for your talent, I would have sent you flying out of the

window."

Then he began to weep. And because of this Yakov was not often asked to play in the

orchestra; he was only sent for in case of extreme necessity in the absence of one of the

Jews.

Yakov was never in a good temper, as he was continually having to put up with terrible

losses. For instance, it was a sin to work on Sundays or Saints' days, and Monday was an

Milhares de livros grátis para download.

unlucky day, so that in the course of the year there were some two hundred days on which,

whether he liked it or not, he had to sit with his hands folded. And only think, what a loss

that meant. If anyone in the town had a wedding without music, or if Shahkes did not send

for Yakov, that was a loss, too. The superintendent of the prison was ill for two years and

was wasting away, and Yakov was impatiently waiting for him to die, but the

superintendent went away to the chief town of the province to be doctored, and there took

and died. There's a loss for you, ten roubles at least, as there would have been an expensive

walked, yet she lighted the stove in the morning and even went herself to get water.

Towards evening she lay down. Yakov played his fiddle all day; when it was quite dark he

took the book in which he used every day to put down his losses, and, feeling dull, he began

adding up the total for the year. It came to more than a thousand roubles. This so agitated

him that he flung the reckoning beads down, and trampled them under his feet. Then he

picked up the reckoning beads, and again spent a long time clicking with them and heaving

deep, strained sighs. His face was crimson and wet with perspiration. He thought that if he

had put that lost thousand roubles in the bank, the interest for a year would have been at

least forty roubles, so that forty roubles was a loss too. In fact, wherever one turned there

were losses and nothing else.

her deliverer and were whispering with him.

It was daybreak; from the windows one could see the flush of dawn. Looking at the old

woman, Yakov for some reason reflected that he had not once in his life been affectionate

to her, had had no feeling for her, had never once thought to buy her a kerchief, or to bring

her home some dainty from a wedding, but had done nothing but shout at her, scold her for

his losses, shake his fists at her; it is true he had never actually beaten her, but he had

frightened her, and at such times she had always been numb with terror. Why, he had

forbidden her to drink tea because they spent too much without that, and she drank only hot

water. And he understood why she had such a strange, joyful face now, and he was

overcome with dread.

"I wish you good-day," said Yakov, leading his old woman into the consulting room. "You

must excuse us, Maxim Nikolaitch, we are always troubling you with our trumpery affairs.

Here you see my better half is ailing, the partner of my life, as they say, excuse the

expression. . . ."

"She'll be seventy in another year, Maxim Nikolaitch."

"Well, the old woman has lived her life, it's time to say good-bye."

"You are quite right in what you say, of course, Maxim Nikolaitch," said Yakov, smiling

from politeness, "and we thank you feelingly for your kindness, but allow me to say every

insect wants to live."

"To be sure," said the assistant, in a tone which suggested that it depended upon him

whether the woman lived or died. "Well, then, my good fellow, put a cold compress on her

"I have no time, I have no time, my good fellow. Take your old woman and go in God's

name. Goodbye."

"Be so gracious," Yakov besought him. "You know yourself that if, let us say, it were her

stomach or her inside that were bad, then powders or drops, but you see she had got a chill!

In a chill the first thing is to let blood, Maxim Nikolaitch."

But the assistant had already sent for the next patient, and a peasant woman came into the

consulting room with a boy.

"Go along! go along," he said to Yakov, frowning. "It's no use to --"

"You speak to me again! You blockhead. . . ."

Yakov flew into a rage too, and he turned crimson all over, but he did not utter a word. He

took Marfa on his arm and led her out of the room. Only when they were sitting in the cart

he looked morosely and ironically at the hospital, and said:

"A nice set of artists they have settled here! No fear, but he would have cupped a rich man,

four days he would not be able to work, and most likely Marfa would die on one of those

days; so he would have to make the coffin to-day. He picked up his iron rule, went up to the

old woman and took her measure. Then she lay down, and he crossed himself and began

making the coffin.

When the coffin was finished Bronze put on his spectacles and wrote in his book: "Marfa

Ivanov's coffin, two roubles, forty kopecks."

And he heaved a sigh. The old woman lay all the time silent with her eyes closed. But in the

evening, when it got dark, she suddenly called the old man.

years ago God gave us a little baby with flaxen hair? We used always to be sitting by the

"It's your fancy," he said.

The priest arrived; he administered the sacrament and extreme unction. Then Marfa began

muttering something unintelligible, and towards morning she died. Old women, neighbours,

washed her, dressed her, and laid her in the coffin. To avoid paying the sacristan, Yakov

read the psalms over the body himself, and they got nothing out of him for the grave, as the

grave-digger was a crony of his. Four peasants carried the coffin to the graveyard, not for

money, but from respect. The coffin was followed by old women, beggars, and a couple of

crazy saints, and the people who met it crossed themselves piously. . . . And Yakov was

very much pleased that it was so creditable, so decorous, and so cheap, and no offence to

anyone. As he took his last leave of Marfa he touched the coffin and thought: "A good piece

of work!"

to her. The fifty-two years they had lived in the same hut had dragged on a long, long time,

but it had somehow happened that in all that time he had never once thought of her, had

paid no attention to her, as though she had been a cat or a dog. And yet, every day, she had

lighted the stove had cooked and baked, had gone for the water, had chopped the wood, had

slept with him in the same bed, and when he came home drunk from the weddings always

reverently hung his fiddle on the wall and put him to bed, and all this in silence, with a

timid, anxious expression.

