There lived a redheaded man who had no eyes or ears. He didn’t have hair either, so he was called a redhead arbitrarily. He couldn’t talk because he had no mouth. He didn't have a nose either. He didn’t even have arms or legs. He had no stomach, he had no back, no spine, and he didn't have any insides at all. There was nothing to speak of! So, we don’t even know who we’re talking about. We'd better not talk about him any more.
Once Orlov had too much crushed beans and died. And Krylov died too, when he found out about Orlov. But Spridonov died of no reason. And Spridonov's wife fell off a kitchen cabinet and died too. But Spridonov's children drowned in a pond. Meanwhile Spridonov's grandmother became an alcoholic and went on the tramp. But Mikhailov ceased combing his hair and got ill. And Kruglov sketched a lady with a whip and went mad. And Perehvostov received a wire for four hundred roubles and became so uptight that they fired him. Good people are not capable of getting a good foothold in life.
Because of her excessive curiosity, an old lady fell out of the window and smashed into the ground. Another old lady looked out of the window, staring down at the one who was smashed, but out of her excessive curiosity she also fell out of the window and smashed into the ground. Then the third old lady fell out of the window, then the fourth did, then the fifth. When the sixth old lady fell out of the window, I got bored watching them and went to Maltsev market where, they say, someone gave a woven shawl to a blind.
They say all the best tarts are fat-arsed. Gee-ee, I really like busty tarts, I love the way they smell. Having said this, he started to increase in height and, upon reaching the ceiling, he crumbled into a thousand little pellets. The yard-keeper Panteley came, swept all these pellets up into his scoops in which he usually picked up the horse muck, and he carried these pellets away somewhere to the back yard. And the sun continued to shine as ever and splendiferous ladies continued to smell just as ravishingly as ever.
On one occasion a man went off to work and on the way he met another man who, having bought a loaf of Polish bread, was on his way home. And that's just about all there is to it.
That night was to decide if she and I were to be lovers. Under cover of darkness no one would see, you see. I bent over her, it’s the truth, and as I did, it’s the truth, I swear it, I said like a kindly parent: “Passion’s a precipice – so won’t you please move away? Move away, please!”
Without finishing his sentence, he dropped asleep and slept like the dead.
I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though.
I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that.
The night was dark, dull, and cold; there was a sensation of rain in the air. To my great surprise I found no one under the oak. I walked about for some time.
And she came directly toward us, she walked, too, as though we were not in front of her, as though we were not in her way. Therefore none of us were in her way, and coming out of our circle, without turning to us, she said aloud, and with indescribable contempt: "Rascals!... Rabble!"... Then she went away.
None of us found anything to say in reply and we remained in perplexity as before.
None of us found anything to say in reply and we remained in perplexity as before.
