A.P. Chekhov - At the Barber's
MORNING. It is not yet seven o'clock, but Makar Kuzmitch
Blyostken's shop is already open. The barber himself, an
unwashed, greasy, but foppishly dressed youth of three and
twenty, is busy clearing up; there is really nothing to be
cleared away, but he is perspiring with his exertions. In one
place he polishes with a rag, in another he scrapes with his
finger or catches a bug and brushes it off the wall.
The barber's shop is small, narrow, and unclean. The log walls
are hung with paper suggestive of a cabman's faded shirt.
Between the two dingy, perspiring windows there is a thin,
creaking, rickety door, above it, green from the damp, a bell
which trembles and gives a sickly ring of itself without
provocation. Glance into the looking-glass which hangs on one of
the walls, and it distorts your countenance in all directions in
the most merciless way! The shaving and haircutting is done
before this looking-glass. On the little table, as greasy and
unwashed as Makar Kuzmitch himself, there is everything: combs,
scissors, razors, a ha'porth of wax for the moustache, a
ha'porth of powder, a ha'porth of much watered eau de Cologne,
and indeed the whole barber's shop is not worth more than
fifteen kopecks.
There is a squeaking sound from the invalid bell and an elderly
man in a tanned sheepskin and high felt over-boots walks into
the shop. His head and neck are wrapped in a woman's shawl.
This is Erast Ivanitch Yagodov, Makar Kuzmitch's godfather. At
one time he served as a watchman in the Consistory, now he lives
near the Red Pond and works as a locksmith.
"Makarushka, good-day, dear boy!" he says to Makar Kuzmitch, who
is absorbed in tidying up.
They kiss each other. Yagodov drags his shawl off his head,
crosses himself, and sits down.
"What a long way it is!" he says, sighing and clearing his
throat. "It's no joke! From the Red Pond to the Kaluga gate."
"How are you?"
"In a poor way, my boy. I've had a fever."
"You don't say so! Fever!"
"Yes, I have been in bed a month; I thought I should die. I had
extreme unction. Now my hair's coming out. The doctor says I
must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. And so,
I thought, I'll go to Makar. Better to a relation than to anyone
else. He will do it better and he won't take anything for it.
It's rather far, that's true, but what of it? It's a walk."
"I'll do it with pleasure. Please sit down."
With a scrape of his foot Makar Kuzmitch indicates a chair.
Yagodov sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is
apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking-glass
displays a face awry, with Kalmuck lips, a broad, blunt nose,
and eyes in the forehead. Makar Kuzmitch puts round his client's
shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins
snipping with the scissors.
"I'll shave you clean to the skin!" he says.
"To be sure. So that I may look like a Tartar, like a bomb. The
hair will grow all the thicker."
"How's auntie?"
"Pretty middling. The other day she went as midwife to the
major's lady. They gave her a rouble."
"Oh, indeed, a rouble. Hold your ear."
"I am holding it. . . . Mind you don't cut me. Oy, you hurt! You
are pulling my hair."
"That doesn't matter. We can't help that in our work. And how is
Anna Erastovna?"
"My daughter? She is all right, she's skipping about. Last week
on the Wednesday we betrothed her to Sheikin. Why didn't you
come?"
The scissors cease snipping. Makar Kuzmitch drops his hands and
asks in a fright:
"Who is betrothed?"
"Anna."
"How's that? To whom?"
"To Sheikin. Prokofy Petrovitch. His aunt's a housekeeper in
Zlatoustensky Lane. She is a nice woman. Naturally we are all
delighted, thank God. The wedding will be in a week. Mind you
come; we will have a good time."
"But how's this, Erast Ivanitch?" says Makar Kuzmitch, pale,
astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. "It's . . . it's
utterly impossible. Why, Anna Erastovna . . . why I . . . why, I
cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. How could it
happen?"
"Why, we just went and betrothed her. He's a good fellow."
Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of Makar Kuzmitch.
He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his
nose with his fist.
"I had intentions," he says. "It's impossible, Erast Ivanitch. I
. . . I am in love with her and have made her the offer of my
heart. . . . And auntie promised. I have always respected you as
though you were my father. . . . I always cut your hair for
nothing. . . . I have always obliged you, and when my papa died
you took the sofa and ten roubles in cash and have never given
them back. Do you remember?"
"Remember! of course I do. Only, what sort of a match would you
be, Makar? You are nothing of a match. You've neither money nor
position, your trade's a paltry one."
"And is Sheikin rich?"
"Sheikin is a member of a union. He has a thousand and a half
lent on mortgage. So my boy . . . . It's no good talking about
it, the thing's done. There is no altering it, Makarushka. You
must look out for another bride. . . . The world is not so
small. Come, cut away. Why are you stopping?"
Makar Kuzmitch is silent and remains motionless, then he takes a
handkerchief out of his pocket and begins to cry.
"Come, what is it?" Erast Ivanitch comforts him. "Give over.
Fie, he is blubbering like a woman! You finish my head and then
cry. Take up the scissors!"
Makar Kuzmitch takes up the scissors, stares vacantly at them
for a minute, then drops them again on the table. His hands are
shaking.
"I can't," he says. "I can't do it just now. I haven't the
strength! I am a miserable man! And she is miserable! We loved
each other, we had given each other our promise and we have been
separated by unkind people without any pity. Go away, Erast
Ivanitch! I can't bear the sight of you."
"So I'll come to-morrow, Makarushka. You will finish me
to-morrow."
"Right."
"You calm yourself and I will come to you early in the morning."
Erast Ivanitch has half his head shaven to the skin and looks
like a convict. It is awkward to be left with a head like that,
but there is no help for it. He wraps his head in the shawl and
walks out of the barber's shop. Left alone, Makar Kuzmitch sits
down and goes on quietly weeping.
Early next morning Erast Ivanitch comes again.
"What do you want?" Makar Kuzmitch asks him coldly.
"Finish cutting my hair, Makarushka. There is half the head left
to do."
"Kindly give me the money in advance. I won't cut it for
nothing."
Without saying a word Erast Ivanitch goes out, and to this day
his hair is long on one side of the head and short on the other.
He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and
is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side.
He danced at the wedding in that condition.
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