"Leave me alone," he said, and walked on.

"How can you," Rothschild said, fluttered, running on in front. "Moisey Ilyitch will be

offended! He bade you come at once!"

Yakov was revolted at the Jew's gasping for breath and blinking, and having so many red

freckles on his face. And it was disgusting to look at his green coat with black patches on it,

and all his fragile, refined figure.

"Why are you pestering me, garlic?" shouted Yakov. "Don't persist!"

The Jew got angry and shouted too:

Rothschild, half dead with terror, crouched down and waved his hands over his head, as

though to ward off a blow; then he leapt up and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him:

as he ran he gave little skips and kept clasping his hands, and Yakov could see how his long

thin spine wriggled. Some boys, delighted at the incident, ran after him shouting "Jew!

Jew!" Some dogs joined in the chase barking. Someone burst into a roar of laughter, then

gave a whistle; the dogs barked with even more noise and unanimity. Then a dog must have

bitten Rothschild, as a desperate, sickly scream was heard.

Yakov went for a walk on the grazing ground, then wandered on at random in the outskirts

of the town, while the street boys shouted:

lady come out of the bathing-shed, and thought about her: "Ugh! you otter!"

Not far from the bathing-shed boys were catching crayfish with bits of meat; seeing him,

they began shouting spitefully, "Bronze! Bronze!" And then he saw an old spreading

willow-tree with a big hollow in it, and a crow's nest on it. . . . And suddenly there rose up

vividly in Yakov's memory a baby with flaxen hair, and the willow-tree Marfa had spoken

of. Why, that is it, the same willow-tree -- green, still, and sorrowful. . . . How old it has

young lady, and there was nothing on the river but ducks and geese, and it didn't look as

though there had ever been boats on it. It seemed as though even the geese were fewer than

of old. Yakov shut his eyes, and in his imagination huge flocks of white geese soared,

meeting one another.

He wondered how it had happened that for the last forty or fifty years of his life he had

never once been to the river, or if he had been by it he had not paid attention to it. Why, it

was a decent sized river, not a trumpery one; he might have gone in for fishing and sold the

fish to merchants, officials, and the bar-keeper at the station, and then have put money in

the bank; he might have sailed in a boat from one house to another, playing the fiddle, and

people of all classes would have paid to hear him; he might have tried getting big boats

them and sent them in the winter to Moscow Why, the feathers alone would very likely

there was nothing left in front, and if one looked back -- there was nothing there but losses,

and such terrible ones, it made one cold all over. And why was it a man could not live so as

to avoid these losses and misfortunes? One wondered why they had cut down the birch

copse and the pine forest. Why was he walking with no reason on the grazing ground? Why

do people always do what isn't needful? Why had Yakov all his life scolded, bellowed,

shaken his fists, ill-treated his wife, and, one might ask, what necessity was there for him to

frighten and insult the Jew that day? Why did people in general hinder each other from

living? What losses were due to it! what terrible losses! If it were not for hatred and malice

people would get immense benefit from one another.

In the evening and the night he had visions of the baby, of the willow, of fish, of

slaughtered geese, and Marfa looking in profile like a bird that wants to drink, and the pale,

from his tone and expression of face Yakov realized that it was a bad case and that no

powders would be any use. As he went home afterwards, he reflected that death would be

nothing but a benefit; he would not have to eat or drink, or pay taxes or offend people, and,

as a man lies in his grave not for one year but for hundreds and thousands, if one reckoned

it up the gain would be enormous. A man's life meant loss: death meant gain. This

reflection was, of course, a just one, but yet it was bitter and mortifying; why was the order

of the world so strange, that life, which is given to man only once, passes away without

he began to play, he did not know what, but it was plaintive and touching, and tears trickled

down his cheeks. And the harder he thought, the more mournfully the fiddle wailed.

The latch clicked once and again, and Rothschild appeared at the gate. He walked across

half the yard boldly, but seeing Yakov he stopped short, and seemed to shrink together, and

probably from terror, began making signs with his hands as though he wanted to show on

his fingers what o'clock it was.

"Come along, it's all right," said Yakov in a friendly tone, and he beckoned him to come up.

"Come along!"

seven feet off.

eye.

"I can't come," said Yakov, breathing hard. "I'm ill, brother."

And he began playing again, and the tears gushed from his eyes on to the fiddle. Rothschild

listened attentively, standing sideways to him and folding his arms on his chest. The scared

and perplexed expression on his face, little by little, changed to a look of woe and suffering;

he rolled his eyes as though he were experiencing an agonizing ecstasy, and articulated,

"Vachhh!" and tears slowly ran down his cheeks and trickled on his greenish coat.

And Yakov lay in bed all the rest of the day grieving. In the evening, when the priest

confessing him asked, Did he remember any special sin he had committed? straining his

And now everyone in the town asks where Rothschild got such a fine fiddle. Did he buy it

or steal it? Or perhaps it had come to him as a pledge. He gave up the flute long ago, and

now plays nothing but the fiddle. As plaintive sounds flow now from his bow, as came once

from his flute, but when he tries to repeat what Yakov played, sitting in the doorway, the

effect is something so sad and sorrowful that his audience weep, and he himself rolls his

eyes and articulates "Vachhh! . . ." And this new air was so much liked in the town that the

merchants and officials used to be continually sending for Rothschild and making him play