Grisha (Chekhov/Garnett)
GRISHA, a chubby little boy, born two years and eight months ago,
is walking on the boulevard with his nurse. He is wearing a long,
wadded pelisse, a scarf, a big cap with a fluffy pom-pom, and warm
over-boots. He feels hot and stifled, and now, too, the rollicking
April sunshine is beating straight in his face, and making his
eyelids tingle.

The whole of his clumsy, timidly and uncertainly stepping little
figure expresses the utmost bewilderment.

Hitherto Grisha has known only a rectangular world, where in one
corner stands his bed, in the other nurse's trunk, in the third a
chair, while in the fourth there is a little lamp burning. If one
looks under the bed, one sees a doll with a broken arm and a drum;
and behind nurse's trunk, there are a great many things of all
sorts: cotton reels, boxes without lids, and a broken Jack-a-dandy.
In that world, besides nurse and Grisha, there are often mamma and
the cat. Mamma is like a doll, and puss is like papa's fur-coat,
only the coat hasn't got eyes and a tail. From the world which is
called the nursery a door leads to a great expanse where they have
dinner and tea. There stands Grisha's chair on high legs, and on
the wall hangs a clock which exists to swing its pendulum and chime.
From the dining-room, one can go into a room where there are red
arm-chairs. Here, there is a dark patch on the carpet, concerning
which fingers are still shaken at Grisha. Beyond that room is still
another, to which one is not admitted, and where one sees glimpses
of papa--an extremely enigmatical person! Nurse and mamma are
comprehensible: they dress Grisha, feed him, and put him to bed,
but what papa exists for is unknown. There is another enigmatical
person, auntie, who presented Grisha with a drum. She appears and
disappears. Where does she disappear to? Grisha has more than once
looked under the bed, behind the trunk, and under the sofa, but she
was not there.

In this new world, where the sun hurts one's eyes, there are so
many papas and mammas and aunties, that there is no knowing to whom
to run. But what is stranger and more absurd than anything is the
horses. Grisha gazes at their moving legs, and can make nothing of
it. He looks at his nurse for her to solve the mystery, but she
does not speak.

All at once he hears a fearful tramping. . . . A crowd of soldiers,
with red faces and bath brooms under their arms, move in step along
the boulevard straight upon him. Grisha turns cold all over with
terror, and looks inquiringly at nurse to know whether it is
dangerous. But nurse neither weeps nor runs away, so there is no
danger. Grisha looks after the soldiers, and begins to move his
feet in step with them himself.

Two big cats with long faces run after each other across the
boulevard, with their tongues out, and their tails in the air.
Grisha thinks that he must run too, and runs after the cats.

"Stop!" cries nurse, seizing him roughly by the shoulder. "Where
are you off to? Haven't you been told not to be naughty?"

Here there is a nurse sitting holding a tray of oranges. Grisha
passes by her, and, without saying anything, takes an orange.

"What are you doing that for?" cries the companion of his travels,
slapping his hand and snatching away the orange. "Silly!"

Now Grisha would have liked to pick up a bit of glass that was lying
at his feet and gleaming like a lamp, but he is afraid that his
hand will be slapped again.

"My respects to you!" Grisha hears suddenly, almost above his ear,
a loud thick voice, and he sees a tall man with bright buttons.

To his great delight, this man gives nurse his hand, stops, and
begins talking to her. The brightness of the sun, the noise of the
carriages, the horses, the bright buttons are all so impressively
new and not dreadful, that Grisha's soul is filled with a feeling
of enjoyment and he begins to laugh.

"Come along! Come along!" he cries to the man with the bright
buttons, tugging at his coattails.

"Come along where?" asks the man.

"Come along!" Grisha insists.

He wants to say that it would be just as well to take with them
papa, mamma, and the cat, but his tongue does not say what he wants
to.

A little later, nurse turns out of the boulevard, and leads Grisha
into a big courtyard where there is still snow; and the man with
the bright buttons comes with them too. They carefully avoid the
lumps of snow and the puddles, then, by a dark and dirty staircase,
they go into a room. Here there is a great deal of smoke, there is
a smell of roast meat, and a woman is standing by the stove frying
cutlets. The cook and the nurse kiss each other, and sit down on
the bench together with the man, and begin talking in a low voice.
Grisha, wrapped up as he is, feels insufferably hot and stifled.

"Why is this?" he wonders, looking about him.

He sees the dark ceiling, the oven fork with two horns, the stove
which looks like a great black hole.

"Mam-ma," he drawls.

"Come, come, come!" cries the nurse. "Wait a bit!"

The cook puts a bottle on the table, two wine-glasses, and a pie.
The two women and the man with the bright buttons clink glasses and
empty them several times, and, the man puts his arm round first the
cook and then the nurse. And then all three begin singing in an
undertone.

Grisha stretches out his hand towards the pie, and they give him a
piece of it. He eats it and watches nurse drinking. . . . He wants
to drink too.

"Give me some, nurse!" he begs.

The cook gives him a sip out of her glass. He rolls his eyes, blinks,
coughs, and waves his hands for a long time afterwards, while the
cook looks at him and laughs.

When he gets home Grisha begins to tell mamma, the walls, and the
bed where he has been, and what he has seen. He talks not so much
with his tongue, as with his face and his hands. He shows how the
sun shines, how the horses run, how the terrible stove looks, and
how the cook drinks. . . .

In the evening he cannot get to sleep. The soldiers with the brooms,
the big cats, the horses, the bit of glass, the tray of oranges,
the bright buttons, all gathered together, weigh on his brain. He
tosses from side to side, babbles, and, at last, unable to endure
his excitement, begins crying.

"You are feverish," says mamma, putting her open hand on his forehead.
"What can have caused it?

"Stove!" wails Grisha. "Go away, stove!"

"He must have eaten too much . . ." mamma decides.

And Grisha, shattered by the impressions of the new life he has
just experienced, receives a spoonful of castor-oil from mamma.

Russian short stories